He unpacked the box on a wooden table. He spread out maps, old photographs, and handwritten notes about the original expedition that discovered Ahkmenrah’s tomb. While going through the material, Larry could almost picture the night the archeologists found the site. They discovered the tablet and several sarcophagi containing the remains of Ahkmenrah and his family. There had also been a strange curse—a warning that none of the archeologists had heeded. The warning was, if the tomb is disturbed, the end will come. Larry wondered if that meant the end of the world, like so many other ancient civilizations’ warnings. Or perhaps it meant the end of the magic would come.
As for Ahkmenrah’s family, Larry knew that the young pharaoh had an older brother—Kahmunrah. He’d had the unfortunate pleasure of making his acquaintance when Larry and several other exhibits were at the Smithsonian, in Washington D.C. But that was not who Larry was looking for. Ahkmenrah said that only his father knew the secret of the tablet. After some more investigating, Larry discovered that the young pharaoh’s parents had been shipped to the British Museum in England.
Larry packed up the files and headed back upstairs. He dashed to Dr. McPhee’s office. He found the door ajar and McPhee busy pulling diplomas from his wall. He packed the framed documents into a cardboard box.
“What’s going on?” asked Larry.
“Our esteemed chairwoman has asked for my resignation,” replied McPhee. “She said since the night program was my brainchild, the buck starts and stops with me.”
Larry plopped down in a chair. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
McPhee waved him away. “No, no it’s my fault. I apologize.” He packed away some more personal items. “I apologize for putting you in an inappropriately elevated position where you could burn down the planetarium and ruin my life.”
“Well ... it didn’t really burn down,” said Larry.
“Now we’re quibbling over ways to describe different amounts of burning?” asked McPhee. “Lovely.”
“I’m really sorry,” said Larry.
“The capuchin was mere inches from stabbing Dr. Phelps in the face!” McPhee held up a sharp letter opener to drive his point home. “He had bloodlust in his black monkey eyes, Mr. Daley! A deep and unfathomable bloodlust!”
The former museum director sighed and tossed the letter opener into an open box. “Oh, well. This too shall pass.” He shrugged. “Not my being fired. That’s permanent.”
Larry got to his feet. “I can fix this.”
McPhee raised an eyebrow. “How?”
“I need to take the tablet and Ahkmenrah to London,” said Larry.
“Sorry, processing ...” McPhee waved his fingers on either side of his head. “I just explained that your shenanigans cost me my job. And you want to take two priceless artifacts with you on vacation to a foreign country?”
Larry leaned across the desk. “Listen to me. You and I both know there’s something ... magical about this place.”
McPhee shook his head. “Not this again. It’s not magic. It’s special effects.”
“How could it be special effects? I’m a security guard.” Larry laughed. “I have no training whatsoever in computer-generated effects. There’s no equipment anywhere!”
McPhee rolled his eyes. “I don’t claim to understand it.”
“You don’t understand it because you’re afraid to understand it.” Larry tapped his head. “Because it would turn your mind inside out, man!”
Dr. McPhee stared at Larry across the desk. A glint of fear shown in his eyes. Larry hoped the director was buying it this time.
“The sun goes down. The tablet glows,” Larry explained. “And everything comes to life!”
“The tablet starts to glow?” McPhee scoffed. “Now I know you’re crazy.”
“Listen to me. Nobody loves this place more than we do. If you don’t help me, everything that’s special about it might stop. And it may never come back.” Larry gave a weak smile. “I’m not asking you to understand. I’m asking you to trust me.”
“Mr. Daley ... I want to help you,” McPhee said with a smile. “But I don’t work here anymore.”
Larry’s own smile widened. “The British Museum doesn’t know that.”
Dr. McPhee raised an eyebrow.
Soon after, McPhee was on the phone to the British Museum. “Yes, the mummy and the tablet both,” McPhee explained. “A typical preservation job ... touch ’em up, shine ’em up.” There was a pause as someone on the other end spoke. “Yes, I’m sending my top man, Larry Daley. Under my authority as head of the museum ... which I still am.” There was another pause. “Righto,” answered McPhee. He hung up the phone and turned to Larry. “You’re in.”
