Relic

by Douglas Preston

  D’Agosta leaped up, raced around the columns, and [341] yanked one of the heavy wooden exhibition doors free. With a grunt, he slammed it to, then raced over to the far side. There was a noise inside the exhibition, a swift heavy tread. He slammed the second door shut and heard the latch fall. Then the doors shuddered as something heavy hit them.

  “Bailey!” he yelled. “Get everyone down the stairwell!”

  The pounding grew stronger, and D’Agosta backed up involuntarily. The wood of the door began to splinter.

  As he aimed his gun toward the door, he heard screams and shouts behind him. They’d seen Ippolito. He heard Bailey’s voice raised in argument with Wright. There was a sudden shudder and a great crack opened at the base of the door.

  D’Agosta ran across the room. “Down the stairs, now! Don’t look back!”

  “No,” screamed Wright, who was blocking the stairwell. “Look at Ippolito! I’m not going down there!”

  “There’s a way out!” shouted D’Agosta.

  “No there isn’t. But through the exhibition, and—”

  “There’s something in the exhibition!” D’Agosta yelled. “Now get going!”

  Bailey moved Wright forcibly aside and started pushing people through the door, even as they cried and stumbled across the body of Ippolito. At least the Mayor seems calm, D’Agosta thought. Probably saw worse than this at his last press conference.

  “I’m not going down there!” Wright cried. “Cuthbert, Lavinia, listen to me. That basement’s a death trap. I know. We’ll go upstairs, we can hide on the fourth floor, come back when the creature’s gone.”

  The people were through the door and staggering down the stairwell. D’Agosta could hear more wood splintering. He paused a moment. There were thirty-odd people below him, only three hesitating on the landing. “This is your last chance to come with us,” he said.

  “We’re going with Doctor Wright,” said the Public [342] Relations Director. In the gleam of the flashlight, Rickman’s drawn and fearful face looked like an apparition. Without a word, D’Agosta turned and followed the group downward. As he ran, he could hear Wright’s loud, desperate voice, calling for them to come upstairs.

  = 49 =

  Coffey stood just inside the tall archway of the Museum’s west entrance, watching the rain lash against the elaborate glass-and-bronze doors. He was shouting into his radio but D’Agosta wasn’t responding. And what was this shit Pendergast was slinging about a monster? The guy was bent to begin with, he figured, and the blackout sent him over the edge. As usual, everyone had screwed up, and once again it was up to Coffey to clean up the mess. Outside, two large emergency response vehicles were pulling up at the. entrance and police in riot gear were pouring out, moving quickly to erect A-frames across Riverside Drive. He could hear the wailing of ambulances frantically trying to nose their way through the steel grid of radio cars, fire engines, and press vans. Crowds of people were scattered around, crying, talking, standing in the rain or lying beneath the Museum’s vast awning. Members of the press were trying to slip past the cordon, snaking their microphones and cameras into faces before being pushed back by the police.

  [344] Coffey sprinted through the pelting rain to the silver bulk of the Mobile Command Unit. He yanked open the rear door and jumped inside.

  Within the MCU, it was cool and dark. Several agents were monitoring terminals, their faces glowing green in the reflected light. Coffey grabbed a headset and sat down. “Regroup!” he shouted on the command channel. “All FBI personnel to the Mobile Command Unit!”

  He switched channels. “Security Command. I want an update.”

  Garcia’s voice came on, weary and tense. “We still have total system failure, sir. The backup power hasn’t kicked in, they don’t know why. All we have are our flashlights and the batteries in this mobile transmitter.”

  “So? Start it manually.”

  “It’s all computer-driven, sir. Apparently there is no manual start.”

  “And the security doors?”

  “Sir, when we took those power dips the entire security system malfunctioned. They think it’s a hardware problem. All the security doors were released.”

  “Whaddya mean, all?”

  “The security doors on all five cells closed. It isn’t just Cell Two. The whole Museum’s shut down tight.”

  “Garcia, who there knows the most about this security system?”

  “That’d be Allen.” “Put him on.”

