Relic

by Douglas Preston

  [353] Margo nodded. “We think it’s been living in the Museum for years. And we think we know how and why it came here.”

  Pendergast looked searchingly at Margo for a long moment. “I need you and Doctor Frock to tell me everything you know about this creature, as quickly as possible,” he said.

  As they turned to enter the storeroom, Margo heard a distant drumming, like slow thunder. She froze, listening intently. The thunder seemed to have a voice: crying or shouting, she wasn’t sure which.

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  “That,” Pendergast said quietly, “is the sound of people in the stairwell, running for their lives.”

  = 51 =

  In the faint light filtering in through the barred laboratory window, Wright could barely make out the old filing cabinet. It was damned lucky, he thought, that the lab was inside the perimeter of Cell Two. Not for the first time, he was glad he’d kept this old laboratory when he’d been promoted to Director. It would provide them with a temporary safe haven, a little breathing room. Cell Two was now completely cut off from the rest of the Museum, and they were effectively prisoners. Everything, all the emergency bars, shutters, and security gates, had come down during the loss of power. At least that’s what he’d heard that incompetent police officer, D’Agosta, say.

  “Someone is going to pay dearly for this,” Wright muttered to himself. Then they all fell quiet. Now that they had stopped running, the enormity of the disaster began to sink in.

  Wright moved gingerly forward, pulling out one [355] file-cabinet drawer after another, fishing behind the folders until at last he found what he was looking for.

  “Ruger .357 magnum,” he said, hefting it in his hands. “Great pistol. Excellent stopping power.”

  “I’m not sure that’s going to stop whatever killed Ippolito,” said Cuthbert. He was standing near the laboratory door, a still figure framed in black.

  “Don’t worry, Ian. One of these speedball bullets would perforate an elephant. I bought this after old Shorter was mugged by a vagrant. Anyway, the creature isn’t coming up here. And if he does, this door is solid oak two inches thick.”

  “What about that one?” Cuthbert pointed toward the rear of the office.

  “That goes into the Hall of Cretaceous Dinosaurs. It’s just like this one—solid oak.” He tucked the Ruger into his belt. “Those fools, going into the basement like so many lemmings. They should have listened to me.”

  He rummaged in the file drawer again and pulled out a flashlight. “Excellent. Haven’t used this in years.”

  He snapped it on and a feeble beam shot out, wavering as his hand shook a little.

  “Not much juice left in that torch, I’d say,” Cuthbert murmured.

  Wright turned it off. “We’ll only use it in an emergency.”

  “Please!” Rickman spoke suddenly. “Please leave it on. Just for a minute.” She was sitting on a stool in the center of the room, clenching and unclenching her hands. “Winston, what are we going to do? We must have a plan.”

  “First things first,” said Wright. “I need a drink, that’s Plan A. My nerves are shot.” He made his way to the far side of the lab and shone the light in an old cabinet, finally pulling out a bottle. There was a clink of glass.

  “Ian?” asked Wright.

  “Nothing for me,” Cuthbert replied.

  [356] “Lavinia?”

  “No, no, I couldn’t.”

  Wright came back and sat down at a worktable. He filled the tumbler and drank it off in three gulps. Then he refilled it. Suddenly, the room was full of the warm, peaty scent of single-malt scotch.

  “Easy there, Winston,” said Cuthbert.

  “We can’t stay here, in the dark,” Rickman said nervously. “There must be an exit somewhere on this floor.”

  “I’m telling you, everything’s sealed off,” Wright snapped.

  “What about the Dinosaur Hall?” said Rickman, pointing to the rear door.

  “Lavinia,” said Wright, “the Dinosaur Hall has only one public entrance, and that’s been sealed by a security door. We’re completely locked in. But you don’t need to worry, because whatever killed Ippolito and the others won’t be after us. It’ll go after the easy kill, the group blundering around in the basement.”

  There was a swallowing sound, then the loud snack of glass hitting the table. “I say we stay here for another half-hour, wait it out. Then, we’ll go back down into the exhibition. If they haven’t restored power and unsealed the doors by then, I know of another way out. Through the exhibition.”

