TO WAKE THE DEAD Read online

  “That’s how it looks. It’s impossible, of course.”

  “Ever heard of a guy by the name of Lazarus?” Susan asked.

  “Sure. I’ve also heard of little green men from Mars.” He shook his head. “Maybe Beckerman and Gonzalez ran into robbers in the stairwell, and one used the mummy as a shield. That could explain how she got shot. Then the guy flung her at Beckerman and he scratched.”

  “Okay, but they were killed by human teeth.”

  “The robbers could have done it.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “They subdued Beckerman and Gonzalez and used the mummy’s teeth to finish the job.”

  Susan’s eyes widened. “Manually?”

  “Like this.” One hand holding his forehead, he used his other hand to work the jaw.

  “That’s pretty far-fetched,” Susan told him.

  “Considerably less far-fetched than a living mummy.”

  “Suppose Amara did kill them.”

  “That’s pretty hard to suppose.”

  “It would explain a lot, though, wouldn’t it?”

  Tag grinned, shaking his head. “Sure. It would explain everything. Only problem is, dead people don’t walk. Dead people don’t bite.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “You’ll never make it into pictures.”

  “Says you.”

  “You’ve gotta have an agent.”

  “I’ll get one.”

  “How?”

  “They’ll be listed in the phone book. I’ll call them up.”

  “Yeah, right. As if that doesn’t happen a hundred times a day.”

  “I’ve got experience; they’ll see me.”

  “Showing your jugs on a hardware poster isn’t much experience.”

  “I’ve done TV ads.”

  “When you were fifteen.”

  “I’m only seventeen now.”

  “TV ads for a burger joint that no one’s ever heard of outta North Carolina.”

  “And corporates… I’ve done corporate video.”

  “That’s not the movies, is it? Charlottesville ain’t Hollywood and you know it, Grace.”

  “No one asked you to come.”

  “I’m not staying to get boned by old Joe now you’re gone.”

  “Pix! You said you wouldn’t bring that up again. You promised.”

  Cody slammed the steering wheel with his palm. “Pix. You keep quiet about that now.”

  “It’s the truth,” Pix protested.

  “I don’t care if it is the truth. We agreed that’s history. We wouldn’t talk about Joe again. Okay?”

  Pix was sixteen years old. She chewed a strand of her long blond hair; face sullen, she stared out the window at passing traffic.

  He slammed the steering wheel again.

  “Okay?”

  By way of reply: “I’m hungry, Cody.”

  “We’ll eat soon,” Grace said. “We’ll be in L.A. in a couple of hours.”

  “I want something now. I’ll start feeling sick if I don’t eat soon.”

  “Want an apple?” Grace sounded tired. This journey was taking it out of her.

  “I don’t like apples.”

  “You ate one this morning, Pix.”

  “That’s cuz there was nothing else.”

  Cody aimed to be diplomatic. Another row he couldn’t stand after driving nearly nonstop for the last three days. “I’ll find a diner.”

  Grace shook her head. “No diners. The police’ll be looking for the truck.”

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ll park up, then walk. No one will recognize me.”

  “Yeah,” Pix sneered. “You’re hardly America’s most wanted, Cody.”

  “You lay off that.”

  “The FBI is sure going to put every man they’ve got on the case,” Pix said, then held her nose so when she talked it sounded like a police radio. “Attention. Attention. Be on the lookout for Cody Wilde, eighteen years of age, gas station jockey from Going-nowheres-ville, suspected of stealing fifteen-year-old Ford pickup worth approximately one hundred and three dollars, eighteen cents. Shoot on sight. I repeat. Shoot on sight.”

  “Pix, will you quit it?” Cody fumed. Would you believe it? Who runs away from home with their girlfriend only to take the kid sister along? A kid sister from hell who whined, who kvetched, who complained for the last two thousand miles straight. Still, better that she came along than being left home with Joe.

  He glanced at Grace sitting beside him. She was beautiful. Dark Latino eyes. She had a great body. The body of a dancer. He knew he was in love with her, and he knew they were doing the right thing, escaping that hellhole where she lived with her indolent mother and Joe who was… hell, who was no great shakes as a human being, never mind a stepfather.

