TO WAKE THE DEAD

by Richard Laymon

  “Pretty bad, huh?”

  “Awful.”

  “Recovered?”

  “Better all the time.”

  “Maybe this will help.” She kissed him on the lips.

  “It’s a start,” Tag admitted, taking her into his arms. “It’s most definitely a start.”

  In the morning, during breakfast, Tag offered to drive her to work.

  “I don’t have another flat, do I?”

  “Not that I know of. I’d just like to drive you to work. It’s my day off. Besides, it’ll give me an excuse to pick you up this afternoon.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “How does dinner sound?”

  “Great.”

  Later, in the parking lot, Tag didn’t head directly for the exit. Instead, he circled and drove past Susan’s car. “See?” he said. “No flat.”

  “You expected one, didn’t you?”

  “Let’s say it wouldn’t have surprised me much. My charming friend Mabel is a very jealous lady.”

  “Is she the one who did it yesterday?”

  Tag nodded. “With any luck, we’ve seen the last of her. She knows she’ll be in big trouble if she pulls any more stunts.”

  “Hope so.”

  The drive from Susan’s apartment to the museum usually took just over fifteen minutes on the Santa Monica Freeway. Tag made it in twelve.

  “You’ve got a heavy foot there, bud,” Susan said.

  “Force of habit.”

  “Do you drive that way in your patrol car?”

  “Faster, when I can. Nothing better than a Code Three. Really let her rip.”

  He turned onto the road leading to the museum. Ahead of them, several police cars were parked near the entrance. Tag pulled alongside one of them. Like the other cars, it was deserted. Tag and Susan got out. He took her hand and they hurried up the concrete steps toward the museum’s main door.

  A white-haired woman reached the top before them.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the patrolman guarding the doors. “You won’t be able to go in just now.”

  “Of course I will.”

  “It’s a crime scene. Unless you’re an employee of the museum, I’ll have to ask you to leave. If you want to come back in an hour or so…”

  “I’m here now, young man. I have no intention of going away.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”

  “You most certainly can. What’s more, you will. This is a public museum. I am a member of the public. I have every right to visit the museum.”

  “It’s a crime scene, ma’am.”

  “That’s no concern of mine. Did I commit the crime? No, I should say not. So you just step aside, like a good fellow.”

  He didn’t step aside.

  “Out of my way.”

  “Ma’am,” the patrolman said, “we think that the perpetrator might still be inside.”

  “Oh? Oh!” The old woman hurried away with fearful backward glances at the building.

  “Nice touch, Henderson,” Tag said.

  Henderson grinned.

  Tag turned to Susan. “Susan, this smooth-tongued devil is Manny Henderson. Manny, Susan.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, offering her hand. As Henderson shook it, his eyes dropped briefly to her breasts.

  “What happened here?” Tag asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You told the gal it’s a crime scene.”

  “Oh. Right. The night watchman turned up dead. Looks like he took a header down the stairs, broke his neck. Homicide’s checking it out. They seem to think he walked into a burglary. Either he tripped over himself trying to get away, or they grabbed him and gave him the heave-ho.”

  “Who was the watchman?” Susan asked.

  “Quinn. Barney Quinn.”

  Susan nodded, relieved that she didn’t know the dead man. “Was anything stolen?” she asked.

  “Looks like they made off with a mummy.”

  “Amara?”

  “A mummy,” Henderson repeated.

  “Amara,” Tag said. “That’s its name.”

  “What?”

  “The mummy’s name is Amara.”

  “Hell, you mean they give ‘em names?”

  “They’re dead people, Henderson.”

  “I know that. Hey, do you want to go in or something?”

  “Trying to get rid of us?” Tag asked.

  “Just you.” He turned to Susan. “You should stay away from this guy, you know. He’ll get you in all kinds of jams.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Susan assured him. “See you later.”

  They entered the museum. Across the lobby, the body of the night watchman lay at the foot of the main stairway. Susan saw how his left leg hung sideways below the knee, and how his head had a crooked tilt. How the eyes stared. A horrible sight. A flash unit blinked. The photographer stepped over one of the outstretched arms, and crouched for a shot from a different angle.

