The Book of the Dead

by Richard Preston

  “You are under surveillance!” came a bullhorned voice from the nearest tower. “Stop immediately!”

  From over his shoulder, D’Agosta saw six guards burst into the yard and run like hell toward him. He replaced the pen in his pocket and glanced along the top edge of the fence. Two wires ran through the chain link here, one white, the other red. He grasped the red one, yanked as hard as he could.

  Another alarm went off.

  “Halt!”

  The guards had reached the bottom of the fence and were climbing up after him. He felt first one, then two, then half a dozen hands grasping at his feet and legs. After a brief show of struggle, he let himself be dragged back down into the yard.

  Guns drawn, they surrounded him in a circle. “Who the hell is this?” one barked. “Who are you?”

  D’Agosta sat up. “I’m the truck driver,” he said, slurring his words.

  “The what?” another guard said.

  “I just heard about this one. He did the meat delivery, got pulled off because he was drunk.”

  D’Agosta groaned and cradled his arm. “You hurt me.”

  “Jesus, you’re right. He’s drunk as a lord.”

  “I just took one sip.”

  “On your feet.”

  D’Agosta tried to rise, staggered. One of them caught his forearm and helped him up. There was a snicker. “He thought he was going to escape.”

  “Come on, pal.”

  The guards escorted him back to the kitchen, where his guard was standing, red-faced, along with the supervisor.

  The super rounded on him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  D’Agosta slurred his words. “Got lost on the way to the john. Decided to blow the joint.” He gave a drunken laugh.

  More snickers.

  The supervisor was not amused. “How did you get out into the yard?”

  “What yard?”

  “Outside.”

  “I dunno. Door was unlocked, I guess.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  D’Agosta shrugged, slumped down in the chair, and promptly nodded off.

  “Go check the yard 4 access,” the supervisor snapped at one of the guards. Then he turned back to the first guard. “You stay here with him. Do you understand? Don’t let him go anywhere. Let him shit his pants if necessary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank Christ he didn’t make it over the fence and into no-man’s-land. Do you know what a paperwork headache that would have caused?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  D’Agosta noticed, to his great relief, that in the confusion and commotion, nobody noticed his shirt was a different color than before. Score three to Glinn.

  At that moment, two local cops came in, looking bewildered. “This the guy?”

  “Yeah.” The guard prodded D’Agosta with his riot stick. “Wake up, asshole.”

  D’Agosta roused himself, stood up.

  The policemen seemed at a loss. “So what do we do? We gotta sign something?”

  The supervisor wiped his brow. “What do you do? Lock him up for drunk driving.”

  One of the policemen removed a notebook. “Break any laws on the premises? You filing any charges?”

  A short silence followed, the guards glancing at each other.

  “No,” said the supervisor. “Just get him the hell out of here. After that, he’s your headache. I don’t want to see him around here, ever again.”

  He shut the notebook. “All right, we’ll take him downtown, give him a Breathalyzer. Come on, pal.”

  “I’ll pass! I only took one sip!”

  “If that’s the case, you don’t have much to worry about, now, do you?” said the cop wearily as he led D’Agosta out the door.

  26

  Captain of Homicide Laura Hayward arrived on the scene a minute or two after the paramedics. She could hear the shrieks of the victim ringing down through the attic rooms, and they warmed her heart: nobody who was going to be dead any time soon could squall that lustily.

  She ducked through a series of low doors until she arrived at the crime scene tape. With relief, she saw it was Sergeant Visconti and his partner, an officer named Martin.

  “Brief me,” she said as she approached.

  “We were the closest team to the attack,” Visconti replied. “We scared off the perp. He was bent over the victim, working him over. When he saw us approaching, he fled back into the attics.”

  “Get a look at him?”

  “Just a shadow.”

  “Weapon?”

  “Unknown.”

  She nodded.

  “We also found Lipper’s wallet.” Visconti gestured with his chin toward a plastic evidence box, lined up with several others just outside the tape.

  Hayward leaned over, opened the box. “I want a full battery on the wallet and everything inside—DNA, latents, trace fibers, the works. And freeze a dozen swabs of blood and a dozen of organics for future workups.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “Is the other guard around, what’s-his-name—Morris? I’d like to talk to him.”

  Visconti spoke into his radio, and a moment later a cop appeared at the far edge of the scene, leading the other guard. The man’s comb-over was in disarray, hanging like a flap down the side of his head, and his clothes were disheveled. He stank of alcohol preservative.

  “You okay?” she asked. “Able to talk?”

  “I think so.” His voice was high and breathy.

  “Did you see the attack?”

  “No. I was . . . too far away, and my back was turned.”