Larry zipped home, packed some bags, and headed over to Nick’s school. He spotted his son as the boy left the building with a couple of his friends.
“Nicky!” shouted Larry. He ran across the street to catch up with the boy.
Nick’s friends peeled away as Nick shook his head. “What are you doing here?” his son asked.
“I need to talk to you,” said Larry.
“You couldn’t just text me from someplace where no one could see you?” asked Nick.
Larry rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to be seen with you either, but we have talk. We’re going to London. Tonight.”
“What? I can’t go to London,” said Nick. “I have school.”
“School isn’t important. Forget school,” said Larry.
Nick laughed. “Okay ... excellent parenting.”
“You can miss a few days,” Larry explained. “Your mom’s out of town and obviously after last night, I’m not going to leave you ...”
Larry was interrupted by the sound of someone delivering a massive karate chop—Hi-yah! It was Nick’s phone. The sound indicated that someone had just sent Nick a text. Nick pulled out his phone and began to text back.
“Hey, can you not do that right now ...” Larry began to ask. But before Larry could finish, Nick had already sent his reply.
Larry was still surprised by his son’s texting speed. He shook his head, trying to finish his train of thought. “Look, this will be good,” Larry continued. “Remember how we were going to do that father-son bonding trip? Drive across the country? This is like that, but better.”
“I didn’t want to do that,” said Nick.
“What are talking about?” Larry asked, taken aback. “You were super disappointed.”
“No, you said you couldn’t go because of work,” Nick explained. “So I acted super disappointed. Everybody wins.”
Now it was Larry’s turn to be disappointed—but for real. “Okay ... I thought you really wanted to do that.”
“Dad, I can’t go,” said Nick. “I’m busy.”
“With what? Planning your next year doing nothing?” Asked Larry. “Come on, you said you wanted an adventure. This is it.”
“When did I ever say I wanted an adventure?” asked Nick.
Larry’s lips tightened. “Look, this is what’s happening, okay?”
“So the outcome of this conversation was decided before we started?” asked Nick.
Larry took a deep breath. “Nick, the guys are in trouble. I’m your dad, and you’re coming with me.”
CHAPTER 3
After an eight-hour flight, Larry and Nick watched as the large wooden crate was loaded into the rental truck—or rental lorry, as it was called in England. Once everything was secured, Larry drove the truck into the heart of London, toward the British Museum. The occasional black taxi swerved and honked at him. Larry had a tough time getting used to driving on the left side of the road.
Along the way, Larry parked the truck and hopped out. They had some time to see a couple of sights before their mission began. He zipped up his overcoat against the chilly London air.
“We’ll head over to the museum after sundown,” announced Larry. He glanced up at the late afternoon sun. “In about ninety minutes.”
Nick climbed out after hi
m. “You can tell that by looking?”
Larry smiled. “It’s what I do.”
Father and son walked along a sidewalk overlooking the famous Thames River. Larry didn’t just want to see the sights. He wanted to talk to Nick about their discussion from the night before. Unfortunately, he had trouble getting started.
It used to be so much easier to talk to his son. When Nick was younger, he and Larry had similar interests. They spent most of their time together in the museum with all their historical friends. They even used to enjoy discovering new things about history together. Granted, usually they were looking up a historical fact to solve the occasional crisis at the museum. But no matter why they did it, they enjoyed doing it together.
But now that Nick was older, his interests had changed. He was dating, listening to new kinds of music, and spending less and less time at the museum. That meant spending less time with his father, too. Sometimes Larry felt as if he lived with a young roommate instead of a son.
Deep in his heart, Larry knew that this was all normal for his son and just part of growing up. But knowing that fact didn’t make it any less painful as he and his son drifted apart.
Larry stopped and pointed to a large bridge. A tall brick tower protruded from each end of the majestic structure.
