RELIC

                                RELIC   

                   a screenplay by Amy Holden Jones

         based on the book by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

                                                            March 16, 1995

     TITLE CARD... BELEM BRAZIL - JULY...

     EXT. BELEM STREETS - NIGHT

     A taxi careens down narrow roadways at breakneck speeds.

     INT. TAXI - NIGHT

     In the back seat is WHITTLESLEY. Early 40's, the wreck of a once
     handsome man. Unshaven.  Sweat stained.  Rail thin.  Scratches on his
     arms, a fresh scar on one cheek.  As the taxi roars downhill towards
     the harbor, Whittlesley leans over the front seat.  (Italics indicate
     Portuguese to be subtitled)

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    Faster!  We won't make it.

                              DRIVER
                    You want to die?

     Whittlesley pulls out A KNIFE, puts it to the driver's jugular vein.

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    Do you?

     Sweat pouring down his brow, the driver re-doubles his speed.

     EXT. BELEM STREETS - NIGHT

     The taxi swerves around a corner, nearly crashing into a fruit cart,
     flies out of sight.

     EXT. HARBOR - BELEM - NIGHT

     Light rain obscures the bulky outlines of tethered freighters.  We hear
     faint laughter leavened with Portuguese phrases, distant Calypso music
     from waterfront bars.  One of the smaller boats, the SANTA LUCIA, is
     loading as the TAXI fishtails to a halt.

     Whittlesley gets out, sees the boat still at dock.  His face floods
     with relief.

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    Thank God.

     He tosses a handful of bills into the driver's lap, sprints up the
     pier as the driver shouts curses after him in Portuguese.  Whittlesley
     shoves past the dock hands as the last load goes onto the Santa Lucia.
     The boat's engines churn to life.

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    I need to speak to the captain!
                    Where is he?

     The sailors hold Whittlesley back.

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    Get your hands off me!  I'm trying
                    to save your lives, you fools!

     Several crew members murmur the word "loco".  Hearing the commotion, a
     squat man wearing a billed hat and smoking a cigar approaches.  CAPTAIN
     FRANCO.

                              FRANCO
                    American?

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    Yes.  Thank Christ somebody speaks
                    English.  I'm Dr. John Whittlesley.
                    You have some crates of mine on
                    board.  They were shipped by mistake
                    to the Natural History Museum.  We
                    have to get them off the boat.

                              FRANCO
                    You have I.D.?

     Whittlesley runs a trembling hand through his hair, trying to keep
     control and appear reasonable.

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    No.  Let me explain.  I was on an
                    expedition for the museum on the
                    Upper Xingu.  Something horrible
                    happened.  I'm the only one who got
                    out alive.  I lost everything, my
                    I.D., everything.  I have to make
                    sure no one else dies.  The crates,
                    the crates were sent out before we
                    knew.  There's something unspeakable
                    inside.  If your boat leaves harbor
                    with those crates on board, I can't
                    be responsible.  My God, if they
                    reach New York...

     Whittlesley's fists clench spasmodically.  Franco looks to his men.

                              FRANCO
                    Loco.

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    No!  I'm not crazy!  As God is my
                    witness, I'm telling the truth.

     Franco barks an order and several sailors grab Whittlesley by the
     arms.  They start to lead him back to shore.

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    Don't do this!  You have to believe
                    me.  Your lives are in danger.

     The sailors laugh.  But with an almost super-human strength born of
     desperation, Whittlesley throws them off.  He pulls out his wallet.

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    Cash.  Cash, you see?  American money.

     Whittlesley throws the money down on the deck.  The breeze scatters the
     bills across the bow and all the men, including Captain Franco,
     scramble for the money, chattering in Portuguese.  While they are
     occupied, Whittlesley slips by unnoticed and disappears below deck.

     INT. HOLD - SANTA LUCIA - NIGHT

     Whittlesley ducks between cages of goats, boxes of farm equipment, his
     movements jerky with panic.  As he continues searching, the camera
     moves past him, into the darkness of the hold.  We hear Whittlesley
     mumbling between low, ragged breaths.  At the back of the boat the
     camera finds...

