Mummy
Page 16
They looked at Emlyn, but they did not shake hands.
I got what I asked for, she thought. I did something bad, and they know it, and they accept where we are now, and they’re going to pick up the pieces. But that doesn’t make me a good guy who deserves an introduction and a handshake. I did not win.
She unlocked the boathouse and pointed to the tarp.
Donovan came in, too.
In utter silence, the package was lowered. The tarp removed.
“Why gift-wrapping paper?” asked Dr. Brisband.
She was embarrassed. “I had to protect her. I couldn’t stand to see her in trash bags anymore.” She gestured at Donovan. “It made the others see her as trash.”
Dr. Brisband slowly removed the wrapping paper.
In the unlit damp, surrounded by slender sculls as mysterious in the shadows as any pyramid artifact, a party of seven looked down at Amaral-Re, and she looked back at them, as she always had, silent and elegant and eternal.
When the boat was gone and the mummy had disappeared around the bend in the river, safe in the hands of her descendants, Donovan offered Emlyn a ride home, which she refused, and Dr. Brisband offered her a ride home, which she accepted.
He said, “The only oddity that took place the week before the mummy theft was the unfinished interview by the girl reporter. There was nobody by that name attending any school in the city. And when somebody claiming to possess the mummy got in touch with the Egyptian Embassy, I, of course, was notified. This girl was requesting a meeting in the city schools’ boathouse? It took only a moment with last year’s yearbook to find photographs of the crew teams. My secretary and I recognized you immediately.”
He was taking the right turns. He knew where she lived. He’ll come inside, she thought. He’ll tell my parents. Of course, he will, he’ll have to.
Dr. Brisband said, “So what was this about?”
“We were going to hang the mummy from the bell tower for Mischief Night,” she said. “I didn’t realize how real she would be. I didn’t realize, once I had her in my hands, that I had to do my part in keeping her for the next generation to dream of ancient Egypt. I began to see we couldn’t hang her at all. She would fall apart from being thrown around. Then we found out about the gold. The others wanted her gold. They wanted the very same party the trustees wanted. I was the thief, and I was wrong, but at least it turned out that I don’t have greed. I just wanted to pull it off. But once I pulled it off—I had her. She was my responsibility.” Emlyn mopped up her tears. “What will happen to you? Are you fired? Are you arrested? Is your career ruined? Was it wrong to call the Egyptian Embassy?”
He did not turn toward her street after all. She wondered if she should correct him. Or was he heading for the police station?
It was dark. People were bent over in the wind, clutching their coats, scurrying toward warmth. Emlyn was cold from fear.
“The board was upset to find themselves the focus of negative press,” said Dr. Brisband. “The museum world attacked them. You must not believe everything you see on television or read in the papers. I was not arrested, just threatened with it. However, I probably would have not been able to save the mummy. The board was far too pleased with their party and their auction. As for my future, we will wait for the Egyptians to announce the arrival of the mummy in their hands. It’s a difficult precedent you are setting. It implies the museum does not have the right to decide what becomes of its own exhibits. But under the circumstances, you did well by Amaral-Re, although you did not do well by the museum or by me.”
She could not figure out where they were going. She stopped looking at the signs on the corners. Wherever he was headed, they would get there, and something would happen, and it would not be in her control.
“Are you going to tell your parents?” he asked.
“Not if I don’t have to. I want them to think I’m a good person.”
“I’m not sure what I think. You are a person who only half wants to be good, Emlyn. The choice is yours. I hope you don’t go wrong. If you go right, you might aim for curator. The curator, you know, is the guardian. The one who cares.”
He touched an automatic garage opener on his visor, and Emlyn stared in astonishment as heavy doors opened and he drove into the courtyard of the museum. Was she going to have to face the board or something?
“Just curiosity,” he said, smiling. “I want you to show me how you did it. The public isn’t here right now; we’re having a touring exhibit set up. You and I can ramble.”
He parked, opened his door, and headed inside. Emlyn followed. Was this it? Was it over? Was he actually taking this so easily? So lightly?
It seemed such a bargain, to be getting off. Whatever danger there had been, was it gone? Dried to a husk in the Egyptian sun?
They came into the offices and the old mansion wing.
“Oh, Dr. Brisband!” exclaimed a young man Emlyn had never seen. “Thank heaven you’re here! This is a nightmare. The Texas people are furious. We neglected to—”
“I’m coming,” said Dr. Brisband calmly. “Emlyn, why don’t you come along? You can see how a curator spends his time.”
He doesn’t want to leave me alone in his office, thought Emlyn wryly.
It turned out to be an exhibit of Texas history with lots of stuff about the Alamo and President Johnson and ranching. Emlyn could hardly be bothered to look. She supposed that a museum whose mummy had been stolen was not going to snare traveling exhibits of crown jewels from England. Thanks to her, this museum would always have to settle for old saddles and barbed wire collections.
Dr. Brisband soothed the lighting people, whose feelings had been hurt by the Texans, whose feelings had been hurt by the lack of concern for proper lighting.