  Beyond where the body lay, she saw Blumgard, the museum director, talking to a man in a brown suit. A detective, probably. Blumgard looked pale. Jumpy. Even from this distance, she could see the stem of his pipe shaking as he raised it to his lips.

  Tag led her toward the body. “Morning, Farley,” he greeted the photographer.

  “Hi, Parker. Isn’t this your day off?”

  “I’m ever vigilant. All right if we go upstairs?”

  “Help yourselves.”

  They climbed the stairway. As they entered the Callahan room, a small, pale man glanced at them from where he crouched by the coffin lid. He lowered his eyes again and finished pressing a strip of cellophane to an index card.

  “Getting some good latents off there?” Tag asked.

  “Quite a bunch.”

  “A few belong to me and the lady here.”

  “That so? You’re Porter?”

  “Parker.”

  He wrote the name down. “And?”

  “Susan Connors,” Tag told him. “She works here.”

  “What department?”

  “I’m an assistant curator,” she explained. “This room’s my responsibility.”

  “Then you must know the missing mummy. Have you talked to Vasquez?”

  She shook her head.

  Tag turned to her. “Why don’t you have a look around and see if anything else is missing?”

  “I have a checklist in my office.”

  “Let’s get it.”

  “Whoa,” said the man. “Before you take off for parts unknown, I want your prints. It’ll speed things up for me. You first, Potter. Give me your hand.”

  Farley climbed to the second floor. He took a downward shot of the stairs, the body sprawled at the bottom. From his angle, framed by the camera, the stairs looked damned steep. The poor guy must’ve had quite a time of it. Probably headfirst.

  Farley was having quite a time of it himself. Those three glazed doughnuts on his way over had nearly run their course. If he didn’t get to the men’s room pretty soon… somewhere up here, there had to be one. He walked to the right, checking each door as he approached it. Near the end of the hall, he found one marked Women.

  A good omen.

  Sure enough, the next door was the one he wanted. He shoved it open, hurried across the tile floor. This one was a three-stall job. He rushed to the first, started to push its door. He met unexpected resistance. Surprised, he took his hand away. The door bumped shut.

  “Ooops, sorry.”

  He waited for someone to reply.

  No one did.

  “Y’ ought to latch the door, you know, buddy. Hey, you all right in there? Huh?” He waited. “Anyone in there? Hello?” Squatting, he ducked his head low enough to see under the door. Instead of Florsheims, he found a pair of brown withered feet. Brown shriveled toenails. Brown bone-thin shins.

  He shoved the door open, flinging the mummy backward. Its head thumped the tile wall behind the toilet, and it slid down, bare feet skidding toward Farley like a
mannequin trying to sit down.

  Tag jumped aside as the bathroom door shot open and Farley ran out. The photographer stopped short. His face had a sick, gray look.

  “What’s wrong?” Tag asked.

  “I found the missing mummy. In there.”

  “I’ll go tell Susan.”

  They walked up the hallway. Tag noticed how Farley’s hand trembled. “That mummy’s a real charmer, isn’t she?”

  “You’ve seen her?” Farley asked.

  “All of her.”

  Farley ran a hand over the sleek top of his head. “Jeepers-creepers. I’ve photographed all kind… you name it. Gunshot victims, slice-and-dice, torched corpses, gals with their guts stuffed in their mouths, guys who’ve been buried in all kinds of shit for years on end… but that one?”

  “She has that effect on people, doesn’t she?”

  “Seen prettier.”

  “You okay?”

  “Sure, just caught me by surprise.” He ran his hand over his head again like he was trying to wipe the image from his brain. “Aren’t mummies supposed to be wrapped? Those ones in the movies, they’re always bandaged up nice, you know?”

  “This one’s a stripper.”

  “She looks like crap.”

  “The years haven’t been kind to her,” Tag admitted, grinning.

