Relic

by Douglas Preston

  D’Agosta wondered what that business with the old curator in the wheelchair had been. Frock, the name was. He’d shouted something, but then Cuthbert, the honcho of the event, had sent him off. Museum politics, worse even than down at One Police Plaza.

  “... most fervent hope that this exhibition will launch a new era at our Museum: an era in which technological innovation and a renaissance in the scientific method will combine to reinvigorate the interest of the museum-going public in today’s ...”

  D’Agosta scanned the room, mentally spot-checking his men. Everyone seemed to be in place. He nodded to the guard at the exhibition entrance, instructing him to remove the chain from the heavy wooden doors.

  As the speech ended, a roar of applause filled the vast space once again. Then Cuthbert returned to the podium.

  “I want to thank a number of people ...”

  D’Agosta glanced at his watch, wondering where Pendergast was. If he was in the room, D’Agosta would have known it. Pendergast was a guy that stuck out in a crowd.

  Cuthbert was holding up an enormous pair of scissors, which he handed to the Mayor. The Mayor grasped one handle and offered the other to Wright, and the two of them walked down the platform steps to a huge ribbon in front of the exhibition entrance. “What are we waiting for?” said the Mayor facetiously, drawing a laugh. They snipped the ribbon in half to an explosion of flashbulbs, and two of the Museum guards slowly pulled open the doors. The band swung into “The Joint Is Jumpin’.”

  “Now,” said D’Agosta, speaking fast into his radio. “Get into position.”

  As the applause and cheers echoed thunderously, D’Agosta walked briskly forward along the wall, then ducked past the doors into the empty exhibition. He did [308] a quick scan inside, then spoke into his radio. “Clear.” Ippolito came up next, scowling at D’Agosta. Arm in arm, the Mayor and the Director stood in the doorway, posing for the cameras. Then, beaming, they walked forward into the exhibition.

  As D’Agosta moved deeper into the exhibition ahead of the group, the cheering and applause grew fainter. Inside, it was cool and smelled of new carpeting and dust, with a faint unpleasant odor of decay.

  Wright and Cuthbert were giving the Mayor a tour. Behind them, D’Agosta could see his two men, and behind them a vast sea of people, crowding in, craning their necks, gesturing, talking. From D’Agosta’s perspective within the exhibition, it looked like a tidal wave. One exit. Shit.

  He spoke into his radio. “Walden, I want you to tell those Museum guards to slow down the flow. Too many goddamn people are crowding in here.”

  “Ten-four, Lieutenant.”

  “This,” said Wright, still holding the Mayor’s arm, “is a very rare sacrificial gurney from Mesoamerica. That’s the Sun God depicted on the front, guarded by jaguars. The priests would sacrifice the victim on this table, cut out the beating heart, and hold it up to the sun. The blood flowed down these channels and collected here at the bottom.”

  “Impressive,” said the Mayor. “I could use one of those up in Albany.”

  Wright and Cuthbert laughed, the sound reverberating off the still artifacts and display cases.

  Coffey stood in the forward security station, legs apart, hands on hips, his face expressionless. Most of the guests had arrived, and those who hadn’t were probably not going to venture out. It was raining in earnest now, sheets of water cascading onto the pavement. Across the expanse of the Rotunda, through the east door, Coffey could clearly see the festivities in the Hall of the [309] Heavens. It was a beautiful room, with coruscating stars covering the velvety black dome that floated sixty feet overhead. Swirling galaxies and nebulae glowed softly along the walls. Wright was speaking at the podium, and the cutting ceremony would be starting soon.

  “How’s it look?” Coffey asked one of his agents.

  “Nothing exciting,” the agent said, scanning the security board. “No breaches, no alarms. Perimeter’s quiet as a tomb.”

  “The way I like it,” Coffey replied.

  He glanced back into the Hall of the Heavens in time to see two guards pulling open the huge doors to the Superstition Exhibition. He’d missed the ribbon cutting. The crowd was moving forward now, all five thousand at once, it seemed.

