The Book of the Dead

by Richard Preston

  Wicherly rose from his chair. “That’s quite a story, Nora.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “On the one hand, it might make an interesting sidebar to the history of the tomb. But I have a sense the museum wouldn’t be too keen on publicizing it, and I’m not sure I’d like to, either. I’d rather focus on the archaeology, on teaching people about ancient Egypt.”

  “I agree with you, Nora.”

  “There’s another reason, maybe even more important. This new murder in the museum—it has some resemblances to the old ones. People will talk, rumors will start.”

  “Rumors have already started.”

  “Well, yes. I’ve been hearing quite a few myself. At any rate, we don’t want anything derailing this opening.”

  “Very true.”

  “Good. I’ll write Menzies a report, with our recommendation that none of this is relevant and that it shouldn’t be publicized.” She closed the folder. “That settles it, then.”

  There was a silence. Wicherly had risen from his seat and was once again standing behind her, glancing down at the scattered papers of the file. He reached over and picked one up, perused it, put it back down. She felt his hand on her shoulder and stiffened.

  A moment later, she felt his lips on the nape of her neck, barely touching her skin, caressing her as lightly as a butterfly.

  She rose abruptly and turned. He stood close to her, blue eyes flashing. “I’m sorry if I startled you.” He smiled, displaying his porcelain rack. “I couldn’t help myself. I find you devastatingly attractive, Nora.”

  He continued smiling at her, radiating self-confidence and charm, elegant and more handsome than any man deserved to be.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m married,” she said.

  “We’ll have a grand time and nobody need ever know.”

  “I will know.”

  He smiled, put a caressing hand on her shoulder. “I want to make love to you, Nora.”

  She took a deep breath. “Adrian, you’re a charming and intelligent man. I’m sure that many women would like to make love to you, too.”

  She could see his smile broadening.

  “But I’m not one of them.”

  “But, my lovely Nora—”

  “Wasn’t that plain enough for you? I haven’t the slightest interest in making love to you, Adrian—even if I weren’t married.”

  Wicherly stood there, dumbfounded, his face struggling to comprehend the sudden reversal of his expectations.

  “I don’t mean to be insulting, just unambiguous, since my earlier efforts to telegraph my lack of interest don’t seem to have penetrated. Please don’t make me be any more hurtful than necessary.”

  She saw the blood drain from his face. His easy self-possession vanished for a moment, exposing what Nora had begun to suspect: a spoiled child blessed with good looks and brilliance, who had developed the firm belief that whatever he wanted, he should get.

  He began to stammer something that might have been intended as an apology, and Nora let her voice soften. “Look, Adrian, let’s just forget it, okay? This never happened. We’ll never mention it again.”

  “Quite right, yes. Very decent of you, thank you, Nora.”

  His face was now flaming with embarrassment, and he looked crushed. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. She wondered if she was perhaps the first woman ever to turn him down.

  “I’ve got a report to write for Menzies,” she said as gently and lightly as possible. “And I believe you need a bit of fresh air. Why not take a brisk turn around the museum?”

  “Yes, good suggestion, thank you.”

  “I’ll see you in a bit.”

  “Yes.”

  And, moving as stiffly as a machine, Wicherly went to the intercom and pressed the button to be released. When the vault door opened, he vanished without another word, and Nora was once again left in peace to take notes and make her report.

  25

  D’Agosta turned the wheel of the meat van and slowed, guiding it out of the woods. Herkmoor rose ahead of him, a brilliant cluster of sodium lights bathing the maze of walls, towers, and cellblocks in an unreal topaz light. As he approached the first set of gates, he continued to slow, passing a cluster of warning signs telling drivers to have their paperwork in order and to expect a search, followed by a list of forbidden items so long it took two billboards to name them all: everything from fireworks to heroin.

  D’Agosta took a deep breath, tried to calm his unsettled nerves. He’d been in prisons before, of course, but always on official business. Driving in like this, bent on some extremely unofficial business, was asking for trouble. Real trouble.

  He stopped at the first chain-link gate. A guard came out of a pillbox and sauntered over, carrying a clipboard.

  “You’re early tonight,” he said.

  D’Agosta shrugged. “It’s my first time up here. Left early, in case I got lost.”

  The guard grunted, shoved the clipboard in the window. D’Agosta attached his paperwork and handed it back. The guard flipped through it with the tip of a pencil, nodding.

  “Know the drill?”

  “Not really,” D’Agosta answered truthfully.

  “You’ll get this back on your way out. Show your ID at the next checkpoint.”

  “Gotcha.”

  The chain-link gate withdrew on wheels, making a rattling noise.

