“Hey!” called one of the crew members. “What the hell!”
D’Agosta brought the axe down smartly, neatly chopping the cable in half with a shower of sparks.
An inarticulate howl of rage went up from Randall Loftus.
A moment later, D’Agosta was back in the control room. Pendergast and the technicians were still laboring over the newly rebooted computer system, which was still refusing to accept commands.
Pendergast turned toward him. “Loftus?”
“Beside himself with anger at the moment.”
Pendergast nodded, his lips twitching in a brief semblance of a smile.
Suddenly a barrage of flashing lights on one of the live monitors attracted D’Agosta’s notice.
“What’s that?” Pendergast asked sharply.
“The strobes are firing up,” said Enderby, hunched over the keyboard.
“There are strobe lights in the show?”
“In the later part, yeah. You know, for special effects.”
Pendergast turned his attention to the monitor, the blue glow reflecting his intense gray eyes. More strobe lights flashed on, followed by a strange rumble.
Enderby suddenly sat up. “Wait. That’s not how it’s supposed to go.”
The audio feed from the tomb continued over the monitor, carrying a rising murmur from the audience along with it. Pendergast turned to Hayward. “Captain, during your security review, you consulted a set of plans to the tomb and adjacent areas, I assume?”
“I did.”
“If you had to, what would the best point be to force an entry into the tomb from outside?”
Hayward thought for a moment. “There’s a corridor that connects the 81st Street subway station to the museum’s subway entrance. It goes behind the back of the tomb, and there’s a point where the masonry’s only twenty-four inches thick between the walkway and the burial chamber.”
“Twenty-four inches of what?”
“Concrete and rebar. It’s a load-bearing wall.”
“Twenty-four inches of concrete,” D’Agosta murmured. “Might as well be a hundred feet. We can’t shoot through that, and we can’t chop through it. Not in time.”
A dreadful hush fell over the little room, punctuated only by the strange booming from inside the hall, and the accompanying murmur of the crowd. As D’Agosta watched, Pendergast’s shoulders sank visibly. It’s happening, he thought with a thrill of horror. Diogenes is winning. He’s thought of everything and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.
But then, as he watched, he saw Pendergast start visibly. The agent’s eyes grew bright, and he breathed in sharply. Then he turned toward one of the guards.
“You—your name?”
“Rivera, sir.”
“You know where the Taxidermy Department is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go down there and find me a bottle of glycerol.”
“Glycerol?”
“It’s a chemical used for softening animal skins—there’s certain to be some down there.” Next, Pendergast turned to Manetti. “Send a couple of your guards down to the chemistry lab. I need bottles of sulfuric acid and nitric acid. They’ll find them where the hazardous chemicals are stored.”
“May I ask—?”
“No time to explain. I’m also going to need a separation funnel with a stopcock on the bottom, as well as distilled water. And a thermometer, if they can find one.” Pendergast looked around, found a sheet of paper and a pencil, scribbled some quick notes, and handed the paper to Manetti. “Have them ask a lab technician if they have any problems.”
Manetti nodded.
“In the meantime, clear the hall, please. I want everyone out except NYPD and museum guards.”
“Done.” Manetti motioned to the two guards and they exited the control room.
Pendergast turned to the technicians. “There’s nothing more you can do here. Evacuate with the others.”
They both jumped up, only too eager to get out.
Now Pendergast turned to D’Agosta. “Vincent? I have a job for you and Captain Hayward. Go to the subway station. Help her identify that weak point in the wall.”
D’Agosta exchanged glances with Hayward. “Right.”
“And Vincent? That cable you just cut?” Pendergast gestured toward one of the screens. “Diogenes must have arranged a hidden backup: the simulcast is continuing. Please take care of it.”
“We’re on it.” And D’Agosta left the room, Hayward at his side.
59
This is just marvelous!” said the mayor, whispering loudly in Nora’s ear. The holographic tomb robbers, having trashed the burial chamber, were now approaching the open sarcophagus itself. They trembled, hesitated—until one finally dared look in.
“Gold!” the man’s recorded voice gasped. “Solid gold!”
The voice-over intoned:
And now comes the moment of truth. The robbers are gazing inside the sarcophagus at the solid gold coffin of Senef. To the ancient Egyptians, gold was more than a precious metal. They worshiped it as sacred. It was the only substance they knew that didn’t tarnish, fade, or corrode. They considered it to be immortal, the substance making up the very skin of the gods themselves. The coffin represented the immortal pharaoh, resurrected in his skin of gold: the same skin that Ra, the Sun God, wore on his journey across the sky, showering his golden light over the earth.
Everything else they have stolen is merely a prelude to this: the heart of the tomb.
The show continued as the robbers threw up a makeshift tripod of wooden timbers over the sarcophagus, rigged with a block and tackle, to lift off the top of the heavy gold coffin. Two of them climbed into the sarcophagus and began affixing ropes to the coffin inside—and then, with a shout of triumph, the others began to heave and the huge gold coffin lid rose into the light, glittering and magnificent. The audience gasped.
