Douglas Preston - Relic

“So what I was asking George when you came up,” she concluded, “is exactly what he knows about this curse of the Kothoga.”

Moriarty shrugged. “Not all that much, really. In local legend, the Kothoga tribe was a shadowy group, a witchdoctor cult. They were supposed to be able to control demons. There was a creature—a familiar if you will—they used for vengeance killings. That was Mbwun, He Who Walks On All Fours. Then, Whittlesey came across this figurine, and some other objects, packed them up, and sent them back to the Museum. Of course, such disturbance of sacred objects has been done countless times before. But then when he gets lost in the jungle and never comes out, and the rest of the expedition dies [147] on the return trip ...” He shrugged his shoulders. “The curse.”

“And now, people are dying in the Museum,” Margo said.

“What are you saying—that the Mbwun curse, the stories of a Museum Beast, and these killings are all linked?” asked Moriarty. “Come on, Margo, don’t read too much into it.”

She looked at him intently. “Didn’t you tell me that Cuthbert kept the figurine out of the exhibition until the last minute?”

“That’s right,” Moriarty said. “He handled all work on that relic himself. Not unusual, considering it’s such a valuable piece. As for delaying its placement in the exhibition, that was Rickman’s idea, I believe. Probably thought it would generate more interest.”

“I doubt it,” Smithback replied. “That’s not the way her mind works. If anything, she was trying to avoid interest. Blow scandal at her, and she shrivels up like a moth in a flame.” He chuckled.

“Just what’s your interest in all this, anyway?” Moriarty demanded.

“You don’t think a dusty old artifact would interest me?” Smithback finally caught the eye of the waitress and ordered another round for the table.

“Well, it’s obvious Rickman wouldn’t let you write about it,” Margo said.

Smithback made a face. “Too true. It might offend all the ethnic Kothoga tribesmen in New York. Actually, it’s because Von Oster said that Rickman was bent out of shape about this. So I thought maybe I could dig around, get some dirt. Something that will put me in a better bargaining position when our next tête-à-tête comes along. You know, ‘This chapter stays, or I’m taking the Whittlesey story to Smithsonian magazine,’ that sort of thing.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Margo said. “I didn’t take you into my confidence just so you could make some [148] money off it. Don’t you understand? We have to learn more about these crates. Whatever is killing people wants something that’s in them. We have to find out what it is.”

“What we really need to do is find that journal,” Smithback said.

“But Cuthbert says it’s been lost,” Margo said.

“Have you checked the accession database?” Smithback said. “Maybe there’s some information there. I’d do it myself, but my security rating is rock-bottom.”

“So is mine,” Margo replied. “And it hasn’t been my day for computers.” She told them about her talk with Kawakita.

“How about Moriarty, here?” Smithback said. “You’re a computer whiz, right? Besides, as an Assistant Curator, you have high security access.”

“I think you should let the authorities handle this.” Moriarty drew back, dignified. “This isn’t for us to mess around with.”

“Don’t you understand?” Margo pleaded. “ Nobody knows what we’re dealing with here. People’s lives—perhaps the Museum’s future—are at stake.”

“I know your motives are good, Margo,” Moriarty said. “But I don’t trust Bill’s.”

“My motives are pure as the Pierian spring,” Smithback retorted. “Rickman is storming the citadel of journalistic truth. I’m just looking to defend the ramparts.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just do what Rickman wants?” Moriarty asked. “I think your vendetta is a little childish. And you know what? You won’t win.”

The drinks came, and Smithback tossed his off and exhaled with gusto.

“Someday I’ll get that bitch,” he said.

= 22 =

Beauregard finished the entry, then stuffed his notebook in a back pocket. He knew he really ought to call the incident in. Hell with it . That girl had looked so scared, it was obvious she wasn’t up to anything. He’d make his report when he got the chance, and no sooner.

Beauregard was in a bad mood. He didn’t like door-shaker duty. Still, it beat directing traffic at a broken light. And it made a good impression down at O’Ryans. Yeah , he would say, I’m assigned to the Museum case. Sorry, can’t talk about it .

For a museum, this place is damn quiet , Beauregard thought. He supposed on a normal day the Museum would be bustling with activity. But the Museum hadn’t been normal since Sunday. At least during the day, staff members had come in and out of the new exhibition halls. But then, they’d closed it off for the opening. Except with written permission from Dr. Cuthbert, you couldn’t get in unless you were police or security on official business. Thank God his shift ended at six and [150] he could look forward to two days away from this place. A solo fishing trip to the Catskills. He’d been looking forward to it for weeks.

Beauregard ran his hand reassuringly along the holster of his S&W .38 special. Ready for action, as always. And on his other hip, a shot-shell pistol loaded with enough capstun to bring an elephant to its knees.

Behind him, Beauregard heard a muffled pattering sound.

He spun around, heart suddenly racing, to face the closed doors of the exhibition. He located a key, unlocked the doors, and peered in.

“Who’s there?”

Only a cool breeze fanned his cheek.

He let the doors close and tested the lock. You could come out, but you couldn’t go in. That girl must have gone in through the front entrance. But wasn’t that kept locked, too? They never told him anything.

The sound came again.

Well, hell , he thought, it ain’t my job to check inside. Can’t let anyone into the exhibition. Never said anything about anyone coming out.

Beauregard started humming a tune, tapping the beat on his thigh with two fingers. Ten more minutes and he’d be out of this frigging spookhouse.

The sound came again.

Beauregard unlocked the doors a second time, and stuck his head deep inside. He could see some dim shapes: exhibition cases, a gloomy-looking entranceway. “This is a police officer. You in there, please respond.”

The cases were dark, the walls vague shadows. No answer.

Withdrawing, Beauregard pulled out his radio. “Beauregard to Ops, do you copy?”

“This is TDN. What’s up?”

“Reporting noises at the exhibition’s rear exit.”

“What kind of noises?”

“Uncertain. Sounds like someone’s in there.”

[151] There was some talk and a stifled laugh.

“Uh ... Fred?”

“What?” Beauregard was growing more irritated by the minute. The dispatcher in the situation room was a first-class asshole.

“Better not go in there.”

“Why not?”

“It might be the monster, Fred. Might get you.”

“Go to hell,” Fred muttered under his breath. He wasn’t supposed to investigate anything without backup, and the dispatcher knew it.

A scratching noise came from behind the doors, as if something with nails was scrabbling against it. Beauregard felt his breath come hard and fast.

His radio squawked. “Seen the monster yet?” came the voice.

Trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible, Beauregard said: “Repeat, reporting unidentified sounds in the exhibition. Request backup to investigate.”