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 “I guess there’s no harm in telling you—although this is not for publication until you receive official word.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 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 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.
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 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—obt
ain 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.”
“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.
EPILOGUE
63
Long Island City, Six Months Later
The rabbit jerked as the needle sank into its haunch. Kawakita watched as the dark blood filled up the syringe.
He placed the rabbit carefully back in its hutch, then transferred the blood to three centrifugal test tubes. He opened the nearby centrifuge, slotted the tubes into the drum, and shut the lid. Flicking the switch, he listened to the hum slowly build to a whine as the force of the rotation separated the blood into its components.
He sat back in the wooden chair and let his eyes roam around the surroundings. The office was dusty and the lighting dim, but Kawakita preferred it that way. No sense in drawing attention to oneself.
It had been very difficult in the beginning: finding the right place, assembling the equipment, even paying the rent. It was unbelievable how much they wanted for rundown warehouses in Queens. The computer had been the hardest item to come by. Instead of buying one, he had finally managed to hack his way over the telephone long lines into a large mainframe at the Solokov College of Medicine. It was a relatively secure site from which to run his Genetic Extrapolation Program.
He peered through the dingy window to the shop floor below. The large space was dark and relatively vacant, the only light coming from aquariums sitting on metal racks along the far wall. He could hear the faint bubbling of the filtration systems. The lights from the tanks cast a dim greenish glow across the floor. Two dozen, give or take a few. Soon, he’d need more. But money was becoming less and less of a problem.
It was amazing, thought Kawakita, how the most elegant solutions were the simplest ones. Once you saw it, the answer was obvious. But it was seeing that answer for the first time that separated the timeless scientist from the merely great.
The Mbwun riddle was like that. He, Kawakita, had been the only one to suspect it, to see it, and—now—to prove it.
The whine of the centrifuge began to decrease in pitch, and soon the COMPLETED light began blinking a slow, monotonous red. Kawakita got up, opened the lid, and removed the tubes. The rabbit blood had been divided into its three constituents: clear serum on top, a thin layer of white blood cells in the middle, and a heavy layer of red blood cells at the bottom. He carefully suctioned off the serum, then placed drops of the cells into a series of watchglasses. Finally, he added various reagents and enzymes.
One of the watchglasses turned purple.
Kawakita smiled. It had been so simple.
After Frock and Margo had blundered up to him at the party, his initial skepticism had quickly changed to fascination. He had been on the periphery before, not really paying attention. But practically from the minute he’d hit Riverside Drive that evening—carried along in the stream of countless other hysterical guests who’d rushed from the opening—he began thinking. Then, in the aftermath, he began asking questions. When later he’d heard Frock pronounce the mystery solved, Kawakita’s curiosity had only increased. Perhaps, to be fair, he’d had a little more objective distance than those who’d been inside the Museum that night, fighting the beast in the dark. But whatever the reason, there seemed to be small defects with the solution: little problems, minor contradictions that everyone had missed.
Everyone except Kawakita.
He’d always been a very cautious researcher; cautious, yet full of insatiable curiosity. It had helped him in the past: at Oxford, and in his early days at the Museum. And now, it helped him again. His caution had made him build a keystroke capture routine into the Extrapolator. For security reasons, of course—but also to learn what others might use his program for.
So it was only natural that he’d go back and examine what Frock and Margo had done.
All he’d had to do was press a few keys, and the program reeled off every question Frock and Margo had asked, every bit of data they had entered, and every result they had obtained.
That data had pointed him toward the real solution to the Mbwun mystery. It had been there under their noses the whole time, had they known what questions to ask. Kawakita learned to ask the right questions. And along with the answer came a stunning discovery.
A soft knock sounded at the warehouse door. Kawakita walked down the stairs to the main floor of the warehouse, moving without sound or hesitation through the gloom.
“Who is it?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
“Tony,” said the voice.
Kawakita effortlessly slid back the iron bar from the door and pulled it open. A figure stepped through.
“It’s dark in here,” the man said. He was small and wiry, and walked with a distinct roll to his shoulders. He looked around nervously.
“Keep the lights off,” said Kawakita sharply. “Follow me.”
They walked to the far end of the warehouse. There, a long table had been set up under dull infrared lamps. The table was covered with drying fibers. At the end of the table was a scale. Kawakita scooped up a small handful of fibers and weighed them, removing several, then dropping a few back on. Then he slid the fibers into a Ziploc bag.
He looked at his visitor expectantly. The man dug his hand into his pants pocket and extended a wad of cru
mpled bills. Kawakita counted them: five twenties. He nodded and handed over the small bag. The man grabbed it eagerly, and began to tear open the seam.
“Not here!” said Kawakita.
“Sorry,” the man said. He moved toward the door as quickly as the dim light would allow.
“Try larger amounts,” Kawakita suggested. “Steep it in boiling water, that increases the concentration. I think you’ll find the results very gratifying.”
The man nodded. “Gratifying,” he said slowly, as if tasting the word.
“I will have more for you on Tuesday,” Kawakita said.
“Thank you,” the man whispered, and left.
Kawakita closed the door and slid the bolt back in place. It had been a long day, and he felt bone tired, but he was looking forward to nightfall, when the sounds of the city would subside and darkness would cover the land. Night was rapidly becoming his favorite time of the day.
Once he reconstructed what Frock and Margo had done with his program, everything else fell into place. All he’d needed was to find one of the fibers. But that proved a difficult task. The Secure Area had been painstakingly cleaned, and the crates had been emptied of their artifacts and burned, along with the packing material. The lab where Margo had done the initial work was now spotless, the plant press destroyed. But nobody had remembered to clean out Margo’s handbag, which was notorious throughout the Anthropology Department for its untidiness. Margo herself had thrown it in the Museum incinerator several days after the disaster, as a precaution. But not before Kawakita had found the fiber he needed.
Despite his other trials, the supreme challenge had been growing the plant from a single fiber. It had taxed all his abilities, his knowledge of botany and genetics. But he was channeling all his ferocious energies into one thing now—thoughts of tenure vanished, a leave of absence taken from the Museum. And he had finally achieved it, not five weeks earlier. He remembered the surge of triumph he felt when the little green node appeared on an agar-covered petri dish. And now he had a large and steady supply growing in the tanks, fully inoculated with the reovirus. The strange reovirus that dated back sixty-five million years.
Relic (Pendergast, Book 1) Page 38
