Relic

by Douglas Preston

  “Break it down?”

  “You don’t attempt a kill shot. Instead, you work to stop forward locomotion. You aim for the forelegs, pasterns, knees. You basically shatter as many bones as you can until it can’t move forward.”

  “I see,” said Frock.

  [388] “There is only one problem with this approach,” said Pendergast.

  “And that is-—?”

  “You must be a consummate marksman. Placement is everything. You’ve got to remain serenely calm and steady, unbreathing, firing between heartbeats—in the face of a charging beast. We each had time for four shots. I made the mistake of aiming for the chest and scored two direct hits before I realized the bullets were just burying themselves in muscle. Then I aimed for the legs. One shot missed and the other grazed but didn’t break the bone.” He shook his head. “A poor performance, I’m afraid.”

  “So what happened?” Frock asked.

  “My wife scored direct hits on three out of her four shots. She shattered both front cannons and broke the upper foreleg as well. The buffalo tumbled head over heels and came to rest a few yards from where we were kneeling. It was still very much alive but it couldn’t move. So I ‘paid the insurance,’ as a professional hunter would put it.”

  “I wish your wife was here,” Frock said.

  Pendergast was quiet. “So do I,” he said at length.

  Silence returned to the room.

  “Very well,” Frock said at last. “I understand the problem. The beast has some unusual qualities that you should know about, if you are planning to, ah, break it down. First, the hind quarters are most likely covered in bony plates or scales. I doubt if you could penetrate them effectively with your gun. They armor the upper and lower leg, down to the metatarsal bones, I’d estimate.”

  “I see.”

  “You will have to shoot low, aim for the phalanx prima or secunda.”

  “The lowest bones of the leg,” said Pendergast.

  “Yes. They would be equivalent to the pasterns on a horse. Aim just below the lower joint. In fact, the joint itself might be vulnerable.”

  [389] “That’s a difficult shot,” said Pendergast. “Virtually impossible if the creature is facing me.”

  There was a short silence. Margo continued her vigil through the peephole, but saw nothing.

  “I believe the anterior limbs of the creature are more vulnerable,” Frock continued. “The Extrapolator described them as being less robust. The metacarpals and the carpals should both be vulnerable to a direct hit.”

  “The front knee and the lower leg,” Pendergast said, nodding. “The shots you’ve described already are hardly garden variety. To what extent would the creature have to be broken down to immobilize it?”

  “Difficult to say. Both front legs and at least one rear leg, I’m afraid. Even then, it could crawl.” Frock coughed. “Can you do it?”

  “To have a chance, I’d need at least a hundred and fifty feet of shooting space if the creature were charging. Ideally, I’d get the first shot in before the creature knew what was happening. That would slow it down.”

  Frock thought for a moment. “The Museum contains several straight, long corridors, three or four hundred feet long. Unfortunately, most of them are now cut in half by these damned security doors. I believe that there’s at least one unobstructed corridor within Cell Two, however. On the first floor, in Section Eighteen, around the corner from the Computer Room.”

  Pendergast nodded. “I’ll remember that,” he said. “In case this plan fails.”

  “I hear something!” Margo hissed.

  They fell silent. Pendergast moved closer to the door.

  “A shadow just passed across the light at the end of the hall,” she whispered.

  There was another long silence.

  “It’s here,” Margo breathed, “I can see it.” Then, even softer: “Oh, my God.”

  Pendergast murmured in Margo’s ear: “Move away from the door!”

  [390] She backed up, hardly daring to breathe. “What’s it doing?” she whispered.

  “It’s stopped at the door to the Secure Area,” Pendergast replied quietly. “It went in for a moment, and then backed out very fast. It’s looking around, smelling the air.”

  “What does it look like?” Frock asked, an urgency in his voice.

  Pendergast hesitated a moment before answering. “I’ve got a better view of it this time. It’s big, it’s massive. Wait, it’s turning this way ... Good Lord, it’s a horrible sight, it’s ... Flattened face, small red eyes. Thin fur on the upper body. Just like the figurine. Hold on ... Hold on a minute ... it’s coming this way.”

