Reliquary by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

hold of a corner of a filthy blanket, and jerked it back.
    Something brown tumbled out of the folds and rolled toward the nearest edge. What was left of its mouth was wide open in a frozen scream.
    “I guess they didn’t look too hard,” D’Agosta said. He heard a small moan escape from Waxie. “You okay, Jack?” he asked, glancing back.
    Waxie said nothing. His face looked like a pale moon, hovering in the noisome dark.
    D’Agosta turned his light back on the head. “We’re gonna have to get an SOC team down here for a full series.” He reached for his radio, then remembered it wouldn’t work.
    Hayward edged forward. “Lieutenant?”
    D’Agosta paused. “Yes?”
    “The moles left this place alone because someone died in it. They’re superstitious that way, some of them. But as soon as we leave, they’re going to clean this whole mess up, get rid of the head themselves, and you’ll never find it. More than anything else, they don’t want cops down here.”
    “How the hell will they know we were here?”
    “I keep telling you, Lieutenant, they’re around. Listening.”
    D’Agosta shone his light about. The corridor was silent and dead. “So what’s your point?”
    “If you want the head, you’re going to have to take it with you.”
    “Shit,” breathed D’Agosta. “Okay, Sergeant, we’ll have to improvise. Grab that towel over there.”
    Stepping in front of the motionless Waxie, Sergeant Hayward picked up a water-logged towel and spread it on the damp concrete next to the head. Then, pulling the sleeve of her uniform over her hand, she nudged the head toward the towel with her wrist.
    D’Agosta watched with mixed disgust and admiration as Hayward gathered the ends of the towel into a ball. He blinked his eyes, trying to wipe away the smart of the foul reek. “Let’s go. Sergeant, you may do the honors.”
    “No problem.” Hayward lifted the towel, holding it away from her body.
    As D’Agosta stepped forward, shining his flashlight back down the corridor toward the staircase, there was a sudden whistling sound and a bottle came winging out of the dark, just missing Waxie’s head. It shattered loudly on the wall. Farther down the passageway, D’Agosta could hear a rustling noise.
    “Who’s there?” he yelled. “Halt! Police officers!”
    Another bottle came flying wildly out of the dark. D’Agosta realized, with a strange crawly feeling at the base of his spine, that he could feel, but not see, shapes moving toward them.
    “There’s only three of us, Lieutenant,” Hayward said, tension suddenly evident in her dusky voice. “May I suggest we get the hell out of here?”
    There was a raspy call from out of the dark, then a shout and the sound of running. He heard a neigh of terror at his shoulder and turned to see Waxie, still transfixed.
    “For Chrissakes, Captain, get hold of yourself!” D’Agosta shouted.
    Waxie began to whimper. From the other side, D’Agosta heard a hissing noise, and he turned to see Hayward’s petite figure standing tense and erect. Her slender hands were at her sides with the knuckles pointed in, the towel and its burden dangling from her fingers. She took another deep, hissing breath, as if in preparation. Then she looked around quickly and turned back toward the staircase, once again holding the head at arm’s length.
    “Jesus, don’t leave me!” Waxie howled.
    D’Agosta gave Waxie’s shoulder a vicious tug. With a low groan, Waxie began to move, first slowly and then faster, bursting past Hayward.
    “Move!” D’Agosta called, pushing Hayward ahead of him with one hand. He felt something whiz past his ear, and he stopped, turned, drew his gun, and fired toward the ceiling. In the muzzle flash he saw a dozen or more people coming up the dark tunnel, dividing, preparing to circle him; they ran low across the ground, moving with horrible speed through the darkness. He turned and fled for the stairway.
    One level up, on the far side of the