  “What the hell do you think Pendergast is up to?” Coffey said to another of his agents. He was glad Pendergast was out of his hair for the time being, but he was nervous at the thought of the Southerner wandering around, beholden to no one.

  “Haven’t seen him,” came the response. “Want me to check with Security Command?”

  “Naw,” Coffey said. “It’s nice without him. Nice and peaceful.”

  D’Agosta’s radio hissed. “Walden here. Listen, we need some help. The guards are having a hard time controlling the flow. There’s just too many people.”

  “Where’s Spenser? He should be floating around there somewhere. Have him bar the entrance, let people out but not in, while you and the Museum guards set up an orderly line. This crowd has to be controlled.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The exhibition was filling up quickly now. Twenty minutes had gone by and Wright and the Mayor were deep inside the exhibition, near the locked rear exit. They’d moved quickly at first, keeping to the central halls and avoiding the secondary passages. But now, [310] Wright had stopped at a particular exhibit to explain something to the Mayor, and people were streaming past them into the exhibition’s farthest recesses.

  “Keep near the front,” D’Agosta said to Bailey and McNitt, the two men on advance duty.

  He skipped ahead and did a quick visual through two side alcoves. Spooky exhibition, he thought. A very sophisticated haunted house, with all the trimmings. The dim lighting, for instance. Not so dim, though, that you couldn’t make out nasty little details. Like the Congo power figure, with its bulging eye sockets and torso riddled with sharp nails. Or the nearby mummy, vertical in a freestanding case, that was streaked with dripped blood. Now that, thought D’Agosta, is a little overdone.

  The crowd continued to spread out, and he ducked into the next set of alcoves. All clear.

  “Walden, how’d you make out?” D’Agosta radioed.

  “Lieutenant, I can’t find Spenser. He doesn’t seem to be around, and I can’t leave the entrance to find him with the crowd the way it is.”

  “Shit. Okay, I’m calling Drogan and Frazier over to help you.”

  D’Agosta radioed one of the two plainclothes units patrolling the party. “Drogan, you copy?”

  A pause. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

  “I want you and Frazier to back up Walden at the exhibition entrance, on the double.”

  “Ten-four.”

  He looked around. More mummies, but none with blood all over them.

  D’Agosta stopped, frozen. Mummies don’t bleed.

  Slowly, he turned around and started pushing past the eager phalanx of gawkers. It was just some curator’s sick little idea. Part of the exhibit.

  But he had to be sure.

  The case was surrounded by people, as were all the others. D’Agosta made his way through the crowd and glanced at the label: “Anasazi burial from Mummy Cave, Canyon del Muerto, Arizona.”

  [311] The streaks of dried blood on the head and chest of the mummy looked like they had come from above. Trying to remain inconspicuous, he leaned as close to the case as possible and peered up.

  Above the mummy’s head, the top of the case was open, exposing a ceiling crawling with steam pipes and ductwork. A hand, a watch, and the cuff of a blue shirt protruded over the edge of the case. A small icicle of dried blood hung from the middle finger.

  D’Agosta backed into a corner, looked around, and spoke urgently into his radio.

  “D’Agosta calling Security Command.”

  “This is Garcia, Lieutenant.”

  “Garcia, I’ve got a dead body in here. We’ve got to get everybody out. If they see it and panic, we’re fucked.”

  “Jesus,” said Garcia.

&nb
sp; “Get in touch with the guards and Walden. Nobody else is to be allowed into the exhibition. You got that? And I want the Hall of the Heavens cleared in case there’s a stampede. Get everyone out, but don’t cause any alarm. Now get Coffey for me.”

  “Roger.”

  D’Agosta looked around, trying to spot Ippolito. His radio squawked.

  “Coffey here. What the hell is it, D’Agosta?”

  “We got a dead body in here. It’s lying on top of a case. I’m the only one who’s spotted it, but that could change at any moment. We’ve got to get everyone out while there’s still time.”

  As he opened his mouth to speak again, D’Agosta heard, over the noise of the crowd, “That blood looks so real.”

  “There’s a hand up there,” D’Agosta heard someone else say.

  Two woman were backing away from the case, looking up.

  “It’s a body!” one said loudly.