  “You seem to know all kinds of hiding places,” Cuthbert said.

  “This used to be my lab. Once in awhile I still like to come down here, get away from the administrative headaches, be near my dinosaurs again.” He chuckled and drank.

  “I see,” said Cuthbert acidly.

  “Part of the Superstition exhibition is mounted in what used to be the old Trilobite Alcove. I put in a lot of hours down there many years ago. Anyway, there was a passageway to the Broadway corridor behind one of the old trilobite displays. The door was boarded up years ago to make room for another display case. I’m sure that [357] when they were building Superstition, they just nailed a piece of plywood over it and painted it. We could kick it in, shoot off the lock with this if necessary.”

  “That sounds feasible,” said Rickman eagerly.

  “I don’t recall hearing about any such door in the exhibition,” Cuthbert said dubiously. “I’m sure Security would have known about it.”

  “It was years ago, I tell you,” Wright snapped. “It was boarded over and forgotten.”

  There was a long silence while Wright poured another drink.

  “Winston,” Cuthbert said, “put that drink down.”

  The Director took a long swig, then hung his head. His shoulders slumped.

  “Ian,” he murmured finally. “How could this have happened? We’re ruined, you know.”

  Cuthbert was silent.

  “Let’s not bury the patient before the diagnosis,” said Rickman, in a desperately bright voice. “Good public relations can repair even the worst damage.”

  “Lavinia, we aren’t talking about a few poisoned headache tablets here,” Cuthbert said. “There’s half a dozen dead people, maybe more, lying two floors below us. The bloody Mayor is trapped down there. In a couple of hours, we’ll be on every late news show in the country.”

  “We’re ruined,” Wright repeated. A small, strangled sob escaped from his throat, and he laid his head down on the table.

  “Bloody hell,” muttered Cuthbert, reaching over for Wright’s bottle and glass and putting them back in the cabinet.

  “It’s over, isn’t it?” Wright moaned without raising his head.

  “Yes, Winston, it’s over,” said Cuthbert. “Frankly, I’ll be happy just to get out of here with my life.”

  “Please, Ian, let’s leave here? Please?” Rickman pleaded. She stood up and walked over to the door [358] Wright had closed behind them and swung it open slowly.

  “This wasn’t locked!” she said sharply.

  “Good Lord,” Cuthbert said, jumping up. Wright, without lifting his head, fished in his pocket and held out a key.

  “Fits both doors,” he said in a muffled voice. Rickman’s shaking hand rattled the key loudly in the lock.

  “What did we do wrong?” Wright asked plaintively.

  “That’s clear enough,” said Cuthbert. “Five years ago, we had a chance to solve this thing.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Rickman, coming back toward them.

  “You know very well what. I’m talking about Montague’s disappearance. We should have taken care of the problem then, instead of pretending it never happened. All that blood in the basement near the Whittlesey crates, Montague gone missing. In hindsight, we now know exactly what happened to him. But we should have gotten to the bottom of it then. You remember, Winston? We were sitting in your office when Ippolito came in w
ith the news. You ordered the floor cleaned and the incident forgotten. We washed our hands of it, and hoped whoever or whatever killed Montague would disappear.”

  “There was no proof anyone was killed!” Wright wailed, lifting his head. “And certainly no proof it was Montague! It could have been a stray dog, or something. How could we have known?”

  “We didn’t know. But we might have found out had you allowed Ippolito to report that monstrous great bloodstain to the police. And you, Lavinia—as I recall, you agreed that we should simply wash that blood away.”

  “Ian, there was no sense in creating a needless scandal. You know very well that blood could have been from anything,” Rickman said. “And Ian, it was you who insisted those crates be moved. You who worried [359] the exhibition would raise questions about the Whittlesey expedition, you who took the journal and then asked me to keep it for you until the exhibition was over. The journal didn’t fit in with your theories, did it?”

