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‘The man’s bloody daft,’ he says.” Moriarty imitated Cuthbert’s Scottish accent.
“I don’t think Cuthbert is half the genius you feel h...
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Margo listened with rising indignation. Perhaps Smithback had been right about Moriarty, after all. “Well,” she said, “considering my affiliations to Dr. Frock, I don’t suppose you’d want me messing with your exhibit. I might add too much hype to the script.”
You know that Frock and Cuthbert don’t get along. I guess I’ve picked up some of that.”
“I didn’t know they had that much of a problem with each other,” she said, allowing Moriarty to stop her. “Oh, yes. From way back.
Frock came forward with this Callisto Effect, his star has been falling in the Museum. Now he’s a department head in name only, and Cuthbert pulls the strings.
gaffe
Kothoga
Mbwun
“There’s been a lot of high-level interest in the Kothoga artifacts recently. People like Rickman, Dr. Cuthbert … even Wright,
Surely you’ve heard the stories of a curse on the figurine, that sort of nonsense?”
“The expedition that found the Kothoga material met with tragedy,” Moriarty continued, “and nobody’s been near the stuff since. It’s still in the original crates.
“Apparently, the crates had been recently tampered with.” “What? You mean somebody had broken in?” Moriarty stared at Margo, his owlish face wearing its look of perpetual surprise. “I didn’t say that,” he replied.
D’Agosta wished with all his heart that the double-chili-cheeseburger in his stomach would disappear. Not that it was bothering him—yet—but it was an unwelcome presence.
a large woman entered, two men following close behind. D’Agosta noticed stylish glasses, blonde hair escaping from under a surgeon’s cap. The woman strode over and held out her hand, her red lipstick creased in a professional smile. “Dr. Ziewicz,” she said, with a crushing grip.
Dr. Fred Gross.”
short, skin...
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photographer, Delber...
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a 4×5 Dea...
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“My field is—how shall I put it—special forensics.
We do our thing and ship them back out. Then I read about what it all means in the papers.”
“You’ve, ah, seen this kind of thing before, right?” “Oh yeah,” said D’Agosta. “All the time.” The burger in ...
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“Testing, one two three … Fred, this mike is totally dead.” Fred bent over the reel-to-reel. “I can’t understand it, everything’s turned on.” D’Agosta cleared his throat. “It’s unplugged,” he said. There was a short silence. “Well,” said Ziewicz, “I’m glad there’s someone here who’s not a scientist.
The trick is not to think too much. Don’t think about your own Vinnie, eighth birthday just next week.
extravasation,
The skull is empty. The entire brain appears to have fallen out or been extracted through this hole
“It was found in pieces near the body,” said D’Agosta.
there’s no thalamoid region. And no pituitary. That’s what’s missing.”
“The thalamus and the hypothalamus. The body’s regulator.”
“Well, it looks almost like—” Fred paused. “Like a bite was taken out.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” said D’Agosta. “It’s a claw. A fucking claw.”
Ziewicz turned to her assistant. “That will be a charming snippet of monologue for our tape, won’t it, Fred?”
Normally, she was neat to excess. But now after just one week of neglect, textbooks, letters of sympathy, legal documents, shoes, and sweaters were scattered across the furniture. Empty cartons from the Chinese restaurant downstairs lay neglected in the sink. Her old Royal typewriter and a fan of research papers were spread
She wouldn’t call Jan, not just yet. And she wouldn’t return her mother’s call, either; not until tomorrow, at least. She knew what her mother would say: You have to come home to your father’s business. It’s what he would have wanted. You owe it to both of us.
She remembered how her father used to make omelettes—the only thing he knew how to cook—on Sunday mornings. “Hey, Midge,” he would always say. “Not bad for an old ex-bachelor, huh?”
Maybe her father was right: Poverty wasn’t much fun.
Poverty. She shook her head, remembering the last time she’d heard that word, remembering the expression on her mother’s face as she’d pronounced
her father’s debt-to-equity ratio and lack of estate planning was forcing liquidation—unless some family member were to step in to keep his business afloat.
Then her thoughts moved to Prine. And the blood on his shoes.
Tomorrow, she’d lock herself in her office, get that chapter finished. Work on the Cameroon write-up for Moriarty. And put off making a decision—for one more day, at least.
“Hello,” she said. She listened for a moment. “Oh. Hello, Mother.”
six minutes for a toke.
cloister
cannabis—
The last thing he saw were his shadowy entrails rolling and slipping down the stairs. After a moment, he stopped wondering where all that gore had suddenly come from.
Lavinia Rickman behind her birchwood veneer desk, reading his rumpled manuscript. Two bright red fingernails tapped on the glossy finish.
storyteller doll from New Mexico,
netsuke.
Rickman herself, bent primly over the manuscript.
Gilborg