  There was a brief pause. “Tom Allen speaking.”

  “Allen, what about the manual overrides’? Why aren’t they working?”

  “Same hardware problem. The security system was a third-party installation, a Japanese vendor. We’re trying to get a representative on the phone now, but it’s tough, the phone system is digital and it went out when the computer shut down. We’re routing all calls through Garcia’s transmitter. Even the T1 lines are out. It’s been [345] a chain reaction since the switching box was shot to hell.”

  “Who? I didn’t know—”

  “Some cop—what’s his name? Waters?—on duty in the Computer Room, thought he saw something, fired a couple of shotgun rounds into the main electrical switching box.”

  “Look, Allen, I want to send a team in to evacuate those people trapped in the Hall of the Heavens. The Mayor’s in there, for Chrissake. How can we get in? Should we cut through the east door into the Hall?”

  “Those doors are designed to retard cutting. You could do it, but it would take forever.”

  “What about the subbasement? I’ve heard it’s like a frigging catacomb down there.”

  “There might be ingress points from where you are, but on-line charts are down. And the area isn’t fully mapped. It would take time.”

  “The walls, then. How about going through the walls?”

  “The lower load-bearing walls are extremely thick, three feet in most places, and all the older masonry walls have been heavily reinforced with rebar. Cell Two only has windows on the third and fourth floor, and they’re reinforced with steel bars. Most of them are too small to climb through, anyway.”

  “Shit. What about the roof?”

  “All the cells are closed off, and it would be pretty tough—”

  “Goddammit, Allen, I’m asking you the best way to get some men inside.”

  There was a silence.

  “The best way to get in would be through the roof,” came the voice. “The security doors on the upper floors are not as heavy. Cell Three extends above the Hall of the Heavens. That’s the fifth floor. You can’t enter there, though—the roof is shielded because of the radiography labs. But you could come in through the roof of Cell [346] Four. In some of the narrower halls you might be able to blow a security door to Cell Three with one charge. Once you were in Cell Three you could go right through the ceiling of the Hall of the Heavens. There’s an access port for servicing the chandelier in the Hall ceiling. It’s sixty feet to the floor, though.”

  “I’ll get back to you. Coffey out.”

  He punched at the radio and shouted, “Ippolito! Ippolito, you copy?” What the hell was happening inside that Hall? He switched to D’Agosta’s frequency. “D’Agosta! This is Coffey. Are you reading me?”

  He ran frantically through the bands.

  “Waters!”

  “Waters here, sir.”

  “What happened, Waters?”

  “There was a loud noise in the electrical room, sir, and I fired as per regulations, and—”

  “Regulations? You fucking turkey, there’s no regulation for firing at a noise!”

  “Sorry, sir. It was a loud noise, and I heard a lot of screaming and running in the exhibition and I thought—”

  “For this, Waters, you’re dead. I’m gonna have your ass roasted and sliced up like luncheon meat on a platter. Think about it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Outside there was a cough, sputter, and a roar as a large portable generator started up. The rear door to
the Mobile Command Unit opened and several agents ducked in, their suits dripping. “The rest are on their way, sir,” one of them said.

  “Okay. Tell them we’re having a crisis-control meeting here in the MCU in five minutes.”

  He stepped out into the rain. Emergency services workers were moving bulky equipment and yellow acetylene tanks up the Museum steps.

  Coffey ran back through the rain and up the steps into the debris-laden Rotunda. Medics clustered at the metal [347] emergency door blocking the east entrance to the Hall of the Heavens. Coffey could hear the whine of a bone saw.

  “Tell me what you’ve got,” Coffey asked the leader of the medical team.

  The doctor’s eyes looked strained above his blood-flecked mask. “I don’t know the full extent of the injuries yet, but we’ve got several criticals here. We’re performing some field amputations. I think a few others might be saved if you can get this door open in the next half hour.”

  Coffey shook his head. “Doesn’t look like that will happen. We’re gonna have to cut through it.”

  An emergency worker spoke up. “We’ve got some heat-proof blankets we can lay across these people as we work.”