  D’Agosta eased forward, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. Glinn claimed to have planned everything down to the last iota—and had, with remarkable ease, secured his employment under an assumed name with the meatpacking company and arranged for him to get this route. But the fact was, you could never predict what people might do. That was where he and Glinn parted opinion. This little adventure could turn to shit in a heartbeat.

  He drove the truck up to the second gate and, once again, a guard came out.

  “ID?”

  D’Agosta handed him the false driver’s license and permit. The man looked them over. “New man?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You familiar with the layout?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to hear it again.”

  “Go straight through, then bear to the right. When you see the loading dock, back up to the first bay.”

  “Got it.”

  “You can exit the vehicle to supervise the unloading. You may not handle any of the merchandise or assist prison personnel. Stay with the vehicle at all times. As soon as you’re unloaded, you leave. Understood?”

  “Sure.”

  The guard spoke briefly into a radio and the final chain-link gate rolled up.

  As D’Agosta eased the van through and made the right turn, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and removed a pint of Rebel Yell bourbon. He unscrewed the cap and took a slug, swishing it carefully around in his mouth before swallowing. He could feel the fiery bolus burn down his gullet into his stomach. He shook a few drops on his coat for good measure and slipped the bottle back into his jacket pocket.

  In a moment, he had backed up to the loading dock. Two men in coveralls were already waiting, and as soon as he unlocked the back, they began off-loading the boxes and sides of frozen meat.

  D’Agosta watched, hands in his pockets, whistling tunelessly. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch, then turned to a worker. “Say, you got a restroom around here?”

  “Sorry. Not allowed.”

  “But I’ve gotta go.”

  “It’s against the rules.” The worker hefted two boxes of meats to his shoulders and disappeared into the back.

  D’Agosta buttonholed the next man. “Look, I’ve really gotta go.”

  “You heard him. It’s against the rules.”

  “Man, please don’t tell me that.”

  The man put down his box and stared at D’Agosta with a long, tired look. “When you get out of here, you can piss in the woods. Okay?” He lifted the box.

  “I
t ain’t pissing I got to do.”

  “That’s not my problem.” He hoisted up the box and carried it off.

  As the first man approached again, D’Agosta stepped in front of him, blocking his access and breathing heavily into the man’s face. “This is no joke. I need to pinch one off, and I mean now.”

  The man wrinkled up his nose and stepped back. He glanced at his fellow worker. “He’s been drinking.”

  “What’s that?” D’Agosta said belligerently. “What did you say?”

  The man returned the look coolly. “I said, you’ve been drinking.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I can smell it.” He turned to his co-worker. “Get the super.”

  “What the hell for? You gonna give me a Breathalyzer?”

  The other worker disappeared and a moment later he came back with a tall, grim-looking man incongruously dressed in a black blazer, with a belly that hung over his belt like a sack of grain.

  “What seems to be the problem?” the supervisor asked.

  “I think he’s been drinking, sir,” said the first worker.

  The man hooked up his belt and stepped toward D’Agosta. “That right?”

  “No, it isn’t right!” D’Agosta said, getting in his face and breathing hard with indignation.

  The man backed off, unshipped his radio.

  “Look, I’m leaving,” D’Agosta said, trying to make himself sound suddenly accommodating. “I’ve got a long drive to get back to the warehouse. This place is in the middle of frigging nowhere and it’s six o’clock at night.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, pal.” The supervisor spoke briefly into the radio, then turned to one of the workers. “Take him into staff dining and have him wait there.”

  “Come this way, sir.”

  “This is bullshit. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Come this way, sir.”

  Grudgingly, D’Agosta followed the guard through the loading dock and into a large pantry, empty, dark, and smelling strongly of Clorox. They passed through a door in the far wall into a smaller room where, it seemed, the kitchen staff took their own meals when they were not on shift.

  “Have a seat.”

  D’Agosta sat down at one of the stainless-steel tables. The man took a seat at the next table, folded his arms, looked away. A few minutes passed and the supervisor returned, an armed guard at his side.

  “Stand up,” the super said.

  D’Agosta complied.

  The super turned toward the guard. “Search him.”

  “You can’t do that! I know my rights, and—”

  “And this is a federal prison. It’s all spelled out on the signs in front, if you bothered to read them. We have the right to search anyone at will.”

  “Don’t you frigging touch me.”

  “Sir, at the moment, you’ve got a medium-sized problem. If you don’t cooperate, you’re going to have a big problem.”

  “Yeah? What kind of a problem?”

  “How does resisting a federal law enforcement officer sound? Now, last time: raise your arms.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, D’Agosta did as he was ordered. A pat-down quickly brought to light the pint bottle of Rebel Yell.

