Preservation

by Charles Lemoine

  She flushed at the mention of her grant approval. “The drinks are free, Dr. Beaumont.” She raised her half-empty glass with a laugh as the elevator doors slid open and he walked out. “But I’ll take what I can…” She stopped and looked down at her empty left hand. She’d forgotten it.

  Her beaded clutch. She’d left it downstairs.

  She handed her drink to David. “I have to go back. I left my—” The doors slid closed between them. She pushed the button marked B, for the basement and waited.

  Mariska couldn’t forget her purse. Another gift from her mother, it probably cost more than a good used car, it matched her shoes, and if she wasn’t carrying it, her mother would take note and start asking questions. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her mom’s feelings.

  “No one has to know about this,” she muttered to herself as the car came to a halt, its doors sliding open. Her mom had warned her not to let the purse out of her sight. She knows me better than I know myself, Mariska thought.

  Stepping off the elevator, she noticed it right away. The door to the archive room was open. Not much, slightly ajar—but she was sure she pulled it closed behind her before she left. Glancing down the hall, she saw what she expected to see: a long stretch of darkened hallway, doors pulled securely shut.

  Advancing as quietly as her strappy red Louboutin heels would allow, Mariska crept toward the open crack. Stopping in front of it, she reached out a hand, pushing the door open slowly, widening the breach so she could see inside. The archive room came into view, her gaze locking onto the scarlet crystals of her beaded clutch almost instantly. It was where she’d left it, perched on a crate of plant fossils awaiting carbon dating. She grabbed the purse and turned to leave. A scrape of a shoe against the tiled floor sent goosebumps building over her body.

  Something was wrong. The case with the remains…was empty. On the floor in front of her, she saw the same fabric she’d seen inside the La Brea Woman’s skull. Reaching down, she plucked the small pouch from the floor.

  Another scraping from behind her sounded. Without thinking, she shoved the pouch into her purse and rushed toward the exit.

  Heart pounding in her ears, her eyes went wide as she looked over her shoulder. I’m not alone. The realization overwhelmed her senses, a second before a blow to the back of the head plunged her into darkness.

  Chapter Two

  Mariska picked at the bandage on the back of her head. The pain was bearable if she could get herself to lie still. But all she wanted to do was go home.

  Detective Eric Wulf stood at the foot of her hospital bed, small flip-pad in hand. No less than six-foot-two-inches tall with broad shoulders, and a square jaw, he had warm blue eyes and a full head of dark hair that Mariska would have found quite attractive, had it been under different circumstances. “Dr. Stevenson—” he said, adjusting his black tie before putting his hand in the front pocket of his black slacks. His gray suit jacket hung on his muscular frame like a well-tailored drape.

  “Please, call me Mariska.” She wasn’t feeling well enough to make this formal.

  Leah Stevenson stood at her daughter’s bedside. “Really, does this have to be done right now? Robert…tell him to come back after she’s had a chance to recover.”

  Mariska’s father looked every bit as weary as she felt. His tux was rumpled and bowtie undone, hanging from his neck. “Detective? Is there any way you can come back later? The doctor recommended rest.”

  “Yeah,” David said, stepping into Mariska’s limited view from the hospital bed. “She needs to rest.”

  The detective studied their faces for a moment, but his expression remained neutral, cold. “I’ll try and make this quick. The doctor said she’s going to be released tonight…Mr. and Mrs. …?”

  Robert Stevenson cleared his throat. “Stevenson. This is our daughter.”

  The detective remained quiet, but it was clear he was processing the scene before him. Mariska was Caucasian while her parents were both African-American. They’d found and adopted Mariska as an infant and spent the rest of their lives together ignoring ignorant people’s look of surprise or in some unfortunate cases, disbelief.