  Coffey stepped back and raised his radio. “D’Agosta! Ippolito! Come in!”

  Silence. Then, he heard a hiss of static.

  “D’Agosta here,” came the tense voice. “Listen, Coffey—”

  “Where have you been? I told you—”

  “Shut up and listen, Coffey. You were making too much noise, I had to shut you off. We’re on our way to the subbasement. There’s a creature loose somewhere in Cell Two. I’m not kidding you, Coffey, it’s a fucking monster. It killed Ippolito and ran into the Hall. We had to get out.”

  “A what? You’re losing it, D’Agosta. Get a grip, you hear me? We’re sending men in through the roof.”

  “Yeah? Well, they’d better have some heavy shit ready if they plan on meeting up with this thing.”

  “D’Agosta, let me handle it. What’s this about Ippolito?”

  “He’s dead, slashed open, just like all the other stiffs.”

  “And a monster did this. Okay, sure. Any other police officers with you, D’Agosta?”

  [348] “Yeah, there’s Bailey.”

  “I’m relieving you of duty. Put Bailey on.”

  “Fuck you. Here’s Bailey.”

  “Sergeant,” Coffey barked, “You’re in charge now. What’s the situation?”

  “Mr. Coffey, he’s right. We had to leave the Hall of the Heavens. We went down the back stairwell near the service area. There’s over thirty of us, including the Mayor. No shit, there’s really something in here.”

  “Give me a break, Bailey. Did you see it?”

  “I’m not sure what I saw, sir, but D’Agosta saw it, and Jesus, sir, you should see what it did to Ippolito—”

  “Listen to me, Bailey. Are you gonna calm down and take over?”

  “No sir. As far as I’m concerned, he’s in charge.”

  “I just put you in charge!”

  Coffey snorted and looked up, enraged. “The son of a bitch just cut me off.”

  Outside in the rain, Greg Kawakita stood motionless amid a cacophony of yelling, sobbing, and cursing. He remained oblivious to the pelting rain that plastered his black hair to his forehead; the emergency vehicles that passed by, sirens shrieking; the panicky guests that jostled him as they ran past. Again and again he replayed in his mind what Margo and Frock had barked at him. He opened and closed his mouth, moved forward as if to reenter the Museum. Then, slowly, he turned, pulled his sodden tuxedo closer around his narrow shoulders, and walked thoughtfully into the darkness.

  = 50 =

  Margo jumped as a second gunshot echoed down the hall.

  “What’s happening?” she cried. In the darkness, she felt Frock’s grip tighten.

  Outside, they heard running steps. Then the yellow glow of a flashlight streaked by beneath the doorframe.

  “That smell is growing fainter,” she whispered. “Do you think it’s gone?”

  “Margo,” Frock replied quietly, “you saved my life. You risked your own life to save mine.”

  There came a soft knocking at the door. “Who is it?” Frock asked in a steady tone.

  “Pendergast,” a voice said, and Margo rushed to open the door. The FBI agent stood outside, a large revolver in one hand and crumpled blueprints in the other. His crisp well-tailored black suit contrasted with his dirt-streaked face. He shut the door behind him.

  “I’m pleased to see you both safe and sound,” he said, shining his light first on Margo and then Frock.

  [350] “Not half as pleased as we are!” Frock cried. “We came down here searching for you. Were those shots yours?”

  “Yes,” Pendergast said. “And I assume it was you I heard calling my name?”

  “Then you did hear me!” Frock said. “That’s how you knew to look for us in here.”

  Pendergast shook his head. “No.” He handed Margo a flashlight as he started unfolding his crumpled blueprints. Margo saw they were covered with handwritten notes.

  “The New York Historical Society will be very unhappy when they see the liberties I’ve taken with their property,” the agent observed dryly.

  “Pendergast,” Frock hissed, “Margo and I have discovered exactly what this killer is. You must listen. It isn’t a human being or any animal we know. Please, let me explain.”

  Pendergast looked up. “I don’t need any convincing, Doctor Frock.”