  The plan was to shoot for Hollywood. They both knew she could make it into movies if she got the right breaks. She could dance. She could act. A couple of years ago she’d starred in a whole string of TV ads for Chucky Burger in their hometown. She’d made good money, which she’d set aside for college.

  Wise kid.

  But hadn’t banked on Old Joe moving in.

  Huh, the college fund?

  Joe found it, took it, spent it.

  Grace’s mother never even roused herself from the front of the TV. Never accused Joe. The most she said was: “Grace. I’m sure he had his reasons.”

  Pix sang out, “There’s a diner. Hey, stupid. A diner!”

  “I see it.”

  “You’ve gone right past it.”

  “I know. I’m going to park up, then walk back.”

  Grace looked uneasy. “The road’s awful busy. What if there’s a cop—”

  “Don’t worry.” He pulled off into a dirt track that led into the desert. “We can’t be seen from the road here.” Parking the truck behind a mound of tires that some litter bug had dumped, he switched off the motor. The relief of silence after hours of hearing the roar of the engine. Boy, Cody loved the sweet silence.

  Not that it would last.

  “I’m so hungry I could choke,” Pix said, winding down the window. “Gee, it’s so hot I could choke.”

  Grace gritted her teeth. “You want to choke? Be my guest.”

  “Some sister you are.”

  “Some sister you are, Pix. You begged to come with us, now you bug us nonstop.”

  “Well, Hollywood’s a stupid choice. You’ll never get into pictures.”

  “So what do you suggest, Pix?”

  “New York.”

  “New York?”

  “We could’ve got work there!”

  “Pix!” Cody slammed the steering wheel with his hand again. Sweat burned his eyes. His back ached from driving clean across the country. He felt dirty. Needed a shower. Needed a drink; a cold, cold beer. This endless arguing he didn’t need. He took a deep breath to steady his temper. “Pix. What can I get you to eat?”

  When he’d taken the orders, he told them to stay put until he came back. “I’ll be twenty minutes tops,” he told them.

  “Ice cream… bring some ice cream,” Pix said leaning out the window.

  “It’ll melt,” he told her, then walked away.

  Grace watched him go. He walked like a Wild West hero along the desert track back to the highway. His brown cowboy boots raised dust with that nice even stride of his. She watched the way his lean body in the denim jeans and jacket moved. There was a confident rhythm there. He glanced back at her and smiled that easy smile that she loved so much.

  In her ear Pix humphed. “I bet he takes ages. And I bet he forgets the mayonnaise.”

  Grace hoped this was for the best. Maybe she should have stuck it out back home a little longer?

  I could have married Cody. We could have found a place of our own. Being a teen runaway sounds glamorous. But these long hours on the road in a stolen truck were taking their toll.

  Sure the truck was stolen from Mom’s boyfriend.

  And for sure the truck had been bough
t using her money for the TV work she’d done.

  But she was certain Joe would have reported it as stolen. And stolen by his girlfriend’s daughter and lover. And maybe he would claim that they’d kidnapped Pix too. Just to add a little more seasoning to the charge sheet. Cody could get time for this. Even though everyone knew that Cody was the gentlest, kindest guy you could ever meet. Okay, so he didn’t shine bright at school, where she’d first met him more than five years ago. But he was the last man on Earth to pull a mean stunt or bad-mouth anyone behind their back.

  She didn’t want to see him in trouble with the cops.

  Maybe she could have stayed?

  Maybe.

  Maybe gone to her own private hell too.

  It all went crazy last week.

  Joe had leered at her plenty. He’d even taken to fingering her underwear in the laundry basket and making cheap comments. “Bet Cody likes you in this. You dance for him like they do down at the Snake Pit? Dance with your back to him and rub your butt in his crotch, huh?”

  Then last week she’d been woken by hands touching her under the sheet. She’d smelled beery breath panting into her face. Heard grunting. “Your Mom’s sick. I haven’t nailed her in a week. Looks like your lucky night, Grace.”

