“Did you see that?” Smithback said. “I wonder why the cataloguing was never finished.”
“Shh!” Margo hissed. “I’m trying to get all this.”
NO. 1989-2006.1
BLOW GUN AND DART, NO DATA
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.2
PERSONAL JOURNAL OF J. WHITTLESEY, JULY 22 [1987] TO SEPTEMBER 17 [1987]
STATUS: T.R.
NO. 1989-2006.3
2 GRASS BUNDLES, TIED WITH PARROT FEATHERS, USED AS SHAMAN’S FETISH, FROM DESERTED HUT
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.4
FINELY CARVED FIGURINE OF BEAST. SUPPOSED REPRESENTATION OF “MBWUN” CF. WHITTLESEY JOURNAL, P. 56–59
STATUS: O.E.
NO. 1989-2006.5
WOODEN PLANT PRESS, ORIGIN UNKNOWN, FROM VICINITY OF DESERTED HUT.
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.6
DISK INCISED WITH DESIGNS.
STATUS: C.
NO. 1989-2006.7
SPEAR POINTS, ASSORTED SIZES AND CONDITION.
STATUS: C.
NOTE: ALL CRATES TEMPORARILY MOVED TO SECURE VAULT, LEVEL 2B, PER IAN CUTHBERT 3/20/95.
D. ALVAREZ, SEC’Y
“What do all those codes mean?” Smithback asked.
“They tell the current status of the artifact,” Moriarty said. “C means it’s still crated up, hasn’t been curated yet. O.E. means ‘on exhibit.’ T.R. means ‘temporarily removed.’ There are others—”
“Temporarily removed?” Margo asked. “That’s all you need to put down? No wonder the journal got lost.”
“Of course that’s not all,” Moriarty said. “Whoever removes an object has to sign it out. The database is hierarchical. We can see more detail on any entry just by stepping down a level. Here, I’ll show you.” He tapped a few keys.
His expression changed. “That’s odd.” The message on the screen read:
INVALID RECORD OR RELATION
PROCESS HALTED
Moriarty frowned. “There’s nothing attached to this record for the Whittlesey journal.” He cleared the screen and started typing again. “Nothing wrong with the others. See? Here’s the detail record for the figurine.”
Margo examined the screen.
“So what does that mean? We know the journal’s lost,” Margo said.
“Even if it’s lost, there should still be a detail record for it,” Moriarty said.
“Is there a restricted flag on the record?”
Moriarty shook his head and hit a few more keys.
“Here’s why,” he said at length, pointing at the screen. “The detail record’s been erased.”
“You mean the information about the journal’s location has been deleted?” Smithback asked. “Can they do that?”
Moriarty shrugged. “It takes a high-security ID.”
“More importantly, why should somebody do that?” Margo asked. “Did the mainframe problem this morning have anything to do with it?”
“No,” Moriarty said. “This file compare dump I’ve just done implies the file was deleted sometime before last night’s backup. I can’t be more specific than that.”
“Deleted, eh?” Smithback said. “Gone forever. How clean, how neat. How coincidental. I’m beginning to see a pattern here—a nasty one.”
Moriarty switched off the terminal and pushed himself back from the desk. “I’m not interested in your conspiracy theories,” he said.
“Could it have been an accident? Or a malfunction?” Margo asked.
“Doubtful. The database has all sorts of referential integrity checks built-in. I’d see an error message.”
“So what, then?” Smithback pressed.
“I haven’t a clue.” Moriarty shrugged. “But it’s a trivial issue, at best.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Smithback snorted. “Some computer genius.”
Moriarty, offended, pushed his glasses up his nose and stood up. “I really don’t need this,” he said. “I think I’ll get some lunch.” He headed for the door. “Margo, I’ll take a rain check on that crossword puzzle.”
“Nice going,” Margo said as the door closed. “You’ve got a really subtle touch, you know that, Smithback? George was good enough to get us into the database.”
