The Book of the Dead

by Richard Preston

  Wicherly smoothed down his thatch of hair, glancing around nervously. They had caught the killer the day before and there was nothing to worry about. Nothing. Strange, though, what had happened to Lipper . . . typical smart-arsed New Yorker, one wouldn’t have thought he would snap like that. Well, they were all a little tense. These Americans worked themselves half to death—he couldn’t believe the hours they worked. Back at the British Museum, such demands would be looked on as downright uncivilized, if not illegal. Look at him now, for example: three o’clock in the bloody morning. Of course, given the nature of Menzies’s assignment, it was understandable.

  Wicherly swiped his card through the reader attached to the wall, punched in his code, and the gleaming new stainless-steel doors to the Tomb of Senef opened with a whisper of well-machined metal. The tomb exhaled the scent of dry stone, epoxy glue, dust, and warm electronics. The lights came up automatically. Nothing had been left to chance; everything was now fully programmed. A backup tech to succeed poor Lipper had already reported for duty, but so far had proved superfluous. The grand opening was only five days away, and although the tomb’s collections were only partially installed, the lighting, electronics, and the sound-and-light show were ready to go.

  Still, Wicherly hesitated. His eye strayed down the long, sloping staircase to the corridor beyond. He felt a small tingle of apprehension. Trying to shake it off, he stepped inside and walked down the stairs, his oxfords making a chuff-chuff sound on the worn stones.

  At the first door, he paused, almost against his will, glance arrested by the great Eye of Horus and the hieroglyphs below. To any who cross this threshold, may Ammut swallow his heart. It was a standard enough curse; he had entered a hundred tombs under a similar threat, and never once had it put the wind up him. But the image of Ammut on the far wall was unusually hideous. And then, there was the strange, dark history of the tomb, not to mention the business with Lipper . . .

  The ancient Egyptians believed in the magical powers of the incantations and images written on tomb walls, especially in the Book of the Dead. These were not mere decoration: they had a power against which the living were helpless. In studying Egypt for so long, in learning to read hieroglyphics fluently, in immersing himself in their ancient beliefs, Wicherly had come to half believe them himself. Of course, they were all rubbish, but at one level he understood them so thoroughly they almost seemed real.

  And never had they seemed more real than at that moment: especially the squatting, grotesque form of Ammut, its slavering crocodile jaws open and glistening, the scaly head morphing into a leopard’s spotted body, which in turn segued into the hindquarters of a hippo. Those hindquarters were the most vile of all: a bloated, slimy, misshapen fundament spreading over the ground. All three animals, Wicherly knew, were common killers of people during the time of the pharaohs, and greatly feared. A monstrous amalgamation of all three was the worst creature the ancient Egyptians could imagine.

  Shaking his head and forcing a rueful chuckle, Wicherly walked on. He was letting himself get spooked by his own erudition, by all the ridiculous talk and silly rumors circulating through the museum. After all, this was not some tomb lost in the wastes of the Upper Nile: one of the biggest, most modern cities in the world was sitting right on top of him. Even as he stood there, he heard the distant, muffled rumble of a late-night subway. It annoyed him: despite all their efforts, they had been unable to block out totally the sound of the Central Park West subway.

  He crossed the well and glanced up at the dense script from the Book of the Dead, his eye arrested by the odd inscription that he had so cavalierly dismissed during his first visit:

  The place which is sealed. That which lieth down in the closed place is reborn by the Ba-soul which is in it; that which walketh in the closed space is dispossessed of the Ba-soul. By the Eye of Horus I am delivered or damned, O great god Osiris.

  Like many inscriptions from the Book of the Dead, it was well-nigh opaque. But as he read it a second time, a glimmer of understanding came to him. The ancients believed people had five distinct souls. The Ba-soul was the ineffable power and personality each person possessed: this soul flew back and forth between the tomb and the underworld, and it was the means by which the deceased kept in touch with the underworld. But the Ba-soul had to reunite with the mummified corpse every night, or the deceased would die again: this time permanently.

  The passage, it seemed to Wicherly, implied that those who invaded the place which was sealed—the tomb—would be deprived of their Ba-soul and thus damned by the Eye of Horus. In ancient Egypt, the insane were considered to be people who had somehow lost their Ba-soul. In other words, those who defiled the tomb would be driven insane.

  Wicherly shivered. Isn’t that just what had happened to that poor bugger Lipper?

  Suddenly he found himself laughing out loud, his voice echoing unpleasantly in the close confines of the tomb. What was the matter with him? He was becoming as superstitious as a bloody Irishman. He gave his head another, more vigorous shake and proceeded into the inner tomb. He had work to do. He had a special errand to run for Dr. Menzies.

  35

  Nora unlocked her office door, laid her laptop and mail on the desk, then shrugged out of her coat and hung it up. It was a cold, sunny late-March morning, and yellow light streamed in the window, making an almost horizontal bar of gold light, raking the spines of the books crowding the shelves along the opposite wall.