  “But you must have seen or heard something in the moments before it occurred.”

  Morris struggled to concentrate. “Well, there was this . . . screaming. Like an animal. And breaking glass. Then something came rushing out from the darkness . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Something? It wasn’t a person?”

  Morris’s eyes slid from side to side. “It was just, like, a screaming, rushing shape.”

  Hayward turned to another of the officers. “Take Mr. Morris downstairs and have Detective Sergeant Whittier question him further.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Two EMTs came into view from behind a mountain of stacked boxes, pushing a stretcher with an enormous, groaning mound on top.

  “What’s his state?” she asked.

  “Lacerated with what looks like a crude knife, or maybe a claw.”

  “Claw?”

  The technician shrugged. “Some of the cuts are pretty ragged. Luckily, none of them reached vital organs—one advantage to being fat. Some blood loss, shock . . . He’ll recover.”

  “Can he talk?”

  “You’re welcome to give it a shot,” said an EMT. “He’s been sedated.”

  Hayward leaned over. The guard’s damp, bulging face stared at the ceiling. The smell of liquor, formaldehyde, and dead fish assaulted her nostrils.

  She spoke gently. “Wilson Bulke?”

  His eyes flickered toward her, away again.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  No clear response.

  “Mr. Bulke, did you see your attacker?”

  The eyes gyrated in their sockets, and his wet mouth opened. “The . . . face.”

  “What face? What did it look like?”

  “Twisted . . . Oh, God . . .”

  He groaned, mumbled something unintelligible.

  “Can you be more specific, sir? Male or female?”

  A whimper, a brief shake of the head.

  “One, or more than one?”

  “One,” came the croaked reply.

  Hayward looked at the EMT. He shrugged.

  She turned, gestured to a detective waiting nearby. “Stay with him on the way to the hospital. If he becomes more coherent, get a complete description of his attacker. I want to know what we’re up against.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  She straightened up, looked ar
ound at the small group of police. “Whoever or whatever this is, we’ve got it cornered. I want us to go in. Now.”

  “Shouldn’t we call for a SWAT team?” said Visconti.

  “It would take hours before a SWAT team could gear up and get over here. And their rules of engagement are so ponderous they’d slow everything down. There was fresh blood on that wallet—there’s a chance Lipper might still be alive and a hostage.” She looked around. “I want you three to come with me: Sergeant Visconti, Officer Martin, and Detective Sergeant O’Connor.”

  There was a silence. The three officers exchanged glances.

  “Is there a problem? It’s four against one.”

  More hesitant looks.

  She sighed. “Don’t tell me you boys have bought into the rumors the museum guards are spreading? What, you think we’re going to get jammed up by a mummy?”

  Visconti colored, and by way of answer removed his weapon and gave it a quick check. The others followed suit.

  “Turn off your radios, cell phones, pagers, everything. I don’t want to be creeping up on the perp and suddenly hear Beethoven’s Fifth coming from your BlackBerry.”

  They nodded.

  Hayward took out a photocopy she’d requested of the attic layout of the museum and pressed it flat on a box. “Okay. This section of the attic is divided into sixteen narrow rooms—here—divided into two long lines under parallel roofs, with a connecting passage at the far end. Think of it as a U. Besides the stairway down, there’s only one possible escape route: a rooftop accessible through this row of windows, here. I’ve already had it covered. The skylights are supposed to be barred. Which means the only way for the killer to escape is through us . . . He’s cornered.”

  She paused, looked at them each in turn. “We advance in pairs: quick observation of each room and retreat, then move and cover. I’ll partner with O’Connor. Martin, you and Visconti stay a half-room behind. Don’t overcommit. And remember: we’ve got to proceed under the assumption—the hope—that Lipper’s still alive and being held hostage. We can’t risk killing him. Only if you have verification that Lipper’s already wasted can you use deadly force—and then only if absolutely necessary. Are we clear on this?”

  They all nodded.

  “I’ll lead.”

  When none of the three protested or made the usual faux-gallant comments about its being a job for a man, Hayward took it as a sign that women were finally being accepted in the force. Or maybe the three were just scared silent.

  They stepped carefully through the crime scene, Hayward leading, O’Connor at her heels. The floor was smeared with blood, and a shelf of specimen jars lay where it had fallen, shards of glass and the broken, putrid remains of eels scattered in puddles of foul-smelling preservative. They moved past the guard at the far end of the crime scene and into the next room of the attic. The temporary lights set up around the crime scene were fainter here, cloaking the room in near-darkness.

  Hayward and O’Connor moved to either side of the doorway. She gave a quick peek inside, ducked back, nodded to O’Connor, then proceeded.

