Текст книги "Relic"
Автор книги: Lincoln Child
Соавторы: Douglas Preston
Жанр:
Триллеры
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
= 40 =
D’Agosta watched with amusement as two burly workmen unrolled a red carpet between two lines of palm trees in the Museum’s Great Rotunda, out through the bronze doors and down the front steps.
That’s gonna get rained on, he thought. It was dusk, and outside D’Agosta could see big thunderheads piling up to the north and west, rising like mountains above the wind-lashed trees along Riverside Drive. A distant roll of thunder rattled the artifacts in the Rotunda’s preview case, and a few stray drops began to pelt the frosted glass of the bronze doors. It was going to be a monster storm—the satellite picture on the morning news left no doubt. That fancy red carpet was going to get soaked. And a lot of fancy people along with it.
The Museum had closed its doors to the public at five o’clock. The beautiful people wouldn’t be arriving until seven. The press was there already: television vans with satellite uplinks, photographers talking loudly to each other, equipment everywhere.
[286] D’Agosta spoke into his police radio, giving orders. He had close to two dozen men stationed strategically around the Hall of the Heavens and in other areas inside and outside the Museum. It was lucky, he thought, that he’d finally figured out his way around much of the place. Already, two of his men had become lost and had to be radioed back out.
D’Agosta wasn’t happy. At the four o’clock briefing, he had requested a final sweep through the exhibition. Coffey had vetoed it, as well as heavy weapons for the plainclothes and uniformed men inside the party. Might scare the guests, Coffey had said. D’Agosta glanced over toward the four walk-through metal detectors, equipped with X-ray conveyor belts. Thank God for those, at least, he thought.
D’Agosta turned and, once again, looked around for Pendergast. He hadn’t been at the briefing. In fact, D’Agosta hadn’t seen him since the meeting with Ippolito that morning.
His radio crackled.
“Hey, Lieutenant? This is Henley. I’m here in front of the stuffed elephants, but I can’t seem to find the Marine Hall. I thought you said—”
D’Agosta cut him short, watching a crew testing what had to be the biggest bank of lights since Gone with the Wind. “Henley? You see the big doorway with the tusks? Okay, just go through that and take two hard rights. Call me when you’re in position. Your partner is Wilson.”
“Wilson? You know I don’t like partnering with a woman, sir—”
“Henley? There’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Wilson’s gonna be carrying the twelve-gauge.”
“Wait a minute, Lieutenant, you’re—”
D’Agosta snapped him off.
There was a loud grinding sound behind him, and a [287] thick steel door began to descend from the ceiling at the north end of the Great Rotunda. They were starting to seal the perimeter. Two FBI men stood in the dimness just beyond the doorway, short-barrel shotguns not quite concealed beneath their loose suit jackets. D’Agosta snorted.
There was a great hollow boom as the steel plate came to rest on the floor. The sound echoed and reechoed through the Hall. Before the echo faded, the boom was duplicated by the descending door at the south end. Only the east door would be left up—where the red carpet ended. Christ, thought D’Agosta, I’d hate to see this place in a fire.
He heard a loud voice barking at the far end of the Hall and turned to see Coffey, pointing his scurrying men in all directions.
Coffey spotted him. “Hey, D’Agosta!” he shouted, gesturing him over.
D’Agosta ignored him. Now Coffey came swaggering up, his face perspiring. Gizmos and weapons D’Agosta had heard about but had never seen were dangling off Coffey’s thick service belt.
“You deaf, D’Agosta? I want you to send two of your men over here for a while and watch this door. Nobody goes in or out.”
Jesus, thought D’Agosta. There are five FBI guys just hanging around in the Great Rotunda, picking their noses. “My men are tied up, Coffey. Use one of your Rambos over there. I mean, you’re deploying most of your men just outsidethe perimeter. I have to station my forces inside to protect the guests, not to mention the traffic duty outside. The rest of the Museum’s going to be almost empty, and the party will be under-patrolled. I don’t like that.”