And then something awesome and astonishing was lifted from its packing materials. It was a sword so gleaming, so burnished that it caught all light and blinded Emlyn with its beauty. The hilt was heavy with jewels that anyone would turn pirate to own. Swirls of engraving decorated the blade. Who could have used, in battle, so long and wide a weapon? It must have been held by a conquistador as he marched into Mexico, thrusting it skyward, thinking himself a god.
Emlyn had never seen anything so magnificent.
She yearned to stroke that shining metal, feel how sharp the blade might be, stare into the glittering facets of those jewels.
She dropped her eyes and looked at the floor so Dr. Brisband would not see what was reflected in her eyes.
My heart has stolen forth, thought Emlyn, and goes quietly to a place it knows well.
And what does my heart know best? And what does my heart want?
To be good?
Or to pull it off again?
A Biography of Caroline B. Cooney
Caroline B. Cooney is the author of ninety books for teen readers, including the bestselling thriller The Face on the Milk Carton. Her books have won awards and nominations for more than one hundred state reading prizes. They are also on recommended-reading lists from the American Library Association, the New York Public Library, and more. Cooney is best known for her distinctive suspense novels and romances.
Born in 1947, in Geneva, New York, Cooney grew up in Old Greenwich, Connecticut, where she was a library page at the Perrot Memorial Library and became a church organist before she could drive. Music and books have remained staples in her life.
Cooney has attended lots of colleges, picking up classes wherever she lives. Several years ago, she went to college to relearn her high school Latin and begin ancient Greek, and went to a total of four universities for those subjects alone!
Her sixth-grade teacher was a huge influence. Mr. Albert taught short story writing, and after his class, Cooney never stopped writing short stories. By the time she was twenty-five, she had written eight novels and countless short stories, none of which were ever published. Her ninth book, Safe as the Grave, a mystery for middle readers, became her first published book in 1979. Her real success began
when her agent, Marilyn Marlow, introduced her to editors Ann Reit and Beverly Horowitz.
Cooney’s books often depict realistic family issues, even in the midst of dramatic adventures and plot twists. Her fondness for her characters comes through in her prose: “I love writing and do not know why it is considered such a difficult, agonizing profession. I love all of it, thinking up the plots, getting to know the kids in the story, their parents, backyards, pizza toppings.” Her fast-paced, plot-driven works explore themes of good and evil, love and hatred, right and wrong, and moral ambiguity.
Among her earliest published work is the Fog, Snow, and Fire trilogy (1989–1992), a series of young adult psychological thrillers set in a boarding school run by an evil, manipulative headmaster. In 1990, Cooney published the award-winning The Face on the Milk Carton, about a girl named Janie who recognizes herself as the missing child on the back of a milk carton. The series continued in Whatever Happened to Janie? (1993), The Voice on the Radio (1996), and What Janie Found (2000). The first two books in the Janie series were adapted for television in 1995. A fifth book, Janie Face to Face, will be released in 2013.
Cooney has three children and four grandchildren. She lives in South Carolina, and is currently researching a book about the children on the Mayflower.
The house in Old Greenwich, Connecticut, where Cooney grew up. She recalls: “In the 1950s, we walked home from school, changed into our play clothes, and went outside to get our required fresh air. We played yard games, like Spud, Ghost, Cops and Robbers, and Hide and Seek. We ranged far afield and no parent supervised us or even asked where we were going. We led our own lives, whether we were exploring the woods behind our houses, wading in the creek at low tide, or roller skating in somebody’s cellar, going around and around the furnace!”
Cooney at age three.
Cooney, age ten, reading in bed—one of her favorite activities then and now.
Ten-year-old Cooney won a local library’s summer reading contest in 1957 by compiling book reviews. In her collection, she wrote reviews of Lois Lenski’s Indian Captive: The Story of Mary Jemison and Jean Craighead George’s Vison, the Mink. “What a treat when I met Jean George at a convention,” she recalls.
Cooney’s report card from sixth grade in 1959. “Mr. Albert and I are still friends over fifty years later,” she says.
Cooney in middle school: “I went through some lumpy stages!”
In 1964, Cooney received the Flora Mai Holly Memorial Award for Excellence in the Study of American Literature from the National League of American Pen Women. “I always meant to write to them, and tell them that I kept going!” Cooney says. “I love the phrase ‘pen woman.’ I’m proud to be one.”
Cooney at age nineteen, just after graduating from high school. (Photo courtesy of Warren Kay Vantine Studio of Boston.)
Cooney with Ann Reit, her book editor at Scholastic. Many of the books Cooney wrote with Reit were by assignment. “Ann decided what books she wanted (for example, ‘entry-level horror, no bloodshed, three-book series,’ which became Fog, Snow, and Fire) and I wrote them. I loved writing by assignment; it was such a challenge and delight to create a book when I had never given the subject a single thought.”
Cooney with her late agent Marilyn Marlow, who worked with her on all of the titles that are now available as ebooks from Open Road.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2000 by Caroline B. Cooney
cover design by [cover designer]
978-1-4532-6425-6
This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media
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EBOOKS BY CAROLINE B. COONEY
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