Relic

“That sounds feasible,” said Rickman eagerly.

“I don’t recall hearing about any such door in the exhibition,” Cuthbert said dubiously. “I’m sure Security would have known about it.”

“It was years ago, I tell you,” Wright snapped. “It was boarded over and forgotten.”

There was a long silence while Wright poured another drink.

“Winston,” Cuthbert said, “put that drink down.”

The Director took a long swig, then hung his head. His shoulders slumped.

“Ian,” he murmured finally. “How could this have happened? We’re ruined, you know.”

Cuthbert was silent.

“Let’s not bury the patient before the diagnosis,” said Rickman, in a desperately bright voice. “Good public relations can repair even the worst damage.”

“Lavinia, we aren’t talking about a few poisoned headache tablets here,” Cuthbert said. “There’s half a dozen dead people, maybe more, lying two floors below us. The bloody Mayor is trapped down there. In a couple of hours, we’ll be on every late news show in the country.”

“We’re ruined,” Wright repeated. A small, strangled sob escaped from his throat, and he laid his head down on the table.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Cuthbert, reaching over for Wright’s bottle and glass and putting them back in the cabinet.

“It’s over, isn’t it?” Wright moaned without raising his head.

“Yes, Winston, it’s over,” said Cuthbert. “Frankly, I’ll be happy just to get out of here with my life.”

“Please, Ian, let’s leave here? Please?” Rickman pleaded. She stood up and walked over to the door [358] Wright had closed behind them and swung it open slowly.

“This wasn’t locked!” she said sharply.

“Good Lord,” Cuthbert said, jumping up. Wright, without lifting his head, fished in his pocket and held out a key.

“Fits both doors,” he said in a muffled voice. Rickman’s shaking hand rattled the key loudly in the lock.

“What did we do wrong?” Wright asked plaintively.

“That’s clear enough,” said Cuthbert. “Five years ago, we had a chance to solve this thing.”

“What do you mean?” asked Rickman, coming back toward them.

“You know very well what. I’m talking about Montague’s disappearance. We should have taken care of the problem then, instead of pretending it never happened. All that blood in the basement near the Whittlesey crates, Montague gone missing. In hindsight, we now know exactly what happened to him. But we should have gotten to the bottom of it then. You remember, Winston? We were sitting in your office when Ippolito came in with the news. You ordered the floor cleaned and the incident forgotten. We washed our hands of it, and hoped whoever or whatever killed Montague would disappear.”

“There was no proof anyone was killed!” Wright wailed, lifting his head. “And certainly no proof it was Montague! It could have been a stray dog, or something. How could we have known?”

“We didn’t know. But we might have found out had you allowed Ippolito to report that monstrous great bloodstain to the police. And you, Lavinia—as I recall, you agreed that we should simply wash that blood away.”

“Ian, there was no sense in creating a needless scandal. You know very well that blood could have been from anything,” Rickman said. “And Ian, it was you who insisted those crates be moved. You who worried [359] the exhibition would raise questions about the Whittlesey expedition, you who took the journal and then asked me to keep it for you until the exhibition was over. The journal didn’t fit in with your theories, did it?”

Cuthbert snorted. “How little you know. John Whittlesey was my friend. At least, he was once. We had a falling-out over an article he published, and we never patched things up. Anyway, it’s rather too late for that now. But I didn’t want to see that journal come to light, his theories held up for ridicule.”

He turned and stared at the Public Relations Director. “What I did, Lavinia, was simply try to protect a colleague who’d gone a bit barmy. I didn’t cover up a killing. And what about the sightings? Winston, you received several reports a year about people seeing or hearing strange things after hours. You never once did anything about it, did you?”

“How could I have known?” came the spluttering response. “Who’d have believed it? They were crank reports, ridiculous ...”

“Can we change the subject, please?” cried Rickman. “I can’t wait here, in the dark. Maybe the windows? Perhaps they’ll spread a net for us?”

“No,” said Wright, sighing deeply and rubbing his eyes. “Those bars are case-hardened steel, several inches thick.” He peered around the darkened room. “Where’s my drink?”

“You’ve had enough,” said Cuthbert.

“You and your damned Anglican moralizing.” He lurched to his feet and headed for the cabinet with a slightly unsteady gait.

In the stairwell, D’Agosta looked toward the dim figure of Bailey.

“Thanks,” he said. “You’re in charge, Loo.” Below them, the large group of guests was waiting, [360] huddled together on the steps, sniffling and sobbing. D’Agosta turned to face them.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “We’ve got to move fast. The next landing down has a door leading into the basement. We’re going to go through it and meet up with some others who know a way out of here. Everybody understand?”

“We understand,” came a voice that D’Agosta recognized as the Mayor’s.

“Good,” D’Agosta nodded. “Okay, let’s go. I’ll get to the front and lead the way with my light. Bailey, you cover our rear. Let me know if you see anything.”

Slowly, the group descended. On the landing, D’Agosta waited until Bailey gave him the all-clear sign. Then he grabbed the door handle.

It didn’t budge.

D’Agosta gave it another yank, harder this time. No luck.

“What the-—?” He brought his flashlight to bear on the handle. “Shit,” he muttered. Then, in a louder tone, he said, “Everybody stay where you are for a moment, be as quiet as possible. I’m going up to talk to my officer at the rear.” He retraced his steps.

“Listen, Bailey,” he told him softly, “we can’t get into the basement. Some of our shells ripped into the door and they’ve bent the jamb all to hell. There’s no way we can get the thing open without a crowbar.”

Even in the dark he could see Bailey’s eyes widen. “So what are we go

“Let me think a minute,” D’Agosta said. “How much ammo do you have? I’ve got six rounds in my service piece.”

“I don’t know. Fifteen, sixteen rounds, maybe.”

“Damn,” D’Agosta said, “I don’t think—”

He stopped, abruptly shutting off his flashlight and listening to the close darkness. A slight movement of air down the stairwell brought a ripe, goatish smell.

[361] Bailey dropped to one knee, aiming the shotgun up the staircase. D’Agosta quickly turned to the group waiting below him. “Everybody,” he hissed, “down to the next landing. Quick!”

There was a series of low murmurs. “We can’t go down there!” somebody cried. “We’ll be trapped underground!”

D’Agosta’s response was drowned by the blast of Bailey’s shotgun. “The Museum Beast!” somebody screamed, and the group turned, stumbling and falling down the stairs. “Bailey!” D’Agosta shouted, his ears ringing from the blast. “Bailey, follow me!”

Walking backward down the stairs, one hand holding his handgun, the other feeling its way against the wall, D’Agosta noticed the surface of the stairwell turn to damp stone as he moved below the level of the basement. Farther up the stairwell, he could see the dim form of Bailey following, gasping and cursing under his breath. After what seemed an eternity, D’Agosta’s foot hit the subbasement landing. All around him, people held their breaths; then Bailey bumped into him gently.

“Bailey, what the fuck was it?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” came the response. “There was that horrible smell, then I thought I saw something. Two red eyes in the dark. I fired.”