Coffey hitched up his belt and glared at D’Agosta. “You know what? I don’t give a shit what you don’t [288] like. Just do your job. And keep a channel open for me.” He strode off.
D’Agosta swore. He looked at his watch. Sixty minutes and counting.
= 41 =
The CRT on the computer went blank, and another message came up:
COMPLETED: DO YOU WANT TO PRINT DATA, VIEW DATA, OR BOTH (PNB)?
Margo hit the Bkey. As the data marched across the screen, Frock wheeled his chair to a stop and brought his face close to the screen, his ragged breath misting the terminal glass.
SPECIES: Unidentified
GENUS: Unidentified
FAMILY: 12% match to Pongidae; 16% match to Hominidae
ORDER: Possibly primata; 66% common genetic markers lacking; large standard deviation.
[290] CLASS: 25% match to Mammalia; 5% match to Reptilia
PHYLUM: Chordata
KINGDOM: Animalia
Morphological characteristics: Highly robust
Brain capacity: 900-1250cc
Quadrupedal, extreme posterior-anterior dimorphism
Potentially high sexual dimorphism
Weight, male, full grown: 240-260 kg
Weight, female, full grown: 160 kg
Gestation period: Seven to nine months
Aggressiveness: extreme
Estrus cycle in female: enhanced
Locomotor speed: 60-70 kph
Epidermal covering: Anterior pelt with posterior bony plates
Nocturnal
Frock scanned the list, running his finger– down. “Reptilia!” he said. “There are those gecko genes appearing again! It appears that the creature combines reptile and primate genes. And it has posterior scales. They must also be from the gecko genes.”
Margo read down the list of characteristics as they became more and more obscure.
Gross enlargement and fusion of metacarpal bones in rear limb
Probable atavistic fusion of forelimb No. 3 & 4 digits
Fusion of proximal and middle phalanx on forelimb
Extreme thickening of calvaria
Probable 90% (?) negative rotation of ischium
[291] Extreme thickening and prismatic cross-sectioning in femur
Nasal cavity enlarged
Three (?) highly involute conchae
Enlarged olfactory nerves and olfactory region of cerebellum
Probable external mucoid nasal glands
Reduced optic chiasm, reduced optic nerve
Frock slowly backed himself away from the monitor. “Margo,” he said, “this describes a killing machine of the highest order. But look how many ‘probables’ and ‘possibles’ there are. This is a hypothetical description, at best.”
“Even so,” said Margo, “it sounds an awful lot like the Mbwun figurine in the exhibition.”
“No doubt. Margo, I particularly want to direct your attention to the brain size.”
“Nine to twelve hundred and fifty cubic centimeters,” Margo said, retrieving the printout. “That’s high, isn’t it?”
“High? It’s unbelievable. The upper limit is within human range. This beast, whatever it is, appears to have the strength of a grizzly bear, the speed of a greyhound, and the intelligence of a human being. I say appears; so much of this is conjecture on the part of the program. But look at this cluster of traits.”
He stabbed his finger at the list.
“Nocturnal—active at night. External mucoid nasal glands—that means it has a ‘wet’ nose, possessed by animals with a keen scent. Highly involute conchaealso a trait of animals with enhanced olfactory organs. Reduced optic chiasm—that is the part of the brain that processes eyesight. What we have is a creature with a preternatural sense of smell and very poor eyesight that hunts nocturnally.”
Frock thought for a moment, his brows contracted.
“Margo, this frightens me.”
“If we’re right, the whole ideaof this creature frightens me,” Margo replied. She shuddered at the thought that she’d been working with the fibers herself.
