Relic

by Douglas Preston

  When she finished, he roused himself slowly. “Classification of medicinal plants by use, rather than [37] appearance,” he murmured at last. “Interesting. That article reminds me of an experience I had among the Ki tribe of Bechuanaland.” Margo waited patiently for the reminiscence that was sure to follow.

  “The Ki, as you know”—Frock always assumed his listener was as familiar with a subject as he was—at one time used the bark of a certain bush as a headache remedy. Charrière studied them in 1869 and noted their, use of this bush in his field journals. When I showed up three quarters of a century later, they had stopped using the remedy. They believed instead that headaches were caused by sorcery.” He shifted in his wheelchair.

  “The accepted remedy was now for the kinfolk of the headache victim to identify the sorcerer and, naturally, go off and murder him. Of course, the kin of the dead sorcerer were then required to avenge this death, so they often went right back and killed the person with the headache. You can imagine what eventually happened.”

  “What?” Margo asked, assuming Frock was about to explain how all of this fit into her dissertation.

  “Why,” Frock said, spreading his hands, “it was a medical miracle. People stopped getting headaches.”

  His generous shirtfront shook with laughter. Margo laughed too—for the first time that day, she realized.

  “Well, so much for primitive medicine,” Frock said a little wistfully. “Back then, fieldwork was still fun.” He paused for a minute. “There will be a whole section on the Ki tribe in the new Superstition exhibition, you know,” he went on. “Of course, it will be terribly played up for mass consumption. They’ve brought in some young fellow fresh from Harvard to curate the show. Knows more about computers and massmarketing than pure science, I’m told.”

  Frock shifted again in his wheelchair. “In any case, Miss Green, I think what you’ve described will make a fine addition to your work. I suggest you obtain some samples of the Kiribitu plants from the herbarium and proceed from there.”

  [38] Margo was gathering her papers when Frock suddenly spoke again. “Bad business this morning.”

  Margo nodded.

  Frock remained silent for a moment. “I fear for the Museum,” he said finally.

  Surprised, Margo said, “They were brothers. It’s a tragedy for the family. But things will die down soon—they always do.”

  “I think not,” Frock said. “I’ve heard something about the condition of the bodies. The force used was … of a nonnormal nature.”

  “Surely you don’t think it was a wild animal?” Margo asked. Perhaps Frock was as crazy as everyone said.

  Frock smiled. “My dear, I make no assumptions. I will await further evidence. For the moment, I simply hope this unpleasantness will not influence your decision on whether to remain with the Museum. Oh, yes, I’ve heard about it, and I was very sorry to get the news of your father’s death. But you’ve displayed three gifts that are indispensable to a first-class researcher: a sense of what to look for, a sense of where to look for it, and the zeal to see your theories through.” He moved the wheelchair closer to her. “Academic zeal is just as important as zeal in the field, Miss Green. Always remember that. Your technical training, your lab work, has been excellent. It would be a shame if our profession were to lose someone of your talents.”

  Margo felt a mix of gratitude and resentment. “Thank you, Dr. Frock,” she replied. “I appreciate the kind words—and your concern.”

  The scientist waved his hand, and Margo said goodbye. But at the door, she heard Frock speak again.

  “Miss Green?” he asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Please be watchful.”

  = 7 =

  Outside she nearly collided with Smithback. He leaned toward her, winking roguishly. “How about lunch?”

  “No,” said Margo. “Too busy.” Twice in one day—she wasn’t sure she could stand such a full dose of Smithback.

  “Come on,” he urged. “I’ve got some more grisly details about the murders.”

  “It figures.” She quickened her pace down the hall, irritated that her curiosity was aroused.

  Smithback grabbed her arm. “I hear they’re serving a delicious aged and oven-dried lasagna in the cafeteria.” He steered her toward the elevator.

  The lunchroom was filled with the usual crowd of curators, beefy guards talking loudly, and assorted technicians and preparators in white lab coats. One curator was passing specimens around to a table of fellow scientists, who were murmuring in admiration and interest. Margo took a closer look. The specimens were pickled parasitic worms, coiled in jars of cloudy formaldehyde.

