Douglas Preston - Relic

“ JAWS takes Manhattan ...

A wicked kicker in the final pages.”

— San Francisco Examiner and Chronicle

“First-rate thrills and chills.”

— Publishers Weekly

Want to pick up a thriller that arrives

with the kinetic energy

of a meteor smacking the earth? Read RELIC …

By the time the writers have weaved

the wildly divergent elements together for an

inevitable and explosive climax,

anyone with a pulse will be nervously checking

the front door locks.”

— Tribune and Times , Tampa, FL

“ Wonderfully spooky ...

A real page-turner.”

— Library Journal

“A straight thriller … That’s like saying that

GONE WITH THE WIND

was just another Civil War film.”

— Orlando Sentinel

“A real bone-chilling shocker.”

— Express Books

“Superbly exciting.”

— The Bergen Record

“ Relic is a straight thriller. That’s like saying, however,

that Die Hard was just another action adventure flick or

that Gone With the Wind was just another Civil War film.

Each stands as a superlative example of its type.”

— Orlando Sentinel

“A high-concept, high-energy thriller ... builds to a

superbly exciting climax, and then offers a final twist to

boot.”

— Publishers Weekley

“Preston and Child’s refreshing penchant for realistic detail

elevates their tale far above Crichton’s [ Jurassic Park ] ...

Containing just the right blend of gripping suspense, colorful

characters, and credible science, Relic has all the

ingredients for well-deserved best-seller status.”

— Booklist

“Superbly exciting.”

— The Record (Bergen County, NJ)

“This is a real page-turner, part Jaws , part Poseidon Adventure .”

— Library Journal

“It’s the year’s hottest.”

— Literary Guild Bulletin

“ Relic satisfies the primal desire to be scared out of one’s

wits ... The ending is a real bone-chilling shocker.”

— Express Books

“ Jaws takes Manhattan”

— San Francisco Examiner and Chronicle

“ Relic is as good as this type of novel gets.”

— Hartford Courant

By Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

Mount Dragon*

Relic

By Douglas Preston

Talking to the Ground

Jennie

Cities of Gold

Dinosaurs in the Attic

Edited by Lincoln Child

Dark Company

Dark Banquet

Tales of the Dark 1-3

*forthcoming

RELIC

DOUGLAS PRESTON

LINCOLN CHILD

FORGE

A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

NEW YORK

To Charles Crumly.

—D. P.

To Luchie, who came along for the ride.

And in memory of Nora and Gaga.

—L. C.

NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.

RELIC

Copyright © 1995 by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

Cover art by Tim Thiesen

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

Tor Books on the World-Wide Web:

http://www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN: 0-812-54326-2

First edition: February 1995

First international mass market edition: November 1995

First mass market edition: January 1996

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4

A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S

The authors wish to express their thanks to the following persons, who generously lent their time and/or expertise in helping to make Relic the book it is: Ken Goddard, Tom Doherty, Bob Gleason, Harvey Klinger, Anna Magee, Camille Cline, Denis Kelly, Georgette Piligian, Michael O’Connor, Carina Deleon, Fred Ziegler, Bob Wincott, Lou Perretti, and Harry Trumbore.

INTRODUCTION

= 1 =

The Amazon Basin, September 1987

At noon, the clouds clinging to the top of Cerro Gordo broke free and scattered. Far above, in the upper reaches of the forest canopy, Whittlesey could see golden tints of sunlight. Animals—probably spider monkeys—thrashed and hooted above his head and a macaw swooped low, squawking obscenely.

Whittlesey stopped next to a fallen jacaranda tree and watched Carlos, his sweating camp assistant, catch up. “We will stop here,” he said in Spanish. “ Baja la caja . Put down the box.”

Whittlesey sat down on the fallen tree and pulled off his right boot and sock. Lighting a cigarette, he applied its tip to the forest of ticks on his shin and ankle.

Carlos unshouldered an old army packboard, on which a wooden crate was awkwardly lashed.

“Open it, please,” said Whittlesey.

Carlos removed the ropes, unsnapped a series of small brass clasps, and pulled off the top.

The contents were packed tightly with the fibers of an [4] indigenous plant. Whittlesey pulled aside the fibers, exposing some artifacts, a small wooden plant press, and a stained leather journal. He hesitated a moment, then drew a small but exquisitely carved figurine of a beast from the shirt pocket of his field jacket. He hefted the artifact in his hand, admiring again its workmanship, its unnatural heaviness. Then he placed it reluctantly in the crate, covered everything with the fibers, and reattached the lid.

From his rucksack, Whittlesey took out a folded sheet of blank paper, which he opened on his knee. He brought a battered gold pen out of his shirt pocket and began writing:

Upper Xingú

Sept. 17, 1987

Montague,

I’ve decided to send Carlos back with the last crate and go on alone in search of Crocker. Carlos is trustworthy, and I can’t risk losing the crate should anything happen to me. Take note of the shaman’s rattle and other ritual objects. They seem unique. But the figurine I’ve enclosed, which we found in a deserted hut at this site, is the proof I’ve been looking for. Note the exaggerated claws, the reptilian attributes, the hints at bipedalia . The Kothoga exist, and the Mbwun legend is not mere fabrication.

All my field notes are in this notebook. It also contains a complete account of the breakup of the expedition, which you will of course know about by the time this reaches you.

Whittlesey shook his head, remembering the scene that had played itself out the day before. That idiotic bastard, Maxwell. All he’d cared about was getting those specimens he’d stumbled on back to the Museum [5] undamaged. Whittlesey laughed silently to himself. Ancient eggs. As if they were anything more than worthless seed pods. Maxwell should have been a paleobiologist instead of a physical anthropologist. How ironic they’d packed up and left a mere thousand yards from his own discovery.