Текст книги "Relic"

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“What’s going on here?” came the stern voice.

Margo whirled around and almost collapsed with relief. “Officer Beauregard, there’s—” she began, stopping in mid-sentence.

F. Beauregard, who was righting the brass posts that the swinging door had knocked over, looked up at the sound of his name. “Hey, you’re the girl who tried to get in earlier!” The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Miss, can’t take no for an answer?”

“Officer, there’s a—” Margo tried to start again, then faltered.

The officer stepped back and folded his arms across his chest, waiting. Then a look of surprise crossed his face. “What the hell? Hey, you okay, lady?”

Margo was slumped over, laughing—or crying, she wasn’t sure which—and wiping tears from her face. The policeman freed one folded hand and took her arm. “I think you should come with me.”

The implications of that last sentence—sitting in a [140] room full of policemen, telling her story again and again, maybe having Dr. Frock or even Dr. Wright called in, having to go back into that exhibition—forced Margo to straighten up. They’ll just think I’m crazy. “Oh no, that’s not necessary,” she said, snuffling. “I just had a bit of a scare.”

Officer Beauregard looked unconvinced. “I still think we should go talk to Lieutenant D’Agosta.” With his other hand, he pulled a large, leather-bound notebook out of his back pocket. “What’s your name?” he asked. “I’ll have to make a report.”

It was clear he wouldn’t let her go until she gave him the information. “My name’s Margo Green,” she said finally. “I’m a graduate student working under Dr. Frock. I was doing an assignment for George Moriarty—he’s curating this exhibition. But you were right. Nobody was in there.” She gently freed her arm from the policeman’s grip as she spoke. Then she started backing away, toward Selous Memorial Hall, still talking. Officer Beauregard watched her and finally, with a shrug, he flipped open the notebook and started writing.

Back in the Hall, Margo paused. She couldn’t go back to her office; it was almost six, and the curfew was sure to be enforced by now. She didn’t want to go home—she couldn’tgo home, not just yet.

Then she remembered Moriarty’s copy. She pressed one elbow against her side-sure enough, her carryall was still there, hanging unnoticed through the ordeal. She stood still another moment, then walked over to the deserted information kiosk. She picked up the receiver of an internal phone and dialed.

One ring, then: “Moriarty here.”

“George?” she said. “It’s Margo Green.”

“Hi, Margo,” Moriarty answered. “What’s up?”

“I’m in the Selous Hall,” she replied. “I just came from the exhibition.”

“My exhibition?” Moriarty said, surprised. “What were you doing there? Who let you in?”

[141] “I was looking for you,” she answered. “I wanted to give you the Cameroon copy. Were you in there?”She felt panic rising once again to the surface.

“No. The exhibition’s supposed to be sealed, in preparation for Friday night’s opening,” Moriarty said. “Why?”

Margo was breathing deeply. trying to control herself. Her hands were trembling, and the receiver knocked against her ear.

“What did you think of it?” Moriarty asked curiously.

A hysterical giggle escaped Margo. “Scary.”

“We brought in some experts to work out the lighting and the placement of the visuals. Dr. Cuthbert even hired the man who designed Fantasyworld’s Haunted Mausoleum. That’s considered the best in the world, you know.”

Margo finally trusted herself to speak again. “George, something was in that exhibition with me.” A security guard on the far side of the Hall had spotted her, and was walking in her direction.

“What do you mean, something?”

“Exactly that!” Suddenly, she was back in the exhibit, in the dark, beside that horrible figurine. She remembered the bitter taste of terror in her mouth.

“Hey, stop shouting!” Moriarty said. “Look, let’s go to The Bones and talk this over. We’re both supposed to be out of the Museum, anyway. I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t understand it.”

The Bones, as it was called by everyone in the Museum, was known to other local residents as the Blarney Stone Tavern. Its unimposing facade was nestled between two huge, ornate co-op buildings, directly across Seventy-second Street from the Museum’s southern entrance. Unlike typical Upper West Side fern bars, the Blarney Stone did not serve hare pâté or five flavors of mineral [142] water; but you could get homemade meatloaf and a pitcher of Harp for ten dollars.

Museum staffers called it The Bones because Boylan, the owner, had hammered and wired an amazing number of bones into every available flat surface. The walls were lined with countless femurs and tibias, arranged in neat ivory ranks like bamboo matting. Metatarsals, scapulas, and patellas traced bizarre mosaics across the ceiling. Craniums from strange mammals were lodged in every conceivable niche. Where he got the bones was a mystery, but some claimed he raided the Museum at night.

“People bring ‘em in,” is all Boylan would ever say, shrugging his shoulders. Naturally, the place was a favorite hangout among the Museum staff.

The Bones was doing brisk business, and Moriarty and Margo had to push their way back through the crowd to an empty booth. Looking around, Margo spotted several Museum staffers, including Bill Smithback. The writer was seated at the bar, talking animatedly to a slender blonde woman.