“Yeah, and what did we learn from it?” Smithback asked. “Diddly-squat. Only one of the crates was ever accessioned. Whittlesey’s journal is still missing.” He looked at her smugly. “I, on the other hand, have struck oil.”
“Put it in your book,” Margo yawned. “I’ll read it then. Assuming I can find a copy in the library.”
“Et tu, Brute?” Smithback grinned and handed her a folded sheet of paper. “Well, take a look at this.”
The sheet was a photocopy reproduction of an article from the New Orleans Times-Picayune dated October 17, 1988.
GHOST FREIGHTER FOUND BEACHED NEAR NEW ORLEANS
By Antony Anastasia
Special to the Times-Picayune
BAYOU GROVE, October 16 (AP)—A small freighter bound for New Orleans ran aground last night near this small coastal town. Details remain sketchy, but preliminary reports indicate that all crew members had been brutally slain while at sea. The Coast Guard first reported the grounding at 11:45 Monday night.
The ship, the Strella de Venezuela, was an 18,000-ton freighter, currently of Haitian registry, that plied the waters of the Caribbean and the main trade routes between South America and the United States. Damage was limited, and the vessel’s cargo appeared to be intact.
It is not presently known how the crew members met their deaths, or whether any of the crew were able to escape the ship. Henry La Plage, a private helicopter pilot who observed the beached vessel, reported that “corpses were strewn across the foredeck like some wild animal had gotten at them. I seen one guy hanging out a bridge porthole, his head all smashed up. It was like a slaughterhouse, ain’t never seen nothing like it.”
Local and federal authorities are cooperating in an attempt to understand the slayings, easily one of the most brutal massacres in recent maritime history. “We are currently looking into several theories, but we’ve come to no conclusions as of yet,” said Nick Lea, a police spokesman. Although there was no official comment, federal sources said that mutiny, vengeance killings by rival Caribbean shippers, and sea piracy were all being considered as possible motives.
“Jesus,” Margo breathed. “The wounds described here—”
“—sound just like those on the three bodies found here this week,” Smithback nodded grimly.
Margo frowned. “This happened almost seven years ago. It has to be coincidental.”
“Does it?” Smithback asked. “I might be forced to agree with you—if it wasn’t for the fact that the Whittlesey crates were on board that ship.”
“What?”
“It’s true. I tracked down the bills of lading. The crates were shipped from Brazil in August of 1988—almost a year after the expedition broke up, as I understand it. After this business in New Orleans, the crates sat in customs while the investigation was being conducted. It took them almost a year and a half to reach the Museum.”
“The ritualized murders have followed the crates all the way from the Amazon!” Margo said. “But that means—”
“It means,” Smithback said grimly, “that I’m going to stop laughing now when I hear talk about a curse on that expedition. And it means you should keep locking this door.”
The phone rang, startling them both.
“Margo, my dear.” Frock’s voice rumbled to her. “What news?”
“Dr. Frock! I wonder if I could come by your office for a few minutes. At your earliest convenience.”
“Splendid!” Frock said. “Give me a little time to shuffle some of this paper off my desk and into the wastebasket. Shall we say one o’clock?”
“Thank you,” Margo said. “Smithback,” she said, turning around, “we’ve got to—”
But the writer was gone.
At ten minutes to one, another knock sounded.
“Who’s there?” Margo said through the locked door.
“It’s me, Moriarty. Can I come in, Margo?”
“I just wanted to apologize for walking out earlier,” Moriarty said, declining a chair. “It’s just that Bill wears on me sometimes. He never seems to let up.”
“George, I’m the one who should apologize,” Margo said. “I didn’t know he was going to appear like that.” She thought of telling him about the newspaper article, but decided against it and began to pack up her carryall.
“There’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Moriarty went on. “While I was eating lunch, I realized there may be some way we can find out more about that deleted database record, after all. The one for Whittlesey’s journal.”
