Douglas Preston - Relic

The band suddenly faltered, and almost simultaneously somebody elbowed him, hard, in the ribs.

“Hey!” Smithback started to say, when, looking up, he almost instantly found himself engulfed in a shoving, grunting, screaming mass of people. He was thrown against the banquet table; he struggled to regain his footing, slipped and fell, then rolled under the table. He crouched, watching the thundering feet go by. There were screams and the horrifying noises of bodies crashing full tilt into one another. He heard a few snatches of shouted phrases: “... dead body!” “... murder!” Had the killer struck again, in the middle of thousands of people? It wasn’t possible.

A woman’s shoe, black felt with a painfully high spiked heel, bounced under the table and came to rest near his nose. He shoved it away with disgust, noticed he was still clutching a morsel of shrimp in his hand, and bolted it down. Whatever was happening, it was happening fast. It was shocking how quickly panic could sweep a crowd.

The table shuddered and slid, and Smithback saw an enormous platter land just beyond the fringe of the tablecloth. Crackers and Camembert went flying. He grabbed crackers and cheese off his frilled shirt and started eating. Twelve inches from his face, he could see scores of feet stamping and churning a loaf of pâté into mud. Another platter landed with a splat, spraying caviar across the floor in a gray mist.

The lights dimmed. Smithback quickly shoved a wedge of Camembert into his mouth, holding it between his teeth, realizing suddenly that he was eating while the biggest event he’d ever seen was being handed him on [326] a silver platter. He checked his pockets for the micro-cassette recorder as the lights dimmed and brightened. Smithback talked as fast as he could, mouth close to the microphone, hoping his voice would come through over the deafening roar of humanity. This was an incredible opportunity. The hell with Rickman. Everyone was going to want this story. He hoped that if any other journalists were at the party, they were running like hell to get out.

The lights flickered again.

A hundred thousand for the advance, he wasn’t going to take a dime less. He was here, he’d covered the story from the beginning. Nobody could touch his access.

The lights flickered for a third time, then went out.

“Son of a bitch!” yelled Smithback. “Somebody turn on the lights!”

Margo pushed Frock around another corner, then waited while he called again for Pendergast. The sound echoed forlornly.

“This is growing pointless,” said Frock in exasperation. “There are several larger storage rooms in this section. Maybe he’s inside one and can’t hear us. Let’s try a few. It’s all we have left.” He grunted as he fished in a jacket pocket. “Don’t leave home without it,” he smiled, holding up a curator’s master key.

Margo unlocked the first door and peered into the gloom. “Mr. Pendergast?” she called out. Metal shelves stacked with enormous bones rose out of the gloom. A big dinosaur skull, the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, sat near the door on a wooden skid, still partially encased in matrix, black teeth gleaming dully.

“Next!” said Frock.

The lights dimmed.

No answer in the next storage room, either.

“One more try,” Frock said. “Over there, across the hall.”

Margo stopped at the indicated door, marked [327] PLEISTOCENE—12B, noting as she did so a stairwell door at the far end of the hall. She was pushing open the storage room door as the lights flickered a second time.

“This is—” she began.

Suddenly, a sharp explosion resounded down the narrow hall. Margo looked up, heart pounding, trying to locate the source of the noise. It seemed to have come from around a corner they had not yet explored.

Then the lights went out.

“If we wait a moment,” Frock said finally, “the emergency backup system will come on.”

Only the faint creaking of the building pierced the silence. The seconds stretched into a minute, two minutes.

Then Margo noticed a strange smell, goatish, fetid, almost rank. With a sob of despair, she remembered where she had smelled it once before: in the darkened exhibition.

“Do you—?” she whispered.

“Yes,” hissed Frock. “Get inside and lock the door.”

Breathing fast, Margo groped at the doorframe. She called out quietly as the smell grew stronger. “Dr. Frock? Can you follow the sound of my voice?”

“There’s no time for that,” came his whisper. “Please, forget about me and get inside.”

“No,” said Margo. “Just come toward me slowly.”

She heard his chair rattle. The smell was growing overpowering, the earthy, rotting odor of a swamp, mixed with the sweet smell of warm raw hamburger. Margo heard a wet snuffling.

“I’m right here,” she whispered to Frock. “Oh, hurry, please.”

The darkness seemed oppressive, a suffocating weight. She cringed against the doorframe, flattening herself to the wall, fighting down an urge to flee.

In the pitch black, wheels rattled and the chair bumped gently against her leg. She grabbed its handles and pulled Frock inside. Turning, she slammed the door [328] closed, locked it, and then sank to the floor, her body rocked by noiseless sobs. Silence filled the room. There was a scraping on the door, soft at first, then louder and more insistent. Margo shrank away, banging her shoulder against the frame of the wheelchair. In the dark, she felt Frock gently take her hand.

= 48 =

D’Agosta sat up amid the broken glass, grabbed for his radio, and watched the retreating backs of the last guests, their screams and shouts fading.

“Lieutenant?” One of his officers, Bailey, was getting up from underneath another broken case. The Hall was a shambles: artifacts broken and scattered across the floor; broken glass everywhere; shoes, purses, pieces of clothing. Everybody had left the gallery except D’Agosta, Bailey, and the dead man. D’Agosta looked briefly at the headless body, registering the gaping wounds in the chest, the clothing stiffened by dried blood, the man’s insides generously exposed like so much stuffing. Dead for some time, apparently. He looked away, then looked back quickly. The man was wearing a policeman’s uniform.

“Bailey!” he shouted. “Officer down! Who is this man?”

Bailey came over, his face pale in the dim light. [330] “Hard to say. But I think Fred Beauregard had a big old Academy ring like that.”

“No shit ,” D’Agosta whistled under his breath. He bent closer, got the badge number.

Bailey nodded. “That’s Beauregard, Loo.”

“Christ!” D’Agosta said, straightening up. “Wasn’t he on his forty-eight?”

“That’s correct. Last tour was Wednesday afternoon.”

“Then he’s been in here since—” D’Agosta started. His face hardened into a scowl. “That fucking Coffey, refusing to sweep the exhibition. I’m gonna tear him a new asshole.”

Bailey helped him up. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ll bind it up later,” D’Agosta said tersely. “Where’s McNitt?”

“I don’t know. Last I looked, he was caught in the crowd.”

Ippolito stepped from around the far corner, talking into his radio. D’Agosta’s respect for the Security Director went up a notch. He may not be the brightest guy, but he’s got balls when it comes to the pinch.

The lights dimmed.

“There’s panic in the Hall of the Heavens,” said Ippolito, ear at his radio. “They say the security wall is coming down.”

“Those idiots! That’s the only exit!” He raised his own radio. “Walden! You copy? What’s going on?”

“Sir, it’s chaos here! McNitt just came out of the exhibition. He got pretty roughed up in there. We’re at the exhibition entrance, trying to slow the crowd, but it’s no use. There’s a lot of people getting trampled, Lieutenant.”