Relic (Pendergast, Book 1)

by Preston, Douglas

  The room broadened into an octagonal space beneath a high groined vault. A dappled light filtered down from stained-glass depictions of medieval underworlds set into the vaulted ceiling. Large windows dominated each wall.

  She approached the closest window and found herself looking down into a Mayan tomb. A skeleton lay in the center, covered with a thick layer of dust. Artifacts were scattered around the site. A gold breastplate sat on the ribcage, and gold rings encircled bony fingers. Painted pots were arranged in a semicircle around the skull. One of these contained an offering of tiny, dried corncobs.

  The next window displayed an Eskimo rock burial, including an Eskimo mummy-bundle wrapped in skins. The next was even more startling: a lidless, rotting European-style coffin, complete with corpse. The corpse was dressed in a much-decayed frock coat, tie, and tails, and was well on its way toward decomposition. Its head was bent stiffly toward Margo as if prepared to tell her a secret, sightless eye sockets bulging, mouth ossified into a rictus of pain. She took a step backward. Good God, she thought, that’s somebody’s great-grandfather. The matter-of-fact tone of the label, which tastefully described the rituals associated with a typical nineteenth-century American burial, belied the visual hideousness of the scene. It’s true, she thought; the Museum is definitely taking a chance with stuff as strong as this.

  She decided to forego the other windows and proceeded through a low archway in the far side of the octagonal room. Beyond, the passage forked. To her left was a small cul-de-sac; to her right, a long, slender passage led into darkness. She didn’t want to go that way; not just yet. She wandered into the dead-end room, and stopped suddenly. Then she moved forward to examine one of the cases more closely.

  The gallery dealt with the concept of ultimate evil in its many mythic forms. There were various images of a medieval devil; there was the Eskimo evil spirit, Tornarsuk. But what arrested her was a crude stone altar, placed in the center of the gallery. Sitting on the altar, lit by a yellow spot, was a small figurine, carved in such detail it took Margo’s breath away. Covered in scales, it crouched on all fours. Yet there was something—the long forearms, the angle of its head—that was disturbingly human. She shuddered. What kind of imagination gave rise to a being with both scales and hair? Her eyes dropped to the label.

  MBWUN. This carving is a representation of the mad god Mbwun, possibly carved by the Kothoga tribe of the Upper Amazon basin. This savage god, also known as He Who Walks On All Fours, was much feared by the other indigenous tribes of the area. In local myth, the Kothoga tribe was said to be able to conjure Mbwun at will, and send him on errands of destruction against neighboring tribes. Very few Kothoga artifacts have ever been found, and this is the sole image of Mbwun known to exist. Except for trace references in Amazonian legends, nothing else is known about the Kothoga, or about their mysterious “devil.”

  Margo felt a chill creep over her. She looked closer, repulsed by the reptilian features, the small, wicked eyes … the talons. Three on each forelimb.

  Oh, dear God. It couldn’t be.

  * * *

  Suddenly, she realized that every instinct she had was telling her to keep absolutely still. A minute passed, then two.

  Then it came again—the sound that had galvanized her. An odd rustling, slow, deliberate, maddeningly soft. On the thick carpet, the footsteps had to be close … very close. A horrible goatish stench threatened to choke her.

  She looked around wildly, fighting down panic, searching for the safest exit. The darkness was complete. As quietly as possible, she moved out of the cul-de-sac and across the fork. Another rustling noise and she was running, running, headlong through the darkness, past the ghoulish displays and leering statues that seemed to leap out of the blackness, down twisting forks and passages, trying always to take the most hidden path.

  At last, thoroughly lost and out of breath, she ducked into an alcove containing a display on primitive medicine. Gasping, she crouched behind a case holding a trepanned human skull upon an iron pole. She hid in its shadow, listening.

  There was nothing; no noise, no movement. She waited as her breath slowed and reason returned. There was nothing out there. There had never been anything out there, in fact—it was her overzealous imagination, fueled by this nightmarish tour. I was foolish to sneak in, she thought. Now, I don’t know if I’ll ever want to come back—even on the busiest Saturday.