The narrator’s recorded voice began again:
Unbeknownst to the robbers, the sun has now set. The Ba-soul of Senef will be returning to inhabit his mummy for the night, where it will reanimate his dry bones during the hours of darkness.
Here it was: the unleashing of the Ba-soul, the culmination of the curse of Senef. Nora, knowing what was about to come, braced herself.
There was a noise from inside the coffin—a muffled groan. The robbers paused in their work, the gold coffin lid swinging from the ropes. And then the fog machines kicked in and a whitish mist began bubbling up out of the sarcophagus and sliding down its sides. A gasp went up from the audience. Nora smiled to herself. A trifle hokey, perhaps, but effective.
Now a roll of thunder sounded, and through the rising fog the strobes in the corners of the ceiling began to flash, to the accompaniment of ominous rumblings. The strobes began to speed up . . . and then all four went out of sync, flashing at different rates.
Damn, a glitch. Nora looked around for a technician before realizing they were, of course, all in the control room, monitoring the show by remote. No doubt they would fix it in a moment.
As the strobes continued to accelerate and decelerate at opposing rates, a second rumble sounded—an incredibly low and deep vibration, just at the threshold of human hearing. Now it seemed the sound system was malfunctioning, too. The deep sound was joined by another, and then another: more like physical vibrations in the gut than actual sound.
Oh, no, she thought. The computers are royally messing up. And it was all going so well . . .
She glanced around again, but the crowd hadn’t noticed the glitch—they assumed it was just part of the show. If the technicians could fix it soon, maybe nobody would know. She hoped they were on the ball.
Now the strobes were speeding up even further, except for one—particularly bright—that kept flashing, not quite in time . . . the lights blended to form a kind of visual Doppler effect that almost made Nora dizzy.
With a deep groaning sound, the mummy abruptly rose from the sarcophagus. The holographic robbers fell
back with shrieks of terror—at least that part of the show was still working—some dropping their torches in fright, the light flickering off their staring faces as they cringed in fear.
Senef!
But somehow the mummy didn’t look right to Nora—it was bigger, darker, somehow more menacing. Then a bony arm broke free of its bandages—something not even in the script—and, clawing and twitching, reached up to its own swathed face. The arm was distorted, as elongated as an ape’s. The bony fingers sank into the linen wrappings and ripped them away, revealing a visage of such horror that Nora gasped, backing up instinctively. This was over-the-top—way over-the-top. Was this some joke of Wicherly’s? Obviously, something this dreadful, this effective, had to be carefully programmed—it wasn’t a mere glitch.
There were audible gasps from the audience. “Oh, my goodness!” the mayor’s wife said.
Nora looked around. The crowd continued to stare at the still-rising mummy as if mesmerized, swaying, uncomfortable now. She could feel their fear rising like a miasma, their voices tight and hushed. Viola caught her eye, gave her a questioning frown. Beyond, Nora could make out the face of Collopy, the museum director. He looked pale.
The malfunctioning strobe lights kept flashing, flashing, flashing in her peripheral vision, so very brightly, and Nora felt a real twinge of dizziness. Another gut-twisting low note sounded, and she closed her eyes momentarily against the combined assault of the brilliant lights and the deep sounds. She heard more gasps around her, then a scream, choked off almost before it started. What the hell was this? Those sounds—she had never heard anything like them. They were like the sounding of the last trump, full of dread and horror, so loud it seemed to violate her very being.
The mummy now began to open its jaw, the dry lips cracking and flaking off as they drew back from a rack of brown, rotting teeth. The mouth became a sinkhole of black slime, which began to seethe and wriggle. Then, as she watched in horror, it morphed into a swarm of greasy black cockroaches, which began rustling and crawling their way out of the ruined orifice. Another horrible groaning, and then there was a second explosion of strobe flashes of such incredible intensity that, when she closed her eyes, she could still see them flashing through her eyelids . . .
. . . but a hideous buzzing sound forced her to open her eyes again. It now looked as if the mummy were vomiting blackness—the swarm of insects had taken flight, the cockroaches morphing into fat lubricious wasps, their mandibles clicking like knitting needles as they flew toward the audience with a horrible believability.
She felt a sudden wave of vertigo, and she swayed, instinctively grabbing the person next to her—the mayor—who was himself stumbling and unsteady.
“Oh my God—!”
She heard someone vomiting, a cry for help—and then a flurry of short screams as the crowd surged back, trying to escape the insects. Although Nora knew they had to be holographically generated, like everything else, they looked amazingly real as they came straight at her, each with a vicious stinger extruded from its abdomen, gleaming with venom. She stumbled backward instinctively, felt herself falling, with no bottom, falling like the robber in the well, to a chorus of wails around her like the shrieks of the damned being sucked into hell itself.