  He found Susan in the Callahan room, checking exhibits against the inventory list on her clipboard.

  “How goes it?” he asked.

  “Looks like everything is here but Amara.”

  “She’s not far,” Tag said.

  “You found her?”

  “Farley did.”

  “She’s all right?”

  Farley shook his head. “She looked like… looked terrible. All that red hair. That looks great, but it’s how it seems to grow out of the skull… makes your stomach…” Gulping, he clutched his belly, turned away, and wished to God he’d passed on those doughnuts.

  Susan hurried down the hall ahead of them. When she reached the rest room door, however, she stopped. She turned to wait for Tag. “Maybe you should go in first. I mean… make sure the coast is clear.”

  Farley groaned. “Miss, the coast won’t be clear till she’s outta there, and I’m afraid I can’t wait all day.”

  “There’s a toilet on the ground floor,” Susan told him. “Just to the left as you come in.”

  “Thanks. Enjoy yourselves.” He hurried to the stairway.

  “I’ll have a look,” Tag said. He pushed open the door, stepped inside. Nobody at the sinks. Nobody at the urinals. One body in the first stall, its feet visible just below the door. “Okay,” Tag called. “You can come in now.”

  Susan entered, looking slightly embarrassed. She glanced from the sinks to the urinals.

  “Don’t believe me, huh?”

  “Just checking.”

  She walked ahead of Tag to the stall. He watched her crouch and peer under the door, the fabric of her blouse pulling taut across her back, coming untucked from the skirt, showing a band of smooth skin.

  “That’s Amara, all right,” she said. Standing, she eased open the door.

  Tag, just behind her, looked in. The mummy lay straight as a slab of wood with her head against the pipes, her back on the toilet seat, her legs stretched toward the open door, her red hair tumbling down onto the tiles.

  “What’ll we do with her?” Tag asked.

  “Pick her up.”

  “Us? Don’t you have maintenance men or something?”

  “We’re the something. Ready?”

  “Well…”

  “Scared?”

  “Who, me?”

  “We should wear gloves, so our skin moisture won’t…”

  “Great! Good idea! I’m all for gloves!”

  “Back in a flash.” Susan smiled a knowing smile. “You stay here and keep an eye on her.”

  He followed Susan to the door, but stayed inside when she left. Turning, he looked at the stall. He could see the mummy’s dark feet and ankles. Brown they were. A shiny glossy brown that reminded him of chocolate bars. Great. Won’t want to eat another Hershey bar for a long time coming. Every time I bite into chocolate, I’ll imagine I’m running my tongue over that four-thousand-year-old foot with its evil-looking toenails. Hell, won’t eat almond flakes, come to that.

  He glanced at his wristwatch, hoping Susan would hurry. This was his day off, after all, and standing watch over a withered corpse with brown-paper tits wasn’t his idea of a good time. He could do that at work; often had.

  In fact, this reminded him a lot of his first dead body. It had been in a john too. Houston, his partner, laughed himself sick at how they found the fat old gal, butt to the wind, head jammed in the waste basket. Said she must be an acrobat. As it turned out, she’d had a heart attack while she was taking a leak and tumbled forward until her head stuck in the wastebasket. Tag never could see the humor in it, but Houston wouldn’t let it go. Recently, he’d started tying it in with a Polish joke about burying stiffs with their butts up, for chrissake.

  The bathroom door shot open, missing Tag by inches. He stepped out of the way as Manny Henderson hurried in. “Parker,” Henderson said, barely giving him a glance as he hurried by.

  “How’s it going out front?”

  “A pain.” At the first urinal, he unzipped his fly.

  “You sure you want to do that?” Tag asked.

  “Huh?”

  “We’ve got a visitor.” Tag pointed at the stall.

  Henderson looked. His face wrinkled as if he smelled something foul. Quickly, he zipped up.

  “Meet Amara.”

  “Holy Jesus.” Henderson stepped cautiously toward the stall and pushed open its door. For a long time, he stared. “What the hell’s she doing here?”

