“Tell you what, though,” she said. “You could swing by for me on your way to the cafeteria. If Frock’s called by then, maybe I’ll be free. If he hasn’t ... well, perhaps you could hang out for a couple of minutes while I wait, help me with the Times crossword or something.”
“Sure!” Moriarty replied. “I know every three-letter Australian mammal there is.”
Margo hesitated. “And perhaps while you’re down here, we can take a peek into the accession database, see about the Whittlesey crates ... ?”
There was a silence. Finally, Moriarty sighed. “Well, if it’s that important to you, I guess it couldn’t hurt anything. I’ll stop by around twelve.”
Half an hour later, a knock sounded. “Come in,” she called out.
“The damn thing’s locked.” The voice was not Moriarty’s.
She opened the door. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Do you suppose it’s luck or fate?” Smithback said, coming in quickly and shutting the door behind him. “Listen, Lotus Blossom, I’ve been a busy man since last night.”
[184] “So have I,” she said. “Moriarty will be here any minute to get us into the accession database.”
“How did you—”
“Never mind,” Margo replied smugly.
The door opened, and Moriarty peered in. “Margo?” he asked. Then he caught sight of Smithback.
“Don’t fret, professor, it’s safe,” the writer said. “I’m not in a biting mood today.”
“Don’t mind him,” Margo said. “He has this annoying habit of popping up unannounced. Come on in.”
“Yes, and make yourself comfortable,” Smithback said, pointedly gesturing to the chair in front of Margo’s terminal.
Moriarty sat down slowly, looking at Smithback, then at Margo, then at Smithback again. “I guess you want me to check the accession records,” he said.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Margo said quietly. Smithback’s presence made the whole thing seem like a setup.
“Okay, Margo.” Moriarty put his fingers on the keyboard. “Smithback, turn around. The password, you know.”
The Museum’s accession database contained information on all the millions of catalogued items in the Museum’s collections. Initially, the database had been accessible to all employees. However, someone on the fifth floor had gotten nervous at having the artifacts’ detailed descriptions and storage locations available to anyone. Now, access was limited to senior staff—Assistant Curators, such as Moriarty, and above.
Moriarty was sullenly tapping keys. “I could be given a reprimand for this, you know,” he said. “Dr. Cuthbert’s very strict. Why didn’t you just get Frock to do it for you?”
“Like I said, I can’t get in to see him,” Margo replied.
Moriarty gave the ENTER key a final jab. “Here it is,” [185] he said. “Take a quick look., I’m not going to bring it up again.”
Margo and Smithback crowded around the terminal as the green letters crawled slowly up the screen:
ACCESSION FILE NUMBER 1989-2006
DATE: APRIL 4, 1989
COLLECTOR: JOHN WHITTLESEY, EDWARD MAXWELL, ET AL
CATALOGUER: HUGO C. MONTAGUE
SOURCE: WHITTLESEY/MAXWELL AMAZON BASIN EXPEDITION
LOCATION: BUILDING 2, LEVEL 3, SECTION 6, VAULT 144
NOTE: THE FOLLOWING CATALOGUED ITEMS WERE RECEIVED ON FEBRUARY 1, 1989 IN SEVEN CRATES SENT BACK BY THE WHITTLESEY/MAXWELL EXPEDITION FROM THE UPPER XINGU RIVER SYSTEM. SIX OF THE CRATES WERE PACKAGED BY MAXWELL, ONE BY WHITTLESEY. WHITTLESEY AND THOMAS R. CROCKER JR. DID NOT RETURN FROM THE EXPEDITION AND ARE PRESUMED DEAD. MAXWELL AND THE REST OF THE PARTY PERISHED IN A PLANE CRASH EN ROUTE TO THE UNITED STATES. ONLY WHITTLESEY’S CRATE HAS BEEN PARTIALLY CATALOGUED HERE; THIS NOTE WILL BE SUPERCEDED AS THIS CRATE AND THE MAXWELL CRATES ARE FULLY CATALOGUED. DESCRIPTIONS ARE TAKEN FROM JOURNAL WHEREVER POSSIBLE.
