Relic

“You seem to know all kinds of hiding places,” Cuthbert said.

“This used to be my lab. Once in awhile I still like to come down here, get away from the administrative headaches, be near my dinosaurs again.” He chuckled and drank.

“I see,” said Cuthbert acidly.

“Part of the Superstition exhibition is mounted in what used to be the old Trilobite Alcove. I put in a lot of hours down there many years ago. Anyway, there was a passageway to the Broadway corridor behind one of the old trilobite displays. The door was boarded up years ago to make room for another display case. I’m sure that [357] when they were building Superstition, they just nailed a piece of plywood over it and painted it. We could kick it in, shoot off the lock with this if necessary.”

“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?”