  [40] They sat down and Margo tried to saw through the crust of her lasagna.

  “Just like I promised,” Smithback said, picking up a piece in his hand and biting off a corner with a crunch. “Been on the steam table since nine o’clock this morning, at least.”

  He chewed noisily. “Well, the police finally made it official. There were two murders here last night. Brilliant to have figured it out! And you remember all those questions the reporters asked about wild animals? Well, there’s also a chance they were mauled to death by a wild animal.”

  “Not while I’m eating,” Margo said.

  “That’s right. Literally shredded, by the sound of it.”

  Margo looked up. “Please.”

  “I kid you not,” Smithback continued. “And the heat is on to get this thing solved, particularly with the big exhibition coming up. I hear the cops have even enlisted a special coroner. Someone who reads gaping claw wounds like Helen Keller reads braille.”

  “Damn it, Smithback,” Margo said and dropped her fork. “I’m sick of this—your cavalier attitude and your gory particulars while I’m having lunch. Can’t I eat first and hear about this stuff later?”

  “As I was saying,” Smithback continued, ignoring the outburst, “she’s supposedly an expert on big cats. Dr. Matilda Ziewicz. Some name, huh. Sounds fat.”

  Despite her annoyance, Margo suppressed a smile. Smithback might be a jerk, but at least he was a funny jerk. She shoved her tray away. “Where’d you hear all this?” she asked.

  Smithback grinned. “I have my sources.” He shoveled another piece of lasagna into his mouth. “Actually, I ran into a friend who writes for the News. Somebody got the story from a contact in the NYPD. It’s going to be all over the afternoon papers. Can you imagine Wright’s face when he sees that? Oh, God.”

  Smithback cackled for a moment before filling his [41] mouth again. He’d finished his own and was starting on Margo’s. For a thin guy, he ate like a beast.

  “But how could there be a wild animal loose in the Museum?” Margo asked. “That’s absurd.”

  “Yeah? Well, get this: They’ve got someone in here with a bloodhound, trying to track the son of a bitch.”

  “Now you’re joking.”

  “Hey, not me. Ask any of the security guards. There’s a million square feet in this joint where a big cat or something could be roaming, including five miles of forced-air ducts big enough for a man to crawl around in. And under the Museum is a warren of abandoned tunnels. They’re taking it seriously.”

  “Tunnels?”

  “Yup. Didn’t you read my article in last month’s magazine? The first Museum was built on an artesian swamp that couldn’t be permanently drained. So they built all these tunnels to divert the water. Then, when the original Museum burned down in 1911, they built the present Museum on top of the old Museum’s basement. The subbasement is huge, multileveled ... much of it isn’t even electrified. I doubt if there’s anybody still alive who really knows their way around down there.”

  Smithback munched the last piece of lasagna and pushed the tray aside. “And then, there’re the usual rumors about the Museum Beast.”

  Anybody who worked in the Museum had heard that story. Maintenance men working late-night shifts saw it out of the corners of their eyes. Assistant curators wandering down dimly lit
corridors on their way to specimen vaults saw it moving in the shadows. Nobody knew what it was, or where it had come from, but some claimed the beast had killed a man several years before.

  Margo decided to change the subject. “Is Rickman still giving you trouble?” she asked.

  At the mention of the name, Smithback grimaced. Margo knew that Lavinia Rickman, the Chief of Public Relations for the Museum, had hired Smithback to write [42] his book. She had also worked out the Museum’s cut of the advance and royalties. Although Smithback wasn’t happy about the contractual details, the exhibition promised to be such a blockbuster that book sales, riding on the success of the exhibit, could easily climb into six figures. It hadn’t been a bad deal for Smithback at all, Margo thought, given the only modest success of his previous book on the Boston Aquarium.

  “Rickman? Trouble?” Smithback snorted. “Oh, God. She’s the definition of trouble. Listen, I want to read you something.” He pulled a sheaf of papers out of a notebook.