  Four more days until the opening, she thought with satisfaction, and then she could get back to her potsherds—and her husband, Bill. Because of her long hours at the museum, their lovemaking had been so scarce of late he’d even stopped bothering to complain. Four more days. It had been a long, stressful haul—and bizarre even by museum standards—but it was almost over. And who knew? The opening might actually be fun. She’d be taking Bill, and she knew how much he liked a good gorge—and the museum, for all its shortcomings, knew how to throw a party.

  She settled at her desk and had just begun slitting open the letters when a knock sounded at the door.

  “Come in,” she said, wondering who else would be in so early—it was barely eight o’clock.

  The avuncular form of Menzies appeared in the doorway, his blue eyes worried, his brow furrowed with concern.

  “May I?” he asked, gesturing at the guest chair.

  “Please.”

  He came in and sat down, folding one leg over the other and tugging at the crease in his herringbone slacks. “You haven’t seen Adrian, have you?”

  “No. But it’s very early, he probably isn’t in yet.”

  “That’s just the thing. He did come in: at three this morning. Checked in through security and accessed the tomb, according to the electronic security logs. Then he left the tomb at three-thirty, locked it up tight. Strange thing is, he didn’t leave the museum—he hasn’t checked out. Security shows him as still on the premises, but he’s not in his office or lab. In fact, I can’t find him anywhere. I thought perhaps he might have said something to you.”

  “No, nothing. Do you know why he came in at three?”

  “He might have wanted to get a head start on the day: as you know, we have to start moving in the final artifacts at nine. I’ve got the carpenters, the Exhibition Department, and the conservation staff all mobilized. But no Adrian. I can’t believe he would just vanish like this.”

  “He’ll show up. He’s always been reliable.”

  “I should hope so.”

  “I should hope so, too,” came another voice.

  Nora glanced up, startled. Wicherly stood in the doorway, looking at her.

  Menzies seemed startled himself and then smiled with relief. “There you are! I was starting to get worried.”

  “No need to worry about me.”

  Menzies rose. “Well then, much ado about nothing. Adrian, I’d like to have a chat with you in my office about the artifact placements. We have a big day ahead of us.”

  “Mind if I have
a word with Nora first? I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  “Fine.” Menzies left and shut the door behind him.

  Wicherly sat himself down, uninvited, in the wing chair Menzies had just vacated. Nora felt a twitch of annoyance. She hoped he wasn’t going to repeat his asinine behavior of the previous week.

  When he spoke again, his voice was laced with sarcasm. “Worrying that I might try to slip something unwelcome into your knickers?”

  “Adrian, I don’t have time for this. I’ve got a busy day ahead of me, and so do you. Give it a rest.”

  “Not after your abominable behavior.”

  “My behavior?” Nora took a breath: this was not the time to get into it. “The door is over there. Please use it.”

  “Not until we settle this thing.”

  Nora looked at Wicherly more closely, feeling a twinge of alarm. She was suddenly struck by how tired he looked—wiped out, even. His face was white; gray pouches had formed under his blue eyes; and his hair was damp and disordered. Most surprising of all, his suit and tie, always immaculate, looked untidy, even disheveled. Beads of sweat stood on his brow.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine!” But as he spoke, one side of his face suddenly contracted in a grotesque twitch.

  “Adrian, I honestly think you need a break. You’ve been working too hard.” She kept her voice calm and cool. As soon as he left, she would call Menzies and suggest he order Wicherly home for the day. Much as they needed his expertise—and despite his obnoxious behavior, he’d proved invaluable—they couldn’t afford a crack-up just before the opening.

  His face twitched again, a horrible muscular contraction that screwed his handsome features into a brief grimace before allowing them to spring back into normalcy.

  “Why did you ask me that, Nora? Don’t I seem all right?”

  His voice had risen in volume. She noticed his hands were gripping the arm of the chair so hard that the fingernails were digging into the fabric.

  Nora rose from her seat. “You know, with all your hard work, I really think you’ve earned a day off.” She decided she wouldn’t even check with Menzies: she was the curator of the show, and she was going to send him home. Wicherly was in no condition to be supervising the moving of millions of dollars’ worth of artifacts.

  Another hideous twitch. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “You’re exhausted, that’s all. I’m giving you the day off. This is not optional, Adrian. I want you to go home and get some rest.”

  “Not optional? And since when have you been my boss?”

  “Since the day you arrived here. Now, please go home or I’ll be forced to call security.”

  “Security? They’re a ruddy joke!”

  “Please remove yourself from my office.” And Nora reached for the phone.

  But suddenly Wicherly—rising—lunged forward and swept it from the desk to the floor, stomped on the cradle, yanked the wire out the back, and tossed it aside.

  Nora froze. Something terrible was happening to Wicherly, something utterly beyond her experience.