  Leah turned to Mariska and reached for her hand, her dark brown skin a beautiful contrast to Mariska’s light pigmentation. To be someone’s child didn’t always mean you shared DNA, and Mariska couldn’t have been more fortunate to have been chosen and raised by Leah and Robert Stevenson.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I can answer a few questions.” Mariska offered an encouraging smile. “It’s getting late. Maybe, you and Dad should go home and get some sleep.”

  Her mother began to protest, but her father wrapped his arm around his wife and pulled her close. “How will you get home?”

  Before anyone else could say a word, Mariska said, “David will take me.” She looked at him with urgency. “Right, David?”

  “Of course, Dr. and Mrs. Stevenson. I’d already planned on it.”

  Detective Wulf cleared his throat, drawing the room’s attention. “If you all don’t mind, I’d like a moment alone with your daughter.”

  Mumbled protests, and worried glances filed out of the room, into the hallway. She knew David was soothing her parents’ fears, despite his own.

  The room fell silent. The pain in the back of her head throbbed into her ears.

  “I’ll try and make this quick.” He took a step closer to the side of her bed.

  “I appreciate that,” Mariska said, rubbing the pain from her temples. “Can you grab a chair? You're making me nervous?”

  He strode over to the small, metal folding chair in the corner of the room and slid it over to the side of the bed. The scrape of the chair legs on the linoleum floor echoed through her skull like a jackhammer. She clenched her eyes shut, but she heard him shove the chair toward the head of the bed, closer than she was comfortable with. He sat with a huff, and she opened her eyes. He didn’t say anything. Didn't make eye contact. He flipped through the small green notepad while his jaw worked hard on a piece of gum. Finally, he said, “How are you feeling?”

  Mariska started to say she was fine, but when she looked up into his eyes, she felt he wasn’t asking it as part of polite conversation. He was studying her. Why did she feel like she was in trouble for something? Wasn’t she the one lying in a hospital bed?

  “My head hurts.” She touched the swollen egg-sized lump at the back of her skull.

  He grabbed her nurses’ call-button and moved it out of her reach. “I’ll be sure to summon the nurse for you as soon as we’re done.”

  “Fine.” What an asshole, she thought. Mariska returned to rubbing her temples for relief. “I don’t think the headache will go away for a while no matter what anyone does for me.”

  “You’re probably right.” He flipped the page of his notebook and clicked the pen in preparation of his questioning.

  “Just so you know, my memory seems to be a bit foggy.” Mariska winced as she tried to straighten up in the bed.

  “I’ll make it easy for you,” he said. “Is there anyone at the museum that would want to hurt you? Or steal from the institution?”

  He thinks it’s an inside job? She wracked her brain trying to make sense of it all. “I can’t think of anyone. I…” she paused for a moment. “My boss and I share an assistant. Her name’s Kathy Wellington.”

  “And you think she might be a part of this?” He stopped writing for a second and looked up.

  “I don’t know…maybe? I didn’t see who did it.”

  “Okay, why don’t you tell me something about Kathy Wellington? It might help shed some light on why you think she had motive to hurt you.” He sat quietly, waiting for her to continue.

  “Kathy has a background in science…paleontology in particular. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a scandal at the university where she was accused of stealing research conducted by a fellow student. I don’t know all the specifics, but it basically ended her career before it started—blacklisted, at least in th
e academic arena.”

  Wulf said, “How did she end up coming to work at the Page Museum? You know, if she’d been blacklisted.”

  “Her dad has a ton of money. He’s a Hollywood guy. Lots of friends in high places. Not only did he give a substantial donation to the museum, but a good amount of his friends did too. I’m not saying you can buy favors from the museum, but institutions such as the Page have struggled recently to make ends meet.”

  “How does this lead you to the conclusion where she wants to hurt you?”

  “She doesn’t like me. I think she views me as a threat or competition. From what I’ve been told, the museum wanted to use me as the public face—you know, put my image on the billboards and brochures.”

  “And you think she wanted that to be all about her?”

  Mariska nodded. “Absolutely. I know that for a fact.”

