Relic

by Douglas Preston

  “You mentioned somebody named Montague?” Margo asked quietly.

  “Montague,” Jörgensen said, his eyes looking past [231] Margo. “He was a young Ph.D. candidate at the Museum. Anthropology. Whittlesey’s protégé. Needless to say, that didn’t exactly put him in the Museum’s good graces after Maxwell’s telegrams arrived. None of us who’d been friendly with Whittlesey were ever really trusted after that.”

  “What happened to Montague?”

  Jörgensen hesitated. “I don’t know,” he replied finally. “He just disappeared one day. Never came back.”

  “And the crates?” Margo pressed.

  “Montague had been terribly anxious to see those crates, especially Whittlesey’s. But, as I said, he was out of favor, and had been taken off the project. In point of fact, there was no project anymore. The whole expedition had been such a disaster that the top brass just wanted to forget anything had happened. When the crates finally arrived, they sat, unopened. Most of the documentation and provenance had burned up in the crash. Supposedly, there was a journal of Whittlesey’s, but I never saw it. In any case, Montague complained and pleaded, and in the end they gave him the job of doing the initial curating. And then he just up and left.”

  “What do you mean, left?” Smithback asked.

  Jörgensen looked at him, as if deciding whether or not to answer the question. “He simply walked out of the Museum and never came back. I understand his apartment and all his clothes were abandoned. His family instituted a search and found nothing. But he was a rather strange character. Most people assumed he’d gone off to Nepal or Thailand to find himself.”

  “But there were rumors,” Smithback said. It was a statement, not a question.

  Jörgensen laughed. “Of course there were rumors! Aren’t there always? Rumors that he embezzled money, rumors that he ran off with a gangster’s wife, rumors that he’d been murdered and dumped in the East River. But he was such a nonentity in the Museum that most people forgot about him in a few weeks.”

  [232] “Rumors that the Museum Beast got him?” Smithback asked.

  Jörgensen’s smile faded. “Not exactly. But it caused all the rumors of the curse to resurface. Now everyone, they said, who had come in contact with the crates had died. Some of the guards and cafeteria employees—you know those types—said Whittlesey had robbed a temple, that there was something in the crate, a relic with a terrible curse on it. They said the curse followed the relic all the way back to the Museum.”

  “Didn’t you want to study the plants that Maxwell sent back?” Smithback asked. “I mean, you’re a botanist, aren’t you?”

  “Young man, you know nothing of science. There is no such thing as a botanist per se. I have no interest in the paleobotany of angiosperms. That whole thing was way out of my field. My specialty is the coevolution of plants and viruses. Or was,” he said with a certain irony.

  “But Whittlesey wanted you to take a look at the plants he sent back as packing material,” Smithback continued.

  “I have no idea why,” Jörgensen said. “This is the first I’ve heard of it. I never saw this letter before.” With a certain reluctance, he handed it back to Margo. “I’d say it’s a fake, except for the handwriting and the motif.”

  There was a silence. “You haven’t said what you thought about Montague’s disappearance,” Margo said at last.

  Jörgensen rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked at the floor. “It frightened me.”

  “Why?”

  There was a long silence. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Montague once had a financial emergency and had to borrow money from me. He was very conscientious and went through great difficulties paying it back. It didn’t seem in character for him to just disappear like that. The last time I saw him, he was about to do an [233] inventory of the crates. He was very excited about it.” He looked up at Margo. “I’m not a superstitious man. I’m a scientist. Like I said, I don’t believe in curses and that sort of thing ...” his voice trailed off.

  “But—?” Smithback prodded.