  Margo suddenly realized she had moved back to the far wall. A snuffling sound came through the door. And then the rank, fetid smell. She slid to the floor in the heavy darkness, the peephole in the cardboard wavering like a star. Pendergast’s flashlight shone feebly. Starlight ... A small voice in Margo’s head was trying to speak.

  And then a shadow fell over the peephole and everything went black.

  There was a soft muffled thud against the door, and the old wood creaked. The doorknob rattled. There was a long silence, the sound of something heavy moving outside, and a sharp cracking as the creature pressed against the door.

  The voice inside Margo’s head suddenly became audible.

  “Pendergast, turn on your miner’s lamp!” she burst out. “Shine it at the beast!”

  “What are you talking about!”

  “It’s nocturnal, remember? It probably hates light.”

  “That’s absolutely correct!” cried Frock.

  “Stay back!” Pendergast shouted. Margo heard a small click, then the brilliance of the miner’s light blinded her momentarily. As her vision returned, she saw [391] Pendergast on one knee, his gun leveled at the door, the bright circle of light focused directly on its center.

  There was another crunching noise, and Margo could see splinters spray into the room from a widening split in the upper panel. The door bowed inward.

  Pendergast stayed steady, sighting along the levelled barrel.

  There was another tremendous splintering sound and the door broke inward in pieces, swinging crazily on bent hinges. Margo pressed herself against the wall, forcing herself into it until her spine creaked in protest. She heard Frock shout in amazement, wonder, and fear. The creature squatted in the doorway, a monstrous silhouette in the bright light; then, with a sudden throaty roar, it shook its head and backed out.

  “Keep back,” Pendergast said. He kicked the broken door aside and moved cautiously out into the hall. Margo heard a sudden shot, then another. Then, silence. After what seemed an eternity, Pendergast returned, motioning them forward. A trail of small red droplets led down the hallway and around the corner.

  “Blood!” Frock said, bending forward with a grunt. “So you wounded it!”

  Pendergast shrugged. “Perhaps. But I wasn’t the first. The droplets originate from the direction of the subbasement. See? Lieutenant D’Agosta or one of his men must have wounded it earlier but not disabled it. It moved away with amazing speed.”

  Margo looked at Frock. “Why didn’t it take the bait?”

  Frock returned her gaze. “We’re dealing with a creature possessed of preternatural intelligence.”

  “What you’re saying is that it detected our trap,” Pendergast said, a note of disbelief in his voice.

  “Let me ask you, Pendergast. Would you have fallen for that trap?”

  Pendergast was silent. “I suppose not,” he said at length.

  [392] “Well, then,” said Frock. “We underestimated the creature. We must stop thinking of it as a dumb animal. It has the intelligence of a human being. Did I understand correctly that the body they found in the exhibition was hidden? The beast knew it was being hunted. Obviously, it had learned to conceal its prey. Besides—” he hesitated. “I think we’re dealing with more than simply hunger now. Chances are, it’s been temporarily sated by this evening’s human d
iet. But it’s also been wounded. If your analogy of the cape buffalo is correct, this creature may not only be hungry, but angry.”

  “So you think it’s gone hunting,” Pendergast said quietly.

  Frock remained motionless. Then he gave a barely perceptible nod.

  “So who’s it hunting now?” Margo asked. No one answered.

  = 55 =

  Cuthbert checked the door again. It was locked and rock solid. He flicked on the flashlight and shined it in the direction of Wright, slumped in his chair and looking morosely at the floor. Cuthbert switched off the flashlight. The room reeked of whisky. There was no noise except for the rain splattering and drumming against the barred window.

  “What are we going to do with Wright?” he asked in a low tone.

  “Don’t worry,” Rickman replied, her voice tight and high. “We’ll just tell the press he’s sick and pack him off to the hospital, then schedule a press conference for tomorrow afternoon—”

  “I’m not talking about after we get out. I’m talking about now. If the beast comes up here.”

  “Please, Ian, don’t talk like that. It scares me. I can’t imagine the animal is going to do that. For all we know, it’s been in the basement for years. Why would it come up here now?”

