Relic

“I don’t know,” Margo said. “Rugose, as in bumpy?”

“Yes. It’s a regular pattern of ridges, wrinkles, or creases. I’ll tell you what’s rugose. Reptilian eggs are rugose. As are dinosaur eggs.”

A sudden current passed through Margo as she remembered. “That’s the word—“

“—that Cuthbert used to describe the seed pods missing from the crate,” Frock finished her sentence. “I ask you: were they really seed pods‘? What kind of seed pod would look wrinkled and scaly? But an egg ...

Frock drew himself up in his wheelchair. “Next question. Where have they gone? Were they stolen? Or did something else happen to them?”

Abruptly, the scientist stopped, sinking back in his wheelchair, shaking his head.

“But if something ... if something hatched, something broke out of the crates,” Margo said, “how does that explain the killings on board the freighter that carried the crates from South America?”

“Margo,” Frock said, laughing quietly, “what we have here is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. It is essential that we gather more facts without wasting additional time.”

There was a soft rapping at the door.

“That must be Pendergast,” Frock said, drawing back. Then, louder: “Come in, please!”

The agent walked in, carrying a briefcase, his black suit as ever impeccable, his blond white hair brushed back from his face. To Margo, he looked as collected and placid as before. When Frock gestured to one of the Victorian chairs, Pendergast seated himself.

“A pleasure to see you again, sir,” Frock said. “You’ve [199] met Miss Green. We were once again in the middle of something just now, so I hope you won’t mind if she remains.”

Pendergast waved his hand. “Of course. I know you’ll both continue to respect my request for confidentiality.”

“Of course,” said Frock.

“Dr. Frock, I know you’re busy and I’ll keep this short,” Pendergast began. “I was hoping you’d had some success in locating the artifact we spoke about. An artifact that might have been used as a weapon in these murders.”

Frock shifted in the wheelchair. “As you requested, I considered the matter further. I ran a search of our accession database, both for single items and for items that could potentially have been broken apart and recombined.” He shook his head. “Unfortunately, I found nothing that even remotely resembled the imprint you showed us. There has never been anything like it in the collections.”

Pendergast’s expression betrayed nothing. Then he smiled. “Officially, we’d never admit this, but the case is— shall we say—a trying one.” He indicated his briefcase. “I am awash in false sightings, lab reports, interviews. But we’re slow in finding a fit.”

Frock smiled. “I believe, Mr. Pendergast, that what you do and what I do are not all that different. I’ve been in the same predicament myself. And no doubt His Eminence is acting as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening.”

Pendergast nodded.

“Wright is very eager that the exhibition go on as scheduled tomorrow night. Why? Because the Museum spent millions it didn’t really have to put it together. It’s vital that admissions be increased to keep the Museum from slipping into the red. This exhibition is seen as the best way to do that.”

“I see,” Pendergast said. He picked up a fossil lying on a table next to his chair, turning it over idly, in his hand. “Ammonite?” he asked.

[200] “Correct,” replied Frock.

“Dr. Frock—” Pendergast began. “Pressure is now being brought to bear from a variety of quarters. As a result, I must be doubly careful to conduct this investigation by the book. I can’t share our results with outside entities such as yourself—even when the conventional avenues of investigation are proving fruitless.” He put down the fossil carefully and crossed his arms. “That said, do I understand correctly that you are an expert on DNA?”

Frock nodded. “That’s partly true. I have devoted some study to how genes affect morphology—the shape of an organism. And I oversee the projects of various graduate students—such as Gregory Kawakita, and Margo here— whose studies involve DNA research.”

Pendergast retrieved his briefcase, snapped it open, and withdrew a fat computer printout. “I have a report on DNA from the claw found in one of the first victims. Of course, I can’t show it to you. It would be highly irregular. The New York office wouldn’t like it.”

“I see,” said Frock. “And you continue to believe that the claw is your best clue.”

“It’s our only clue of importance, Dr. Frock. Let me explain my conclusions. I believe we have a madman loose in the Museum. He kills his victims in a ritualistic fashion, removes the back of the skull, and extracts the hypothalamus from the brain.”

“For what purpose?” asked Frock.

Prendergast hesitated. “We believe he eats it.”

Margo gasped.

“The killer may be hiding in the Museum’s subbasement,” Pendergast continued. “There are many indications that he has returned there after killing, but so far we’ve been unable to isolate a specific location or retrieve any evidence. Two dogs were killed during searches. As you probably know, it’s a perfect warren of tunnels, galleries, and passages spread over several subterranean levels, the oldest dating back almost 150 [201] years. The Museum has been able to furnish me with maps covering only a small percentage of its total area. I call the killer ‘he’ because the force used in the killings indicates a male, and a strong one at that. Almost preternaturally strong. As you know, he uses some kind of three-clawed weapon to disembowel his victims, who are apparently chosen at random. We have no motive. Our interviews with selected Museum staff have turned up no leads as yet.” He looked