HCM 4/89
[186] “Did you see that?” Smithback said. “I wonder why the cataloguing was never finished.”
“Shh!” Margo hissed. “I’m trying to get all this.”
NO. 1989-2006.1
BLOW GUN AND DART, NO DATA
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.2
PERSONAL JOURNAL OF J. WHITTLESEY, JULY 22 [1987] TO SEPTEMBER 17 [1987]
STATUS: T.R.
NO. 1989-2006.3
2 GRASS BUNDLES, TIED WITH PARROT FEATHERS, USED AS SHAMAN’S FETISH, FROM DESERTED HUT
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.4
FINELY CARVED FIGURINE OF BEAST. SUPPOSED REPRESENTATION OF “MBWUN” CF. WHITTLESEY JOURNAL, P. 56-59
STATUS: O.E.
NO. 1989-2006.5
WOODEN PLANT PRESS, ORIGIN UNKNOWN, FROM VICINITY OF DESERTED HUT.
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.6
DISK INCISED WITH DESIGNS.
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.7
SPEAR POINTS, ASSORTED SIZES AND CONDITION.
STATUS: C.
NOTE: ALL CRATES TEMPORARILY MOVED TO SECURE VAULT, LEVEL 2B, PER IAN CUTHBERT 3/20/95.
D. ALVAREZ, SEC’Y
[187] “What do all those codes mean?” Smithback asked.
“They tell the current status of the artifact,” Moriarty said. “C means it’s still crated up, hasn’t been curated yet. O.E. means ‘on exhibit.’ T.R. means ‘temporarily removed.’ There are others—”
“Temporarily removed?” Margo asked. “That’s all you need to put down? No wonder the journal got lost.”
“Of course that’s not all,” Moriarty said. “Whoever removes an object has to sign it out. The database is hierarchical. We can see more detail on any entry just by stepping down a level. Here, I’ll show you.” He tapped a few keys.
His expression changed. “That’s odd.” The message on the screen read:
INVALID RECORD OR RELATION
PROCESS HALTED
Moriarty frowned. “There’s nothing attached to this record for the Whittlesey journal.” He cleared the screen [188] and started typing again. “Nothing wrong with the others. See? Here’s the detail record for the figurine.”
Margo examined the screen.
**DETAIL LISTING**
Item: 1989-2006.4
###################################
Removed By: Cuthbert, I. 40123
Approval: Cuthbert, I. 40123
Removal Date: 3/17/95
Removal To: Superstition Exhibition
Case 415, Item 1004
Reason: Display
Return Date:
###################################
Removed By: Depardieu, B. 72412
Approval: Cuthbert, I. 40123
Removal Date: 10/1/90
Removal To: Anthropology Lab 2
Reason: Initial curating
Return Date: 10/5/90
###################################
END LISTING
=:?
“So what does that mean? We know the journal’s lost,” Margo said.
“Even if it’s lost, there should still be a detail record for it,” Moriarty said.
“Is there a restricted flag on the record?”
Moriarty shook his head and hit a few more keys.
“Here’s why,” he said at length, pointing at the screen. “The detail record’s been erased.”
“You mean the information about the journal’s [189] location has been deleted?” Smithback asked. “Can they do that?”
Moriarty shrugged. “It takes a high-security ID.”
“More importantly, why should somebody do that?” Margo asked. “Did the mainframe problem this morning have anything to do with it?”
“No.” Moriarty said. “This file compare dump I’ve just done implies the file was deleted sometime before last night’s backup. I can’t be more specific than that.”
“Deleted, eh?” Smithback said. “Gone forever. How clean, how neat. How coincidental. I’m beginning to see
a pattern here—a nasty one.”
Moriarty switched off the terminal and pushed himself back from the desk. “I’m not interested in your conspiracy theories,” he said.
“Could it have been an accident? Or a malfunction?” Margo asked.
“Doubtful. The database has all sorts of referential integrity checks built-in. I’d see an error message.”
“So what, then?” Smithback pressed.
“I haven’t a clue.” Moriarty shrugged. “But it’s a trivial issue, at best.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Smithback snorted. “Some computer genius.”