“Okay,” Moriarty said, raising his voice over the babble. “Now what were you saying over the phone? I’m not quite sure I caught it.”

Margo took a deep breath. “I went down to the exhibition to give you the copy. It was dark. Something was in there. Following me. Chasingme.”

“There’s that word again, something. Why do you say that?”

Margo shook her head impatiently. “Don’t ask me to explain. There were these sounds, like padded steps. They were so stealthy, so deliberate, I—” she shrugged, at a loss. “And there was this strange smell, too. It was horrible.”

“Look, Margo—” Moriarty began, then paused while the waitress took their drink orders. “That exhibition was designed to be creepy. You told me yourself that Frock and others consider it too sensational. I can [143] imagine what it must have been like: being locked in there, alone in the dark ...”

“In other words, I just imagined it.” Margo laughed mirthlessly. “You don’t know how much I’d like to believe that.”

The drinks arrived: a light beer for Margo, and a pint of Guinness for Moriarty, topped with the requisite half-inch of creamy foam. Moriarty sipped it critically. “These killings, all the rumors that have been going around,” he said. “I probably would have reacted the same way.”

Margo, calmer now, spoke hesitantly. “George, that Kothoga figurine in the exhibition ... ?”

“Mbwun? What about it?”

“Its front legs have three claws.”

Moriarty was enjoying the Guinness. “I know. It’s a marvelous piece of sculpture, one of the highlights of the show. Of course, though I hate to admit it, I suppose its biggest attraction is the curse.”

Margo took an exploratory sip from her beer.

“George. I want you to tell me, in as much detail as you can, what you know about the Mbwun curse.”

A shout came bellowing over the din of conversation. Looking up, Margo saw Smithback appear out of the smoky gloom, carrying an armful of notebooks, his hair backlit and sticking out from his head at a variety of angles. The woman he’d been talking to at the bar was nowhere to be seen.

“A meeting of the shut-outs,” he said. “This curfew is a real pain. God save me from policemen and PR directors.” Uninvited, he dropped his notebooks on the table and slid in next to Margo.

“I’ve heard that the police are going to start interviewing those working in the vicinity of the murders,” he said. “Guess that means you, Margo.”

“Mine’s set for next week,” Margo replied.

“I haven’t heard anything about it,” said Moriarty. He didn’t look pleased at Smithback’s appearance.

[144] “Well, you don’t have much to worry about, perched up in that garret of yours,” Smithback told Moriarty. “The Museum Beast probably can’t climb stairs, anyway.”

“You’re in a foul mood this evening,” Margo said to Smithback. “Did Rickman perform another amputation on your manuscript?”

Smithback was still talking to Moriarty. “Actually, you’re just the man I wanted to see. I’ve got a question for you.” The waitress came by again, and Smithback waved his hand. “Macallan, straight up.”

“Okay,” Smithback went on. “What I wanted to know is, what’s the story behind this Mbwun figurine?”

There was a stunned silence.

Smithback looked from Moriarty to Margo. “What’d I say?”

“We were just talking about Mbwun,” Margo said uncertainly.

“Yeah?” Smithback said. “Small world. Anyway, that old Austrian in the Bug Room, Von Oster, told me he heard Rickman kicking up a fuss about Mbwun being put on display. Something about sensitive issues. So I did a little digging.”

The scotch arrived and Smithback held the glass high in a silent toast, then tossed it off.

“I’ve obtained a little background so far,” he continued. “It seems there was this tribe along the Upper Xingú river in the Amazon, the Kothoga. They’d apparently been a bad lot—supernatural-dabbling, human sacrifice, the whole bit. Since the old boys hadn’t left many traces around, anthropologists assumed they died out centuries ago. All that remained was a bunch of myths, circulated by local tribes.”

“I know something of this,” Moriarty began. “Margo and I were just discussing it. Except not everybody felt—”

“I know, I know. Hold your water.

[145] Moriarty settled back, looking annoyed. He was more used to giving lectures than listening to them.

“Anyway, several years ago, there was this guy named Whittlesey at the Museum. He mounted an expedition to the Upper Xingú, purportedly to search for traces of the Kothoga—artifacts, ancient dwelling sites, whatever.” Smithback leaned forward conspiratorially. “But what Whittlesey didn’t tell anybody was that he wasn’t just going in search of this old tribe’s traces. He was going in search of the tribe itself. He’d got it into his noggin that the Kothoga still existed, and he was pretty certain he could locate them. He’d developed something he called ‘myth triangulation.’ ”

This time, Moriarty wouldn’t be stopped. “That’s where you locate all the spots on a map where legends about a certain people or place are heard, identify the areas where the legends are most detailed and consistent, and locate the exact center of this myth region. That’s where the source of the myth cycles is most likely to be found.”

Smithback looked at Moriarty for a moment. “No kidding,” he said. “Anyway, this Whittlesey goes off in 1987 and disappears into the Amazon rain forest, never to be seen again.”

“Von Oster told you all this?” Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Tiresome old guy.”