     A STACK OF CRATES... clearly labeled NATURAL HISTORY MUSEUM.  Move in on
     these as... The CRATES VIBRATE.  The boat has started to move!
     Whittlesley stands bolt upright, realizing what's going on.

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    No!

     Too late.  He turns to run back on deck but then stops, sniffs the air.
     A look of desperation fills his eyes.  With one hand he pulls out THE
     KNIFE, and unexpectedly puts it to HIS OWN NECK.  Better to kill
     himself than face what comes next.  The knife touches...

     A NECKLACE of TWO ARROWS, one gold, another silver.

     Whittlesley stares wide-eyed into the blackness of the hold.  The goats
     start BLEATING in blind panic.  A shaft of moonlight comes through a
     porthole as the boat turns.  The moonlight falls on

     THE CRATES.  Whittlesley's eyes lock onto them and he inches towards
     them, drawn inexorably closer... closer...

                              WHITTLESLEY
                    No... no...

     He begins mumbling a prayer.

     MOVE IN ON HIS EYES... filled with dread as he falls to his knees,
     staring, always staring at THE CRATES...

     EXT. DOCKS - NIGHT

     The crew tends to business and the Santa Lucia points out of the
     harbor, disappears into the night.

                                                            DISSOLVE TO:

     EXT. LOUISIANNA COAST - DAY... TITLE CARD... JUNE

     Squad cars roar down the back roads, sirens flashing.  In the center of
     the column is an unmarked car.

     INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY

     At the wheel is a strikingly dignified and imposing black man wearing
     a simple, old-fashioned dark suit, narrow black tie, and white shirt.
     This is SPECIAL AGENT PENDERGAST, FBI.

     A BACH SONATA for violin and harpsichord plays on the tape deck.
     Pendergast hums along as he drives.  A SMALL TOWN COP rides shotgun.
     The cop is intimidated both by Pendergast and the morning's events.  He
     sweats heavily as he brings Pendergast up to date.

                              SMALL TOWN COP
                    One of the locals found it at dawn.
                    Didn't believe him 'till I saw it
                    myself.  Even then I didn't believe
                    it.  Scared my men shitless.  Me too.
                    I mean... hell... You could smell it a
                    half mile away, Mr. Pendergast.

                              PENDERGAST
                        (unperturbed)
                    Any of your men go on board?

                              SMALL TOWN COP
                    No sir.  No way.  None of us wanted
                    to, I'm the first to admit it.  I
                    said, "Don't get within a mile of
                    this thing.  It's way to big for us.
                    I'm calling the FBI."

     Pendergast nods his approval, resumes humming along with a
     particularly intricate harpsichord riff.  As always, the man is
     unflappable and totally calm as he drives.

     EXT. LOUISIANA BEACH - DAY

     The ocean is still, the air stifling and close.  A hot sun beats down
     on the deck of the SANTA LUCIA.  The boat lists at a crazy angle where
     it has been washed up on the shore.  At first glance, it appears to be
     deserted.  A barrel rolls back and forth as the boat is rocked by each
     successive wave.  We hear sirens approaching and the phalanx of squad
     cars pulls up.  Joining them now are TWO AMBULANCES.

     PENDERGAST gets out along with the others.  All of the cops immediately
     cover their faces, gagging violently at the smell.  Pendergast sniffs
     once and frowns.  Apart from this, he doesn't react.

                              SMALL TOWN COP
                        (choking)
                    Goin' up-wind if you don't mind.

     Pendergast nods.  The cops all fall back in revulsion.  They watch from
     a safe distance as Pendergast approaches the ghost ship.  His shiny
     laced wing-tips sink in the sand.  He leans down, pulls them off one at
     a time.  He balls both socks, puts them carefully into his shoes and
     proceeds barefoot towards the boat.

     Using a piece of driftwood as a plank, Pendergast leans it against the
     Santa Lucia.  With surprising agility, he leaps up the plank to the
     deck.  At the top he touches a rail.  It's covered in a DARK STICKY
     LIQUID.