  Cuthbert snorted. “How little you know. John Whittlesey was my friend. At least, he was once. We had a falling-out over an article he published, and we never patched things up. Anyway, it’s rather too late for that now. But I didn’t want to see that journal come to light, his theories held up for ridicule.”

  He turned and stared at the Public Relations Director. “What I did, Lavinia, was simply try to protect a colleague who’d gone a bit barmy. I didn’t cover up a killing. And what about the sightings? Winston, you received several reports a year about people seeing or hearing strange things after hours. You never once did anything about it, did you?”

  “How could I have known?” came the spluttering response. “Who’d have believed it? They were crank reports, ridiculous ...”

  “Can we change the subject, please?” cried Rickman. “I can’t wait here, in the dark. Maybe the windows? Perhaps they’ll spread a net for us?”

  “No,” said Wright, sighing deeply and rubbing his eyes. “Those bars are case-hardened steel, several inches thick.” He peered around the darkened room. “Where’s my drink?”

  “You’ve had enough,” said Cuthbert.

  “You and your damned Anglican moralizing.” He lurched to his feet and headed for the cabinet with a slightly unsteady gait.

  In the stairwell, D’Agosta looked toward the dim figure of Bailey.

  “Thanks,” he said. “You’re in charge, Loo.” Below them, the large group of guests was waiting, [360] huddled together on the steps, sniffling and sobbing. D’Agosta turned to face them.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “We’ve got to move fast. The next landing down has a door leading into the basement. We’re going to go through it and meet up with some others who know a way out of here. Everybody understand?”

  “We understand,” came a voice that D’Agosta recognized as the Mayor’s.

  “Good,” D’Agosta nodded. “Okay, let’s go. I’ll get to the front and lead the way with my light. Bailey, you cover our rear. Let me know if you see anything.”

  Slowly, the group descended. On the landing, D’Agosta waited until Bailey gave him the all-clear sign. Then he grabbed the door handle.

  It didn’t budge.

  D’Agosta gave it another yank, harder this time. No luck.

  “What the-—?” He brought his flashlight to bear on the handle. “Shit,” he muttered. Then, in a louder tone, he said, “Everybody stay where you are for a moment, be as quiet as possible. I’m going up to talk to my officer at the rear.” He retraced his steps.

  “Listen, Bailey,” he told him softly, “we can’t get into the basement. Some of our shells ripped into the door and they’ve bent the jamb all to hell. There’s no way we can get the thing open without a crowbar.”

  Even in the dark he could see Bailey’s eyes widen. “So what are we gonna do?” the sergeant asked. “Go back upstairs?”

  “Let me think a minute,” D’Agosta said. “How much ammo do you have? I’ve got six rounds in my service piece.”

  “I don’t know. Fifteen, sixteen rounds, maybe.”

  “Damn,” D’Agosta said, “I don’t think—”

  He stopped, abruptly shutting off his flashlight and listening to the close darkness. A slight movement of air down the stairwell brought a ripe, goatish smell.

  [361] Bailey dropped to one knee, aiming the shotgun up the staircase. D’Agosta quickly turned to the group waiting below him. “Everybody,” he hissed, “down to the next landing. Quick!”

  There was a series of low murmurs. “We can’t go down there!” somebody cried. “We’ll be trapped underground!”

  D’Agosta’s response was drowned by the blast of Bailey’s shotgun. “The Museum Beast!” somebody screamed, and the group turned, stumbling and falling down the stairs. “Bailey!” D’Agosta shouted, his ears ringing from the blast. “Bailey, follow me!”

  Walking backward down the stairs, one hand holding his handgun, the other feeling its way against the wall, D’Agosta noticed the surface of the stairwell turn to damp stone as he moved below the level of the basement. Farther up the stairwell, he could see the dim form of Bailey following, gasping and cursing under his breath. After what seemed an eternity, D’Agosta’s foot hit the subbasement landing. All around him, people held their breaths; then Bailey bumped into him gently.

  “Bailey, what the fuck was it?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” came the response. “There was that horrible smell, then I thought I saw something. Two red eyes in the dark. I fired.”

