The cult would have centered around the plant itself, its cultivation and harvesting. Chances are, the Kothoga only kept one of the creatures around at a time-more than that would be too dangerous. The creatures kept the enemies of the Kothoga at bay-yet they themselves were a constant threat to their masters. The plants were a curse that was simultaneously hated and needed. Kawakita could now visualize parts of the Kothoga's secret religion. Mbwun-the word the Kothoga used for the wonderful, terrible plant, and for the creatures those who ate it became. He was harvesting two pounds a week, and poised to increase his yield exponentially. The virus was concentrated in the tough, fibrous stem. It had proven to be a perversely attractive type of lily pad, blooming almost continuously, big deep-purple blossoms with venous appendages and bright yellow stamens. He moved toward the door as quickly as the dim light would allow. Proof, rather, that the monster was Whittlesey. A monster that would terrorize the surrounding tribes without terrorizing its masters that would ensure the security and isolation of the Kothoga forever. A monster that would keep out the road builders and the prospectors and the miners that were poised to invade the tepui from the south and destroy them. They must have attempted to do with this white man what they had failed to do with their own kind: create a monster they could control. Perhaps they brewed him a liquor from the plant's leaves, or perhaps they simply forced him to eat the dried fibers. He wondered what Whittlesey must have felt: bound, perhaps ceremonially, being force-fed the reovirus from the strange plant he himself had collected just days earlier. Kawakita effortlessly slid back the iron bar from the door and pulled it open. He was small and wiry, and walked with a distinct roll to his shoulders. Night was rapidly becoming his favorite time of the day. It had been a long day, and he felt bone tired, but he was looking forward to nightfall, when the sounds of the city would subside and darkness would cover the land. Kawakita closed the door and slid the bolt back in place. But not before Kawakita had found the fiber he needed. Margo herself had thrown it in the Museum incinerator several days after the disaster, as a precaution. But nobody had remembered to clean out Margo's handbag, which was notorious throughout the Anthropology Department for its untidiness. The lab where Margo had done the initial workwas now spotless, the plant press destroyed. The Secure Area had been painstakingly cleaned, and the crates had been emptied of their artifacts and burned, along with the packing material. All he'd needed was to find one of the fibers. Once he reconstructed what Frock and Margo had done with his program, everything else fell into place. And then he had asked for the intermediate form. Kawakita had placed human DNA on one side and the reovirus DNA on the other. And the proof lay within his grasp: his extrapolation program. The creature, the Museum Beast, He Who Walks On All Fours, was Whittlesey. Kawakita remembered clearly the day everything came together for him. "Gratifying," he said slowly, as if tasting the word. The legend told it best: the devil failed to keep his bargain, and the child of the devil, the Mbwun, had run wild. They had tried to control its power, but failed. What appeared to be a blessing turned out for them to be a curse. The Kothoga knew all about this plant, thought Kawakita. "Keep the lights off," said Kawakita sharply. Proof, they said, that the monster had killed Whittlesey. The final piece of the puzzle fell into place when he remembered what that cop, D'Agosta, had mentioned at the going-away party for the FBI agent: that they had found a double-arrow pendant belonging to JohnWhittlesey in the creature's lair.
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