  “ ‘When Dr. Cuthbert pitched the idea for an exhibition on Superstition to the Museum Director, Wright was very impressed. It had all the makings of a blockbuster exhibition, something on the level of The Treasures of King Tut or The Seven Levels of Troy. That meant big money for the Museum, Wright knew, and an unparalleled opportunity to raise funds from corporate and government sponsorship. But some older curators were unconvinced; they thought the exhibit smacked of sensationalism.’ ”

  Smithback stopped. “Look what Rickman did.” He pushed the paper over to her. A big line sliced across the paragraph and a marginal note in fat red marker read: OUT!

  Margo giggled.

  “What’s so funny?” Smithback demanded. “She’s butchering my manuscript. Look at this.” He jabbed his finger at another page.

  Margo shook her head. “What Rickman wants is a snow job for the Museum. You two won’t ever see eye to eye.”

  “She’s driving me crazy. She’s taking out everything that’s the slightest bit controversial. She wants me to spend all my time talking to that nerd who’s curating the exhibition. She knows that he’ll only say what his boss Cuthbert tells him to.” He leaned forward [43] conspiratorially. “You’ve never seen such a company man in your life.” He looked up, and groaned. “Oh, God, here he comes now.”

  A young, slightly overweight man with horn-rimmed glasses materialized at their table, holding a tray balanced on a shiny leather briefcase. “May I join you?” he asked shyly. “I’m afraid this is practically the only seat left in the house.”

  “Sure,” said Smithback. “Have a seat. We were just talking about you, anyway. Margo, meet George Moriarty. He’s the guy who’s curating the Superstition exhibition.”

  Smithback shook the papers at Moriarty. “Look what Rickman did to my manuscript. The only things she didn’t touch were your quotations.”

  Moriarty scanned the pages and looked at Smithback with almost childlike gravity. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “Why air the Museum’s dirty linen, anyway?”

  “Come on, George. This is what makes for an interesting story!”

  Moriarty turned to Margo. “You’re the graduate student working on ethnopharmacology, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” she said, flattered. “How did you know?”

  “I’m interested in the subject.” He smiled and looked at her briefly. “The exhibition has several cases devoted to pharmacology and medicine. I wanted to talk to you about one of them, actually.”

  “Sure. What did you have in mind?” She looked at Moriarty more closely. He was about as average a Museum character as she could imagine: average height, a little pudgy, hair an average brown. His rumpled tweed jacket sported the heather tones that were regulation Museum-issue. The only things unusual about him were his large wristwatch, shaped like a sundial, and his eyes: an unusually clear hazel, shining with intelligence from behind his horn-rims.

  [44] Smithback sat forward, shifted irritably in his chair, and stared at the two. “Well,” he said, “I’d like to stay on and witness this charming scene, but I’m interviewing someone in the Bug Room on Wednesday, and I need to finish my current chapter. George, don’t sign any movie contracts for that exhibition of yours without talking to me first.” He stood up with a snort and made for the door, threading a complex path between tables as he went.

  = 8 =

  Jonathan Hamm peered down the basement corridor through a thick pair of glasses that badly needed cleaning. Leather leashes were wrapped around his blackgloved hands, and two hounds sat obediently at his feet. His assistant tracker stood beside him. Next to the assistant was Lieutenant D’Agosta, holding soiled, heavily creased blueprints, his two deputies leaning against the wall behind him. Police-issue pump-action Remington 12-gauges hung off their shoulders.

  D’Agosta rustled through the blueprints. “Can’t the dogs smell which way to go?” he asked irritably. Hamm let out a long breath. “Hounds. They’re hounds. And they’re not on a scent. They haven’t been on a good scent since we began. Or rather, they’ve been on too many scents.”

  D’Agosta grunted, withdrew a sodden cigar from his jacket pocket, and began to raise it toward his mouth. Hamm caught his eye.

  [46] “Oh yeah,” said D’Agosta. He pushed the cigar back into his pocket.

  Hamm sniffed the air. It was damp, which was good. But that was the only good thing about this little picnic. First, there was the usual stupidity of the police. What kind of dogs are these? they’d asked. We wanted bloodhounds. These were hounds, he’d explained, a blue-tick hound and a black-and-tan coonhound. Given the right conditions, these hounds could track a lost hiker after a three-foot blizzard. But these, thought Hamm, aren’t exactly the right conditions.