Margo abruptly put down the carryall and looked at Moriarty, who took a seat in front of her terminal. “Did you see that sign-on message when you logged into the network earlier?” he asked.
“The one about the computer going down? Big surprise. I got locked out twice this morning.”
Moriarty nodded. “The message also said they were going to restore from the backup tapes at noon. A full restore takes about thirty minutes. That means they should be done by now.”
“So?”
“Well, a backup tape holds about two to three months’ worth of archives. If the detail record for the Whittlesey journal was deleted in the last two months—and if the backup tape is still on the hub up in data processing—I should be able to resurrect it.”
“Really?”
Moriarty nodded.
“Then do it!” Margo urged.
“There’s a certain element of risk,” Moriarty replied. “If a system operator notices that the tape is being accessed … well, he could trace it to your terminal ID.”
“I’ll risk it,” Margo said. “George,” she added, “I know you feel this is all a wild goose chase, and I can’t really blame you for that. But I’m convinced those crates from the Whittlesey expedition are connected to these killings. I don’t know what the connection is, but maybe the journal could have told us something. And I don’t know what we’re dealing with—a serial killer, some animal, some creature. And not knowing scares me.” She gently took Moriarty’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “But maybe we’re in a position here to be of some help. We have to try.”
When she noticed Moriarty blushing, she withdrew her hand.
Smiling shyly, Moriarty moved to the keyboard.
“Here goes,” he said.
Margo paced the room as Moriarty worked. “Any luck?” she asked finally, moving closer to the terminal.
“Don’t know yet,” said Moriarty, squinting at the screen and typing commands. “I’ve got the tape, but the protocol’s messed up or something, the CRC checks are failing. We may get garbled data, if we get anything. I’m going in the back door, so to speak, hoping to avoid attention. The seek rate is really slow this way.”
Then the keytaps stopped. “Margo,” Moriarty said quietly. “I’ve got it.”
The screen filled.
“Hell!” Moriarty exclaimed. “I was afraid of that. It’s been partially overwritten, corrupted. See that? It just trails off into garbage.”
“Yes, but look!” Margo said excitedly.
Moriarty examined the screen. “The journal was removed by Mrs. Rickman two weeks ago, with Dr. Cuthbert’s permission. No return date.”
Margo snorted. “Cuthbert said the journal had been lost.”
“So why was this record deleted? And by whom?” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Oh, Lord, I have to release my lock on the tape before somebody notices us.” His fingers danced over the keys.
“George,” Margo said. “Do you know what this means? They took the journal out of the crates before the killings started. Around the time Cuthbert had the crates put in the Secure Area. Now they’re concealing evidence from the police. Why?”
Moriarty frowned. “You’re starting to sound like Smithback,” he said. “There could be a thousand explanations.”
“Name one,” Margo challenged.
“The most obvious would be that somebody else deleted the detail record before Rickman could add a Lost Artifact notation.”
Margo shook her head. “I don’t believe it. There are just too many coincidences.”
“Margo—” Moriarty began. Then he sighed. “Listen,” he went on patiently, “this is a trying time for all of us, you especially. I know you’re trying to make a tough decision, and then with a crisis like this … well…”
“These murders weren’t committed by some garden-variety maniac,” Margo interrupted impatiently. “I’m not crazy.”
“I’m not saying that,” Moriarty continued. “I just think you ought to let the police handle this. It’s a very, very dangerous business. And you should be concentrating on your own life right now. Digging into this won’t help you make up your mind about your own future.” He swallowed. “And it won’t bring your father back.”
“Is that what you think?” Margo blazed. “You don’t—”
She broke off abruptly as her eye fell on the wall clock. “Jesus. I’m late for my meeting with Dr. Frock.” She grabbed her carryall and headed for the door. Halfway into the hall, she turned around. “I’ll speak to you later,” she said.
The door slammed.