  Frock blinked. “You don’t? You will? I mean, you will help us stop the opening upstairs, get the people out?”

  “It’s too late for that,” Pendergast said. “I’ve been talking by police radio to Lieutenant D’Agosta and others. This power failure isn’t just affecting the basement, it’s affecting the entire Museum. The security system has failed, and all the emergency doors have come down.”

  “You mean—” Margo began.

  “I mean the Museum has been compartmentalized into five isolated cells. We’re in Cell Two. Along with the people in the Hall of the Heavens. And the creature.”

  “What happened?” Frock asked.

  “There was a panic even before the power went out and the doors came down. A dead body was discovered inside the exhibition. A police officer. Most of the guests managed to get out, but thirty or forty are trapped inside the Hall of the Heavens.” He smiled ruefully. “I was in [351] the exhibition myself, just a few hours before. I wanted to get a look at this Mbwun figurine you mentioned. If I’d gone in by the rear exit instead of the front, perhaps I would have found the body myself, and prevented all this. However, I did get a chance to see the figurine, Doctor Frock. And it’s an excellent representation. Take it from somebody who knows.”

  Frock stared, his mouth open.

  “You’ve seen it?” Frock managed to whisper.

  “Yes. That’s what I was shooting at. I was down around the corner from this storeroom when I heard you call my name. Then I noticed an awful smell. I ducked into a room and watched it go by. I came out after it and got off a shot, but it grazed off the thing’s scalp. Then the lights went out. I followed it around the corner and saw it grasping at this door, snuffling.” Pendergast flicked open the revolver’s cylinder, and replaced the two spent cartridges. “That’s how I knew you were in here.”

  “My God,” Margo said.

  Pendergast holstered his gun. “I got off a second shot at it, but I was having trouble aiming my weapon, and I missed. I came down this way to look for it, but the thing had vanished. It must have gone into the stairwell at the end of the corridor. There’s no other way out from this cul-de-sac.”

  “Mr. Pendergast,” Frock said urgently. “Tell me, please: what did it look like?”

  “I saw it only briefly,” Pendergast said slowly. “It was low, extremely powerful looking. It walked on all fours, but could rear upright. It was partially covered with hair.” He pursed his lips, nodded. “It was dark. But I�
��d say whoever made that figurine knew what he was doing.”

  In the glow of Pendergast’s light, Margo saw a strange mix of fear, exhilaration, and triumph cross Frock’s face. Then a series of muffled explosions echoed and [352] reechoed above them. There was a brief silence, and then more reports, sharper and louder, boomed nearby.

  Pendergast looked upward, listening intently. “D’Agosta!” he said. Drawing his gun and dropping the blueprints, he raced out into the corridor.

  Margo ran to the door and shined the flashlight down the hallway. In its thin beam, she could see Pendergast rattling the stairwell door. He knelt to inspect the lock, then, standing, he gave the door a series of savage kicks.

  “It’s jammed shut,” he said when he returned. “Those shotgun blasts we heard sounded like they came from inside the stairwell. Some of the shells must have bent the doorframe and damaged the lock. It won’t budge.” He holstered the gun and pulled out his radio. “Lieutenant D’Agosta! Vincent, can you hear me?” He waited a moment, then shook his head and replaced the radio in his jacket pocket.

  “So we’re stuck here?” Margo asked.

  Pendergast shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve spent the afternoon down in these vaults and tunnels, trying to determine how the beast was able to elude our searches. These blueprints were drafted well before the turn of the century, and they are complicated and contradictory, but they seem to show a route out of the Museum through the subbasement. With everything sealed off, there’s no other feasible way out for us. And there are several ways to access the subbasement from this section of the Museum.”

  “That means we can meet up with the people still upstairs, then escape together!” Margo said.

  Pendergast looked grim. “But that also means the beast can find its way back into the subbasement. Personally, I think that while these emergency doors may prevent our own rescue, they won’t hamper the beast’s movement much. I believe it’s been around long enough to find its own secret ways, and that it can move throughout the Museum—or, at least, the lower levels—practically at will.”