TO WAKE THE DEAD

by Richard Laymon

  Waited for the hours to pass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Imad woke up late in the morning, still tired. Bone-weary. He had not fallen asleep until dawn, and feverish dreams had made the sleep a broken, frightening business. Flashes of dream returned to him. A woman weeping brokenhearted in the closet. A grimy hand slapping lifelessly at his windowpane. The green dress, torn and bloody, whirling around his bedroom; falling on his face, smothering…

  Dreams.

  They can’t hurt.

  But they can torment. They can haunt.

  Tonight, he would find himself a woman for comfort.

  He thought of Hydra spiked on his erection, writhing on it, head thrown back, small breasts thrust out. Hydra twitching as the small bullets pierced her back through the closed door as Blaze had fired from within the closet. Hydra, half her face gone, a dark cavity where there ought to be a cheek and a cynical eye and a glossy forehead… and a hole where part of her brain should have been, and… He clenched his fist, perspiring.

  She was like Amara that way.

  Amara.

  That fiend had caused all this—filled him with fear and guilt, started him searching the low parts of town for women. Certainly, there had been women before. Many of them. But there had never been the desperation. There had never been a Hydra.

  She was Amara’s fault.

  He should go to the museum and defecate at Amara’s feet. Throw hog fat onto the wizened corpse. For ancient Egyptians, like Jews and Moslems, pigs were unclean animals. Long ago in Egypt criminals were sometimes sewn into pigskins and buried alive. It killed their spirit and deprived the man of his afterlife with the gods.

  He was tempted to take Callahan’s memoir along too. It would be a relief to be rid of it.

  No.

  Callahan had said to keep it in the safe unless Amara walked. So far, all seemed well.

  So far.

  Perhaps she’d only walked that night to avenge herself on Callahan.

  Perhaps.

  In any case, he would return the memoir to the safe and go to the museum without it to defecate at Amara’s feet. A ripe offering of turd for her late Egyptian majesty.

  Laughing sourly, he climbed out of bed. He would not defecate at her feet today. Nor tomorrow. The farther he remained from the hideous thing the better.

  He put on his robe and slippers, then went downstairs. Outside, the morning was sunny and hot. A wonderful day for the beach. Perhaps he would go there later. Perhaps he would find a lovely young woman, ripe and golden in a bikini. And willing. She must be willing of course. If Imad’s good looks and charm and mammoth bulge at the crotch were insufficient to woo her, his wealth would likely accomplish the task.

  He picked up the morning paper. As he walked back to the house between beds of sweetly scented flowers, he slipped off its string and opened it. On the front page, he saw no mention of bodies being found in remote woodlands. He waited until he was inside before studying the paper more thoroughly. He checked each page. As he progressed, he began to realize that there would be no mention of the bodies of Blaze and Hydra. After all, didn’t the paper go to press late in the night? At perhaps two or three A.M.?

  Nothing would appear, he realized, until tomorrow morning’s edition. Assuming the bodies would be found by then.

  He was about to fold the paper shut when an article caught his eye. Merely a single column beneath a blurry photograph of a middle-aged man in a uniform.

  WARD WATCHMAN KILLED IN FALL

  The night watchman at the Charles Ward Museum fell to his death late Thursday night, police officials stated. According to a police spokesman, the watchman, Barney Quinn, 53, sustained severe neck injuries in his plunge down the main staircase to the museum’s lobby. The cause of death is under investigation.

  Quinn, a former police officer with the…

  Imad skipped the biographical details, but returned to read the first paragraph again and again. The Charles Ward Museum… severe neck injuries… It told him little. Even so, it frightened him. There was more meaning in that dark print for Imad than he dared imagine.

  Amara…

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Blam, blam!” Toby yelled.

  Byron kept running. If he could just get to the clump of bushes, he’d circle around and ambush Toby.

  “Hey! I gotcha!”

  “Did not,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “No fair! I gotcha right in the heart!”

  “I’ve got a bullet-proof vest!”

  “Do not!”