“He may be tiresome, but he knows a hell of a lot about this Museum.” Smithback examined his empty glass forlornly. “Apparently, there was a big confrontation in the jungle, and most of the expedition team started back early. They’d found something so important they wanted to leave right away, but Whittlesey disagreed. He stayed, along with a fellow named Crocker. Apparently, they both died in the jungle. But when I asked Von Oster for more details about this Mbwun figurine, he suddenly clammed up.” Smithback stretched languorously and began looking for the waitress. “Guess [146] I’ll have to hunt down somebody who was part of that expedition.”

“Lots of luck,” Margo said. “They were all killed in a plane crash coming back.”

Smithback peered at her intently. “No shit. And how do you know that?”

Margo hesitated, remembering Pendergast’s request for confidentiality. Then she thought of Frock, and how he’d gripped her hand so fiercely that morning. We can’t miss this opportunity. We must not let this chance slip us by. “I’ll tell you what I know,” she said slowly. “But you must keep this to yourselves. And you must agree to help me in any way you can.”

“Be careful, Margo,” Moriarty cautioned.

“Help you? Sure, no problem,” said Smithback. “With what, by the way?”

Hesitantly, Margo told them about the meeting with Pendergast in the Secure Room: the casts of the claw and wound, the crates, Cuthbert’s story. Then she described the sculpture of Mbwun she’d seen in the exhibition—omitting her panic and flight. She knew Smithback wouldn’t believe her any more than Moriarty had.

“So what I was asking George when you came up,” she concluded, “is exactly what he knows about this curse of the Kothoga.”

Moriarty shrugged. “Not all that much, really. In local legend, the Kothoga tribe was a shadowy group, a witchdoctor cult. They were supposed to be able to control demons. There was a creature—a familiar if you will—they used for vengeance killings. That was Mbwun, He Who Walks On All Fours. Then, Whittlesey came across this figurine, and some other objects, packed them up, and sent them back to the Museum. Of course, such disturbance of sacred objects has been done countless times before. But then when he gets lost in the jungle and never comes out, and the rest of the expedition dies [147] on the return trip ...” He shrugged his shoulders. “The curse.”

“And now, people are dying in the Museum,” Margo said.

“What are you saying—that the Mbwun curse, the stories of a Museum Beast, and these killings are all linked?” asked Moriarty. “Come on, Margo, don’t read too much into it.”

She looked at him intently. “Didn’t you tell me that Cuthbert kept the figurine out of the exhibition until the last minute?”

“That’s right,” Moriarty said. “He handled all work on that relic himself. Not unusual, considering it’s such a valuable piece. As for delaying its placement in the exhibition, that was Rickman’s idea, I believe. Probably thought it would generate more interest.”

“I doubt it,” Smithback replied. “That’s not the way her mind works. If anything, she was trying to avoidinterest. Blow scandal at her, and she shrivels up like a moth in a flame.” He chuckled.

“Just what’s yourinterest in all this, anyway?” Moriarty demanded.

“You don’t think a dusty old artifact would interest me?” Smithback finally caught the eye of the waitress and ordered another round for the table.

“Well, it’s obvious Rickman wouldn’t let you write about it,” Margo said.

Smithback made a face. “Too true. It might offend all the ethnic Kothoga tribesmen in New York. Actually, it’s because Von Oster said that Rickman was bent out of shape about this. So I thought maybe I could dig around, get some dirt. Something that will put me in a better bargaining position when our next tête-à-têtecomes along. You know, ‘This chapter stays, or I’m taking the Whittlesey story to Smithsonianmagazine,’ that sort of thing.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Margo said. “I didn’t take you into my confidence just so you could make some [148] money off it. Don’t you understand? We have to learn more about these crates. Whatever is killing people wants something that’s in them. We have to find out what it is.”

“What we really need to do is find that journal,” Smithback said.

“But Cuthbert says it’s been lost,” Margo said.

“Have you checked the accession database?” Smithback said. “Maybe there’s some information there. I’d do it myself, but my security rating is rock-bottom.”

“So is mine,” Margo replied. “And it hasn’t been my day for computers.” She told them about her talk with Kawakita.

“How about Moriarty, here?” Smithback said. “You’re a computer whiz, right? Besides, as an Assistant Curator, you have high security access.”

“I think you should let the authorities handle this.” Moriarty drew back, dignified. “This isn’t for us to mess around with.”

“Don’t you understand?” Margo pleaded. “ Nobodyknows what we’re dealing with here. People’s lives—perhaps the Museum’s future—are at stake.”

“I know your motives are good, Margo,” Moriarty said. “But I don’t trust Bill’s.”

“My motives are pure as the Pierian spring,” Smithback retorted. “Rickman is storming the citadel of journalistic truth. I’m just looking to defend the ramparts.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just do what Rickman wants?” Moriarty asked. “I think your vendetta is a little childish. And you know what? You won’t win.”

The drinks came, and Smithback tossed his off and exhaled with gusto.

“Someday I’ll get that bitch,” he said.