  Anyway, she had to find a way out. It was late now, and she hoped people were still around to hear her knocking, should she come up against a locked exit. It would be embarrassing, having to explain herself to a guard or policeman. But at least she’d be out.

  She peeked over the case lid. Even if it had all been her imagination, she didn’t care to go back in the same direction. Holding her breath, she stepped quietly out, then listened. Nothing.

  She turned left and moved slowly down the corridor, searching for a likely looking route out of the exhibit. At a large fork she stopped, eyes straining in the darkness, debating which of the branching pathways to take. Shouldn’t there be exit signs? Guess they haven’t been installed yet. Typical. But the hall to her left looked promising: the passage seemed to open up into a large foyer, ahead in the blackness where sight failed.

  Movement registered in her peripheral vision. Limbs frozen, she glanced hesitatingly to the right. A shadow—black against black—was gliding stealthily toward her, moving with an inky sinuousness over the display cases and grinning artifacts.

  With a speed born of horror, she shot down the passage. She felt, more than saw, the walls of the passage roll back and widen about her. Then she saw twin slits of vertical light ahead, outlining a large double doorway. Without slackening her pace, she threw herself against it. The doors flew back, and something on the far side clattered. Dim light rushed in—the subdued red light of a museum at night. Cool air moved across her cheek.

  Weeping now, she slammed the doors closed and leaned against them, eyes shut, forehead pressed against the cold metal, sobbing, fighting to catch her breath.

  From the crimson gloom behind her came the unmistakable sound of something clearing its throat.

  SUPERSTITION EXHIBITION

  PART TWO

  21

  “What’s going on here?” came the stern voice.

  Margo whirled around and almost collapsed with relief. “Officer Beauregard, there’s—” she began, stopping in mid-sentence.

  F. Beauregard, who was righting the brass posts that the swinging door had knocked over, looked up at the sound of his name. “Hey, you’re the girl who tried to get in earlier!” The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Miss, can’t take no for an answer?”

  “Officer, there’s a—” Margo tried to start again, then faltered.

  The officer stepped back and folded his arms across his chest, waiting. Then a look of surprise crossed his face. “What the hell? Hey, you okay, lady?”

  Margo was slumped over, laughing—or crying, she wasn’t sure which—and wiping tears from her face.

  The policeman freed one folded hand and took her arm. “I think you should come with me.”

  The implications of that last sentence—sitting in a room full of policemen, telling her story again and again, maybe having Dr. Frock or even Dr. Wright called in, having to go back into that exhibition—forced Margo to straighten up. They’ll just think I’m crazy. “Oh no, that’s not necessary,” she said, snuffling. “I just had a bit of a scare.”

  Officer Beauregard looked unconvinced. “I still think we should go talk to Lieutenant D’Agosta.” With his other hand, he pulled a large, leather-bound notebook out of his back pocket. “What’s your name?” he asked. “I’ll have to make a report.”

  It was clear he wouldn’t let her go until she gave him the information. “My name’s Margo Green,” she said finally. “I’m a graduate student working under Dr. Frock. I was doing an assignment for George Moriarty—he’s curating this exhibition. But you were right. Nobody was in the
re.” She gently freed her arm from the policeman’s grip as she spoke. Then she started backing away, toward Selous Memorial Hall, still talking. Officer Beauregard watched her and finally, with a shrug, he flipped open the notebook and started writing.

  Back in the Hall, Margo paused. She couldn’t go back to her office; it was almost six, and the curfew was sure to be enforced by now. She didn’t want to go home—she couldn’t go home, not just yet.

  Then she remembered Moriarty’s copy. She pressed one elbow against her side—sure enough, her carryall was still there, hanging unnoticed through the ordeal. She stood still another moment, then walked over to the deserted information kiosk. She picked up the receiver of an internal phone and dialed.

  One ring, then: “Moriarty here.”

  “George?” she said. “It’s Margo Green.”

  “Hi, Margo,” Moriarty answered. “What’s up?”

  “I’m in the Selous Hall,” she replied. “I just came from the exhibition.”