60
Constance was awakened by a discreet rapping on her bedroom door. Without opening her eyes, she turned over with a sigh, nuzzling gently at the down pillow.
The knock came again, a little louder now. “Constance? Constance, is everything all right?” It was the voice of Wren—shrill, worried.
Constance stretched languorously—deliciously—then sat up in bed. “I’m fine,” she said with a twinge of irritation.
“Is anything the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter, thank you.”
“You’re not ill?”
“Certainly not. I’m fine.”
“You’ll forgive my intrusion. It’s just that I’ve never known you to sleep all day like this. It’s eight-thirty, past time for supper, and you’re still abed.”
“Yes,” was all Constance said in return.
“Would you care for your usual breakfast, then? Green tea and a piece of buttered toast?”
“Not the usual breakfast, thank you, Wren. If you could manage it, I’d like poached eggs, cranberry juice, kippers, half a dozen rashers of bacon, a grapefruit half, and a scone with a pot of jam, please.”
“I—very well.” She heard Wren fussing his way back down the hall toward the stairs.
Constance settled back into the pillows, closing her eyes again. Her sleep had been long and deep and completely dreamless—most unusual for her. She recalled the bottomless emerald green of the absinthe, the strange feeling of lightness it gave her—as if she were watching herself from a distance. A private smile flitted across her face, vanished, then returned again, as if prompted by some recollection. She settled deeper into the pillows, letting her limbs relax beneath the soft sheets.
Gradually, very gradually, she became aware of something. There was a scent in the room, an unusual scent.
She sat up in bed again. It was not the scent of—of him; it was something she didn’t think she’d ever smelled before. It was not unpleasant, really . . . just different.
She looked around for a moment, trying to trace the source. She checked the bedside table without success.
It was only as an afterthought that she slipped a hand beneath the pillows.
There she found something: an envelope, and a long box, wrapped in an antique paper and tied with a black ribbon. These were the source of the scent: a musky smell redolent of the deep woods. Quickly, she pulled them out.
The envelope was of cream-laid linen paper, and the box was just large enough to hold a diamond choker, or perhaps a bracelet. Constance smiled, then flushed deeply.
She opened the envelope eagerly. Out fell three pages of dense, elegant handwriting. She began to read.
I hope you slept well, my dearest Constance: the sweet sleep of the innocent.
There is a good chance it will be your last such sleep for some time. Then again—if you take the advice in this letter—sleep may come again, and very soon.
As I’ve whiled away these pleasant hours with you, I must admit to having wondered something. What has it been like, all these many years, to live under the same roof as Uncle Antoine, the man you called Enoch Leng: the man who brutally murdered your sister, Mary Greene?
Did you know this, Constance? That Antoine killed and vivisected your sister? Surely you must have. Perhaps at first it was just a supposition, a strange twinge of dark fancy. No doubt you ascribed it to your own perverse cast of mind. But over time—and you two had so very much time—it must have come to seem, first a possibility, then a certainty. Yet no doubt this was all subconscious, buried so deep as to be almost undiscoverable. And yet you knew it: of course you did.
What a deliciously ironic situation. This man, Antoine Pendergast, killed your very own sister—for the furthering of his own mortal life . . . and ultimately yours as well! This is the man to whom you owe everything! Do you know how many children had to die so that he could develop his elixir, so that you could enjoy your abnormally extended childhood? You were born normal, Constance; but thanks to Uncle Antoine, you became a freak of nature. That was your word, wasn’t it? Freak.
And now, my dear, duped Constance, you can no longer shove this idea aside. You can no more dismiss it as a flight of imagination, or a dark irrational fear on those nights when the thunder rumbles and you cannot sleep. Because the worst is, in fact, true: this is precisely what happened. Your sister was murdered to prolong your life. I know, because before he died, Uncle Antoine told me so himself.
Oh, yes: I had several chats with the old gentleman. How could I not seek out a dear relative with such a colorful history, with a worldview so similar to my own? The very possibility that he might still be alive after all those decades added excitement to my search, and I did not rest until I at length
tracked him down. He quickly sensed my own true nature, and naturally became most anxious that your path should never cross mine—but in return for my promise never to meet you, he seemed happy enough to discuss his, shall we say, unique solution for a broken world. And he confirmed everything: the existence of his concoction for the prolongation of life—although he withheld from me the manner of its preparation. Dear Uncle Antoine, I was sorry to see him go; the world was a most interesting place with him in it. But at the time of his murder, I was too closely involved in my own plans to help him escape his fate.
So I ask one more time: what was it like for you to live in this house for so many, many years as helpmate to your sister’s killer? I can’t even begin to imagine it. No wonder your psyche is so frail—no wonder my brother fears for the soundness of your mind. Together, alone, in this house: was it possible that you even grew to become, shall we say, on intimate terms with Antoine? But no, not that: I am the first man to become master of that shrine, dearest Constance: the physical evidence was incontrovertible. But you loved him—no doubt you loved him.
The Book of the Dead Page 37