  “Do so!” He ducked behind the bushes. Looking back, he saw Toby walking slowly toward him through the high, brown weeds. The boy’s lips were sticking out.

  “I got you!” Toby called. “No bullet-proof vests. We agreed.”

  “Okay, I’ll take it off.” He sneaked sideways, staying low behind the bushes. Then sprang out. “Ker-plam! Plam, plam!”

  Toby turned to him, startled.

  “Three shots right in the heart.”

  “Ha, ha. I’m wearing a bullet-proof vest too.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve got armor-piercing bullets!”

  “Do not!” He raised his plastic pistol. “Blam! Right in the puss!”

  Byron grabbed his face, spun around, flopped to the ground. When he opened his eyes he found himself staring into a leathery, eyeless face. He scrambled to his knees and peered at it. Then at the rest of the body. All that hair… red like the red foil you sometimes get on chocolates… and skin. Dry. Hard. A glossy look. For some reason, it reminded him of the skin of a melon only dark brown. He could even smell it. A spicy smell. Like a deli store. One that needed airing out badly. The spicy odors settled thickly in the back of his throat.

  “Wow,” he whispered. “Toby… hey, Toby!”

  “You’re dead.”

  “Toby…”

  “At least you’re supposed to be.”

  “No. Come here.”

  “Gotcha right in the puss.”

  “Come here and take a look!”

  “I know that trick, so no can do.”

  “Toby. Take a look! This is really cool! Quick!”

  Toby, holstering the made-in-Hong-Kong weapon, ran through the weeds to join Byron.

  As they both stared at the dark face, a spider crawled out of its left eye socket, scurried down its ruined cheek, which was as ridged and wrinkled as a 3-D relief of the Rockies.

  At last Toby managed to ask, “What is it?”

  “A body.”

  “I saw my Uncle Frank’s body. Looked nothing like this critter.”

  “Maybe this one’s older?” Byron suggested.

  “Maybe it isn’t even a body. Maybe it’s a dummy. Somebody put it here to scare us.”

  “Looks like a body to me, a naked body,” Byron said. “A real old one. Like maybe an Indian that got killed a hundred years ago.”

  “What are those?” Toby asked, pointing.

  “Her tits, stupid.”

  “Yuck.”

  “See that? She’s a girl.”

  “You sure?”

  “Geez, Toby, don’t you know nothing? If it hasn’t got a whang, it’s a girl. That’s how you tell.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Sure you did. Sure.”

  “I did.”

  “The only way it isn’t a girl is if a guy gets his whang cut off with a knife. Then he turns into a girl anyway. They call ‘em transsectionals.”

  “Sure. I knew that. Everyone knows that.”

  “Yeah.” Reaching out, Byron touched the brown skin of the body’s shoulder. It felt dry and wrinkled, like beef jerky, before smoothing out across the chest to that melon-skin effect, then rising to hollow breasts that looked like… well, they just looked gross. “Oooh, you oughtta feel it.”

  Toby nodded. He looked pale, but he knelt in the weeds, poked a finger into the mass of red hair. It scrunched dry as the weeds themselves under his knees. It was springy at first, but his finger got ent
angled with it the deeper he pushed. For some irrational reason he thought something would be in the hair. Something that’d bite. He withdrew his finger and touched the same shoulder Byron now pawed. “I don’t think it’s real.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “We better tell our folks.”

  “Are you kidding? They’d take it away from us.”

  “It isn’t ours.”

  “Is now. Finders keepers.”

  “What do you want it for?”

  Byron shrugged. “Come on, let’s take it over to my house.”

  “This way,” Byron said, leading the group of children across his backyard. There were five of them: Barbara and Tina, who’d been skipping rope in Tina’s driveway; Hank Greenberg, found shooting baskets alone; the Watson twins, picked up on their return from the A&W. He could have dug up half-a-dozen more neighborhood kids, but Barbara was getting impatient and she was a big-mouth. Big, loud mouth. After the group was finished, he’d have Barbara out of his hair. He could take his time and round up a bigger bunch. No big-mouths guaranteed.

