It lay on its side in the case, curled into a fetal ball. It was smaller than she had thought. From a cursory glance, it seemed brittle. She’d seen bodies like that before, curled up in the mud of a trench wall, forgotten by God and man, with only the rats for company. Too many of them.
“Are you all right?” Orne asked, startling her.
She blinked. “Yes. Just… it is quite amazing.” The mask was as ugly as she recalled from the photo. It reminded her of a toad, or maybe a bat – or perhaps a sloth. She had enough experience with such things to know that it had taken real skill to carve it. To make what she thought was some form of onyx look almost… organic. The flat planes of its cheeks and brow were covered in strange marks that reminded her somewhat of cuneiform.
The right people would pay well for it, she thought. But she remembered Zamacona’s insistence that it not be touched and felt a sudden vague, unpleasant sensation in the pit of her stomach. “A most curious thing,” Orne said. Grateful for the distraction, she looked at him.
“Curious how?”
“Mummies, at least the Egyptian ones, are normally wrapped in a… standard way. Resin is slopped onto the cadaver, and then several long sheets are wound about them vertically, before being folded over the head in order to cover the face. Then the rest of the body, starting with the neck, is wrapped in horizontal fashion, with whatever scrap linen is to hand. Sometimes they even used old clothes.”
“Hardly the ornate ceremony of popular fiction,” Alessandra said. “How is this one different?”
“No linen, for one thing. No wrappings at all, beyond those curious bindings about his limbs. Instead, he was placed into an airless environment, with low humidity and his tissues contracted until they resembled something very much like jerky.” Orne looked at her. “An all-natural mummification.”
“How splendid. You sound as if you know something about it?”
“I consider myself a student of the dead,” he said, without a trace of modesty. “They have much to teach us, if we but listen.”
“And what about the markings on his flesh?” She indicated the shallow, groovelike scars. “What do they say?”
“Battle scars, perhaps.”
“I fancied them to be ritual in nature.”
He smiled in a somewhat condescending fashion. “Did you now?”
She ignored his tone. “Yes. Tad mentioned you found it in Oklahoma?”
“Not me,” Orne said. “But I helped fund the expedition. Professor Ashley came to me with an outrageous tale. Something to do with an old manuscript that had been donated to the university library. He needed funding, and I was intrigued, honestly.”
“Tad mentioned Spanish gold.”
Orne laughed. “Well, there was that as well.”
“No gold then?”
“Only on the mask.”
She looked at the mask. “I’m surprised you didn’t take it off.”
Orne frowned. “I wanted to but I was informed that it might lead to the dissolution of our prize. The risk was too great, so I left it where it was. Bit grotesque, but it does lend the old gentleman a certain panache, don’t you think?”
“It does give it a certain something, yes.” She stared at the ancient thing. As Orne said, it resembled jerky – thin and brown and leathery. Alive, he – or she, she admitted – might have been tall, but not broad. Thin, not heavy. There had not been much substance there to lose. It wore nothing besides the mask save the brown, crumpled remnants of a loincloth or shift.
She was certain that it would crumble if she attempted to remove it from its case. Getting to it wasn’t an issue. Locks could be picked and glass cut. But she would need some method of keeping her prize intact. Just tossing it in a sack wasn’t the answer.
That presented a problem. Not an insurmountable one, but a definite obstacle to a quick exit and entry. It called for thought. More and more it was looking as if this job was going to be neither swift nor easy. She touched Orne’s arm again. “I am surprised you were able to… hijack – is that the right word? – hijack this place to show off your discovery.”
“My family have lived in Arkham a long time. The Orne Library is named after us, and we endowed the university with quite a bit of lucre over the years.” Orne smiled genially. “We take care of Arkham, and Arkham takes care of us.”
“Noblesse oblige,” Alessandra said.
Orne nodded. “If you like. I prefer to think of it as quid pro quo.” He studied her. “You, however, are not from here. Italy, I think. Milan?”
“Venice.”
“Ah, la Serenissima. A fine city. There is a wisdom in those stones.”