“Tower of London,” said Larry. “That’s where Mary Queen of Scots was executed.”
“That’s the Tower Bridge,” Nick corrected. He pointed to the pale brick castle with four corner towers jutting toward the sky. “That’s the Tower of London. And it was Anne Boleyn.”
Larry nodded, knowingly. “All happened right around here.” He patted his son on the shoulder. “Very historic region.”
They started moving again. After a few steps, Larry decided to go for it.
“So, let’s talk about this year off,” said Larry. “Could be cool. What are you thinking?”
Nick rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, I was thinking I might like to do something with music.”
“Okay, great,” said Larry. “Are we building on those two years of violin from middle school?” The image of Nick in a tuxedo came to mind. He imagined his son playing a violin solo in front of a full orchestra.
“Well, no,” said Nick. “I’m coming at it more from the ... DJ angle.”
“Okay ...” The image of Nick in a tuxedo vanished.
Nick smiled. “I want to DJ in Ibiza.” He pronounced it ibeetha.
“In a what?” asked Larry.
“Ibiza,” Nick repeated. “It’s an island off the coast of Spain. That’s how you pronounce it.”
Larry’s brow furrowed as he nodded. “Okay, right, sure.”
“My friend’s cousin is a club promoter. He lives in Majorca.” Nick’s eyes lit up. “He said we could crash with him. There’s a huge party scene. A lot of great DJs come out of there.” He began counting on his fingers. “DJ Beelzebub, DJ Side Salad ...”
Larry wanted to ask him what he was thinking. He wanted to tell his son it was the craziest idea he had ever heard. However, he wanted to be supportive and hear him out. So all Larry said was, “Okay ...”
“Dad, you didn’t go to college,” said Nick.
Larry stopped walking. “Wait, now we’re talking about not going to college at all?”
Nick shrugged. “I’m just saying ... you turned out relatively fine.”
“Thank you,” said Larry. “I think.”
Nick smiled. “My point is ... you’re happy.”
Larry winced. “Yeah, but it took ... twenty years and a dozen career failures to get there.”
“But now you’re doing what you love,” said Nick.
“Yeah, Nick ... there aren’t a lot of job openings at magical museums where everything comes to life at night,” Larry explained. He held up his thumb and forefinger. “Real small bull’s-eye for that one.”
“Dad, whatever,” Nick rolled his eyes and started walking again. “It’s not going to be your problem anymore.”
Larry took his son’s arm. “Nicky, you’re always going to be my problem.”
Nick pulled his arm free. “Nice.”
“Come on, Nick,” said Larry. “You know what I mean.”
Nick nodded. “Sun’s going down. Shouldn’t we head over?”
“Yeah.” Larry sighed. “By the way, can you drive a stick?”
Just before sunset, Larry and Nick pulled up to the British Museum’s rear gate. The large museum was closed for the day and only a lone night guard occupied a small guard station in the back. The little shed sat in front of a chain-link gate and had a small window facing the narrow road leading through to the building. Nick ducked down as Larry pulled up next to the small building.
Inside the shack sat a young woman wearing a guard uniform and oversized pieces of jewelry. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. A name badge was pinned to the lapel of her guard uniform. Her name was Tilly.
“No, Tarquin, you’re not understanding me, luv,” Tilly said. The woman held a cell phone in one hand and twirled a long strand of her chewing gum with the other. “You’re not listening.”
Larry pulled to a stop next to the window. He put the truck in park and gave Tilly a small wave. “Hi.”
The woman cut her eyes to Larry. “Sorry, Tarquin. Strange man here. Ring you later.” The British Museum night guard switched off her phone, popped the gum back into her mouth, and leaned out the window. She gestured to the truck. “What’s this then?”
Larry waved again. “Hi. Larry Daley. I have a delivery from Natural History in New York. For your Conservation Department.” He handed over the paperwork Dr. McPhee had printed out before they left.
The guard took the papers and scanned them. She looked Larry over, noticing his guard uniform. “They let you travel?” she asked. “Must be nice being a security guard in America.”
