Poor Jack Lewis was probably looking forward to a good many more years, and look at him now. Poor bastard.
Sam sighed as he began to drive back to his house on the other side of Greenfield. Life is so sad, sometimes, he thought. You make your plans and have your hopes and dreams, and then some damn thing like this happens. "Man proposes and God disposes," he muttered aloud.
No, not God, he thought. You can't chalk life's vicissitudes up to some arbitrary deity, some patriarchal superbeing dredged up from the imagination of the prescientific mentality. There is no fate, no destiny, no providence, no divine hand in the universe. There's just one damn thing after another.
It had been quite a long while since he had last given any thought to religion, to that system of beliefs imparted to him by his aged, bearded, yarmulked father back on the Lower East Side of Manhattan over a half a century ago. The all-encompassing Orthodox Judaism of his parents and grand parents had been the central fact of their lives, a structure of faith and practice within which a complex and unmanageable universe was given meaning and significance. It was this religious system which had enabled them and their ancestors before time to survive the thousands of years of exile and persecution and segregation which separated them from the ruined temple in Jerusalem.
Sad, in some ways, Sam thought, that mythology has such deep roots.
He had rejected the religion of his parents early in life, but still felt oddly tied to it. He was a scholar and a skeptic and had no belief in deities. He had not set foot in a synagogue since the day he left home for college, decades ago. He was irritated by devoutly religious Jews, more irritated even than he was by the Christian radicals who seemed to be proliferating in the United States recently, possibly because he felt their arcane preoccupations reflected unfavorably upon him, but perhaps at least partially because he felt a residue of parentally implanted guilt that he was not one of them. He had no connection with my synagogue or Jewish group, and yet he had made the study of the Semitic languages—Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic, and the other old tongues—the focal point of his academic career. He believed the kosher tradition of his parents to be foolish and atavistic, but he still never ate pork. He observed no holy days, but felt a tug of nostalgic sadness at the approach of each Passover. None of this made any sense, but it was all so deep an aspect of his personality that he had learned to live with it long ago.
Know thyself, the philosopher had said. A next to impossible objective. Sam laughed softly and drove on.
There was less self-knowledge than carnal knowledge on the mind of Suzanne Melendez at that very moment. After saying what she hoped would be a temporary good-night to Roderick, she rushed into her hotel room and proceeded to take one of the quickest showers she had ever taken. Then as she manipulated her hair dryer with one hand, she rummaged with the other through her suitcase. She drew forth, examined, and rejected three negligees before settling upon one of sheer white silk. Grinning, she switched off the hair dryer and tossed it onto the bed, after which she brushed her hair furiously. Hurry, hurry, she told herself. It won't matter how sexy I am if jet lag gets to him before I do.
She slipped the negligee over her head and felt a slight tingle of pleasure as the cool, smooth fabric slid over her nipples. She slowed her pace a bit to carefully apply her makeup, and then stood back and examined herself in the full-length mirror with which the hotel owners had considerately furnished the room. Heels, she thought, that's what's missing. She chose a pair of white spike-heeled pumps from the shoe collection which was bulging her other suitcase, and reexamined herself in the mirror. She smiled. Perfect, she thought. I could give an erection to a eunuch!
She quickly brushed her teeth and then walked across the hallway to Roderick's door. She knocked softly and asked, "Your Lordship? Are you still awake?"
The door opened a few moments later, and the young nobleman greeted her with a languid smile of passive surprise. "Oh, Miss Melendez!"
"I'm sorry to bother you," she said, "but I'm just so upset about poor Mr. Pearson. Do you mind if I come in for a moment?"
It was not Roderick's habit to refuse half-naked women entrance to his rooms, so he said, "Oh, of course not, of course not." He stood aside and allowed her to enter. "I was just thinking of the poor old fellow myself, actually. I found a letter from my uncle in my luggage, and I assume that Pearson gave it to my butler to pack. Here," he said as he picked a sheet of cream-colored paper up from the night table. "Have a look at this."
