Douglas Preston - Relic

“Does it?” Smithback asked. “I might be forced to agree with you—if it wasn’t for the fact that the Whittlesey crates were on board that ship .”

“What?”

“It’s true. I tracked down the bills of lading. The crates were shipped from Brazil in August of 1988—almost a year after the expedition broke up, as I understand it. After this business in New Orleans, the crates sat in customs while the investigation was being conducted. It took them almost a year and a half to reach the Museum.”

“The ritualized murders have followed the crates all the way from the Amazon!” Margo said. “But that means—”

“It means,” Smithback said grimly, “that I’m going to stop laughing now when I hear talk about a curse on that expedition. And it means you should keep locking this door.”

The phone rang, startling them both.

“Margo, my dear.” Frock’s voice rumbled to her. “What news?”

[192] “Dr. Frock! I wonder if I could come by your office for a few minutes. At your earliest convenience.”

“Splendid!” Frock said. “Give me a little time to shuffle some of this paper off my desk and into the wastebasket. Shall we say one o’clock?”

“Thank you,” Margo said. “Smithback,” she said, turning around, “we’ve got to—”

But the writer was gone.

At ten minutes to one, another knock sounded.

“Who’s there?” Margo said through the locked door.

“It’s me, Moriarty. Can I come in, Margo?”

“I just wanted to apologize for walking out earlier,” Moriarty said, declining a chair. “It’s just that Bill wears on me sometimes. He never seems to let up.”

“George, I’m the one who should apologize,” Margo said. “I didn’t know he was going to appear like that.” She thought of telling him about the newspaper article, but decided against it and began to pack up her carryall.

“There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Moriarty went on. “While I was eating lunch, I realized there may be some way we can find out more about that deleted database record, after all. The one for Whittlesey’s journal.”

Margo abruptly put down the carryall and looked at Moriarty, who took a seat in front of her terminal. “Did you see that sign-on message when you logged into the network earlier?” he asked.

“The one about the computer going down? Big surprise. I got locked out twice this morning.”

Moriarty nodded. “The message also said they were going to restore from the backup tapes at noon. A full restore takes about thirty minutes. That means they should be done by now.”

“So?”

“Well, a backup tape holds about two to three months’ worth of archives. If the detail record for the Whittlesey journal was deleted in the last two months— [193] and if the backup tape is still on the hub up in data processing—I should be able to resurrect it.”

“Really?”

Moriarty nodded.

“Then do it!” Margo urged.

“There’s a certain element of risk,” Moriarty replied. “If a system operator notices that the tape is being accessed ... well, he could trace it to your terminal ID.”

“I’ll risk it,” Margo said. “George,” she added, “I know you feel this is all a wild goose chase, and I can’t really blame you for that. But I’m convinced those crates from the Whittlesey expedition are connected to these killings. I don’t know what the connection is, but maybe the journal could have told us something. And I don’t know what we’re dealing with—a serial killer, some animal, some creature. And not knowing scares me.” She gently took Moriarty’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “But maybe we’re in a position here to be of some help. We have to try.”

When she noticed Moriarty blushing, she withdrew her hand.

Smiling shyly, Moriarty moved to the keyboard.

“Here goes,” he said.

Margo paced the room as Moriarty worked. “Any luck?” she asked finally, moving closer to the terminal.

“Don’t know yet,” said Moriarty, squinting at the screen and typing commands. “I’ve got the tape, but the protocol’s messed up or something, the CRC checks are failing. We may get garbled data, if we get anything. I’m going in the back door, so to speak, hoping to avoid attention. The seek rate is really slow this way.”

Then the keytaps stopped. “Margo,” Moriarty said quietly. “I’ve got it.”

The screen filled. [194]

**DETAIL LISTING**

Item: 1989-2006.2

###################################

Removed By: Rickman, L. 53210

Approval: Cuthbert, I. 40123

Removal Date: 3/15/95

Removal To: Personal supervision

Reason:

Return Date:

###################################

Removed By: Depardieu, B. 72412

Approval: Cuthbert, I. 40123

RemLW/@;oval Date: 10/1/90

Remov~DS*-~@2e34 5WIFU

=++ET2 34 h34!~

DB ERROR

=:?

“Hell!” Moriarty exclaimed. “I was afraid of that. It’s been partially overwritten, corrupted. See that? It just trails off into garbage.”

“Yes, but look!” Margo said excitedly.

Moriarty examined the screen. “The journal was removed by Mrs. Rickman two weeks ago, with Dr. Cuthbert’s permission. No return date.”

Margo snorted. “Cuthbert said the journal had been lost.”

“So why was this record deleted? And by whom?” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Oh, Lord, I have to release my lock on the tape before somebody notices us.” His fingers danced over the keys.

“George,” Margo said. “Do you know what this means? They took the journal out of the crates before [195] the killings started. Around the time Cuthbert had the crates put in the Secure Area. Now they’re concealing evidence from the police. Why?”

Moriarty frowned. “You’re starting to sound like Smithback,” he said. “There could be a thousand explanations.”

“Name one,” Margo challenged.

“The most obvious would be that somebody else deleted the detail record before Rickman could add a Lost Artifact notation.”

Margo shook her head. “I don’t believe it. There are just too many coincidences.”

“Margo—” Moriarty began. Then he sighed. “Listen,” he went on patiently, “this is a trying time for all of us, you especially. I know you’re trying to make a tough decision, and then with a crisis like this ... well ...”

“These murders weren’t committed by some garden-variety maniac,” Margo interrupted impatiently. “I’m not crazy.”

“I’m not saying that,” Moriarty continued. “I just think you ought to let the police handle this. It’s a very, very dangerous business. And you should be concentrating on your own life right now. Digging into this won’t help you make up your mind about your own future.” He swallowed. “And it won’t bring your father back.”

“Is that what you think?” Margo blazed. “You don’t—”

She broke off abruptly as her eye fell on the wall clock. “Jesus. I’m late for my meeting with Dr. Frock.” She grabbed her carryall and headed for the door. Halfway into the hall, she turned around. “I’ll speak to you later,” she said.

The door slammed.

God , Moriarty thought, sitting at the darkened [196] terminal and resting his chin in his hands. If a graduate student in plant genetics actually thinks Mbwun might be loose—if even Margo Green starts seeing conspiracies behind every door—what about the rest of the Museum?