“No, I mean this cluster of olfactory traits. If the program’s extrapolation is to be believed, the creature lives by smell, hunts by smell, thinksby smell. I’ve often heard it said that a dog sees an entire landscape of smell, as complex and beautiful as any landscape we see with our eyes. But the olfactory sense is more primitive than sight, and as a result, such animals also have a highly instinctual, primitive reaction to smell. Thatis what frightens me.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“In a few minutes, thousands of people will be arriving in the Museum. They will be congregating together in an enclosed space. The creature will be smelling the concentrated hormonal scent of all these people. That may very well irritate or even anger it.”
A silence settled in the lab.
“Dr. Frock,” Margo said, “you said that a couple of days elapsed from the locking up of the crates and the first killing. Then, another day to the second killing. It’s been three days since then.”
“Go on,” said Frock.
“It just seems to me the creature may be desperate by now. Whatever effect the thalamoid hormones have on the beast must have worn off—after all, those brain hormones are a poor substitute for the plant. If you’re right, the creature must be almost like a drug addict unable to get a fix. All the police activity has kept it lying low. But the question is—how long can it wait?”
“My God,” said Frock. “It’s seven o’clock. We mustwarn them. Margo, we must stop this opening. Otherwise, we might as well be ringing the dinner bell.” He moved toward the door, motioning her to follow.
PART THREE
HE WHO WALKS
ON ALL FOURS
= 42 =
As seven o’clock neared, a tangle of cabs and limousines formed outside the Museum’s west entrance. Elegantly dressed occupants emerged gingerly, the men in near-identical dinner jackets, the women in furs. Umbrellas jousted as the guests rushed up the red carpet toward the Museum’s awning, trying to avoid the pelting rain that was already turning the sidewalks to streams and the gutters to rushing rivers.
Inside, the Great Rotunda, accustomed to silence at this advanced hour, was resounding with the echoes of a thousand expensive shoes crossing its marble expanse between the rows of palm trees leading to the Hall of the Heavens. The Hall itself held towering stands of bamboo in massive tubs festooned with violet lights. Clusters of drooping orchids had been artfully fixed to the bamboo, recalling tropical hanging gardens.
Somewhere deep inside, an invisible band briskly played “New York, New York.” An army of waiters in white tie threaded their way expertly through the crowd, [296] carrying large silver platters crowded with champagne glasses and ranks of hors d’oeuvres. Streams of incoming guests joined the ranks of Museum scientists and staff already grazing on the free food. Spotlights, muted blue, caught the glitter of long sequined evening dresses, strings of diamonds, polished gold cufflinks, and tiaras.
Almost overnight, the opening of the SuperstitionExhibition had become the preferred event among fashionable New York. Coming-out balls and fund-raising dinners took a backseat to the chance to see, firsthand, what all the fuss was about. Three thousand invitations had gone out and five thousand acceptances had come back.
Smithback, wearing an ill-fitting tuxedo with the twin faux pas of wide, spiked lapels and a frilled shirt, peered into the Hall of the Heavens, scanning for familiar faces. At the far end of the hall, a giant platform had been erected. Along one side was the elaborately decorated entrance to the exhibition, currently locked and guarded. A massive dance floor in the center was quickly filling up with couples. Once inside the hall, Smithback immediately found himself surrounded by innumerable conversations, all conducted at a painfully high volume.
“... that new psychohistorian, Grant? Well, she finally fessed up yesterday, told me what she’s been working on all this time. Get this: She’s trying to prove that the wanderings of Henry the Fourth after the second crusade were really just a fugue state brought on by acute stress response. It was all I could do to keep from telling her that ...”
“... came up with the ridiculous idea that the Stabian Baths were really just a lot of horse stables! I mean, the man’s never even been to Pompeii. He wouldn’t know the Villa of the Mysteries from a Pizza Hut. But he’s got the gall to call himself a papyrologist ...”
“... that new research assistant of mine? You know, the one with the enormous hooters? Well, yesterday she [297] was standing by the autoclave, see, and she dropped this test tube full of ...”
Smithback took a deep breath and made the plunge, cutting a path toward the hors d’oeuvres tables. This is going to be great, he thought.