  [394] “I don’t know,” said Cuthbert. “That’s what worries me.” He checked the Ruger once again. Five shots.

  He went over to Wright and shook the Director’s shoulder. “Winston?”

  “Are you still here?” Wright asked, looking up hazily.

  “Winston, I want you to take Lavinia and go into the Dinosaur Hall. Come along.”

  Wright slapped Cuthbert’s arm away. “I’m fine just where I am. Maybe I’ll take a nap.”

  “The devil with you, then,” said Cuthbert. He sat down in a chair opposite the door.

  There was a brief noise—a rattle—at the door, as if the doorknob had been turned, then released.

  Cuthbert jumped up, gun in hand. He walked close to the door and listened.

  “I hear something,” he said quietly. “Get into the Dinosaur Hall, Lavinia.”

  “I’m afraid,” she whispered. “Please don’t make me go in there alone.”

  “Do as I say.”

  Rickman walked over to the far door and opened it. She hesitated.

  “Go on.”

  “Ian—” Rickman pleaded. Behind her, Cuthbert could see the huge dinosaur skeletons looming out of the darkness. The great black ribs and yawning rows of teeth were suddenly illuminated by a streak of livid lightning.

  “Damn you, woman, get in there.”

  Cuthbert turned back, listening. Something soft was rubbing against the door. He leaned forward, pressing his ear against the smooth wood. Maybe it was the wind.

  Suddenly he was slammed backward into the room by a tremendous force. Cuthbert could hear Rickman screaming within the Dinosaur Hall.

  Wright stood unsteadily. “What was that?” he said.

  His head ringing, Cuthbert picked the gun off the floor, scrambled to his feet, and ran to the far corner of [395] the room. “Get into the Dinosaur Hall!” he shouted at Wright.

  Wright sagged heavily against the chair. “What’s that disgusting smell?” he asked.

  There was another savage blow to the door, and the crack of splitting wood sounded like a rifle shot. Cuthbert’s finger instinctively tightened on the trigger, and the gun fired unexpectedly, bringing down dust from the ceiling. He lowered the weapon momentarily, his hands shaking. Stupid, one wasted bullet. Bloody hell, he wished he knew more about handguns. He raised it again and tried to take aim, but his hands were shaking uncontrollably now. Got to calm down, he thought. Take a few deep breaths. Aim for something vital. Four shots.

  The room gradually returned to silence. Wright was slumped against his chair, as if frozen into place.

  “Winston, you idiot!” Cuthbert hissed. “Get into the Hall!”

  “If you say so,” Wright said, and shuffled toward the door. He seemed finally frightened enough to move.

  Then Cuthbert heard that soft sound again, and the wood groaned. The thing was pressing against the door. There was another horrible cra-ack and the door split wide open, a piece of wood spinning crazily end over end into the room. The table was thrown to one side. Something appeared in the gloom of the hallway, and a three-tined claw reached through the opening and gripped the broken wood. With a tearing noise the remainder of the door was pulled back into the darkness, and Cuthbert saw a dark shape in the doorway.

  Wright lurched into the Dinosaur Hall, almost toppling Rickman, who had appeared in the doorway, choking and sobbing.

  “Shoot it, Ian, oh please, please kill it!” she screamed.

  Cuthbert waited, sighting down the barrel. He held his breath. Four shots.

  ¯

  The commander of the SWAT team moved along the roof, a catlike shape against the dark indigo of the sky, while the spotter on the street below guided his progress. Coffey stood next to the spotter, under a tarp. They both held rubberized waterproof radios.

  “Dugout to Red One, move five more feet to the east,” the spotter said into his radio, peering upward through his night-vision passive telescope. “You’re almost there.” He was studying Museum blueprints spread out on a table under a sheet of Plexiglas. The SWAT team’s route had been marked in red.

  The dark figure moved carefully across the slate roof, the lights of the Upper West Side twinkling around him; below, the Hudson River, the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles on Museum Drive, the high-rise apartment buildings laid out along Riverside Drive like rows of glowing crystals.

