Relic

Beauregard felt his breath come hard and fast.

His radio squawked. “Seen the monster yet?” came the voice.

Trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible, Beauregard said: “Repeat, reporting unidentified sounds in the exhibition. Request backup to investigate.”

“He wants backup.” There was the sound of muffled laughter. “Fred, we don’t have any backup. Everyone’s busy.”

“Listen,” said Beauregard, losing his temper. “Who’s that with you? Why don’t you send him down?”

“McNitt. He’s on a coffee break. Right, McNitt?”

Beauregard heard some more laughter.

Beauregard switched off the radio. Fuck those guys, he thought. Some professionalism. He just hoped the Lieutenant was listening in on that frequency.

He waited in the dark hallway. Five more minutes and I’m history.

“TDN calling Beauregard. You read?”

“Ten-four,” said Beauregard.

“McNitt there yet?”

“No,” said Beauregard. “He finally finish his coffee break?”

[152] “Hey, I was just kidding around,” TDN said a little nervously. “I sent him right up.”

“Well, he’s lost, then,” said Beauregard. “And my duty ends in five minutes. I’m off the next forty-eight, and nothing’s going to interfere with that. You better radio him.”

“He isn’t reading,” said TDN.

An idea suddenly occurred to Beauregard. “How did McNitt go? Did he take the Section 17 elevator, the one behind the sit room?”

“Yep, that’s what I told him. Section 17 elevator. I got this map, same one you have.”

“So in order to get here he has to go through the exhibition. That was real smart. You should have sent him up through food services.”

“Hey, don’t talk to me about smart, Freddy boy. He’s the one who’s lost. Call me when he arrives.”

“One way or another, I’m outta here in five minutes,” said Beauregard. “It’ll be Effinger’s headache then. Over and out.”

That was when Beauregard heard a sudden commotion from the exhibition. There was a sound like a muffled thud. Jesus, he thought, McNitt. He unlocked the doors and went in, unsnapping the holster of his .38.

TDN placed another doughnut in his mouth and chewed, swallowing it with a mouthful of coffee. The radio hissed.

“McNitt to Ops. Come in, TDN.”

“Ten-four. Where the hell are you?”

“I’m at the rear entrance. Beauregard ain’t here. I can’t raise him or anything.”

“Lemme try.” He punched the transmitter. “TDN calling Beauregard. Fred, come in. TDN calling Beauregard ... Hey, McNitt, I think he got pissed off and went home. His shift just ended. How did you get up there, anyway?”

“I went the way you said, but when I got to the front [153] end of the exhibition it was locked, so I had to go around. Didn’t have my keys. Got a little lost.”

“Stay tight, all right? His relief should arrive any minute. Effinger, it says here. Radio me when he arrives and then come on back.”

“Here comes Effinger now. You gonna report Beauregard?” McNitt asked.

“You kidding? I’m no damn baby-sitter.”

= 23 =

D’Agosta looked over at Pendergast, reclining in the shabby backseat of the Buick. Jesus, he thought, a guy like Pendergast ought to pull at least a late model Town Car. Instead, they gave him a four-year-old Buick and a driver who could barely speak English.

Pendergast’s eyes were half closed.

“Turn on Eighty-sixth and take the Central Park transverse,” shouted D’Agosta.

The driver swerved across two lanes of Central Park West and roared into the transverse.

“Take Fifth to Sixty-fifth and go across,” said D’Agosta. “Then go one block north on Third and take a right at Sixty-sixth.”

“Fifty-nine faster,” said the driver, in a thick Middle Eastern accent.