Relic

= 62 =

Four Weeks Later

When Margo arrived, Pendergast and D’Agosta were already in Frock’s office. Pendergast was examining something on a low table while Frock talked animatedly next to him. D’Agosta was walking restlessly around the office, looking bored, picking things up and putting them down again. The latex cast of the claw sat in the middle of Frock’s desk like a nightmare paperweight. A large cake, purchased by Frock in celebration of Pendergast’s imminent departure, sat in the middle of the warm sunlit room, the white icing already beginning to droop.

“Last time I was there, I had a crayfish gumbo that was truly magnificent,” Frock was saying, gripping Pendergast’s elbow. “Ah, Margo,” he said, wheeling around. “Come in and take a look.”

Margo crossed the room. Spring had finally taken hold of the city, and through the great bow windows she could see the blue expanse of the Hudson River flowing southward, sparkling in the sunlight. On the promenade below, joggers filed past in steady ranks.

[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?”

Pendergast raised his shoulders in a slight shrug. “I guess there’s no harm in telling you—although this is not for publication until you receive official word. As it happens, five of the eight remains have been identified. Two were those of homeless street persons, who crept into the Old Basement, presumably looking for warmth on a winter’s night. Another was that of a foreign tourist we found on Interpol’s missing persons list. Another, as you know, was George Moriarty, the Assistant Curator under Ian Cuthbert.”

“Poor George,” Margo whispered. For weeks, she had avoided thinking about Moriarty’s last moments, his final struggle with the beast. To die that way, then to be hung up like a side of beef ...

Pendergast waited a moment before continuing. “The fifth body has been tentatively identified from dental records as a man named Montague, an employee of the Museum who vanished several years ago.”

“Montague!” Frock said. “So the story was true.”

“Yes,” said Pendergast. “It seems that certain members of the Museum administration—Wright, Rickman, Cuthbert, and perhaps Ippolito—suspected there was something prowling the Museum. When a vast quantity of blood was found in the Old Basement, they had it washed away without notifying the police. When Montague’s disappearance coincided with that discovery, the group did nothing to shed any light on the event. They also had reason to believe that the creature was somehow connected to the Whittlesey expedition. Those suspicions may have been behind the moving of the crates. In retrospect, it was a terribly unwise move: It was what precipitated the killings.”

“You’re right, of course,” Frock said, wheeling [450] himself back toward his desk. “We know the creature was highly intelligent. It realized it would be in danger if its existence in the Museum was discovered. I think it must have curbed its normally fierce nature as a means of self-preservation. When it first reached the Museum, it was desperate, perhaps feral, and it killed Montague when it saw him with the artifacts and the plants. But after that, it grew quickly cautious. It knew where the crates were, and it had a supply of the plant—or, at least, it would until the packing material gave out. It was parsimonious in its consumption. Of course, the hormones in the plant were highly concentrated. And the beast supplemented its diet occasionally, in stealthy ways. Rats living in the subbasement, cats escaped from the Animal Behavior department ... once or twice, even luckless human beings that wandered too deep into the Museum’s secret places. But it was always careful to conceal its kills, and several years passed in which it remained—for the most part—undetected.” He shifted slightly, the wheelchair creaking.

“Then it happened. The crates were removed, put under lock and key in the Secure Area. The beast grew first hungry, then desperate. Perhaps it grew murderous with rage at the beings who had deprived it of the plants—beings who themselves could be a substitute, though poor, for that which they’d taken away. The frenzy grew, and the beast killed, then killed again.”

Frock withdrew his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “But it didn’t lose all rationality,” he continued. “Remember how it hid the body of the policeman in the exhibition? Even though its blood lust had been aroused, even though it was mad with desire for the plants, it had the presence of mind to realize that the killings were attracting unwanted attention to itself. Perhaps it had planned on bringing the body of Beauregard back down to its lair. Chances are, it was unable to do so—the exhibition was far beyond its usual haunts—so it hid the [451] body instead. After all, the hypothalamus was its primary objective; the rest was just meat.”

Margo shuddered.

“I’ve wondered more than once just why the beast went into that exhibition,” Pendergast said.

Frock raised his index finger. “So have I. And I think I know the reason. Remember, Mr. Pendergast, what else was in the exhibition.”

Pendergast nodded slowly. “Of course. The figurine of Mbwun.”

“Exactly,” said Frock. “The figurine depicting the beast itself. The creature’s one link with its home, the home that it had lost utterly.”

“You seem to have it all figured out,” Smithback said. “But if Wright and Cuthbert were aware of this thing, how did they know it was connected with the Whittlesey expedition?”

“I believe I can answer that,” Pendergast said. “They knew, of course, why the ship carrying the crates from Belém to New Orleans was delayed so long—much the way you learned, I expect, Mr. Smithback.”

Smithback suddenly looked nervous. “Well,” he began, “I—”

“They also read Whittlesey’s journal. And they knew the legends as well as anybody. Then, when Montague—the person assigned to curating the crates—disappeared, and a pool of blood was discovered near the location of the crates, it didn’t take a savant to put everything together. And besides,” he said, his expression clouding, “Cuthbert more or less confirmed it for me. As well as he was able, of course.”

