Relic

= 33 =

As closing drew near, the visitors began to trickle out toward the Museum exits. The Museum shop—located directly inside the south entrance—did a brisk business.

In the marble hallways leading away from the south entrance, the sounds of conversation and the drumming of feet could be clearly heard. In the Hall of the Heavens near the West entrance, where the opening party for the new exhibition was to be held, the noise was fainter, echoing inside the huge dome like a vaguely remembered dream. And deeper within the Museum, as more laboratories, antique lecture halls, storage vaults, and book-lined offices interposed themselves, the sounds of visitors did not penetrate. The long corridors were dark and silent.

Within the Butterfield Observatory, the noise and bustle could just as well have been on another planet. The staffers, making the most of the curfew, had gone home early. George Moriarty’s office, like all six floors of the observatory, was deathly quiet.

[236] Moriarty stood behind his desk, a balled fist pressed tightly against his mouth. “Damn,” he mumbled.

Suddenly, one foot lashed out in frustration, the heel slamming against a file cabinet behind him and knocking a pile of papers onto the floor. “Damn!” he howled, this time in pain, as he sank into his chair and began rubbing his ankle.

Slowly, the pain lifted, and with it, his funk. Sighing heavily, he looked around the room. “Jeez, George, you always manage to screw things up, don’t you?” he murmured.

He was hopeless socially, he might as well admit it to himself. Everything he did to catch Margo’s attention, everything he did to gain her favor, seemed to backfire. What he’d said about her father was about as tactful as a machine gun.

Suddenly, he swiveled toward his terminal and typed in a command. He’d send her an e-mail message, maybe repair some of his damage. He paused a moment, composing, then began to type.

HI, MARGO! JUST CURIOUS TO KNOW IF YOU

Abruptly, Moriarty hit a key, purging the message. He’d probably just mess things up even worse.

He sat for a moment, staring at the blank screen. He knew of only one surefire method to ease his hurt: a treasure hunt.

Many of the Superstition exhibition’s most prized artifacts were the direct result of his treasure hunts. Moriarty had a deep love for the Museum’s vast collections, and he was more familiar with its obscure and secret corners than many longtime staffers. Shy, Moriarty had few friends and often passed his time researching and locating long-forgotten relics from the Museum’s storerooms. It gave him a sense of worth and fulfillment that he had been unable to obtain from others.

[237] He turned once again to the keyboard, opening the Museum’s accession database and moving casually yet deliberately through its records. He knew his way around the database, knew its shortcuts and back doors, like an experienced riverboat captain knew the contours of a riverbed.

In a few minutes, his fingers slowed. Here was a region of the database he hadn’t explored before: a trove of Sumerian artifacts, discovered in the early twenties but never fully researched. Carefully, he targeted first a collection, then a subcollection, then individual artifacts. This looked interesting: a series of clay tablets, early examples of Sumerian writing. The original collector believed they dealt with religious rituals. Moriarty read over the annotated entries, nodding to himself. Maybe they could use these in the exhibition. There was still room for a few more artifacts in one of the smaller miscellaneous galleries.

He checked his sundial watch: almost five. Still, he knew where the tablets were stored. If they looked promising, he could show them to Cuthbert tomorrow morning and get his approval. He could work up the display between the Friday night celebration and the public opening. He quickly jotted a few notes, then flicked off his computer.

The sound of the terminal being snapped into darkness sounded like a pistol shot in the lonely office. Finger still on the power switch. Moriarty paused. Then he stood up, tucked his shirt inside his trousers, and—favoring his bruised heel slightly—left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.