  “That’s it,” the spotter said. “You’re there, Red One.”

  Coffey could see the Commander kneel, working swiftly and silently to set the charges. His team waited a hundred yards back, the medics directly behind them. On the street, a siren wailed.

  “Set,” said the Commander. He stood up and walked carefully backward, unrolling a wire.

  “Blow when ready,” murmured Coffey.

  Coffey watched as everyone on the roof lay down. There was a brief flash of light, and a second later the sharp slap of sound reached Coffey. The Commander waited a moment and then eased forward.

  “Red One to Dugout, we’ve got an opening.”

  “Proceed,” said Coffey.

  The SWAT team dropped in through the hole in the roof, followed by the medics.

  “We’re inside,” came the voice of the Commander. “We’re in the fifth-floor corridor, proceeding as advised.”

  [397] Coffey waited impatiently. He looked at his watch: nine-fifteen. They’d been stuck in there, without power, for the longest ninety minutes of his life. An unwelcome vision of the Mayor, dead and gutted, kept plaguing him.

  “We’re at the Cell Three emergency door, fifth floor, Section Fourteen. Ready to set charges.”

  “Proceed,” said Coffey.

  “Setting charges.”

  D’Agosta and his group hadn’t reported in for over half an hour. God, if something happened to the Mayor, no one would care whose fault it really was. Coffey would be the one that caught the blame. That’s the way things worked in this town. It had taken him so long to get where he was, and he’d been so careful, and now the bastards were just going to take it away from him. It was all Pendergast’s fault. If he hadn’t started messing around on other people’s turf ...

  “Charges set.”

  “Blow when ready,” Coffey said again. Pendergast had fucked up, not him. He himself had only taken over yesterday. Maybe they wouldn’t blame him, after all. Especially if Pendergast wasn’t around. That son of a bitch could talk the hind legs off a mule.

  There was a long silence. No sound of explosion reached Coffey’s ears as he waited outside beneath the sodden tarp.

  “Red One to Dugout, we’re clean,” the Commander said.

  “Proceed. Get inside and kill the son of a bitch,” said Coffey.

  “As discussed, sir, ou
r first priority is to evac the wounded,” said the Commander in a flat voice.

  “I know! But hurry it up, for God’s sake!”

  He punched savagely at his transmit button.

  The Commander stepped out of the stairwell, looking carefully around before motioning the teams to follow him. One by one, the dark figures emerged, gas masks [398] pushed high on their foreheads, fatigue uniforms blending into the shadows, their M-16s and Bullpups equipped with full-tang bayonets. In the rear, a short, stubby officer was carrying a 40mm six-shot grenade launcher, a big-bellied weapon that looked like a pregnant tommy gun. “We’ve gained the fourth floor,” the Commander radioed the spotter. “Laying down an infrared beacon. Hall of Lesser Apes directly ahead.”

  The spotter spoke into his radio. “Proceed south seventy feet into the Hall, then west twenty feet to a door.”

  The Commander took a small black box from his belt and pressed a button. A ruby laser shot out, pencil-thin. He moved the beam around until he had the distance reading he needed. Then he moved forward and repeated the procedure, shining the laser toward the west wall.

  “Red One to Dugout. Door in sight.”

  “Good. Proceed.”

  The Commander moved ahead to the door, motioning his men to follow.

  “The door’s locked. Setting charges.”

  The team quickly moulded two small bars of plastique around the doorknob, then stepped back, unrolling more wire.

  “Charges set.”

  There was a low whump as the door flew open.

  “The trapdoor should be directly in front of you, in the center of the storage room,” the spotter directed.

  By moving aside several flats of scenery, the Commander and his men exposed the trapdoor. Undoing the latches, the Commander grasped the iron ring and heaved upward. Stale air rushed up to greet them. The Commander leaned forward. In the Hall of the Heavens below, everything was still.

  “We’ve got an opening,” he said into the radio. “Looks good.”

  “Okay,” came Coffey’s voice. “Secure the Hall. Send down the medics and evac the injured, fast.”