“You’ve been?”
“Once or twice. In my youth. What do you think of our tiny town?”
“Not so tiny as all that.”
Orne frowned. “No, I suppose not. Things change, and not always for the better.” He cracked his knuckles. An ugly habit, one many Americans – and many big men – had. “Did you come purely for the exhibition, then?”
“I was in Boston on business when I read about it. I thought it sounded like a lark, so I changed my plans.”
Orne chuckled. “A lark. I suppose it is.” Despite his smile, she could tell he was somewhat insulted. “I suspect you are not the only one here to think so. The greatest archaeological find of the century, reduced to a carnival display.”
“I would not go that far.”
“Perhaps not. Even so, I have ensured that it is well-protected from the hoi polloi.” He gestured to the police officer standing near the doors. “Chief Nichols has been very accommodating. One of his best is on duty. And of course, my insurance company sent one of their own investigators to oversee things… isn’t that right, Mr Whitlock?”
Alessandra turned.
Abner Whitlock gave her a thin smile.
“Countess,” Whitlock said. He allowed himself a moment to relish the brief look of consternation on Zorzi’s face. She recovered quickly though.
“Mr Whitlock.” She looked him up and down. “Is that a new suit?”
He frowned. The suit was indeed new, but he saw no reason to admit it. “I’m here representing my employers. I thought it best to dress for the occasion.”
Orne raised an eyebrow. “You two have met?” Whitlock heard something in his voice – a touch of jealousy, perhaps? She worked fast. He’d interrupted just in time.
“We shared a train,” Zorzi said.
“A Mrs Peterson was looking for you, Mr Orne,” Whitlock said, smoothly. “She’s just over there, near the collection of Narragansett arrowheads.” It was an utter fabrication, but it served its purpose. He needed to extricate Orne from the line of fire.
“Ah, thank you. Countess, I’m having a private soiree later this week, to… celebrate, you might say.” Orne smiled. “If you’re interested in attending, find me before you leave. We’d love to have you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He turned away. Whitlock waited until he was out of earshot and then turned to Zorzi.
“You move quick.”
“Forgive me, but I am unfamiliar with your American idioms,” she said, with studied mildness. “What do you mean?”
Whitlock let her stew for a moment before speaking. “I saw you casing the joint. Checking for weak points. You think Orne is your way in, don’t you?”
She looked around, as if bewildered. “I thought I was already in.”
“Yuck it up, but I’m not falling for that wide-eyed ingénue act. It might play for a guy like Orne, but I’m fairly hardboiled.”
“You… are an egg?”
Whitlock flushed slightly, annoyed despite himself. If she wanted to play it that way, fine. He was more than happy to go hard. “Stop playing stupid. You speak perfect English.” He looked down at the mummy. “Ugly goddamn thing.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, or so I hear.”
“And what do you behold?”
She smiled. “An ugly goddamn thing.”
Whitlock
grunted. “You don’t seem surprised that I know you’re a countess.” He’d been hoping she’d be more worried – on the back foot. Instead, she was playing it cool.
“Why would I be?”
“Given that you’ve avoided giving me your name at every opportunity, I thought you might be a bit put out.”
“I am more put out that you tried to break into my hotel room last night.” She studied the case, and he knew she was watching his reflection in the glass. He was careful to show no sign of surprise. “Why did you visit, by the way? And how did you know where I was staying?” She looked at him. “Have you been following me, Mr Whitlock?”
“And if I have?”
“I shall have to report you to the police for harassment.” She turned. “Where is that officer I saw you talking with?”
“Who? Officer Muldoon? Yeah, I’m sure he’d be real pleased to hear from you. We could go talk to him together, if you like.” He gave her a hard smile.
“Perhaps we should. I am certain that he would be very interested to know about these tendencies of yours…” she said lightly. Almost laughing at him.
Angry, Whitlock caught her wrist and pulled her around to face him. “I know who you are,” he hissed. “Who you really are. And I know why you’re here.”