Outside the main doors of the Great Rotunda, D’Agosta saw more rapid-fire flashing from the group of photographers, as yet another VIP came through the door, a wimpy handsome guy with an emaciated-looking woman clinging to each arm.
He stood where he could keep an eye on the metal detectors, the people coming in, and the throngs moving through the single door into the Hall of the Heavens. The floor of the Rotunda was slick with rainwater, and the coatcheck counter was stowing umbrellas briskly. In a far corner, the FBI had set up its forward security station: Coffey wanted a ringside seat from which to monitor the evening’s events. D’Agosta had to laugh. They had tried to make it inconspicuous, but the network of electrical, telephone, fiber-optic, and ribbon cables snaking out like an octopus from the station made it as easy to ignore as a bad hangover.
There was a rumble of thunder. The tops of the trees along the Hudson River promenade, new leaves still budding, were sawing about wildly in the wind.
D’Agosta’s radio hissed.
“Lieutenant, we got another argument over at the metal detector.”
D’Agosta could hear a shrill voice in the background. “Surely you know me.”
“Pull her aside. We gotta keep this crowd moving. If they won’t go through, just pull ‘em out of the line. They’re holding things up.”
As D’Agosta holstered his radio, Coffey walked up with the Museum’s Security Director in tow. “Report?” Coffey asked brusquely.
“Everyone’s in place,” D’Agosta said, removing the [298] cigar and examining the soggy end. “I’ve got four plainclothes circulating in the party. Four uniforms patrolling the perimeter with your men. Five controlling traffic outside, and five supervising the metal detectors and the entrance. I got uniformed men inside the hall. Two of them will follow me into the exhibition when the ribbon’s cut. I got one man in the computer room, one man in the Security Control Room...”
Coffey squinted. “These uniformed men going into the exhibition with the crowd. That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“It’s nothing formal. I just want us to be at or near the front of the crowd as they go through. You wouldn’t let us do a sweep, remember?”
Coffey sighed. “You can do your thing, but I don’t want a goddamn escort service. Unobtrusive, not blocking the exhibits. Okay?”
D’Agosta nodded.
He turned toward Ippolito. “And you?”
“Well, sir, all my men are in place, too. Exactly where you wanted them.”
“Good. My base of operations will be here in the Rotunda during the ceremony. Afterward, I’ll deploy. Meanwhile, Ippolito, I want you up front with D’Agosta. Get up there near the Director and the Mayor. You know the routine. D’Agosta, I want you to stay in the background. No glory-boy shit, don’t fuck up your last day. Got it?”
Waters stood in the cool of the computer room, bathed in neon light, his shoulder aching from the heavy shotgun. This had to be the most boring assignment he’d ever caught. He glanced at the geek—he had started thinking of him as that—tapping away at the computer. Tapping, tapping, for hours the guy had been tapping. And drinking Diet Cokes. Waters shook his head. First thing in the morning, maybe he should ask D’Agosta for a rotation. He was going crazy in here.
[299] The geek scratched the back of his neck and stretched.
“Long day,” he said to Waters.
“Yeah,” said Waters.
“I’m almost done. You won’t believe what this program can do.”
“You’re probably right,” said Waters without enthusiasm. He checked his watch. Three more hours until his relief.
“Watch.” The geek hit a button. Waters moved a little closer to the screen. He peered at it. Nothing, just a bunch of writing, gibberish that he supposed was the program.
Then, the image of a bug appeared on the screen. At first it was still. Then it stretched its green legs and started walking across the lettering on the screen. Then another animated bug appeared on the screen. The two bugs noticed each other, and moved closer. They started screwing.
Waters looked at the geek. “What isthis?” he asked.
“Just watch,” the geek said.
Soon, four bugs were born, and they started screwing. Pretty soon the screen was full of bugs. Then, the bugs began to eat the letters on the screen. In a couple of minutes, all the words on the screen were gone, and there was nothing left but bugs walking around. Then, the bugs started eating each other. Soon, nothing was left but blackness.