Suzanne was not the slightest bit interested in the letter, but any topic could serve as a preliminary to what she hoped would be a night of passionate lovemaking, so she took the page from his hand and read it silently.
Nephew (the late Earl began):
The fact that you are reading this means that I have finally been released from this miserable world, and that you are now the fifteenth Earl of Selwyn. I hope to have been able to speak to you personally before this letter comes into your hands, but in the event that I have not, there are a few things I wish to communicate to you. Kindly give them your attention.
Roderick, you know that I have never had much use for you. I regard you as an ignorant, spoiled idiot without the common sense of a ploughboy and with a standard of morality only slightly more elevated than a common tart. You are the last person to whom I wish to leave the title I have cherished all these years, not to mention the estate and properties thereunto attendant. But the law is the law, and for better or worse you are now the Earl of Selwyn. God help the Realm.
Roderick, you must, you must develop an understanding of what it means to be a British nobleman. I have tried over the years to instill a sense of honor in you, and I know that my efforts have been ineffective. I pray that the passage of years will cause you to grow up. You have responsibilities, Roderick, and I refer not only to your current status. You have a responsibility to your ancestors and a responsibility to your descendants. Yours is an old and honored name. I pray to God that you will not disgrace it.
Suzanne looked up without finishing the letter. "I don't think that you and your uncle got along very well, if you'll pardon my saying so, Your Lordship."
"No, not well at all," Roderick replied, yawning. "I feel a bit sorry about that, actually. He seemed so concerned that I would bring the family name into disrepute!"
"You would never do that," she said cloyingly as she tossed the letter back onto the night table.
"I hope not," he said. His face was serious as he added, "I know that I'm not the most responsible fellow around, but actually being the Earl of Selwyn makes me think a bit more about myself. About what I should be doing, I mean." He laughed lightly. "Of course, having never had to do anything, I'm not entirely certain what it is I'm supposed to be doing." He yawned again.
"Well, right now you should be relaxing," she said, sounding for all the world like a libidinous schoolmarm as she pushed him firmly but gently down upon the bed. "You've had a long day, what with the flight and the terrible news and everything. You just lie back and relax and let me massage your muscles."
"Well—I, uh—" Roderick allowed himself to be guided down upon his back. How delightful! he thought, as Suzanne began gently to knead his upper arms and shoulders. She stood over him as she worked his muscles, bending stiffly at the waist so that she was certain he could see her small, firm breasts beneath the cupping fold of her bodice and the sensuous outline of her thighs and buttocks against the clinging silk. She slid her hands beneath his pajama top and continued to knead his soft arms and shoulders, working her way as unobtrusively as possible down past his slightly flabby midsection.
Roderick smiled and closed his eyes as her hands found his flaccid organ and began slowly but firmly to stroke it. She tossed him an eager, licentious grin, and then pulled his penis free from the opening in the front of his pajama bottoms. She placed her lips around the tip and deftly enveloped it, lubricating it with her saliva and running her lips and tongue up and down the shaft.
Roderi
ck Fowles began to snore.
"Your Lordship?" she said softly. No response. "Your Lordship?" she repeated, somewhat more loudly. An increase in the level of his snoring was his sole reply.
Suzanne stood up and placed her hands upon her hips and repeated angrily, "Your Lordship!"
Roderick mumbled something unintelligible and smiled as he rolled over onto his side.
Suzanne Melendez turned and opened the door of the hotel room. She cast one last offended look at the insipid grin on the young nobleman's face and then closed the door behind her.
"Shit!" she muttered, and then went back to her own room to go to sleep.
CHAPTER 6
The sound of the crickets made Ahmed Hadji nervous. His mission was one of stealth and caution, and even the minor noises made by the insects filled him with a fear of discovery. He stood motionless behind a large old elm tree which stood upon the campus quadrangle at one end of which the museum was located. The museum was locked and dark, but the grounds building, which rested on an adjacent side of the quad, was the site of some activity. Hadji could take no chances. He stood pressed against the back of the tree and glanced over at the grounds building carefully, awaiting an opportunity to make his way toward the museum.