  “Joe?”

  “Old Joe, friendly old Joe,” he slurred. “Now pull up that nightie… up over your hips… there’s a good girl.”

  “Get off me…”

  “C’mon, Joe ain’t gonna hurt you.”

  “No.”

  “Nothing you ain’t done before plenty, I bet.”

  She reached out, yanked the light cord.

  In the blaze of light she looked up to see Joe kneeling on the bed, pawing the sheet from her, his chin slick with saliva. With his other hand he worked himself hard. Panting. Face nearer crimson than red. Watery eyes fixed excitedly on her body.

  “Nice tits. Nice and firm. Big too,” he muttered in surprise. “Bigger than I thought… never would have guessed.”

  “No, please, Joe.”

  “Joe won’t hurt cha.”

  “Get off—”

  “Might even enjoy it. Might want more in a day or so.”

  “Don’t touch me. Ow!”

  Joe had clamped his thick fingers on her breast. Squeezed hard.

  “Gonna get those nipples all pert and erect. Little nip’ll do the trick.”

  She took a deep breath, ready to scream the walk down.

  “You do, you little bitch, and I’ll bang your little sister, so you be nice to me and your sis stays virgo intacto. You follow?”

  Grace had frozen then. She knew that he would. Mom wouldn’t do anything. Maybe she’d heard now and lay there in her own bed, shutting out the sounds, thinking about the lives of the soap stars who she cared about so much more than her real family.

  “That’s it. You lay nice and still, Grace. Oooh—ay, have you ever seen a boner as big as that?”

  “Joe,” she whispered. “Please don’t do this to me.”

  “Once this baby goes inside, s’gonna stir your brains some.”

  “Don’t… please.”

  She looked down as his hand went to her throat. He squeezed. A message: Don’t mess with me, or eke.

  Then his hand went down.

  Down.

  Down to her breasts. They formed hard mounds in the cool air.

  He kneaded them. Squeezed. Pinched nipples between nicotine-stained fingers and thumbs. Pinched hard until it brought a cry to the back of her throat. But she clamped her lips to stop the cry from escaping with the ferocity it demanded.

  “Good girl. You know when to keep your mouth shut.” He pinched her nipples until they turned black and congested. “Although I like it when a girl knows to open her mouth when the time’s right. Know what I mean?”

  In terror she looked up at his beer-sodden face. His jaw stubbled with gray.

  He’s going to rape me.

  He’s going to rape me and I can’t stop it. He’ll do the same to Pix if I resist. Oh, Mom, how could you?

  She’d lain there. Looked up at the ceiling. Those rough hands squeezing, stroking, probing. She looked at the posters of pop groups on the walk. Tried to concentrate on them. Block it out. She focused on the picture of James Dean tacked to the back of the door.

  Joe’s fingers reached down to the cleft between her legs. Fingers pushed hard.

  “Stop it.” Her arm swung up and she scratched the side of his face. She couldn’t take this anymore.

  Joe looked down at her in fury. Bloodshot eyes grew to the size of eggs in his face.

  “I was tryin’ to be nice. If you don’t want nice, you can have rough.” He slapped her.

  Her head whipped against the pillow. Her face felt numb; her mind swam, dazed.

  “Now I’m gonna flip you over… I’m gonna nail you in the ass… teach you a little respect.”

  She felt his hands on her body, turning her over. A second later she lay on her stomach, her bare bottom upward. Then he was on her. The weight of him pushing so hard in the small of her back she felt her spine would snap.

  Agony.

  Unbearable agony.

  Got to shout. Got to scream.

  But he pushed her face into the pillow. Now she couldn’t even breathe.

  “Gonna show you. Once this baby goes in, ‘s gonna split you like a melon.”

  She felt him pushing at her. Trying to force his penis into her, but she was too dry. He couldn’t slip inside.

  “Got a little trick of my own,” he panted in triumph. “This does the trick.”

  He shifted his weight off her, but still pushed with one hand in the middle of her shoulder blades, holding her down. She lifted her head, turned it.