  As usual, the crime scene had been fouled up. Chemicals, spray paint, chalk, a thousand people tramping in and out. Besides, the area around the base of the staircase had been literally bathed in blood; even now, eighteen hours or so after the crime, the smell hung heavily in the air, agitating the hounds.

  They first tried to follow the scent from the crime scene itself. When that failed, Hamm suggested they “cut for scent,” making a perimeter loop around the crime scene, hoping to pick up the trail as it exited.

  The hounds had never been trained to work indoors. Naturally, they were confused. But it wasn’t his fault. The police wouldn’t even tell him if they were looking for a human or an animal. Perhaps they didn’t know themselves.

  “Let’s go this way,” said D’Agosta.

  Hamm passed the leashes to his assistant, who started walking ahead, the hounds nosing the ground.

  Next, the hounds had bayed up a storage room full of mastodon bones, and the paradichlorobenzene preservative that poured out when they opened the door had caused a half-hour delay while the hounds recovered their sense of smell. And that was just the first of a series of storage rooms full of animal pelts, gorillas in formaldehyde, a freezer full of dead zoo specimens, a whole vault full of human skeletons.

  They came to an archway with an open metal door [47] leading onto a descending stone stairway. The walls were covered with a crust of lime, and the stairway was dark.

  “That must be the dungeon,” one of the policemen said, with a guffaw.

  “This goes to the subbasement,” D’Agosta said, consulting the blueprints. He motioned to one of the officers, who handed him a long flashlight.

  The shallow stairs ended in a tunnel made of herring-bone brickwork, its arched ceiling barely the height of a man. The tracker moved forward with the dogs, D’Agosta and Hamm behind. The two policemen came last.

  “There’s water on the floor,” said Hamm.

  “So what?” D’Agosta said.

  “If there’s been any water flowing through here there won’t be any scent.”

  “I was told to expect puddles of water down here,” D’Agosta replied. “It only floods when it rains, and it hasn’t rained.”

  “That’s reassuring,” said Hamm.

/>   They reached a place where four tunnels came together, and D’Agosta halted to consult the blueprints. “Somehow I thought you’d need to look at that,” Hamm said.

  “Oh, yeah?” D’Agosta said. “Well, I’ve got a surprise for you. These blueprints don’t cover the subbasement.”

  When one of the dogs whined and began furiously sniffing, Hamm came suddenly to attention. “This way. Quick.”

  The dogs whined again. “They’ve got something!” said Hamm. “It’s a clear scent, it must be. Look at their hackles rise! Keep the light up here, I can’t see a blessed thing.”

  The dogs were straining, pulling forward, noses up and sniffing the air ahead.

  “You see, you see!” Hamm said. “It’s an air scent. [48] Feel the fresh air on your cheek? I should have brought the spaniels. They’re unbeatable with an air scent!”

  The policemen slid past the dogs, one beaming his flashlight, the other carrying his shotgun at the ready. Ahead the tunnel forked again, and the dogs lunged to the right, breaking into a trot.

  “Hold it, Mr. Hamm, there might be a killer out there,” D’Agosta said.

  The dogs suddenly broke into a deafening baying. “Sit!” cried the assistant. “Heel! Castor! Pollux! Heel, damn you!” The dogs lunged forward, paying no attention. “Hamm, I need a hand here!”

  “What’s gotten into you?” cried Hamm, wading into the frantic dogs, trying to grab their collars. “Castor, heel!”

  “Shut them up!” snapped D’Agosta.

  “He’s loose!” cried the assistant, as one of the dogs bolted into the darkness. They rushed after the retreating sound of the dog.

  “You smell it?” Hamm said, stopping short. “Christ Jesus, you smell it?”

  A pungent, goatish odor suddenly enveloped them. The other dog was frantic with excitement, leaping and twisting and suddenly breaking free.

  “Pollux! Pollux!”

  “Wait!” said D’Agosta. “Forget the fucking dogs for a second. Let’s proceed with a little order here. You two, get in front again. Safeties off.”