  “It better be good,” Barbara said, “or you’ve gotta give us our money back.”

  “Oh-ho, no,” Byron told her. “It’s fifty cents a look and you can’t have your money back no matter what.”

  “I’m not gonna look then.”

  “Okay. Get outta here.”

  “No.”

  “Want to get pounded?”

  “Give him his money,” Tina said. “If it ain’t any good, I’ll get my brother on him.”

  At the corner of the garage, Byron halted the group and took the admission fees. The Watson twins paid with a fresh, stiff dollar bill. The others paid in quarters. He counted the take: $2.50.

  Pretty good.

  But that’s only the start.

  This is gonna make me rich.

  “Okay,” he told them. “Follow me.”

  He led them behind the garage, where Toby was waiting.

  “Feast your eyes,” Byron announced, trying to sound like a ringmaster. He swept his hand toward a long shape propped against the garage wall. A white sheet shrouded it from top to bottom.

  “Bet it’s Tommy Jones,” Barbara said, sarcastic, and reached for the sheet.

  Byron shoved her away.

  “Hey!” she snapped.

  “Don’t you touch it.”

  “It’s just Tommy Jones. And this is just a rip-off. Come out, Tommy.”

  “If it is,” Tina said, “I’m going to fetch my brother and there’s gonna be some busted noses around here.”

  “It isn’t Tommy, it’s…” Byron paused for dramatic effect. “It’s the body of an ancient Apache squaw.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Everyone stand back,” Byron advised. “You don’t want to be standing too close.”

  Barbara stepped away. She folded her arms across her T-shirt. Her face wore a smirk.

  “Ready?” Toby asked.

  “Wait.” Byron turned to his audience. “You’ve gotta promise to keep it a secret and never tell a soul.”

  “It’s something dirty,” Barbara muttered.

  Tina giggled. “Tommy’s probably in his birthday suit.”

  “Cross your hearts and hope to die,” Byron said.

  They all crossed their hearts except Barbara. “I’m not gonna hope to die. It’s against my religion.”

  “Okay. But you’ve got to promise. If you tell anyone, we’ll pound you.”

  “You and who else, doofus?”

  “Geez, Barbara,” Tina said. “Let’s see what it is.”

  “I know what it is. It’s Tommy Jones with his peter out.”

  The Watson twins giggled.

  “Tommy’s in Yosemite,” said Hank Greenberg. “His uncle’s gotta place up there. They go fishing in the—”

  “Hey! You guys want to see this or don’t you?” Byron sounded short of patience now.

  “Sure,” Barbara said, arms still crossed, still belligerent. “Let’s see what the big deal is.”

  Byron nodded to Toby.

  Toby tugged the sheet. The figure tipped forward as the sheet pulled loose, revealing the dried body. The girls screamed. They leaped out of the way as it fell into their midst, hair flaring out, sightless eyes staring into their faces. Still screaming, they ran. Didn’t stop running. Piercing screams faded into the distance.

  Hank, pale and shaking his head, backed away. “You guys are nuts,” he muttered. Then he ran too. Made it as far as the driveway, tossed his cookies, then carried on running.

  “They’re gonna tell,” Toby said.

  “Let ‘em… just let ‘em. We’ll just say they lied.” He felt the money in his pocket. $2.50. This was just a start. He was gonna be the richest kid in town.

  “But what about her?” Toby pointed at the mummy lying facedown, its swathe of hair covering its back in tumbling curls.

  Byron stared at her frowning. This was his cash cow. He wasn’t losing it for nothing. “I’ve got it! We’ll hide her someplace. In my bedroom. Under my bed. They’ll never think of looking there.”

  “Is anybody home?” Toby asked.

  Byron shook his head. “Mom took the baby with her shopping. Come on. Take the head.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “I feel so grubby,” Susan said as they left the museum later that morning. Tag held her hand. They walked down the broad, concrete stairs. “Like I’ve been touched by something really disgusting.”