She glanced at his hand, and then at him. “Let go of me.”
“Not until you answer a few questions, countess.”
She jerked her wrist free of his grasp and stepped back. “You’re causing a scene, Mr Whitlock. I do not think that is what your employers had in mind, do you?” She looked around pointedly, and Whitlock followed her gaze. Eyes swiveled, avoiding them. But his outburst had been witnessed and would be the subject of whispers. Whitlock’s frown deepened. He jerked his head towards the wall.
“Over there.”
She followed him, clearly bemused. “What do you want, Mr Whitlock?”
He didn’t look at her. “My employers want me to ensure that this exhibit stays where it’s at, and in one piece. That means I have to identify potential threats.” He fixed her with a meaningful glare. Now that she knew the jig was up, it was only a matter of time until she made a break for it. He wondered which way she’d go – out the front, or the back?
“And I am a potential threat?” she asked, with a smile.
“Biggest one in the room. It’s all very textbook.” He made a show of looking around again. Giving her time to consider her options. “You got some swell to guide you in, then made a circuit of the room. You checked out the doors, looked for windows. I watched you do it. Then you caught Orne, started chatting him up. I wonder why?”
“He’s very handsome.”
“He’s very rich. And he thinks you’re attractive.”
“Does he?”
“I thought I said not to play stupid.”
Zorzi frowned. “You do not know anything about me, Mr Whitlock. We are strangers, you and I – and I would ask that you not talk to me as if we are… familiar.”
“Oh, but we’re practically on a first name basis,” he said, pitching his voice low, so that she could hear. “I recognized you on the train, countess. Soon as I saw you, I knew you were trouble. And as soon as I remembered where I’d last seen you, I knew why you were here. And I promise you, you’re not getting your hands on this mummy.”
Before she could reply, the sharp, unmistakable crack of a gunshot split the air. They both spun, following the sound. For a moment, the crowd looked confused as the music screeched to a halt. Then a murmur of concern swept through the hall. The screams began a moment later as the echoes of the shot faded and a trio of masked gunmen shoved their way into the exhibition room.
“Everyone on the floor,” one of them bellowed. “This is a robbery!”
Chapter Nine
The Robbery
Whitlock caught Alessandra and shoved her back against the wall, behind a pillar, out of sight of the newcomers. “What are you–” she began, but he held a finger up to his lips. Understanding him, she fell silent.
The crowd collapsed in disorder. Some screamed, some knelt. Others ran for the doors, only to find them locked.
“Stop yelling,” a second gunman bellowed. He was shorter than the other two, but built like a fireplug. He hefted the distinctive shape of a Thompson submachine gun in one hand as he strode into the room. “Jodorowsky – watch the crowd in the hall. Make sure that damn cop doesn’t do anything stupid. Phipps, with me.”
“You ain’t supposed to use our names, Gomes,” the one called Phipps barked.
“Shaddup. Nobody cares.” Gomes looked around. “Heads down, I said!” He let off a burst from the Thompson, carving chunks from the ceiling plaster. “Think I won’t shoot you? Think again. I got no problem filling you with enough lead to make you rattle.” He stopped as he noticed Alessandra and Whitlock. “Down on the goddamn floor,” he snarled, swinging his weapon towards them.
“Hold on, hold on,” Whitlock began, hands raised. “What are you after? Maybe I can help.” He took a step towards the gunman, and Alessandra wondered what his game was.
“I said, get on the floor!”
Whitlock took another step. “This is a new suit, pal. Rather not get it dirty.”
Alessandra stepped back. She was annoyed with herself for leaving her own weapon behind.
“Hey, you think I don’t see you, lady?” the gunman barked. “On the floor.”
“Leave her out of this,” Whitlock said.
“Shaddap.” The gunman made to ram the stock of his Thompson into Whitlock’s midsection, but the insurance investigator caught it at the last second.
“Hey – let go!” the gunman yelped, as Whitlock struggled with him for control.
Suddenly, Alessandra understood – Whitlock was an idiot.