  “My exhibition?” Moriarty said, surprised. “What were you doing there? Who let you in?”

  “I was looking for you,” she answered. “I wanted to give you the Cameroon copy. Were you in there?” She felt panic rising once again to the surface.

  “No. The exhibition’s supposed to be sealed, in preparation for Friday night’s opening,” Moriarty said. “Why?”

  Margo was breathing deeply, trying to control herself. Her hands were trembling, and the receiver knocked against her ear.

  “What did you think of it?” Moriarty asked curiously.

  A hysterical giggle escaped Margo. “Scary.”

  “We brought in some experts to work out the lighting and the placement of the visuals. Dr. Cuthbert even hired the man who designed Fantasyworld’s Haunted Mausoleum. That’s considered the best in the world, you know.”

  Margo finally trusted herself to speak again. “George, something was in that exhibition with me.” A security guard on the far side of the Hall had spotted her, and was walking in her direction.

  “What do you mean, something?”

  “Exactly that!” Suddenly, she was back in the exhibit, in the dark, beside that horrible figurine. She remembered the bitter taste of terror in her mouth.

  “Hey, stop shouting!” Moriarty said. “Look, let’s go to The Bones and talk this over. We’re both supposed to be out of the Museum, anyway. I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t understand it.”

  * * *

  The Bones, as it was called by everyone in the Museum, was known to other local residents as the Blarney Stone Tavern. Its unimposing facade was nestled between two huge, ornate co-op buildings, directly across Seventy-second Street from the Museum’s southern entrance. Unlike typical Upper West Side fern bars, the Blarney Stone did not serve hare pâté or five flavors of mineral water; but you could get homemade meatloaf and a pitcher of Harp for ten dollars.

  Museum staffers called it The Bones because Boylan, the owner, had hammered and wired an amazing number of bones into every available flat surface. The walls were lined with countless femurs and tibias, arranged in neat ivory ranks like bamboo matting. Metatarsals, scapulas, and patellas traced bizarre mosaics across the ceiling. Craniums from strange mammals were lodged in every conceivable niche. Where he got the bones was a mystery, but some claimed he raided the Museum at night.

  “People bring ’em in,” is all Boylan would ever say, shrugging his shoulders. Naturally, the place was a favorite hangout among the Museum staff.

  The Bones was doing brisk business, and Moriarty and Margo had to push their way back through the crowd to an empty booth. Looking around, Margo spotted several Museum staffers, including Bill Smithback. The writer was seated at the bar, talking animatedly to a slender blonde woman.

  “Okay,” Moriarty said, raising his voice over the babble. “Now what were you saying over the phone? I’m not quite sure I caught it.”

  Margo took a deep breath. “I went down to the exhibition to give you the copy. It was dark. Something was in there. Following me. Chasing me.”

  “There’s that word again, something. Why do you say that?”

  Margo shook her head impatiently. “Don’t ask me to explain. There were these sounds, like padded steps. They were so stealthy, so deliberate, I—” she shrugged, at a loss. “And there was this strange smell, too. It was horrible.”

  “Look, Margo—” Moriarty began, then paused while the waitress took their drink orders. “That exhibition was designed to be creepy. You told me yourself that Frock and others consider it too sensational. I can imagine what it must have been like: being locked in there, alone in the dark…”

  “In other words, I just imagined it.” Margo laughed mirthlessly. “You don’t know how much I’d like to believe that.”

  The drinks arrived: a light beer for Margo, and a pint of Guinness for Moriarty, topped with the requisite half-inch of creamy foam. Moriarty sipped it critically. “These killings, all the rumors that have been going around,” he said. “I probably would have reacted the same way.”

  Margo, calmer now, spoke hesitantly. “George, that Kothoga figurine in the exhibition…?”

  “Mbwun? What about it?”

  “Its front legs have three claws.”

  Moriarty was enjoying the Guinness. “I know. It’s a marvelous piece of sculpture, one of the highlights of the show. Of course, though I hate to admit it, I suppose its biggest attraction is the curse.”