God, Moriarty thought, sitting at the darkened terminal and resting his chin in his hands. If a graduate student in plant genetics actually thinks Mbwun might be loose—if even Margo Green starts seeing conspiracies behind every door—what about the rest of the Museum?
29
Margo watched Frock spill his sherry down his shirtfront.
“Blast,” he said, dabbing with plump hands. He set the glass down on the desk with exaggerated care and looked up at Margo.
“Thank you for coming to me, my dear. It’s an extraordinary discovery. I’d say we should go down there this moment and take another look at the figurine, but that Pendergast fellow will be here shortly to make a further nuisance of himself.”
Bless you, Agent Pendergast, Margo thought. The last thing she felt like doing was going back down into the exhibition.
Frock sighed. “No matter, we’ll know soon enough. Once Pendergast leaves, we’ll learn the truth. This Mbwun figurine could be the additional proof I’ve been searching for. If, that is, you are correct about the claws matching the lacerations in the victim.”
“But how could such a creature be loose in the Museum?” Margo asked.
“Ah!” Frock exclaimed, eyes shining. “That’s the question, is it not? And let me answer a question with a question. What thing, my dear Margo, is rugose?”
“I don’t know,” Margo said. “Rugose, as in bumpy?”
“Yes. It’s a regular pattern of ridges, wrinkles, or creases. I’ll tell you what’s rugose. Reptilian eggs are rugose. As are dinosaur eggs.”
A sudden current passed through Margo as she remembered. “That’s the word—”
“—that Cuthbert used to describe the seed pods missing from the crate,” Frock finished her sentence. “I ask you: were they really seed pods? What kind of seed pod would look wrinkled and scaly? But an egg…”
Frock drew himself up in his wheelchair. “Next question. Where have they gone? Were they stolen? Or did something else happen to them?”
Abruptly, the scientist stopped, sinking back in his wheelchair, shaking his head.
“But if something … if something hatched, something broke out of the crates,” Margo said, “how does that explain the killings on board the freighter that carried the crates from South America?”
“Margo,” Frock said, laughing quietly, “what we have here is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. It is essential that we gather more facts without wasting additional time.”
There was a soft rapping at the door.
“That must be Pendergast,” Frock said, drawing back. Then, louder: “Come in,
please!”
The agent walked in, carrying a briefcase, his black suit as ever impeccable, his blond white hair brushed back from his face. To Margo, he looked as collected and placid as before. When Frock gestured to one of the Victorian chairs, Pendergast seated himself.
“A pleasure to see you again, sir,” Frock said. “You’ve met Miss Green. We were once again in the middle of something just now, so I hope you won’t mind if she remains.”
Pendergast waved his hand. “Of course. I know you’ll both continue to respect my request for confidentiality.”
“Of course,” said Frock.
“Dr. Frock, I know you’re busy and I’ll keep this short,” Pendergast began. “I was hoping you’d had some success in locating the artifact we spoke about. An artifact that might have been used as a weapon in these murders.”
Frock shifted in the wheelchair. “As you requested, I considered the matter further. I ran a search of our accession database, both for single items and for items that could potentially have been broken apart and recombined.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I found nothing that even remotely resembled the imprint you showed us. There has never been anything like it in the collections.”
Pendergast’s expression betrayed nothing. Then he smiled. “Officially, we’d never admit this, but the case is—shall we say—a trying one.” He indicated his briefcase. “I am awash in false sightings, lab reports, interviews. But we’re slow in finding a fit.”
Frock smiled. “I believe, Mr. Pendergast, that what you do and what I do are not all that different. I’ve been in the same predicament myself. And no doubt His Eminence is acting as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.”
Pendergast nodded.
“Wright is very eager that the exhibition go on as scheduled tomorrow night. Why? Because the Museum spent millions it didn’t really have to put it together. It’s vital that admissions be increased to keep the Museum from slipping into the red. This exhibition is seen as the best way to do that.”
Relic (Pendergast, Book 1) Page 16