  “Okay,” Wulf said as he continued to jot information down into his notepad. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I overheard Dr. Snyder telling Kathy last week there’d been some threats made against the museum.”

  “What kind of threats?” Wulf arched his eyebrows with interest.

  “There was an anonymous letter sent by someone demanding the remains of La Brea Woman returned to her rightful descendants.”

  “Did Dr. Snyder make any suggestions as to who he thought sent the letter?”

  Mariska rolled her eyes. “The local indigenous peoples.” She slapped the side of her bed. “But I think that’s ridiculous. They have peacefully requested her return for decades…never once have they made any threats.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe they got tired of waiting?”

  Mariska didn’t respond but looked away, annoyed.

  “How about you? I know you work for the museum, but what is your exact role and background?”

  She nodded. “I am the lead Paleontologist. I have multiple doctorates. One in Paleontology and the other in Anthropology with an emphasis on Archeology and Field Research.”

  “Impressive.” He took notes and then asked, “How was someone so young able to get such an accomplished set of credentials?”

  “It wasn’t easy. I double majored and then had to petition the school to allow me to present two separate theses during the same year. They agreed, and here I am—look at me now.” She opened up her arms in a sarcastic gesture of success.

  “You primarily conduct research at the Page? Like, you dig stuff up?”

  She snorted. “Yeah, I dig stuff up. But I also conduct tours for visitors. That’s one of the best parts of my job. I get to take people who are interested in the cool, big, sets of skeletons and explain what they were and how they were discovered. There’s nothing more satisfying than seeing the children’s eyes light up when they are standing under the gigantic Columbian Mammoth, looking up and the immensity of it all.” She smiled. “It’s fantastic.”

  He smiled but continued to take notes.

  “What else do you want to know?” she asked, her energy a bit more renewed.

  He looked up from his pad. “Tell me what happened.”

  That’s kind of a broad question, don’t you think? “The last thing I remember?”

  “Sure. Let’s start there.” He took a fresh piece of gum from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. The muscles of his jaw rippled as he chomped down. The smell of his peppermint-laced breath filled her nose and made her mouth water. She glanced in his direction and couldn’t help but notice a few flecks of gray in his otherwise dark brown hair. How old was this man? She’d have guessed thirty…maybe thirty-five by the hint of wrinkles around his eyes when he was concentrating on his little notebook.

  She closed her eyes and thought about the events that landed her in the hospital. The purse. “I’d forgotten my purse in the basement and when I went back down to get it…I don’t remember exactly what happened.”

  “Had you been drinking?”

  “Sure. A glass or two of champagne. I didn’t black out and hit my head if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “You don’t remember falling? Hitting your head?”

  The memory wanted to come out…it was in there, somewhere. A memory-flash of the Tomb…the door hadn’t been closed, it—

  “Guess it must’ve been a pretty nice purse,” Detective Wulf noted.

  “Excuse me?” Mariska blinked a few times as the memory vanished.

  “You went back for a purse, but you were in the middle of a very important gala, weren’t you?”

  She hesitated for a moment. The purse was pretty and expensive, but those hadn’t been the reasons. She hadn’t wanted to disappoint her mom…but there seemed to be more to the story. She struggled through the fog in her mind. Then, all at once, the memory came flooding back. Her heart began to race, and she took a deep breath to regain control. She’d put the artifact in her purse. She hadn’t intended to, but someone was in there with her that shouldn’t be. She’d needed to escape—protect the pouch. An internal voice told her she’d better keep the real answer to herself, for now. What she did was still technically stealing even though it’d been unintentional. “My mother gave me the purse.”

  He jotted something down in the flip-pad and then refocused his attention on her. He tapped the pen on the end of his chin. “What were you doing down there in the first place?”

  “Dr. Snyder was to announce who’d been awarded the grant proposal to research the La Brea Woman.” It had come down to her or David. Either way, they’d both be participating, but she’d heard rumors she had the grant all locked up. “The anticipation was killing me, so I stepped out for a while and went to see her. I…I couldn’t wait to see her.” Mariska shifted her weight on the mattress so she could sit up a little straighter. Would he hurry up? I need to find my purse.

