Relic

“I think you should let the authorities handle this.” Moriarty drew back, dignified. “This isn’t for us to mess around with.”

“Don’t you understand?” Margo pleaded. “Nobody knows what we’re dealing with here. People’s lives—perhaps the Museum’s future—are at stake.”

“I know your motives are good, Margo,” Moriarty said. “But I don’t trust Bill’s.”

“My motives are pure as the Pierian spring,” Smithback retorted. “Rickman is storming the citadel of journalistic truth. I’m just looking to defend the ramparts.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just do what Rickman wants?” Moriarty asked. “I think your vendetta is a little childish. And you know what? You won’t win.”

The drinks came, and Smithback tossed his off and exhaled with gusto.

“Someday I’ll get that bitch,” he said.

= 22 =

Beauregard finished the entry, then stuffed his notebook in a back pocket. He knew he really ought to call the incident in. Hell with it. That girl had looked so scared, it was obvious she wasn’t up to anything. He’d make his report when he got the chance, and no sooner.

Beauregard was in a bad mood. He didn’t like door-shaker duty. Still, it beat directing traffic at a broken light. And it made a good impression down at O’Ryans. Yeah, he would say, I’m assigned to the Museum case. Sorry, can’t talk about it.

For a museum, this place is damn quiet, Beauregard thought. He supposed on a normal day the Museum would be bustling with activity. But the Museum hadn’t been normal since Sunday. At least during the day, staff members had come in and out of the new exhibition halls. But then, they’d closed it off for the opening. Except with written permission from Dr. Cuthbert, you couldn’t get in unless you were police or security on official business. Thank God his shift ended at six and [150] he could look forward to two days away from this place. A solo fishing trip to the Catskills. He’d been looking forward to it for weeks.

Beauregard ran his hand reassuringly along the holster of his S&W .38 special. Ready for action, as always. And on his other hip, a shot-shell pistol loaded with enough capstun to bring an elephant to its knees.

Behind him, Beauregard heard a muffled pattering sound.

He spun around, heart suddenly racing, to face the closed doors of the exhibition. He located a key, unlocked the doors, and peered in.

“Who’s there?”

Only a cool breeze fanned his cheek.

He let the doors close and tested the lock. You could come out, but you couldn’t go in. That girl must have gone in through the front entrance. But wasn’t that kept locked, too? They never told him anything.

The sound came again.

Well, hell, he thought, it ain’t my job to check inside. Can’t let anyone into the exhibition. Never said anything about anyone coming out.

Beauregard started humming a tune, tapping the beat on his thigh with two fingers. Ten more minutes and he’d be out of this frigging spookhouse.

The sound came again.

Beauregard unlocked the doors a second time, and stuck his head deep inside. He could see some dim shapes: exhibition cases, a gloomy-looking entranceway. “This is a police officer. You in there, please respond.”

The cases were dark, the walls vague shadows. No answer.

Withdrawing, Beauregard pulled out his radio. “Beauregard to Ops, do you copy?”

“This is TDN. What’s up?”

“Reporting noises at the exhibition’s rear exit.”

“What kind of noises?”

“Uncertain. Sounds like someone’s in there.”

[151] There was some talk and a stifled laugh.

“Uh ... Fred?”

“What?” Beauregard was growing more irritated by the minute. The dispatcher in the situation room was a first-class asshole.

“Better not go in there.”

“Why not?”

“It might be the monster, Fred. Might get you.”

“Go to hell,” Fred muttered under his breath. He wasn’t supposed to investigate anything without backup, and the dispatcher knew it.

A scratching noise came from behind the doors, as if something with nails was scrabbling against it.