  The guard pulled out the bottle, shaking his head sadly. He turned to the supervisor. “What now?” he asked.

  “Call the local police department. Have them pick him up. A drunk driver is their problem, not ours.”

  “But I just took one sip!”

  The supervisor turned back. “Sit down and shut up.”

  D’Agosta sat down again a little unsteadily, muttering to himself.

  “And the truck?” the guard asked.

  “Call his company. Have them send someone to pick it up.”

  “It’s after six, there won’t be any management there, and—”

  “Call them in the morning, then. The truck isn’t going anywhere.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The supervisor glanced at the guard. “Stay here with him until the police arrive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The supervisor left. The guard sat down at the farthest table, eyeing D’Agosta balefully.

  “I gotta go to the head,” said D’Agosta.

  The guard sighed heavily but said nothing.

  “Well?”

  The guard rose, scowling. “I’ll take you.”

  “You gonna hold my hand while I take a dump, or can I do it by myself?”

  The scowl deepened. “It’s just down the hall, second door on the right. Hurry it up.”

  D’Agosta rose with a flabby sigh and walked slowly to the lunchroom door, opened it, and staggered through, holding on to the doorknob for support. As soon as the door closed, he turned left and ran silently down a long, empty corridor past a series of fortified lunch-rooms, barred doors all standing open. He ducked into the last one and yanked off the white driver’s uniform, revealing a light tan shirt, which, with the dark brown pants he was wearing, gave him an uncanny resemblance to a typical Herkmoor guard. He stuffed the old shirt into a trash can at the door. Continuing down the hall, he passed a lit station. He nodded to the two officers as he walked by.

  Beyond the station, he slipped a specially modified pen from his pocket, pulled off the cap, and began walking down the corridor, holding it in his hand, videotaping. He walked easily, nonchalantly, like a guard on his rounds, moving the pen this way and that, giving special attention to the placement of the security cameras and other high-tech sensing devices.

  At last he ducked into a men’s room, headed to the second-to-last stall, and closed the door. Digging into the crotch of his pants, he pulled out a small, sealed plastic bag and a small roll of duct tape. He stood on the toilet, lifted a ceiling tile, and used the duct tape to affix the bag to the upper side of the tile. Then he lowered the tile back in place. Score one to Eli Glinn. The man had insisted the pat-down would stop as soon as the bottle of booze was discovered—and he had been right.

  Exiting the bathroom, D’Agosta continued down the hall. Moments later, he heard an alarm go off—not a loud one, just a high-pitched beeping. He walked to the end of the empty corridor, where he was confronted by a set of double doors with a magnetic security lock. Here, he removed his wallet, took out a certain credit card, and swiped it through the door.

  A light turned green and he heard the whir and click of the lock disengaging.

  Score another to Glinn. He quickly ducked through.

  He was now in a small exercise yard, empty at this late hour, with high cinder-block walls on three sides and a chain-link fence on the other. He looked around, verifying that there was no security camera watching him: as Glinn had pointed out, even a prison as high-tech as Herkmoor had to limit its cameras to the most vital areas.

  D’Agosta strolled around the yard quickly, videotaping all the while. Then, returning the pen to his pocket, he stepped toward one wall, loosened his belt and unzipped his pants, and removed a rolled sheet of Mylar, which had been strapped to the inside of his leg. He glanced over his shoulder, then stuffed the Mylar tube into a drainpipe in the corner of the yard, hooking it in place with a bent bobby pin.

  This accomplished, he moved to the chain-link fence, put a hand on it, pulled at it gingerly. This was the part he really, really wasn’t looking forward to.

  Pulling a small pair of wire cutters from his socks, he snipped a three-foot vertical row of the chain links, directly behind one of the metal fence posts. He made sure the cut ends rejoined, the fence looking fully intact, and then he lobbed the wire cutters onto the nearest roof, where it would be a long time before they were found. He walked along the fence for half a dozen yards, taking a steadying breath, then another. Looking through the chain link, he could see the vague forms of the guard towers in the darkness beyond. He swallowed, rubbed his hands together. And then he hoisted himself up the chain link and began to climb.

  Halfway up, he saw a colored wire strip woven through the chain link. As he pa
ssed it, a shrill alarm went off in the yard. Half a dozen sodium vapor lights snapped on around him. There was an immediate response from the guard towers along the perimeter: lights swiveled around, and in a moment they located him on the fence. He continued to climb to the top, and then, steadying himself, and concealing the movement with his arm, he pulled the pen from his pocket, aimed it through the link, and began videotaping the no-man’s-land beyond and below him, now starkly illuminated by the lights focused on him.