  Empty. More shelves had been thrown over, the glass littering the floor, filling the room with the choking stench of preservative. These jars seemed to have been filled with small rodents. A pile of papers had been dashed about and numerous stored objects flung helter-skelter. It reminded her, in a way, of the preliminary autopsy report on DeMeo: the killer had rooted about haphazardly among his internal organs, ripping and pulling stuff out with a kind of crazy, disorganized violence. A sick kind of vandalism.

  She crept up to the next door, waited until the others were in position, ducked around for a visual. Another room, like the previous, completely trashed. One of the dingy skylights had been broken, but the bars above it were still intact. No escape that way.

  She froze, suddenly listening. A faint sound was echoing back from the dark attics beyond.

  “Hush!” she whispered. “Hear that?”

  It was a strange kind of stumbling, limping gait: a dragging sound, followed by an unsettling thump: Draaag-thump. Draaag-thump.

  Hayward moved into the next room, almost pitch-dark now. Pulling out her flashlight, she used it to illuminate the dark corners. The room contained thousands of plaster faces—death masks—staring at them from every square foot of wall surface. Some of the masks showed signs of recent damage: someone, apparently the killer, had slashed at the masks, gouging out their eyes, leaving smears of blood everywhere.

  The lights were off in the next room. Crouching beside the door frame of the next room, Hayward gestured for the men behind to stay put.

  She leaned forward, listening intently. The strange sound had ceased: the killer was waiting, listening. She sensed, rather than knew, that he was near: very near.

  She could feel the level of tension within their little group rising. Better to keep going: the less thinking the better.

  Hayward ducked forward, swept the room with her flashlight, then ducked back again as quickly as she could. Something was crouching in the middle of the next room—naked, bestial, bloody . . . but definitely human, and surprisingly small and thin.

  She gestured to the others, held one finger upward, then rotated it slowly toward the doorway: one perp, in the room beyond.

  There was a tense moment as they gathered themselves. And then Hayward spoke in a firm, clear voice: “Police officers. Do not move. We’re armed and we’ve got you covered. Walk to the doorway with your hands up.”

  She heard a scrambling noise, a thumping and banging like a beast shambling on all fours.

  “He’s running!”

  Gun drawn, Hayward ducked around the corner just in time to see a dark figure scuttle into the darkness of the room beyond. This was followed by a tremendous crash.

  “Let’s go!”

  She ran across the room to the far doorway, paused, gave a quick look into the next with the flashlight. There was no sign of the figure, but there were plenty of nooks and crannies where the killer could hide.

  “Again!” They charged into the next room, immediately spreading out and taking cover.

  This was the largest attic room yet, filled with gray metal shelves tightly packed with jars. In each jar resided a single staring eye, the size of a cantaloupe, roots dangling like tentacles. One shelf of jars had been thrown to the ground, and the eyeballs lay ruptured, oozing jelly amid the glass and preservative.

  A quick search disclosed the room was empty. Hayward gathered the team.

  “Slowly but surely,” she said, “we’re driving him into a corner. Remember that people, like animals, get progressively more dangerous as they become cornered.”

  Nods all around.

  She glanced around. “The whale eyeball collection, it seems.”

  A few nervous, steadying laughs.

  “Okay. We’ll take it one room at a time. No hurry.”

  Hayward moved to the edge of the next door, listened, then ducked her head around, flashed the light. Nothing.

  As they moved into the room, Hayward heard a sudden, rending scream from beyond the far doorway, followed by the tremendous crash of glass and the sound of running liquid. The men jumped as if they’d been shot. A strong odor of ethyl alcohol drifted back.

  “That stuff is flammable,” Hayward said. “If he’s got a match, get ready to run.”

  She moved forward, raking the next room beyond with her flashlight.

  “I see it!” O’Connor cried.

  Draaag-thump! A shriek like a banshee, and then a dark figure, scuttling sideways but with horrifying single-mindedness, came rushing at them, gray flint knife raised in a fisted hand; Hayward jumped back as it crossed the threshold, knife slashing the air.

  “Police!” she called out. “Drop your weapon!”

  But the figure paid no heed, shambling crablike at them, knife still slashing the air.

  “Don’t shoot!” Hayward cried. “Mace him!”

  She dodged the figure, drawing it aroun
d, while the other three cops flanked it on both sides, holstering their guns and pulling out their riot sticks and Mace. Visconti jumped forward and Maced the attacker and he howled like a demon, spinning and whipping the stone knife around blindly; Hayward deftly stepped in and gave a sharp, plunging kick to the inside of one leg, sending him sprawling. A second kick sent the knife skittering across the floor.