  “Not my hand, is it? I swear I washed it this morning.”

  She laughed softly. “No, it’s not your hand. I’m sure your hand is immaculate.”

  “It’s not that clean.”

  “No, but don’t you ever feel that way? Like you’re contaminated from just being close to where such awful things have happened?”

  “I feel that way a lot. You know what takes care of it? A long hot shower, strong soap, a couple of drinks, a good meal, clever conversation—preferably not alone. A little siesta.”

  “Preferably not alone,” Susan added, the smile still playing on her lips. “Sounds like it might do the trick. I really have to spend more time with Geoffrey today, though. We don’t see enough of each other as it is.”

  “We’ve got the whole day before us,” Tag said.

  “I’m feeling less grubby by the second.”

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  They went to Tag’s apartment. The siesta came first, but they didn’t sleep. Then they took a long hot shower, soaping each other, growing excited by the feel of slippery skin, and making love awkwardly in the tub with water pelting them like hot rain. When they were dry and dressed, they took the elevator down to Susan’s apartment.

  She made Tag a Bloody Mary. She drank Perrier and played with the baby while Maria made tacos for lunch.

  “This has turned into a pretty decent day,” Tag said.

  “Not half bad,” Susan agreed. She felt good. Her skin tingled. She felt warm inside, pleasantly satisfied. The horrors at the museum, the threat of Mabel seemed far away.

  After lunch, they took Geoffrey outside for a stroll in the sun. Tag looked happy pushing the baby carriage. They walked for blocks, finally arriving at a municipal park where they sat in the bleachers and watched kids playing softball.

  “Geoffrey’s going to be a real slugger,” Tag told her.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I’m gonna teach him.”

  Geoffrey turned his wide eyes on Tag and grinned as if he understood.

  When a foul ball shot toward his face, he blinked, kept grinning. Susan gasped with fright. Tag flung out a hand, caught the ball, tossed it back to the kids with a good-natured “Here you are.”

  “I think it’s time to leave,” Susan said quickly.

  They were watching television later that afternoon, when the telephone rang. Susan picked it up. “Hello?”

  “Hello? Miss Connors? Is Taggart Parker in?”

  “Yes, he is. Just a moment, I’ll
see if I can tear him away from the game.” She waved the phone at him. “For you.”

  “Marty Benson?”

  She shrugged.

  Tag took the phone. “Hello… Ah, Marty. What’d you come up with?” He listened for a long time, nodding at first, then frowning. Finally, he said, “Okay, thanks a lot.” Hanging up, he turned to Susan. “Marty’s with the Medical Examiner’s Office. I asked him to call me when they finished with Beckerman and Gonzalez.”

  “That was quick.”

  “They put a rush on.” He sat down and stared at the television. The crowd went wild, but he didn’t react. He was lost in thought, frowning.

  “Well?” Susan asked.

  “The wounds on both men match. They weren’t made by dog teeth.”

  “Then by what?”

  “By a human.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Gonzalez got off some shots before he was killed. He hit something and knocked out plenty of tissue and bone. They analyzed it… and it was old, real old. Dead tissue. Traces of natron, some chemical they used to…”

  “I know. Part of the mummification process. They used it to speed up the dehydration which in turn halted decay of the flesh.”

  “The upshot is, they’re pretty sure the tissue came from the mummy.”

  “He was shooting at Amara?”

  Tag sighed into his folded hands. “It sure looks that way. And get this: They found scrapings of the same flesh under Beckerman’s fingernails. Also long red hairs on the body that matched those found in Amara’s coffin.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If I threw you down on the floor right now and ripped off your clothes…”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “And you tried to fight me off…”

  “Which I would, since Maria’s in the kitchen.”

  Tag grinned, but he looked tired. “You might scratch me. You’d likely end up with some of my skin under your nails. Maybe some of my hair lying around.”

  “And they found Amara’s skin under Beckerman’s nails, and some of her hair on his clothes, which means he was fighting with her?”