They staggered back and forth, the Thompson caught between them. As they grappled, the gunman’s finger tightened on the trigger and the weapon spat fire. The fusillade chewed the walls and shattered cases. Priceless artifacts were rendered worthless in moments, reduced to brightly colored splinters by the spray of lead. People screamed.
Alarms were ringing now, nearly drowning out the cries of the guests and the curses of the thieves. Alessandra saw the Thompson clatter to the floor and Whitlock stumble back. The gunman staggered off-balance, his hand clawing for something – another weapon? – beneath his coat. In another moment, Whitlock was no longer going to be a problem. The thought should have cheered her.
And yet, before she realized it, she was diving for the Thompson. She slid across the floor and snatched it up. The gunman stared at her in shock as she rose and pulled the trigger. The gunman spun, crying out in pain. It wasn’t the first time she’d fired one, but even so her aim was off. She was a fine shot with a pistol, but less so with anything larger.
One of the other thieves appeared in the doorway, shotgun in hand. She ducked behind a nearby case as he returned fire, dropping the Thompson in the process. Shards of broken glass rained down over her as she huddled on the floor. She hoped Whitlock was smart enough to find cover. The shotgun boomed twice more, and a nearby display case exploded. She heard the clack of spent shells being ejected, and risked a look.
It was a mistake. Something – a pistol, perhaps – connected with the back of her head and she fell. The room was spinning, and it felt as if every bell in the world were ringing inside her cranium. She was amazed her skull hadn’t been cracked by the blow.
“Get the goddamn case over here, quick,” Gomes snarled. He stood over her, the revolver he’d hit her with held in his good hand. Blood stained his other sleeve. “And somebody keep an eye on that damn cop.”
“Pulanski’s got the front covered,” Phipps said. From beneath the case, she could see him lugging what looked like a sea chest into the room. “Jodorowsky, help me with this.” The wielder of the shotgun turned and caught the other side of the chest. They moved quickly towards her. Groggily, she looked up and into a pair of black eyes – wet and staring.
> The mummy was where it had been before, but now its head was tilted, looking down at her. When had it moved? How had it moved? She tried to shake her head, to look away, but couldn’t. All she could do was meet that empty gaze.
Only, now it wasn’t so empty. The world seemed to stutter and dim. Like a film coming to the end of its reel. She felt flushed and freezing, all at once, as if she were being consumed by cold fire. The black gaze seemed to expand, filling her perceptions.
Something moved, in the darkness. A squirming, twisting sort of motion that reminded her of maggots eating away at the belly of a dead animal. Her breath caught in her throat. Glass crunched like thunder.
The motion grew more frenzied. Her heart spasmed. Something stretched towards her. She tried to blink, to look away, but the blackness held her. A line of shadow stretched… stretched… stretched.
She felt something like a spider’s web or a moth’s wing brush across her. She blinked and fell back, clawing at her face. It was as if someone had blown chili powder into her eyes. She thought she cried out. She heard a growling voice, and through a veil of tears she saw the cold barrel of a pistol pointing down at her.
“Get her up,” Gomes said. “What the hell was she doing?”
“How should I know?” Jodorowsky snapped. “You’re the one who hit her. Maybe you rattled her brains. Phipps, help me get this damn thing in the crate, would you? And be careful – if it’s damaged, we don’t get paid!”
Alessandra shook her head in an effort to clear it. She blinked as something swam across her vision. When her eyes cleared, she saw the two men carefully lowering the fragile shape of the mummy into a wooden chest. Gomes stood nearby, glaring at her. He’d retrieved his Thompson. “What about her?” he growled, as his partners sealed the chest.
“Leave her,” Phipps said. “We got what we need.”
“She shot me!” One of Alessandra’s fumbling hands found a shard of glass and she snatched it up. It wasn’t much, but it would serve, if he decided to settle the score.
“She grazed you and you gave her a thump. That settles it in my book. Now come on – help us get this damn thing up.”
Wrath of N'kai Page 7
