Douglas Preston: Relic

[445] A large re-creation of the creature’s feet lay on the low table, next to the Cretaceous plaque of fossil footprints. Frock traced the tracks lovingly. “If not the same family, certainly the same order,” he said. “And the creature did indeed have five toes on the hind feet. Yet another link to the Mbwun figurine.”

Margo, looking closely, thought the two didn’t seem all that similar.

“Fractal evolution?” she suggested.

Frock looked at her. “It’s possible. But it would take extensive cladistic analysis to know for sure.” He grimaced. “Of course, that won’t be possible, now that the government has whisked the remains away for God only knows what purpose.”

In the month since the opening night disaster, public sentiment had gone from shock and incredulity, to fascination, to ultimate acceptance. For the first two weeks, the press had been abuzz with stories of the beast, but the conflicting accounts of the survivors created confusion and uncertainty. The only item that could settle the controversy—the corpse—was immediately removed from the scene in a large white van with government plates, never to be seen again. Even Pendergast claimed to be ignorant of its whereabouts. Publicity soon turned to the human cost of the disaster, and to the lawsuits that threatened the manufacturers of the security system and, to a lesser degree, the police department and the Museum itself. Time magazine had run a lead story entitled “How Safe Are Our National Institutions?” Now, weeks later, people had begun to view the creature as a one-of-a-kind phenomenon: a freak throwback, like the dinosaur fishes that occasionally showed up in the nets of deep-sea fishermen. Interest had started to wane: the opening-night survivors were no longer interviewed on talk shows, the projected Saturday morning cartoon series had been cancelled, and “Museum Beast” action figures were going unsold in toy stores.

[446] Frock glanced around. “Forgive my lack of hospitality. Sherry, anyone?”

There were murmurs of “No, thanks.”

“Not unless you’ve got a 7-Up chaser,” D’Agosta said. Pendergast blanched and looked in his direction.

D’Agosta took the latex cast of the claw from Frock’s desk and held it up. “Nasty,” he said.

“Exceptionally nasty,” Frock agreed. “It truly was part reptile, part primate. I won’t go into the technical details—I’ll leave that to Gregory Kawakita, who I’ve put to work analyzing what data we do have—but it appears that the reptilian genes are what gave the creature its strength, speed, and muscle mass. The primate genes contributed the intelligence and possibly made it endothermic. Warm-blooded. A formidable combination.

“Yeah, sure,” D’Agosta said, laying the cast down. “But what the hell was it?”

Frock chuckled. “My dear fellow, we simply don’t have enough data yet to say exactly what it was. And since it appears to have been the last of its kind, we may never know. We’ve just received an official survey of the tepui this creature came from. The devastation there has been complete. The plant this creature lived on, which by the way we have posthumously named Liliceae mbwunensis , appears to be totally extinct. Mining has poisoned the entire swamp surrounding the tepui . Not to mention the fact that the entire area was initially torched with napalm, to help clear the area for mining. There were no traces of any other similar creatures wandering about the forest anywhere. While I am normally horrified by such environmental destruction, in this case it appears to have rid the earth of a terrible menace.” He sighed. “As a safety precaution—and against my advice, I might add—the FBI has destroyed all the packing fibers and plant specimens here in the Museum. So the plant, too, is truly extinct.”

[447] “How do we know it was the last of its kind?” Margo asked. “Couldn’t there be another somewhere?”

“Not likely,” said Frock. “That tepui was an ecological island—by all accounts, a unique place in which animals and plants had developed a singular interdependence over literally millions of years.”

“And there certainly aren’t any more creatures in the Museum,” Pendergast said, coming forward. “With those ancient blueprints I found at the Historical Society, we were able to section off the subbasement and comb every square inch. We found many things of interest to urban archaeologists, but no further sign of the creature.”

“It looked so sad in death,” Margo said. “So lonely. I almost feel sorry for it.”

“It was lonely,” said Frock, “lonely and lost. Traveling four thousand miles from its jungle home, following the trail of the last remaining specimens of the precious plants that kept it alive and free from pain. But it was very evil, and very fierce. I saw at least twelve bullet holes in the carcass before they took it away.”

The door opened and Smithback walked in, theatrically waving a manila envelope in one hand and a magnum of champagne in the other. He whipped a sheaf of papers out of the envelope, holding them skyward with one long arm.

“A book contract, folks!” he said, grinning. D’Agosta scowled and turned away, picking up the claw again.

“I got everything I wanted, and made my agent rich,” Smithback crowed.

“And yourself rich, too,” said D’Agosta, looking as if he’d like to use the claw on the writer.

Smithback cleared his throat dramatically. “I’ve decided to donate half the royalties to a fund set up in memory of Officer John Bailey. To benefit his family.”

D’Agosta turned toward Smithback. “Get lost,” he said.

[448] “No, really,” said Smithback. “Half the royalties. After the advance has earned out, of course,” he added hastily.

D’Agosta started to step toward Smithback, then stopped abruptly. “You got my cooperation,” he said in a low voice, his jaw working stiffly.

“Thanks, Lieutenant. I think I’ll need it.”

“That’s Captain, as of yesterday,” said Pendergast.

“Captain D’Agosta?” Margo asked. “You’ve been promoted?”

D’Agosta nodded. “Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, the Chief tells me.” He pointed a finger at Smithback. “I get to read what you say about me before it goes to press, Smithback.”

“Now wait a minute,” Smithback said, “there are certain ethics that journalists have to follow—”

“Balls!” D’Agosta exploded.

Margo turned to Pendergast. “I can see this will be an exciting collaboration,” she whispered. Pendergast nodded.

There was a light rapping, and the head of Greg Kawakita appeared from around the door to the outer office. “Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor Frock,” he said, “your secretary didn’t tell me you were busy. We can go over the results later.”

“Nonsense!” cried Frock. “Come in, Gregory. Mr. Pendergast, Captain D’Agosta, this is Gregory Kawakita. He’s the author of the G.S.E., the extrapolation program that allowed us to come up with such an accurate profile of the creature.”

“You have my gratitude,” Pendergast said. “Without that program, none of us would have been here today.”

“Thanks very much, but the program was really Dr. Frock’s brainchild,” Kawakita said, eyeing the cake. “I just put the pieces together. Besides, there were a lot of things the Extrapolator didn’t tell you. The forward placement of the eyes, for instance.”

“Why, Greg, success has made you humble,” [449] Smithback said. “In any case,” he continued, turning to Pendergast, “I’ve got a few questions for you . This vintage champagne doesn’t come free, you know.” He fixed the FBI agent with an expectant gaze. “Whose bodies did we discover in the lair, anyway?”