“Pretty cool, huh?” the geek said.
“Yeah,” said Waters. He paused. “What does the program do?”
“It’s just ...” the geek looked a little confused. “It’s just a cool program, that’s all. It’s doesn’t doanything.”
“How long did it take you to write that?” asked Waters.
“Two weeks,” said the geek proudly, sucking air through his teeth. “On my own time, of course.”
The geek turned back to his terminal, and the tapping resumed. Waters relaxed, leaning against the wall [300] nearest the Computer Room door. He could hear the faint sounds of the dance band over his head, the thump of the drums, the low vibration of the basses, the whine of the saxophones. He thought he could even hear the sounds of thousands of footsteps, shuffling and sliding. And here he was, stuck in this psycho ward with nothing but a key-tapping geek for company. The biggest excitement he had was when the geek got up for another Diet Coke.
At that moment, he heard a noise from inside the electrical systems room.
“You hear that?” he asked.
“No,” said the geek.
There was another long silence. Then, a definite thump.
“What the hell was that?” said Waters.
“I dunno,” said the geek. He stopped typing and looked around. “Maybe you ought to go take a look.”
Waters ran his hand over the smooth buttstock of his shotgun and eyed the door leading to the electrical room. Probably nothing. Last time, with D’Agosta, it had been nothing. He should just go in there and check things out. Of course, he could always call for backup from Security Command. It was just down the hall. His buddy Garcia was supposed to be in there ... right?
Perspiration broke across his brow. Instinctively, Waters raised an arm to wipe it off. But he made no move toward the electrical room door.
= 43 =
As Margo rounded the corner into the Great Rotunda, she saw a scene of pandemonium: people shaking off drenched umbrellas, chattering in small and large groups, the racket of their conversations adding to the din from the reception beyond. She pushed Frock up to a velvet rope strung beside the metal detectors, a uniformed policeman standing watchfully next to it. Beyond, the Hall of the Heavens was flooded with yellow light. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, sending flashing rainbows everywhere.
They displayed their Museum IDs to the policeman, who obediently opened the rope and let them through, checking Margo’s carryall as he did so. As Margo passed by, the cop gave her a funny glance. Then she looked down, and understood: She was still dressed in jeans and a sweater.
“Hurry,” said Frock. “Up front, to the lectern.” The lectern and podium were on the far end of the hall, near the entrance to the exhibition. The hand-carved [302] doors were chained, and the word SUPERSTITION was formed by an arc of crude bone-like letters across the top. On either side were wooden stelae, resembling huge totem poles or the pillars of a pagan temple. Margo could see Wright, Cuthbert, and the Mayor gathered on the platform, talking and joking, while a sound man fiddled with the nearby mikes. Behind them stood Ippolito amid a gaggle of administrators and aides, talking into his radio and gesturing furiously at someone out of sight. The noise was deafening.
“Excuse us!” bellowed Frock. Reluctantly, people moved aside.
“Look at all these people,” he yelled back at Margo. “The pheromonal level in this room must be astronomical. It will be irresistible to the beast! We’ve got to stop this right now.” He pointed to one side. “Look—there’s Gregory!” He gestured to Kawakita, standing by the edge of the dance floor, drink in hand.
The Assistant Curator worked his way toward them. “There you are, Dr. Frock. They’ve been looking for you. The ceremony’s about to start.”
Frock reached out and gripped Kawakita’s forearm. “Gregory!” he shouted. “You’ve got to help us! This event has got to be cancelled, and the Museum cleared at once!”
“What?” said Kawakita. “Is this some kind of joke?” He looked quizzically at Margo, then back at Frock.