Moriarty, offended, pushed his glasses up his nose and stood up. “I really don’t need this,” he said. “I think I’ll get some lunch.” He headed for the door. “Margo, I’ll take a rain check on that crossword puzzle.”
“Nice going,” Margo said as the door closed. “You’ve got a really subtle touch, you know that, Smithback? George was good enough to get us into the database.”
“Yeah, and what did we learn from it?” Smithback asked. “Diddly-squat. Only one of the crates was ever accessioned. Whittlesey’s journal is still missing.” He looked at her smugly. “I, on the other hand, have struck oil.”
[190] “Put it in your book,” Margo yawned. “I’ll read it then. Assuming I can find a copy in the library.”
“Et tu, Brute?” Smithback grinned and handed her a folded sheet of paper. “Well, take a look at this.”
The sheet was a photocopy reproduction of an article from the New Orleans Times-Picayune dated October 17, 1988.
GHOST FREIGHTER FOUND BEACHED
NEAR NEW ORLEANS
By Antony Anastasia
Special to the Times-Picayune
BAYOU GROVE, October 16 (AP)-A small freighter bound for New Orleans ran aground last night near this small coastal town. Details remain sketchy, but preliminary reports indicate that all crew members had been brutally slain while at sea. The Coast Guard first reported the grounding at 11:45 Monday night.
The ship, the Strella de Venezuela, was an 18,000-ton freighter, currently of Haitian registry, that plied the waters of the Caribbean and the main trade routes between South America and the United States. Damage was limited, and the vessel’s cargo appeared to be intact.
It is not presently known how the crew members met their deaths, or whether any of the crew were able to escape the ship. Henry La Plage, a private helicopter pilot who observed the beached vessel, reported that “corpses were strewn across the foredeck like some wild animal had gotten at them. I seen one guy hanging out a bridge porthole, his head all smashed up. It was like a slaughterhouse, ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
Local and federal authorities are cooperating [191] in an attempt to understand the slayings, easily one of the most brutal massacres in recent maritime history. “We are currently looking into several theories, but we’ve come to no conclusions as of yet,” said Nick Lea, a police spokesman. Although there was no official comment, federal sources said that mutiny, vengeance killings by rival Caribbean shippers, and sea piracy were all being considered as possible motives.
“Jesus,” Margo breathed. “The wounds described here—”
“—sound just like those on the three bodies found here this week,” Smithback nodded grimly.
Margo frowned. “This happened almost seven years ago. It has to be coincidental.”
“Does it?” Smithback asked. “I might be forced to agree with you—if it wasn’t for the fact that the Whittlesey crates were on board that ship.”
“What?”
“It’s true. I tracked down the bills of lading. The crates were shipped from Brazil in August of 1988—almost a year after the expedition broke up, as I understand it. After this business in New Orleans, the crates sat in customs while the investigation was being conducted. It took them almost a year and a half to reach the Museum.”
“The ritualized murders have followed the crates all the way from the Amazon!” Margo said. “But that means—”
“It means,” Smithback said grimly, “that I’m going to stop laughing now when I hear talk about a curse on that expedition. And it means you should keep locking this door.”
The phone rang, startling them both.
“Margo, my dear.” Frock’s voice rumbled to her. “What news?”
[192] “Dr. Frock! I wonder if I could come by your office for a few minutes. At your earliest convenience.”
“Splendid!” Frock said. “Give me a little time to shuffle some of this paper off my desk and into the wastebasket. Shall we say one o’clock?”
“Thank you,” Margo said. “Smithback,” she said, turning around, “we’ve got to—”
But the writer was gone.
At ten minutes to one, another knock sounded.
“Who’s there?” Margo said through the locked door.
“It’s me, Moriarty. Can I come in, Margo?”
“I just wanted to apologize for walking out earlier,” Moriarty said, declining a chair. “It’s just that Bill wears on me sometimes. He never seems to let up.”
“George, I’m the one who should apologize,” Margo said. “I didn’t know he was going to appear like that.” She thought of telling him about the newspaper article, but decided against it and began to pack up her carryall.
“There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Moriarty went on. “While I was eating lunch, I realized there may be some way we can find out more about that deleted database record, after all. The one for Whittlesey’s journal.”