Larry shrugged and grinned. “Well, this is kind of unusual.”
The guard smacked her gum. “They let me travel. You know where? Home. Here. Back home again.”
Larry nodded. “Yeah, I hear ya.”
“I don’t even get to go inside,” she continued. “Every night I come to one of the finest museums in the world and I sit outside in a box.” Tilly stretched her gum into a long strand again and began twirling again. “Look at my shack. It’s a bloody stand-alone. It doesn’t even touch the building.” She popped her gum back in and leaned farther out the window. “And do I get a weapon? Oh, no.” She gestured at Larry. “You probably get a super sleek handgun with a silencer on it and everything.”
Larry shook his head. “I ... I don’t have a weapon. No.”
Tilly rolled her eyes. “That’s what they all say.” She leaned back into the shack. “You know what I get?” She held up a small hammer in mock pride. “Issued to me for, and I quote, minor repairs and beautifications.” She waved the hammer over her head. “To the shack, naturally.” She leaned out again. “You catch a lot of criminals, then?”
“Uh ... not really,” Larry replied. “Well, a couple. Back when I first started.”
Tilly’s eyes widened. “Wow, jazzy.” She glanced around. “You know how many baddies I’ve killed?”
Larry shook his head.
“Zero. Nada,” she said. “Why? Because England is a civilized country. We don’t go around robbing museums left and right like in America where it’s the national pastime.”
Larry grimaced. “Okay ... that’s not even a little bit true.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Anyway, if we’re good, I’ll just leave this ...”
“Hold on there, world traveler, crime-fighter,” Tilly interrupted. “I’ll just call your museum to confirm.” She scanned the paperwork and punched numbers into the guard shack’s speakerphone.
“Not really necessary,” Larry explained. He pointed to the papers. “It’s confirmed already. See?”
Tilly’s eyes narrowed. “In England, we double confirm.”
Larry tensed as he heard the phone ringing through the small spe
aker. Then he relaxed as a familiar voice answered. “Dr. McPhee here.”
“British Museum, sir,” said Tilly. “Confirming a delivery to our conservation department.”
“Yes, I signed the paperwork,” replied McPhee. “Now, I can’t be chatting on the phone all day. I have a museum to run after all.” There was a click as he hung up the phone.
Larry breathed easier.
“Right,” said Tilly. She stepped out of her guard shack and walked behind the chain gate.
Larry made sure he held up his smart phone as she punched in the security code to the keypad. After he heard the four tones, the gate unlocked and she slid it open. Larry drove through and backed the truck up to one of the loading docks. He hopped out and followed Tilly inside. With the help of a floor dolly, the two hauled the large wooden crate out of the truck and into the freight room.
“Thanks a lot,” said Larry. He headed outside as she closed up the loading bay doors. By the time Tilly came outside, all she would see was Larry’s arm waving from the driver’s window as the truck pulled out of the gate. That’s exactly what Larry wanted her to see. As Tilly made her way back to the guard shack, Larry concealed himself next to the building. It had really been Nick driving the truck.
Staying to the shadows, Larry waited until the amber rays of the sun dipped below the horizon. In that instant, the golden glow of the tablet’s activation emanated through the windows of the British Museum’s freight room. Larry could barely make out the sound of Ahkmenrah stirring to life inside the crate. It was GO time.
Larry snuck over to the gate. He could hear Tilly back on the phone, arguing with her boyfriend. Larry dug his phone from his pocket and pulled up the app that recorded the tones from the access panel. The app told him exactly what numbers the tones had been; he had the security code. As he entered the numbers, he spotted Nick sneaking toward him. His son ducked under the guard shack window and shuffled over to the gate. Larry slid it open just enough for his son to pass through.
“I’m not a legal expert, but this is feeling sort of international felony-ish,” whispered Nick.
“You’re right,” Larry whispered. He slid the gate shut behind his son. “You’re not a legal expert.” He led the way as they crept toward the back entrance.
Night at the Museum Page 3