  The old man shot a glance at Smithback. “Very well,” he glowered. Then he leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. “I told you that John Whittlesey was my friend,” he said. “Before he left, Whittlesey had collected all the stories he could find about the Kothoga tribe. Mostly from lowland tribes living downstream, Yanomamo and the like. I remember him telling me one story the day before he left. The Kothoga, according to a Yanomamo informant, had made a deal with a being called Zilashkee. This was a creature like our Mephistopheles, but even more extreme: all the evil and death in the world emanated from this thing, which slithered around on the peak of the tepui. Or so the legend went. Anyway, according to their arrangement, the Kothoga would get the Zilashkee’s child for a servant in return for killing and eating all of their own children, and vowing forevermore to worship him and only him. When the Kothoga had finished their grisly task, the Zilashkee sent his child to them. But the beast proceeded to run rampant through the tribe, murdering and eating people. When the Kothoga complained, the Zilashkee laughed and said: What did you expect? I am evil. Finally, using magic or herbal spells or some such thing, the tribe managed to control the beast. It couldn’t be killed, you see. So the Zilashkee child remained under the control of the Kothoga, and they used it to do their own malignant bidding. But using it was always a dangerous proposition. The legend says that the Kothoga have been looking for a way to get rid of it ever since.”

  Jörgensen looked down at the disassembled motor. “That was the story Whittlesey told me. When I heard about the plane crash, the death of Whittlesey, the disappearance of Montague ... well, I couldn’t help but [234] think the Kothoga had finally managed to unload Zilashkee’s child.”

  Picking up a piece of the machine, the old botanist turned it over in his hands with a distant expression. “Whittlesey told me the name of the Zilashkee’s child was Mbwun. He Who Walks On All Fours.” And he dropped the piece with a clank and grinned.

  = 33 =

  As closing drew near, the visitors began to trickle out toward the Museum exits. The Museum shop—located directly inside the south entrance—did a brisk business.

  In the marble hallways leading away from the south entrance, the sounds of conversation and the drumming of feet could be clearly heard. In the Hall of the Heavens near the West entrance, where the opening party for the new exhibition was to be held, the noise was fainter, echoing inside the huge dome like a vaguely remembered dream. And deeper within the Museum, as more laboratories, antique lecture halls, storage vaults, and book-lined offices interposed themselves, the sounds of visitors did not penetrate. The long corridors were dark and silent.

  Within the Butterfield Observatory, the noise and bustle could just as well have been on another planet. The staffers, making the most of the curfew, had gone home early. George Moriarty’s office, like all six floors of the observatory, was deathly quiet.

  [236] Moriarty stood behind his desk, a balled fist pressed tightly against his mouth. “Damn,” he mumbled.

  Suddenly, one foot lashed out in frustration, the heel slamming against a file cabinet behind him and knocking a pile of papers onto the floor. “Damn!” he howled, this time in pain, as he sank into his chair and began rubbing his ankle.

  Slowly, the pain lifted, and with it, his funk. Sighing heavily, he looked around the room. “Jeez, George, you always manage to screw things up, don’t you?” he murmured.

  He was hopeless socially, he might as well admit it to himself. Everything he did to catch Margo’s attention, everything he did to gain her favor, seemed to backfire. What he’d said about her father was about as tactful as a machine gun.

  Suddenly, he swiveled toward his terminal and typed in a command. He’d send her an e-mail message, maybe repair some of his damage. He paused a moment, composing, then began to type.

  HI, MARGO! JUST CURIOUS TO KNOW IF YOU

  Abruptly, Moriarty hit a key, purging the me
ssage. He’d probably just mess things up even worse.

  He sat for a moment, staring at the blank screen. He knew of only one surefire method to ease his hurt: a treasure hunt.

  Many of the Superstition exhibition’s most prized artifacts were the direct result of his treasure hunts. Moriarty had a deep love for the Museum’s vast collections, and he was more familiar with its obscure and secret corners than many longtime staffers. Shy, Moriarty had few friends and often passed his time researching and locating long-forgotten relics from the Museum’s storerooms. It gave him a sense of worth and fulfillment that he had been unable to obtain from others.

  [237] He turned once again to the keyboard, opening the Museum’s accession database and moving casually yet deliberately through its records. He knew his way around the database, knew its shortcuts and back doors, like an experienced riverboat captain knew the contours of a riverbed.