Margo abruptly put down the carryall and looked at Moriarty, who took a seat in front of her terminal. “Did you see that sign-on message when you logged into the network earlier?” he asked.
“The one about the computer going down? Big surprise. I got locked out twice this morning.”
Moriarty nodded. “The message also said they were going to restore from the backup tapes at noon. A full restore takes about thirty minutes. That means they should be done by now.”
“So?”
“Well, a backup tape holds about two to three months’ worth of archives. If the detail record for the Whittlesey journal was deleted in the last two months— [193] and if the backup tape is still on the hub up in data processing—I should be able to resurrect it.”
“Really?”
Moriarty nodded.
“Then do it!” Margo urged.
“There’s a certain element of risk,” Moriarty replied. “If a system operator notices that the tape is being accessed ... well, he could trace it to your terminal ID.”
“I’ll risk it,” Margo said. “George,” she added, “I know you feel this is all a wild goose chase, and I can’t really blame you for that. But I’m convinced those crates from the Whittlesey expedition are connected to these killings. I don’t know what the connection is, but maybe the journal could have told us something. And I don’t know what we’re dealing with—a serial killer, some animal, some creature. And not knowing scares me.” She gently took Moriarty’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “But maybe we’re in a position here to be of some help. We have to try.”
When she noticed Moriarty blushing, she withdrew her hand.
Smiling shyly, Moriarty moved to the keyboard.
“Here goes,” he said.
Margo paced the room as Moriarty worked. “Any luck?” she asked finally, moving closer to the terminal.
“Don’t know yet,” said Moriarty, squinting at the screen and typing commands. “I’ve got the tape, but the protocol’s messed up or something, the CRC checks are failing. We may get garbled data, if we get anything. I’m going in the back door, so to speak, hoping to avoid attention. The seek rate is really slow this way.”
Then the keytaps stopped. “Margo,” Moriarty said quietly. “I’ve got it.”
The screen filled. [194]
**DETAIL LISTING**
Item: 1989-2006.2
###################################
Remo
ved By: Rickman, L. 53210
Approval: Cuthbert, I. 40123
Removal Date: 3/15/95
Removal To: Personal supervision
Reason:
Return Date:
###################################
Removed By: Depardieu, B. 72412
Approval: Cuthbert, I. 40123
RemLW/@;oval Date: 10/1/90
Remov~DS*-~@2e34 5WIFU
=++ET2 34 h34!~
DB ERROR
=:?
“Hell!” Moriarty exclaimed. “I was afraid of that. It’s been partially overwritten, corrupted. See that? It just trails off into garbage.”
“Yes, but look!” Margo said excitedly.
Moriarty examined the screen. “The journal was removed by Mrs. Rickman two weeks ago, with Dr. Cuthbert’s permission. No return date.”
Margo snorted. “Cuthbert said the journal had been lost.”
“So why was this record deleted? And by whom?” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Oh, Lord, I have to release my lock on the tape before somebody notices us.” His fingers danced over the keys.
“George,” Margo said. “Do you know what this means? They took the journal out of the crates before [195] the killings started. Around the time Cuthbert had the crates put in the Secure Area. Now they’re concealing evidence from the police. Why?”
Moriarty frowned. “You’re starting to sound like Smithback,” he said. “There could be a thousand explanations.”
“Name one,” Margo challenged.
“The most obvious would be that somebody else deleted the detail record before Rickman could add a Lost Artifact notation.”
Margo shook her head. “I don’t believe it. There are just too many coincidences.”
“Margo—” Moriarty began. Then he sighed. “Listen,” he went on patiently, “this is a trying time for all of us, you especially. I know you’re trying to make a tough decision, and then with a crisis like this ... well ...”
“These murders weren’t committed by some garden-variety maniac,” Margo interrupted impatiently. “I’m not crazy.”
“I’m not saying that,” Moriarty continued. “I just think you ought to let the police handle this. It’s a very, very dangerous business. And you should be concentrating on your own life right now. Digging into this won’t help you make up your mind about your own future.” He swallowed. “And it won’t bring your father back.”
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