  D’Agosta shone his flashlight up the stairwell. The light showed only shadows and rough-hewn yellow rock, crudely carved. The smell lingered.

  He shone the flashlight toward the group, and did a quick head count. Thirty-eight, including himself and Bailey. “Okay,” he whispered to the group. “We’re in the subbasement. I’m gonna go in first, then you follow at my signal.”

  He turned and shined his light over the door. Christ, he thought, this thing belongs in the Tower of London. The blackened metal door was reinforced with horizontal strips of iron. When he pushed it open, cool, damp, moldy air rushed into the stairwell. D’Agosta started [362] forward. At the sound of gurgling water, he stepped back, then played the light downward.

  “Listen, everybody,” he called. “There’s running water down here, about three inches deep. Come forward one at a time, quickly but carefully. There are two steps down on the far side of the door. Bailey, take up the rear. And, for God’s sake, close the door behind you.”

  Pendergast counted the remaining bullets, pocketed them, then looked in Frock’s direction. “Truly fascinating. And a clever bit of detection on your part. I’m sorry I doubted you, Professor.”

  Frock gestured magnanimously. “How were you to know?” he asked. “Besides, it was Margo here who discovered the most important link. If she hadn’t tested those packing fibers, we never would have known.”

  Pendergast nodded at Margo, huddled on top of a large wooden crate. “Brilliant work,” he said. “We could use you in the Baton Rouge crime lab.”

  “Assuming I let her go,” Frock said. “And assuming we get out of here alive. Dubious assumptions, at best.”

  “And assuming I’m willing to leave the Museum,” Margo said, surprising even herself.

  Pendergast turned to Margo. “I know you understand this creature better than I do. Still, do you truly believe this plan you’ve described will work?”

  Margo took a deep breath, nodded. “If the Extrapolator is correct, this beast hunts by smell rather than sight. And if its need for the plant is as strong as we think it is—” She paused, shrugged. “It’s the only way.

  Pendergast remained motionless a moment. “If it will save those people below us, we have to try.” He pulled out his radio.

  “D’Agosta?” he said, adjusting the channel. “D’Agosta, this is Pendergast. Do you read?”

  The radio squealed static. Then: “D’Agosta here.”

  “D’Agosta, what’s your status?”

 
[363] “We met up with that creature of yours,” came the response. “It got into the Hall, killed Ippolito and an injured guest. We moved into the stairwell, but the basement door was jammed. We had to go to the subbasement.”

  “Understood,” Pendergast said. “How many of your weapons were you able to take?”

  “We only had time to grab one twelve-gauge and a service revolver.”

  “What’s your current position?”

  “In the subbasement, maybe fifty yards from the stairwell door.”

  “Listen closely, Vincent. I’ve been speaking with Professor Frock. The creature we’re dealing with is extremely intelligent. Maybe even as smart as you or I.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “If you see it again, don’t aim for the head. The slugs will just bounce off the skull. Aim for the body.”

  There was silence for a moment, then D’Agosta’s voice returned. “Look, Pendergast, you need to tell Coffey some of this. He’s sending some men in, and I don’t think he has any idea of what’s waiting for him.”

  “I’ll do my best. But first let’s talk about getting you out of here. That beast may be hunting you.”

  “No shit.”

  “I can direct you out of the Museum through the subbasement. It won’t be easy. These blueprints are very old, and they may not be completely reliable. There may be water.”

  “We’re standing in half a foot of it now. Look, Pendergast, are you sure about this? I mean, there’s a mother of a storm outside.”

  “It’s either face the water, or face the beast. There are forty of you; you’re the most obvious target. You’ve got to move, and move quickly—it’s the only way out.”

  “Can you link up with us?”

  “No. We’ve decided to stay here and lure it away from you. There’s no time to explain now. If our plan [364] works, we’ll join you further on. Thanks to these blueprints, I’ve discovered more than one way to get into the subbasement from Cell Two.”

  “Christ, Pendergast, be careful.”

  “I intend to. Now, listen carefully. Are you in a long, straight passage?”