  [312] “It’s not real,” the other replied. “It’s a gimmick for the opening, it has to be.”

  D’Agosta held up his hands, moving up to the case. “Please, everyone!”

  There was a brief, terrible, listening silence. “A body!” someone else screamed.

  There was a brief movement of the crowd, followed by a sudden stillness. Then, another scream: “He’s been murdered!”

  The crowd peeled back in two directions, and several people stumbled and fell. A large woman in a cocktail dress toppled backward onto D’Agosta, slamming him up against the case. The air was slowly forced out of his chest as the weight of more bodies pressed against him. Then he felt the case behind him start to give.

  “Wait!” he gasped.

  From the darkness above, something big slid off the top of the case and flopped onto the tight mass of people, knocking several more down. From his awkward angle, D’Agosta could only tell that it was bloody, and that it had been human. He didn’t think it had a head.

  Utter pandemonium broke out. The close space filled with screaming and shouting, and people started to run, clawing at each other, stumbling. D’Agosta felt the case topple. Suddenly, the mummy fell to the floor, with D’Agosta on top. As he grabbed the side of the case he felt glass slice into his palm. He tried to stand, but was knocked back into the case by the surging crowd.

  He heard the hiss from his radio, found it was still in his right hand, and raised it to his face.

  “This is Coffey. What the hell is going on, D’Agosta?”

  “We’ve got a panic on our hands, Coffey. You’re going to have to evacuate the Hall immediately, or—

  “Shit!” he roared as the radio was knocked from his hand by the surging crowd.

  = 45 =

  Margo watched dispiritedly as Frock shouted into an internal phone set in the granite walls of the Great Rotunda. Wright’s amplified speech poured out of the Hall of the Heavens, preventing Margo from hearing a word Frock said. Finally, Frock reached up, slamming the phone onto its cradle. He wheeled himself around to face her. “This is absurd. Apparently, Pendergast is in the basement somewhere. Or at least, he was. He radioed in about an hour ago. They refuse to contact him without authorization.”

  “In the basement? Where?” Margo asked.

  “Section 29, they said. Why he’s down there, or was down there, they refuse to say. My guess is they don’t know. Section 29 covers a lot of ground.” He turned to Margo. “Shall we?”

  “Shall we what?”

  “Go down to the basement, of course,” Frock replied.

  “I don’t know,” Margo said dubiously. “Perhaps we [314] should get the authorization they need to summon him up.

  Frock moved impatiently in his wheelchair. “We don’t even know who could give such authorization.” He stared at her, becoming aware of her uncertainty. “I don’t think you need worry about the creature confronting us, my dear,” he said. “If I’m right, it will be drawn to the concentration of people here at the exhibition. It’s our obligation to do whatever we can to prevent a catastrophe; we took that on when we made these discoveries.”

  Still Margo hesitated. It was one thing for Frock to speak in grandiose terms. He hadn’t been inside that exhibition. He hadn’t heard the stealthy padding of feet. He hadn’t run blindly in the screaming dark ...

  She took a deep breath. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  Since Section 29 was inside the Cell Two security perimeter, Margo and Frock had to show their IDs twice on their way to the proper elevator. Apparently, the curfew being suspended for the evening, guards and police officers were more concerned about detaining suspicious or unauthorized characters than restricting the movement of Museum employees.

  “Pendergast!” Frock shouted as Margo wheeled him out of the elevator into the dim basement corridor. “This is Doctor Frock. Can you hear me?”

  His voice echoed and died.

  Margo knew a little of the history behind Section 29. When the Museum’s powerplant had been located nearby, the area housed steam pipes, supply tunnels, and the subterranean cubbyholes used by troglodyte workers. After the Museum switched to a more modern power plant in the 1920s, the old works had been removed, leaving a series of ghostly warrens now used for storage.

  Margo wheeled Frock down the low-ceilinged hallways. Every so often, Frock would bang on a door or [315] call Pendergast’s name. Each time, his shouts were greeted by silence.

  “We’re getting nowhere,” Frock said as Margo stopped for a breather. Frock’s white hair was in disarray, and his tuxedo jacket was rumpled.