  “Look, Adrian,” she said calmly. “Let’s just cool down here.” She stood up, then began edging along the desk.

  “You bloody tart,” he said in a low, menacing tone.

  Nora could see his fingers twitching now, contracting a little more with each twitch until they formed a spastically clutching fist. She could almost smell the air of violence gathering around him. She came around the desk, not fast, but with slow determination.

  “I’m leaving,” she said as firmly as she could. At the same time, she braced for a fight. If he came at her, she’d go straight for his eyes.

  “The fuck you are.” Wicherly stepped across her path while at the same time reaching behind his back and turning the lock in the door.

  “Get away from me now!”

  He stood his ground, eyes bloodshot, pupils like tiny black bullets. She struggled against a rising panic. What would work: calm persuasion or stern command? She could smell his sweat, almost as strong as urine. His face had screwed itself up again in a series of spastic jerks, his right fist clenching and unclenching. He looked exactly as if he’d been possessed by demonic forces.

  “Adrian, everything’s okay,” she said, working a soothing note into her trembling voice. “You just need help. Let me call for a doctor.”

  More twitching, his neck muscles knotting and bulging.

  “I think you might be having a seizure of some kind,” she said. “Do you understand, Adrian? You need a doctor immediately. Please let me help you.”

  He tried to say something but instead he spluttered, spittle drooling down his chin.

  “Adrian, I’m going to step outside now and call you a doctor—”

  His right hand jerked up like a shot, striking her hard across the face, but she had been tensing for just such an attack and she managed to sidestep the main force of the blow. She fell backward. “Somebody help me! Guards! Call the guards!”

  “Shut up, bitch!” He shuffled forward, dragging one leg, and struck at her again, wildly. She stumbled against the side of her desk, off balance, and he leaped on top of her immediately, slamming her down and sending her laptop crashing to the floor.

  “Help! I’m being attacked!”

  She stabbed at his eyes with the rigid fingers of her hand, but he swatted her arm away and dealt her a blow across the side of her head, while his other hand grabbed the top of her blouse and ripped downward, scattering buttons.

  She screamed again and tried to twist away from his grip, but his free hand came around and wrapped around her neck with shocking force, cutting off the sound. She scrabbled with her legs, trying to find a purchase, but he scissored them in his own.

  “So, you think you’re the boss?” He raised his other hand and together they began squeezing her neck harder. She flailed, tore at his hair, pounded his back, but he seemed not even to notice, so fixated was he on the grip of his hands, his sweaty, stinking, twitching face shoved into hers.

  “I’ll show you who’s boss around here.”

  Nora punched and clawed helplessly, her diaphragm heaving to suck in air that wouldn’t come. Her larynx felt nearly crushed under the awful pressure. He’d blocked the blood flow to her brain and she felt the strength draining away like water from a burst hose; her eyes were suddenly flecked with a million exploding stars, and a spreading stain of darkness began clouding the edges of her vision like ink poured into water.

  “How does it feel, bitch?”

  She heard sounds in the background, as if from far away; a violent hammering and splintering of wood; and then, from the furthest edge of consciousness, she felt the iron grip of his hands loosen and fall away. She was still swimming in a sea of dimness when she was jolted by a burst of shouting and an incredibly loud bang.

  She rolled over, coughing violently and holding her bruised neck . . . and suddenly Menzies was there, cradling her in his arms and calling for a doctor. She felt utter confusion. There seemed to be a terrific commotion beyond the desk, a knot of museum guards, shouting . . . and then she saw a river of blood spreading out across the floor. What had happened?

  “I had to do it, he came at me with a knife!” came a desperate voice, edging into her returning consciousness.

  “. . . just a letter opener, you idiot!”

  “. . . a doctor! Now!”

  “. . . tried to strangle her . . .”

  The cacophony of loud, panicky voices continued, the shattered phrases sounding in her head as it all began to come back . . . She coughed, trying to block it all out, trying not to think, while Menzies eased her down into the wing chair, whispering all the time: “You’re all right, my dear, everything’s fine, the doctor’s on his way. No, don’t look over there . . . Close your eyes and all will be fine . . . Don’t look, don’t look . . .”

  36

  Captain Hayward looked down at the huge puddle of blood on the linoleum floor of t
he office, all smeared about by the frantic and useless efforts of the EMTs trying to restart a heart that had been obliterated by a point-blank 9mm round fired from a Browning Hi. The scene was now being carefully examined, sorted, tagged, and bottled by the forensic teams and a variety of specialized crime scene investigators.

  She backed out of the office, leaving it to the experts to make sense of what was clearly a senseless, tragic act. She had another assignment: to speak with the victim before she was taken to the hospital.

  She found Nora Kelly waiting in the staff lounge, with her husband, Bill Smithback; the chairman of the Anthropology Department, Hugo Menzies; and several EMTs, police officers, and museum guards. The EMTs were arguing with Kelly about whether she would go to the hospital for a checkup and treatment.