“Greg,” said Margo over the commotion, “we’ve discovered what’s been killing people. It’s not a human being. It’s a creature, a beast. It’s nothing we’ve ever come across before. Your Extrapolation program helped us to identify it. It feeds on the packing fibers in the Whittlesey crates. When it can’t get those, it needs the human hypothalamus hormones as a substitute. We believe it must have a regular—”
“Whoa! Hold on. Margo, what are you talking about?”
[303] “Dammit, Gregory!” Frock thundered. “We don’t have any more time to explain. We’ve got to get this place cleared now.”
Kawakita backed up a step. “Dr. Frock, with all due respect ...”
Frock clutched his arm harder and spoke slowly and deliberately. “Gregory, listen to me. There is a terrible creature loose in this Museum. It needs to kill, and it willkill. Tonight. We must get everyone out.”
Kawakita backed up another step, looking toward the podium. “I’m sorry,” he said over the noise. “I don’t know what this is all about, but if you’re using my extrapolation program for some kind of joke ...” He prized his arm free of Frock’s gasp. “I really think you should go up to the platform, Dr. Frock. They’re waiting for you.”
“Greg—” Margo tried to say, but Kawakita had moved away, looking at them speculatively.
“To the podium!” said Frock. “Wright can do it. He can order this place evacuated.”
Suddenly they heard a drumroll and a fanfare.
“Winston!” shouted Frock, rolling into the open space in front of the platform. “Winston, listen! We’ve got to evacuate!”
Frock’s final words hung in the air as the fanfare faded away.
“There is a deadly beast loose in the Museum!” Frock shouted into the silence.
A sudden murmur arose in the crowd. Those closest to Frock backed away, looking at each other and muttering in low tones.
Wright glared at Frock while Cuthbert quickly separated himself from the group. “Frock,” he hissed. “What in bloody hell are you doing?” He bounded off the platform and came over.
“What is the matter with you, Frock? Have you gone mad?” he said in a vicious whisper.
Frock reached out, “Ian, there is a terrible beast loose [304] in the Museum. I know we’ve had our differences, but trust me, please. Tell Wright we’ve got to get these people out. Now.”
Cuthbert looked at Frock intently. “I don’t know what you’re thinking,” the Scotsman said, “or what your game is. Perhaps it’s some desperate eleventh-hour attempt to derail the exhibition, to turn me into a laughingstock. But I will tell you this, Frock: If you make one more outburst, I will have Mr. Ippolito forcibly remove you from these premises and I will see to it that you never set foot in here again.”
“Ian, I beg of you—”
Cuthbert turned and walked back to the podium.
Margo laid a hand on Frock’s shoulder. “Don’t bother,” she said quietly. “They’re not going to believe us. I wish George Moriarty were here to help. This is his show, he must be around somewhere. But I haven’t seen him.”
“What can we do?” Frock asked, trembling with frustration. The conversations around them resumed as the guests near the podium assumed some kind of joke had taken place.
“I guess we should find Pendergast,” Margo said. “He’s the only one with enough clout to do something about this.”
“He won’t believe us, either,” Frock said, dispiritedly.
“Maybe not right away,” Margo said, wheeling him around. “But he’ll hear us out. We’ve got to hurry.”
Behind them, Cuthbert signalled for another drumroll and fanfare. Then he walked over to the podium and held up his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” he cried out. “I have the honor to introduce to you the Director of the New York Museum of Natural History, Winston Wright!”
Margo looked around as Wright took the podium, smiling and waving to the crowd.
“Welcome!”he cried out. “Welcome my friends, [305] fellow New Yorkers, citizens of the world! Welcome to the unveiling of the greatest museum show ever mounted!”Wright’s amplified words echoed through the Hall. A tremendous burst of applause rose to the domed ceiling.
“We’ll call security,” said Margo. “They’ll know where Pendergast is. There’s a bank of phones out in the Rotunda.”
She began to push Frock toward the entrance. Behind her, she could hear Wright’s voice booming through the PA system: “This is a show about our deepest beliefs, our deepest fears, the brightest and the darkest sides of human nature ...”