  “Apparently she can’t read.”

  “Funny. Ha-ha. Good God, did you get a look at those tits? Look like flapjacks.”

  Someone knocked on the door. “Come on in, we’re all decent,” Tag called.

  Susan entered and smiled a greeting at Henderson. “Glad you’re here, Manny. You wouldn’t mind giving us a hand, would you?”

  “A hand with what?”

  “Amara. We have to move her back to her own room.”

  “You mean, touch her?”

  “That shouldn’t bother a couple of tough cops like you.” She held out a pair of gloves to each of them. “I’ll supervise.” Smiling, she stepped to the stall door, pushed it open, and held it in place. “Once you’ve snapped on the latex, one of you take her shoulders, one her feet, and we’ll just ease her out of here nice and steady.”

  “We’d better call in the homicide boys first.” Tag grinned, glad he’d found a delaying tactic.

  “Yeah, Christ. If we screw around with this gal before they’ve got their pictures and shit…” Henderson shook his head.

  The homicide team spent less than half an hour in the men’s room. They took statements and photographs, made sketches, lifted fingerprints, vacuumed the tile under the stall, then left.

  “Your turn,” Susan said.

  Tag gripped the mummy’s thin ankles; Henderson took the shoulders.

  “You sure she won’t break in half?” Tag asked.

  “Maybe you should get her higher on the legs. At the knees?”

  “All set,” Tag said.

  “All set.” Henderson nodded.

  They both lifted.

  “She’s sure light,” Henderson said, surprised.

  “She’s been dehydrated,” Susan explained. “Hollowed out too.”

  “How do you mean?” Henderson asked.

  Susan opened the bathroom door and they carried the mummy into the hall. “They start by removing the brain,” she said. “They run a probe through the nose, and break through the ethmoid bone into the cranial cavity. Then they use a little hooking device to bring out the brain through the nostrils, piece by piece.”

  “Who is this woman?” Henderson asked Tag.

  “My
sweetheart.”

  “Lucky you.”

  She grinned. “Once the cranial cavity was cleaned out, they cut into the torso and removed all the organs except the heart. During some dynasties the heart went too. That’s what you’ll find in those stone Canopic jars beside her coffin: her stomach, liver, kidneys, intes—”

  “Susan.”

  “You wanted to know why she’s light.”

  “Now we know,” Tag said.

  “How come she isn’t wrapped in bandages?” Henderson asked, unable to take his eyes from the shriveled torso. “I thought they were supposed to wrap these things.”

  “They did.” Susan walked ahead of them into the Callahan room. “Somewhere along the line, someone removed them from this one.”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  “We don’t know,” Susan replied. “Okay, you can lower her now. Nice and gently does it. Good. Fine.”

  Tag was glad to be rid of the body. He stepped away from the coffin to peel off his gloves.

  “Grave robbers might have unwrapped her for her jewelry,” Susan said. “Or the bandages might have been used to make paper or even medicine.”

  “She’s making this up,” Tag warned.

  Henderson shook his head. “The sweet nothings she must whisper into your ear at nights, old buddy. It’d give me the heebee-jeebees.”

  Susan smiled. “The paper bit isn’t likely. It used to happen, though. In fact, there was an American who got involved in that. A guy named Stanwood, who had a paper mill in Maine. He used mummy wrappings in the nineteenth century for the rag content of his paper. He couldn’t get it white, so he sold it to some local butchers for meat wrapping… it started a cholera epidemic.”

  “A storehouse of knowledge,” Tag said. He turned to the fingerprint man, who was now gaping into the coffin. “Can we put the lid on now? I guess the old gal could use her privacy.”

  The fingerprint man nodded. “Sure. I’ll give you a hand.”

  The three men lifted it. As they set it into place on the coffin, Tag saw Susan crouch and pick up a bright chunk of metal. It looked like gold.

  “What’s that?”

  “Part of a seal.” She showed how it fit, like a bit of a jigsaw puzzle into a broken disk of gold on the lid. “See?”

  “It looks like gold.”