  Margo took an exploratory sip from her beer. “George. I want you to tell me, in as much detail as you can, what you know about the Mbwun curse.”

  A shout came bellowing over the din of conversation. Looking up, Margo saw Smithback appear out of the smoky gloom, carrying an armful of notebooks, his hair backlit and sticking out from his head at a variety of angles. The woman he’d been talking to at the bar was nowhere to be seen.

  “A meeting of the shut-outs,” he said. “This curfew is a real pain. God save me from policemen and PR directors.” Uninvited, he dropped his notebooks on the table and slid in next to Margo.

  “I’ve heard that the police are going to start interviewing those working in the vicinity of the murders,” he said. “Guess that means you, Margo.”

  “Mine’s set for next week,” Margo replied.

  “I haven’t heard anything about it,” said Moriarty. He didn’t look pleased at Smithback’s appearance.

  “Well, you don’t have much to worry about, perched up in that garret of yours,” Smithback told Moriarty. “The Museum Beast probably can’t climb stairs, anyway.”

  “You’re in a foul mood this evening,” Margo said to Smithback. “Did Rickman perform another amputation on your manuscript?”

  Smithback was still talking to Moriarty. “Actually, you’re just the man I wanted to see. I’ve got a question for you.” The waitress came by again, and Smithback waved his hand. “Macallan, straight up.”

  “Okay,” Smithback went on. “What I wanted to know is, what’s the story behind this Mbwun figurine?”

  There was a stunned silence.

  Smithback looked from Moriarty to Margo. “What’d I say?”

  “We were just talking about Mbwun,” Margo said uncertainly.

  “Yeah?” Smithback said. “Small world. Anyway, that old Austrian in the Bug Room, Von Oster, told me he heard Rickman kicking up a fuss about Mbwun being put on display. Something about sensitive issues. So I did a little digging.”

  The scotch arrived and Smithback held the glass high in a silent toast, then tossed it off.

  “I’ve obtained a little background so far,” he continued. “It seems there was this tribe along the Upper Xingú river in the Amazon, the Kothoga. They’d apparently been a bad lot—supernatural-dabbling, human sacrifice, the whole bit. Since the old boys hadn’t left many traces around, anthropologists assumed they died out centuries ago. All that remained was a bunch of myths, circulated by local tribes.”

  “I know something of this,” Moriarty began
. “Margo and I were just discussing it. Except not everybody felt—”

  “I know, I know. Hold your water.”

  Moriarty settled back, looking annoyed. He was more used to giving lectures than listening to them.

  “Anyway, several years ago, there was this guy named Whittlesey at the Museum. He mounted an expedition to the Upper Xingú, purportedly to search for traces of the Kothoga—artifacts, ancient dwelling sites, whatever.” Smithback leaned forward conspiratorially. “But what Whittlesey didn’t tell anybody was that he wasn’t just going in search of this old tribe’s traces. He was going in search of the tribe itself. He’d got it into his noggin that the Kothoga still existed, and he was pretty certain he could locate them. He’d developed something he called ‘myth triangulation.’”

  This time, Moriarty wouldn’t be stopped. “That’s where you locate all the spots on a map where legends about a certain people or place are heard, identify the areas where the legends are most detailed and consistent, and locate the exact center of this myth region. That’s where the source of the myth cycles is most likely to be found.”

  Smithback looked at Moriarty for a moment. “No kidding,” he said. “Anyway, this Whittlesey goes off in 1987 and disappears into the Amazon rain forest, never to be seen again.”

  “Von Oster told you all this?” Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Tiresome old guy.”

  “He may be tiresome, but he knows a hell of a lot about this Museum.” Smithback examined his empty glass forlornly. “Apparently, there was a big confrontation in the jungle, and most of the expedition team started back early. They’d found something so important they wanted to leave right away, but Whittlesey disagreed. He stayed, along with a fellow named Crocker. Apparently, they both died in the jungle. But when I asked Von Oster for more details about this Mbwun figurine, he suddenly clammed up.” Smithback stretched languorously and began looking for the waitress. “Guess I’ll have to hunt down somebody who was part of that expedition.”