  Margo looked nervously around. She knew approximately where they were: somewhere, at the far end of the confusion of passages, lay the vast, silent space of the old powerhouse: a lightless, subterranean pantheon now used to hold the Museum’s collection of whale bones. Despite Frock’s predictions of the creature’s behavior, the shouting made her nervous.

  “This could take hours,” Frock said. “He may not be here anymore. Perhaps he never was.” He sighed deeply. “Pendergast was our last hope.”

  “Maybe the noise and confusion will frighten the creature, keep it in hiding, away from the party,” Margo said with a hope she didn’t feel.

  Frock rested his head in his hands. “Not likely. The beast must be driven by smell. It may be intelligent, it may be cunning, but like a human serial killer, when its blood lust is up it cannot control itself.”

  Frock sat up, his eyes filled with renewed vigor.

  “Pendergast!” he shouted again. “Where are you?”

  Waters stood listening, his body tensed. He could feel his heart pounding, and he couldn’t seem to gulp enough air into his lungs.

  He’d been in plenty of dangerous situations before, been shot at, knifed, even had acid thrown at him once. Every time he’d been cool, almost detached, when he’d had to be. Now, one little thump and I’m panicking. He clawed at his collar. The air’s stuffy in this damn room. He willed himself to breathe slowly and deeply. I’ll just call Garcia. We’ll investigate together. And find nothing.

  Then he noticed that the rustling of feet overhead had changed its rhythm. Instead of the scraping and sliding he’d heard before, now he heard a constant drumming, [316] like the sound of running feet. As he listened, he thought he heard a faint screaming. Dread flooded through him.

  There was another thump in the electrical room.

  Sweet Jesus, something big’s happening.

  He grabbed his radio. “Garcia? You copy? Requesting backup to investigate suspicious noises in the electrical systems room.”

  Waters swallowed. Garcia wasn’t responding on the regular frequency. As Waters holstered his radio, he noticed that the geek had stood up and was heading for the electrical room.

  “What are you doing?” Waters asked.

  “I want to see what that noise is,” the geek said, opening the door. “I think the air conditioner might have failed again.” He put his hand around the doorframe, feeling for a light switch.

  “Wait a min
ute, you,” Waters said. “Don’t—”

  Waters’s radio burst into static. “We got a stampede in here!” There was more static. “... All units, mobilize for emergency evacuation!” More static. “Can’t hold this crowd, we need backup now, now ...”

  Jesus. Waters grabbed his radio, punched buttons. In an instant, all bands had been taken. He could hear something terrible happening right over his head. Shit.

  Waters looked up. The geek was gone, and the door to the electrical room was open, but the light inside was still off. Why was the light still off? Without taking his eyes from the open door, he carefully unshouldered his shotgun, pumped a slug into the chamber, and started forward.

  Carefully, he moved up to the edge of the door, looked around. Blackness.

  “Hey, you,” he said. “You in there?” As he moved inside the darkened room, he felt his mouth go dry.

  There was a sudden loud thump to his left, and Waters instinctively dropped to his knee and pumped three rounds, each one a flash of light and a deafening blast.

  There was a shower of sparks and a gout of flame [317] licked upward, briefly illuminating the room with lambent orange light. The geek was on his knees, looking up at Waters.

  “Don’t shoot!” the geek said, his voice breaking. “Please, don’t shoot anymore!”

  Waters raised himself on trembling legs, ears ringing. “I heard a sound,” he cried. “Why didn’t you answer me, you stupid shit?”

  “It was the air conditioner,” the geek said, tears streaming down his face. “It was the air-conditioner pump failing, like before.”

  Waters backed up, feeling behind him for the wall switch. Gunpowder hung in the air like a blue fog. On the far wall, a large mounted box of metal was smoking from three large, ragged holes in its front casing.

  Waters hung his head, sank back against the wall.

  With a sudden pop, an electrical arc sliced across the ruined box, followed by a crackling and another shower of sparks. The acrid air grew foul. The lights in the Computer Room flickered, dimmed, brightened. Waters heard one alarm go off, and then another.