Gus Rudd and Will Foster were standing in front of the grounds building, looking cold, tired, and speaking in hushed, serious tones. Hadji could not make out their words, but he was reasonably certain that their conversation revolved around one of three possible topics. They could have been speaking of the afternoon's events, of the arrival of the ancient dead and the subsequent confrontation. Or they could have been speaking of the strange feeling of discomfort which Hadji knew the large, boorish idiot who had dared to touch the Lord Sekhemib must be feeling. Or they might very well be discussing the murder of Jack Lewis. Hadji was certain that they could not have been speaking of the death of the old woman. They could not have known about it.
Hadji thought back to the events which had transpired a few hours before, when he had decided that it was unsafe for Lewis to be alive. For his mission to be successful, no one could know where he was staying or (needless to say!) what his true purposes were. He had gone to Lewis's office that evening, waiting in the diner across the street until he saw the secretary leave for the day. He peered through the venetian blinds and saw Lewis sitting at his desk, quite alone. Excellent, Hadji had thought. Quite fortuitous.
He had walked across to the real estate office as inconspicuously as possible, looking from side to side. He saw no one whom he recognized, which meant of course that he was seen by no one who would recognize him. Entering the office, he had greeted Jack Lewis in a friendly manner, holding out his hand in greeting. Amazing, Hadji thought, how these American simpletons can be so easily disarmed by the common civility which the rest of the world uses to mask private motives. When Lewis, smiling, had risen to return the handshake, Hadji had quickly thrust his knife upward into Lewis's abdomen and torn it across, disemboweling him with the precision of a surgeon. Ahmed Hadji was well trained.
As the body of Jack Lewis lay twitching on the floor of his office, Hadji had stepped over it as if it were merely a piece of wood, rather than the remnants of a human being, and had taken Mrs. March's address card out of the Rolodex on the desk. He had searched quickly through Lewis's file cabinets and desk, making certain that no record of the brief encounter earlier that day existed anywhere other than in the memory which Hadji had just severed from the world of living expression. He was sure that nothing remained to link him to the residence on Pine Lane. He knew that Lewis's secretary knew neither his name nor the details of the supposed rental of the room. All was secure.
As he stood pressed up against the tree, watching Gus and Will, Hadji wondered if the murder had been discovered already. Possible. But unimportant. He watched as Will attempted to remove something from the pocket of his coat. His inability to do so prompted Gus to reach into Will's pocket and pull out the small bottle from which first he and then Will took long draughts. Alcohol, Hadji sneered. He knew that his ancient ancestors had brewed and enjoyed malt liquor, but the long centuries of Islamic rule had bred a disapproval of alcoholic beverages into the Egyptians, even into someone as decidedly non-Islamic as Hadji.
He watched and waited for over an hour, forcing himself to be patient, restraining the urge to dash toward the museum when the two men had their backs turned to him. Wait, he told himself. You must not risk being seen. Too much depends upon you. Wait.
At last Will Foster took his leave and Gus Rudd leaned back against the door of the grounds building. Hadji watched him closely. After a few moments Gus drew a large ring of keys from a clip on his belt and unlocked the door. He took a perfunctory look around and then disappeared into the grounds building, closing the door behind him. Ahmed Hadji watched as Will Foster's form grew distant and then invisible in the darkness, and then he ran to the museum.
He reached the museum and ran into the shadows at the side of the building. He stood again motionless in the darkness, his heart pounding, his breath coming quickly. Then he took a small utility knife from his pocket and began to cut the pane of the window beside which he was standing. His dagger was sheathed on his belt, with the catch undone for easy and rapid access if the need arose. He cut the square hole in the window pane and, replacing the utility knife, took a suction cup mounted on a locking device from the deep pocket of his overcoat. He placed the mouth of the suction cup against the outline of the cut in the glass and proceeded to press gently against it. It was his intention to hold the glass segment secure as he carefully separated it from the window, thus allowing him access to the room without running the risk of attracting attention by breaking the glass.