  In a few minutes, his fingers slowed. Here was a region of the database he hadn’t explored before: a trove of Sumerian artifacts, discovered in the early twenties but never fully researched. Carefully, he targeted first a collection, then a subcollection, then individual artifacts. This looked interesting: a series of clay tablets, early examples of Sumerian writing. The original collector believed they dealt with religious rituals. Moriarty read over the annotated entries, nodding to himself. Maybe they could use these in the exhibition. There was still room for a few more artifacts in one of the smaller miscellaneous galleries.

  He checked his sundial watch: almost five. Still, he knew where the tablets were stored. If they looked promising, he could show them to Cuthbert tomorrow morning and get his approval. He could work up the display between the Friday night celebration and the public opening. He quickly jotted a few notes, then flicked off his computer.

  The sound of the terminal being snapped into darkness sounded like a pistol shot in the lonely office. Finger still on the power switch. Moriarty paused. Then he stood up, tucked his shirt inside his trousers, and—favoring his bruised heel slightly—left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

  = 34 =

  Down in the temporary command post, D’Agosta froze in the act of rapping on Pendergast’s window. He peered in to get a better look.

  Some tall guy in an ugly suit was moving around Pendergast’s office. His face looked sweaty and sun-burnt and he swaggered like he owned the place, picking up papers on the desk, laying them down somewhere else, jingling his pocket change.

  “Hey, pal,” D’Agosta said, opening the door and walking in, “that’s FBI property. If you’re waiting for Mr. Pendergast, how about doing it outside?”

  The man turned. His eyes were small and narrow, and pissed off.

  “From now on, ah, Lieutenant,” he said, staring at the badge hanging from D’Agosta’s belt as if trying to read the number, “you’ll speak respectfully to the FBI personnel around here. Of which I am now in charge. Special Agent Coffey.”

  “Well, Special Agent Coffey, as far as I know, and [239] until someone tells me different, Mr. Pendergast is in charge here, and you’re messing with his desk.”

  Coffey gave him a thin smile, reached into his jacket, and pulled out an envelope.

  D’Agosta examined the letter inside. It was from Washington, putting the New York Field Office of the FBI, and one Special Agent Spencer Coffey, in charge of the case. Stapled to the directive were two memos. One, from the Governor’s office, formally demanded the change and accepted full responsibility for the transfer of power. The second, with a United States Senate letterhead, D’Agosta folded up without bothering to read.

  He handed the envelope back. “So you guys finally snuck in the back door.”

  “When will Pendergast be back, Lieutenant?” said Coffey, sliding the envelope back into his pocket.

  “How would I know?” said D’Agosta. “While you’re poking through his desk there, maybe you’d like to check his appointment book.”

  Before Coffey could respond, Pendergast’s voice sounded from outside the office. “Ah, Agent Coffey! How delightful to see you.”

  Coffey once again reached for the envelope.

  “No need,” Pendergast said. “I know why you’re here.” He sat down behind his desk. “Lieutenant D’Agosta, please make yourself comfortable.”

  D’Agosta, noting only one other chair in the office, sat down with a grin. Watching Pendergast in action was something he’d grown to enjoy.

  “A madman is apparently loose in the Museum, Mr. Coffey,” Pendergast said. “Therefore, Lieutenant D’Agosta and I have both come to the conclusion that tomorrow night’s opening party must not be allowed to proceed. This murderer works at night. He’s well overdue for another attack. We cannot be responsible for more people being killed because the Museum is kept open for, shall we say, pecuniary reasons.”

  “Yeah,” said Coffey, “well, you’re not responsible [240] anymore. My orders are that the opening proceeds as planned, and on schedule. We’re bolstering the police presence with additional field agents. This place is going to be more secure than the Pentagon lavatory. And I’ll tell you something else, Pendergast: once this little party is over and done with and the big shots have gone home, we’re gonna wrap this sucker. You’re supposed to be hot shit, but you know something? I’m not impressed. You’ve had four days and all you’ve caught is your own dick. We’re through wasting time.”