  In the mirror of the dressing table she saw what he did next.

  Her stomach turned in disgust.

  He hawked wetly before spitting a great mouthful of sputum into his cupped hand. Then he rubbed it onto the bulbous swelling on the end of his penis.

  “Lubrication.” He grinned. “Good ol’ slippery lube.”

  She felt him lower himself back…

  No… can’t… won’t…

  With his weight shifted from her top half, she pushed herself up onto her left elbow and with her right hand she reached back. Grabbed his balls in her fist.

  “Don’t you dare,” he snarled. “I’ll beat you—”

  With all her strength she squeezed… twisted… pulled.

  His scream set all the dogs in the neighborhood barking.

  Now, a week a later, here by the pile of tires in the desert, Joe was thousands of miles away.

  Pix was safe.

  Although that didn’t stop her complaints. Complaints about the long journey. Complaints about sleeping in the truck. Complaints about an uncomfortable this… an irritating that…

  After Grace had cooled Joe’s ardor, she’d grabbed what she could, including Pix, then fled the house in Joe’s truck. There came a confused whirl of telling Cody everything. Then the crazy dash out of town at the dead of night.

  Now here.

  Here was a desert.

  With the sun going down. And with stumpy trees that looked like zombies from some bloodthirsty horror film.

  She’d switched on the radio for a while. Surfed the stations. One carried a news report of two guys being killed at a museum; the theft of a mummy.

  She found a music station. Flamenco music… she liked that… made her think of faraway places. Mexico… beautiful dancers whirling in brightly colored skirts beneath starry skies.

  “I hate that music,” Pix said. “Find some pop.”

  Thud.

  At that moment a hand struck the windshield. Grace started. In the back Pix gave a yelp of fright.

  She looked out to see three guys. They weren’t old. Could have been high school dropouts. They chewed gum and smoked black stumps of cigars. The one who’d thumped the glass looked at her through mean eyes. Grinned.

  “It’s Christmas
, guys,” he told his buddies. “Christmas come early.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  While his parents were off in their bedroom getting dressed for a party, Byron ate his hamburger in the den. He watched a rerun of Superman. Then the news came on.

  He was stuffing the final chunk of toasted bun into his mouth when the blond newswoman said, “Closer to home, our own Charles Ward Museum was the scene last night of a brutal double killing. Two security guards from the Haymer Agency, Arnulfo Gonzalez and Ernest Beckerman, were found slain in the museum when it opened this morning—this on the heels of the apparent death of guard Barney Quinn on the previous night. Lenny Farrel was on the scene this morning with our live-action mini-cam to give us this report.”

  The picture changed to a curly-haired man holding a microphone. Byron recognized the museum’s main entrance behind the man. “With me is Lieutenant Carlos Vasquez, the officer in charge of the investigation.” He turned to the broad-faced man. “Lieutenant, there’s been a great deal of rumor afloat regarding the manner in which the two guards met their deaths. Can you shed some light in that direction?”

  “Until the medical examiner has completed his investigation, Lenny, I’d prefer not to speculate.”

  “We have information that they appeared to have been mauled by an animal.”

  “I’d prefer not to speculate on the cause of death.”

  “According to an earlier police statement, Lieutenant, the men were killed while trying to foil a robbery attempt. Was anything in fact stolen?”

  Vasquez nodded. “A portion of the Egyptian collection does appear to be missing. We assume it was taken by the perpetrators.”

  “By ‘missing portion,’ are you referring to the mummy?”

  “Yes. A mummy does appear to be gone.”

  “A mummy?” Byron muttered. He stared at the television.

  “Are other items missing?”

  “Not to our knowledge.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” The reporter gestured to someone off at the side. The camera turned, showing a young woman who looked awfully pretty—even prettier than Byron’s favorite teacher, Miss Bloom. She had soft hair, bright blue eyes. The neck of her blouse was open. Her skin looked like gold. One side of her face was bruised. Maybe someone had tried to punch her out. But who’d do something like that to such a pretty woman?