But he had cut too deeply. As he pressed the suction cup against the glass, he dislodged the segment and sent it cascading into the museum. It shattered loudly when it hit the floor, breaking the silence of the evening with its startling shrillness.
Hadji repressed the urge to panic. He withdrew into the shadows and waited. No one approached, no voices were heard. He leaned slowly forward and looked in the direction of the grounds building. There was no motion and no sounds, and Hadji released a relieved sigh, certain that the sound of breaking glass had gone unnoticed.
He walked back over to the window and put his hand through the hole which gaped near the interior window lock. He gently pressed the lever to the left and then, finding it immobile, pressed it to the right. The lever moved immediately, releasing the window. Hadji pushed the window up and gingerly clambered through into the museum.
It was of course pitch black within, and he had no intention of in any way illuminating the interior. He stood immobile for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he soon realized that he had broken into a storage room. He almost tripped over some indeterminate shape resting low to the floor in the darkness but was able to find his way to the door of the room without significant difficulty. He turned the door knob and pulled it open.
Hadji moved carefully into the large central room of the museum. It was lighter in the main area than it had been in the storage room, and he was able to see well enough by the moonlight and stray beams from the lampposts outside. He saw the sarcophagus resting in somber solitude on the same spot it had been earlier that day. With chagrin he noticed that the other sarcophagi were missing. It suddenly occurred to him what that foolish drunkard of a policeman was doing at the college near the museum so late at night. They must have removed the other lords to the building, he thought. Stupid idiots.
He walked over to the sarcophagus and slowly, reverently, lifted the lid. Ahmed Hadji stood for a moment gazing down upon the long dead face of Sekhemib. When he had arrived just in time to prevent the profaning of the lord high priest he had had neither time nor the peace of mind to contemplate the splendor of the moment, nor had he been able earlier that morning to offer the prayers of thanks so appropriate to the circumstances.
Sekhemib! he thought in awe. The lord
Sekhemib himself, his mummified body lying before him, untouched by the blade of time, uninjured by the merciless passing of the years, the centuries, the long millennia. "Sekhemib," he whispered and felt a thrill course up his spine at the very vocalization of the name. Sekhemib and the others, Yuya, Meret, Senmut, Khumara, Herihor and Wenet, the seven lords, the beloved of Anubis. For thirty-seven centuries their mummies were hidden, stolen, lost, and the priests of the cult, and their successors, and their successors' successors down through the long ages, searched in vain for them. And now, here was Sekhemib, and the others were resting nearby. And he, Ahmed Hadji, was the first living man to gaze upon the awesome countenance of the lord high priest and to know and understand exactly what it was he saw.
Hadji dropped to his knees, bowed his head, and raised his hands upward. "Anet hrauthen 'Anpu," he whispered, "neb pet neb ta, suten khert, neb neteru, xeper tesef qeman unenet—" Homage to you, Anubis, Lord of Heaven, Lord of Earth, King of Heaven, Lord of the Gods, self-created, Creator of the Things Which Shall Be.
He heard voices from outside, growing suddenly louder. He tensed. When he heard the key being turned in the lock of the entrance door, he bolted from his knees and scurried back to the storage room. Hadji shut the door behind him, quickly but quietly, and knelt down before the keyhole, hoping that he would be able to see what transpired, but the keyhole offered no view of the area around the sarcophagus. He forced himself to breathe slowly and once again he waited, tense, motionless.
Harriet Langly opened the door upon the interior of a museum with which there was apparently nothing amiss. She walked in, followed by Thomas Sawhill and Gus Rudd, who was saying, "I dunno 'bout this, Miss Langly. Jasper kinda wanted me to stay over there with the other boxes."
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