  Pendergast smiled. “Yes, I expected as much. If that’s your decision, so be it. You should know, however, that I will be sending a formal memorandum to the Director, stating my own views on the matter.”

  “Do what you want,” Coffey said, “but do it on your own time. Meanwhile, my people will be setting up shop down the hall. I’ll expect a briefing from you at curfew.”

  “My closing report is already prepared,” Pendergast said mildly. “Now, Mr. Coffey, is there anything else?”

  “Yes,” Coffey said. “I expect full cooperation from you, Pendergast.”

  He left the door open behind him.

  D’Agosta watched him walk down the hall. “He looks a lot more pissed off now than before you came in,” he said. Then he turned toward Pendergast. “You’re not just going to give in to that jerk-off, are you?”

  Pendergast smiled. “Vincent, I’m afraid this had grown inevitable. In a sense, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. This isn’t the first time I’ve trod on Wright’s toes this week. Why should I fight it? This way, at least, no one can accuse us of lack of cooperation.”

  “But I thought you had pull.” D’Agosta tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

  Pendergast spread his hands. “I have quite a bit of pull, as you put it. But remember, I’m off my turf. Because the killings were similar to those I investigated in New Orleans several years ago, I had good cause to be here—as long as there was no controversy, no call for [241] local involvement. But I knew that Dr. Wright and the Governor had been at Brown together. With the Governor making a formal request for FBI intervention, there’s only one possible outcome.”

  “But what about the case?” D’Agosta asked. “Coffey’s gonna build on all the work you’ve done, and take the credit himself.”

  “You assume there’s going to be credit here at all,” Pendergast said. “I have a bad feeling about this opening, Lieutenant. A very bad feeling. I’ve known Coffey for a long time, and he can be relied upon to make a bad situation worse. But you notice, Vincent, that he did not send me packing. That he can’t do.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re happy to lose the responsibility,” said D’Agosta. “My main goal in life may be to keep the mower off my ass, but I always figured you different.”

  “Vincent, I’m surprised at you,” Pendergast said. “It has nothing to do with shirking responsibility. However, this arrangement does allow me a certain degree of freedom. It’s true that Coffey has the final say, but his ability to direct my actions is limited. The only way I could come up here initially was if I took charge
of the case. That tends to make one more circumspect. Now, I’ll be able to follow my own instincts.” He sat back in his chair, fixing D’Agosta with his pale stare. “I would continue to welcome your help. I may need someone inside the department to help expedite a few things.”

  D’Agosta looked thoughtful for a few moments. “There’s one thing I could tell about this Coffey right from the get-go,” he said.

  “What is that?”

  “The guy’s dipped in green shit.”

  “Ah, Vincent,” said Pendergast, “you have such a colorful way with words.”

  = 35 =

  Friday

  The office, Smithback noted glumly, looked exactly the same: not a knickknack out of place. He slumped in his chair, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu.

  Rickman returned from her secretary’s office carrying a slim file, the ubiquitous prim smile frozen on her face. “Tonight’s the night!” she said cheerfully. “Planning to attend?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Smithback.

  She passed him the file. “Read this, Bill,” she said, her voice a little less pleasant.

  NEW YORK MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY

  INTERNAL MEMORANDUM

  To: William Smithback Jr.

  From: Lavinia Rickman

  Re: Untitled work on Superstition Exhibition

  Effective immediately, and until further notice, your work at the Museum will be governed by the following provisions:

  1. All interviews conducted for the Work in Progress are to be done in my presence.

  2. Recording of interviews by you, or the taking of notes during interviews by you, is forbidden. In the interests of timeliness and consistency, I will take on the responsibility of note-taking myself, and pass the edited scripts on to you for inclusion in the Work in Progress.

  3. Discussion of Museum matters with employees, or any persons encountered upon the Museum grounds, is prohibited without first obtaining my written approval. Please sign in the space provided below to acknowledge your understanding of and agreement to these provisions.