  “And, did you see her?” The detective’s intense stare put her immediately on edge.

  “Yes, of course. I was examining her until Dr. Beaumont came down to get me.”

  He paused in his questioning as he flipped to a new page. Scribbling down a few more notes, he looked up. “When you saw her, did you happen to notice anything unusual? Maybe something out of place or that didn’t belong?”

  “No, why?” Her memory started getting foggy at this point in the timeline. The La Brea Woman was there, her bones visible through the glass front of the storage crate. That’s when she’d first noticed the unusual cloth bag. A secret she still hadn’t shared with anyone. But the detective couldn’t possibly have known about that. She’d been alone. And why would he care? “Is there something you’re trying to say, detective?” Her anger over the presumed accusation was tempered by the guilt she felt from her wrongdoing.

  “Just gathering information for the investigation. You mentioned Dr. Beaumont came down to the basement. Is he working on the research with you?”

  “No, not last night. And shouldn’t you be more concerned with who attacked me?”

  The detective paused, “How much did you have to drink last night?”

  “It was a celebration. I had a drink.” She crossed her arms. “Last time I checked, it wasn’t a crime.”

  A memory flash of her waking up on the floor of the elevator—alone. How had she gotten in there? Mariska closed her eyes and put a hand on her stomach.

  Detective Wulf put his pen down for a moment. “Are you feeling okay?”

  She didn’t answer but grabbed for the emesis basin on the bedside tray.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the small kidney-shaped bucket. “I’ll get you a towel.”

  Detective Wulf went into the bathroom and reemerged a few seconds later with a washcloth. He handed it to her. The cloth was scratchy but cool and moist. She dabbed it on her forehead, cheeks, and down the sides of her neck. The urge to vomit subsided.

  “I’m sorry,” Mariska said. “I felt like I was going to be sick. I think I have a concussion.”

  He sat back down in the chair next to the bed. “I won’t be much longer.” His voice carri
ed a soft, caring tone.

  Mariska sighed. “Best finish your questions before the nausea comes back.”

  Detective Wulf sat quietly looking through his notebook while she composed herself. She took a few sips of water and closed her eyes, resting her head against the pillow. She started to feel the familiar tug of sleep, a weightless, painless bliss. Without warning, she was brought right back to reality with a few firm words.

  “Mariska.” Detective Wulf tapped her hand. “Don’t sleep.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. His eyes met hers with a kindness she hadn’t expected. His command was clearly more to keep her safe and conscious than to simply wake up and answer his damn questions. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

  “Do you have any more questions for me?”

  “Who were you working with?”

  Mariska narrowed her gaze. “Are you accusing me of something, Detective?”

  “Just one more question. What did you do with the La Brea Woman?”

  “Excuse me?” She struggled to maintain eye contact as she tried to straighten up in bed. A memory-flash came through, and her head once again began to pound. There she was, in the Tombs. She’d gone back for the purse, but something wasn’t right. “Her storage case was gone.”

  The detective leaned in closer to her. His face not far from hers. Mariska’s heart began to pound in her chest. Her breaths were tight and fast. Who’d been down there that night—watching her and waiting to attack?

  “The La Brea Woman’s been stolen.”

  Mariska rolled to the side of the bed and vomited in the basin. And it had little to do with her headache. La Brea Woman was gone—stolen. Mariska’s life’s work…had all the hours of research, countless pages written, and hundreds of hands shaken been for nothing?

  The detective tossed her a towel he’d retrieved from the bathroom. “Here,” he said and pointed to her chin. “You’ve got some…right there.”

  Mariska swiped the scratchy towel across her mouth and tossed it to the floor. She rolled onto her back and took a sip of water, swishing it around in her mouth before spitting it out into the emesis basin.”