     BLOOD.  Flies buzz loudly.  A LARGE MACHETE lies abandoned in the stern.
     Chairs are overturned.  A DEAD GOAT, eviscerated, lies in the bow.  A
     lifeboat hangs half off the stern.  Pendergast moves aft.  The COPS
     watch from the sand below, unwilling to get any closer.  Pendergast
     hears A DOOR slamming open and closed.  He follows the noise and
     sees...

     THE DOOR TO THE HOLD.  He approaches, pushes it open and looks down the
     stairwell.  Below deck are

     BODIES... stacks of them.  They've been TORN TO SHREDS.

     THE CAMERA MOVES down to one particular man who is nearest the top of
     the stairs.  It's CAPTAIN FRANCO.  His face is frozen in a howl of
     terror.  Flies congregate in the eye sockets.  With his foot, Pendergast
     nudges the body over.  The skull has been torn open.

     THERE IS NO BACK TO FRANCO'S HEAD.

     FADE TO BLACK:

     Silence then we begin hearing sounds of the city... horns, traffic,
     construction work.

     SUPER TITLE... NEW YORK CITY, FOUR MONTHS LATER as we...

     FADE IN:

     ON A NECKLACE of TWO ARROWS, one of gold, the other silver.  The twin
     to the one seen on Whittlesley.  Widen to...

     EXT. ROOFTOP GARDEN - MARGO'S NEW YORK APARTMENT - MORNING

     And the woman wearing the necklace... MARGO GREEN.  She sips her morning
     coffee as she makes notes on several large FOSSILIZED TEETH.  Her hair
     is neatly combed.  No make-up.  She doesn't need it.  She has a natural,
     unselfconscious beauty and a mind like a steel trap.

     At Margo's elbow is a small T.V.  A CNN world news report plays.
     Margo's New York Times is open to the crossword puzzle, which she's
     been doing rapidly, in ink.  Clearly this is a woman who likes order,
     with a mind that can handle more than one thing at a time.

     An alarm on her watch beeps and she fills in the last two lines of the
     crossword puzzle, makes one final note on the fossil specimens, and
     shuts off the T.V.  She reaches for her back pack and looks out at
     CENTRAL PARK with remarkably clear eyes.

     EXT. CENTRAL PARK - MORNING

     HELICOPTER SHOT... Swooping over the fall foliage of the Park, a riot
     of color and botanical life... The camera picks out MARGO'S BICYCLE
     making its way along the winding roads, dodging taxi cabs.  Margo wears
     jeans, a work shirt, a fine blue gabardine jacket with a rhinestone
     DOUBLE HELIX PIN.  On her back is a LEATHER BACK PACK which holds her
     lap top computer.  She emerges from the park, catches the green light
     and rolls up to...

     EXT. MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY - DAY

     As Margo arrives, the camera moves up and over the building, comes to
     rest on the imposing turrets, intersecting roof lines, and Gothic
     arches of the MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY.  This is not an ordinary
     building; it's a 19th century monument to science and mankind.  The
     structure fills an entire city block.

     Happy visitors pour into the museum as Margo takes the imposing wide
     stone steps two at a time.  We hear SCREAMS of pleasure and release,
     the normal raucous noises of a large group of THIRD GRADE CHILDREN.
     Margo is amused to find herself surrounded by kids.  Their teacher,
     MRS. BEASLEY, a stern woman in glasses with a thick New York accent,
     calls after them as they all head inside.

                              MRS. BEASLEY
                    Don't run, children!  Stay with your
                    partner and do not run!  If anyone
                    runs they will be sent back to the
                    bus!

     Ignoring Mrs. Beasley, TWO BOYS charge past Margo.  HENRY and LARRY.
     Henry has a buzz cut; Larry has rasta dread knots.  Both are 8 years
     old, wear high top sneakers and shorts so big they graze their ankles.

                              MRS. BEASLEY
                    Henry!  Larry!  What did I just say!
                    You walk right this minute!  Did you
                    hear me?!

     Reluctantly, Henry and Larry slow to a rapid race-walk as they reach
     the huge doorway flanked by two Northwest Coast Indian totem poles.
     Above the doorway WORKMEN are hanging a LARGE BANNER.  It reads:
     "SUPERSTITION EXHIBIT... OPENING OCT. 29"