Frock nodded. “They paid a terrible price. Winston and Lavinia dead, Ian Cuthbert institutionalized ... it’s distressing beyond words.”

“True,” Kawakita said, “but it’s no secret that it’s made you top contender for the next Director of the Museum.”

He would think of that, Margo thought.

[452] Frock shook his head. “I doubt if it will be offered me, Gregory. Once the dust settles, rational heads will prevail. I’m too controversial. Besides, the Directorship doesn’t interest me. I have too much new material here for me to delay my next book any longer.”

“One thing that Dr. Wright and the rest didn’t know,” Pendergast went on—“in fact, something that nobody here knows—is that the killings didn’t start in New Orleans. There was a very similar murder in Belém, in the warehouse where the crates had been housed while awaiting shipping. I learned about it when I was investigating the shipboard killings.”

“That must have been the creature’s first stop on the way to New York,” Smithback said. “I guess it brings the story full circle.” He guided Pendergast to the sofa. “Now, Mr. Pendergast, I suppose this also solves the mystery of what happened to Whittlesey.”

“The creature killed him, that seems fairly certain,” said Pendergast. “Say, you don’t mind if I get a piece of that cake—”

Smithback placed a restraining hand on his arm. “How do you know?”

“That it killed Whittlesey? We found a souvenir in its lair.”

“You did?” Smithback whipped out his microcassette recorder.

“Put that back in your pocket, if you please, Mr. Smithback. Yes, it was something Whittlesey wore around his neck, apparently. A medallion in the shape of a double arrow.”

“That was embossed on his journal!” Smithback said. “And on the letterhead of the note he sent Montague!” Margo chimed in.

“Apparently it was Whittlesey’s family crest. We found it in the lair; a piece of it, anyway. Why the beast carried it from the Amazon we’ll never know, but there it is.”

“We found other artifacts in there, too,” said [453] D’Agosta, through a mouthful of cake. “Along with a pile of Maxwell’s seed pods. The thing was a regular collector.

“Like what?” Margo asked, walking toward one of the bow windows and gazing out at the landscape beyond.

“Things you wouldn’t expect. A set of car keys, a lot of coins and subway tokens, even a beautiful gold pocket watch. We looked up the guy whose name was inscribed inside the watch, and he told us he’d lost it three years ago. He’d visited the Museum, and been pickpocketed.” D’Agosta shrugged. “Maybe that pickpocket is one of the unidentified bodies. Or maybe we’ll never find him.”

“The creature kept it hung by its chain from a nail in the wall of its lair,” Pendergast said. “It liked beautiful things. Another sign of intelligence, I suppose.”

“Was everything picked up from inside the Museum?” asked Smithback.

“As far as we can tell,” Pendergast said. “There’s no evidence the creature could—or wanted to—obtain egress from the Museum.”

“No?” Smithback said. “Then what about the exit you were leading D’Agosta toward?”

“He found it,” Pendergast said simply. “You were all very lucky.”

Smithback turned to ask D’Agosta another question, and Pendergast took the opportunity to get up and head for the cake. “It was awfully nice of you to throw me this party, Dr. Frock,” he said as he returned.

“You saved our lives,” Frock said. “I thought a little cake might be in order as our way of wishing you bon voyage.”

“I’m afraid, then,” Pendergast continued, “that I may be at this party under false pretenses.”

“Why is that?” Frock asked.

“I may not be leaving New York permanently. The directorship of the New York office is up for reassignment, you see.”

[454] “You mean it’s not going to Coffey?” Smithback smirked.

Pendergast shook his head. “Poor Mr. Coffey,” he said. “I hope he enjoys his position in the Waco field office. In any case, the Mayor, who has become a great fan of Captain D’Agosta here, seems to think I have a good shot at it.”

“Congratulations!” cried Frock.

“It isn’t certain yet,” Pendergast said. “Nor am I certain I care to remain up here. Although the place does have its charms.”

He got up and walked to the bow window, where Margo was standing, staring out at the Hudson River and the green hills of the Palisades beyond.

“What are your plans, Margo?” he asked.

She turned to face him. “I’ve decided to stay at the Museum until I’ve finished my dissertation.”

Frock laughed. “The truth is, I refused to let her go,” he said.

Margo smiled. “Actually, I’ve received an offer from Columbia. Tenure-track Assistant Professorship, starting next year. Columbia was my father’s alma mater. So I’ve got to finish it, you see.”

“Great news!” said Smithback. “We’ll have to celebrate over dinner tonight.”

“Dinner? Tonight?”

“Café des Artistes, seven o’clock,” he said. “Listen, you’ve got to come. I’m a world-famous author, or about to become one. This champagne’s getting warm,” he continued, reaching for the bottle.

Everyone crowded round as Frock brought out glasses. Smithback angled the bottle toward the ceiling and fired off the cork with a satisfying pop.

“What’ll we drink to?” asked D’Agosta, as the glasses were filled.

“To my book,” said Smithback.

“To Special Agent Pendergast, and a safe journey home,” Frock said.

“To the memory of George Moriarty,” Margo said quietly.

“To George Moriarty.” There was a silence.

“God bless us, everyone,” Smithback intoned. Margo punched him playfully.