TO WAKE THE DEAD Page 6

  “I’m sure it is gold,” she said.

  “Right out in the open?”

  “This section’ll be closed to the public, at least for the time being. We’re having a special display case made up for the coffin—with temperature and humidity controls, and a burglar alarm.”

  “When will that be ready?”

  “In about a week.”

  “Hope you still have something to put in it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Imad woke the girl with his tongue. He licked her breasts, leaving the nipples slick and erect. He licked a trail down her belly. He probed her navel, then the moist cleft between her legs. She stroked his hair as his tongue darted. Soon, her chest was heaving. Her fingers twisted his hair. Her knees lifted and she writhed, rubbing herself against his mouth.

  Without stopping, Imad pulled her by the legs. He knelt on the floor at the foot of the bed. He kept pulling. Her buttocks came off the mattress and she slid down, crying out as his stout penis impaled her.

  They fell and tumbled. On top of her, Imad finished with quick, hard thrusts that jolted her whole body beneath him.

  She hugged him tightly, panting.

  “You earned the bonus,” Imad said.

  “Have I?” she gasped.

  He pulled slowly out of her, stood up, slipped on his robe.

  The girl sat up, her hand against her tingling groin. “Does that mean we’re done?”

  He answered with a nod.

  “I can stay, if you want.”

  “Stay?”

  “Sure. One night maybe, if you want?”

  “You can cook?”

  “Sure. Want me to make breakfast? I can fix that.”

  “All right,” Imad said. “For the time being, I’ll allow you to stay.”

  They went downstairs. Imad showed the girl through the kitchen. The vast refrigerator that contained nothing but a bag of salad and a dozen eggs. While she made omelets, Imad went outside and down the long driveway for the newspaper.

  The girl turned down the burner under the skillet. She stepped quickly across the kitchen to a telephone. She dialed. Listened to the quiet ringing. The ringing went on for a long time, and all the time she listened for the return of the Egyptian who moved like some damned spook.

  Hurry up, answer… answer… he’ll be back any moment. If he catches me he’ll—

  “Yeah?”

  “Blaze, honey, it’s me.”

  “Hydra? Where the fuck are you?”

  “I went home with the camel-jumper.”

  “You what?”

  “Listen. He’s got a regular mansion out here in Greenside. I mean, you wouldn’t believe it. All these rooms, marble bathrooms, huge TVs. This guy’s got so much money it’s running out his poop-chute. You better haul over.”

  “All right!”

  “His place is at 285 Greenside Lane. It’s got this big wall around it, so you better park outside and climb over.”

  “Got it. I’ll be over tonight.”

  “Why wait?”

  “It’ll be dark, shit-head.”

  Hydra heard him laugh. “What’s so funny?”

  “What I’m gonna do to that fucking A-rab, that’s what. Hope he ain’t got claustrophobia, ‘cause I’m gonna shove his stinking greaseball head up his ass for him. By the time I’ve finished with him he’s—”

  “Blaze. Gotta go. I can hear him coming back. See ya tonight.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Shortly before noon, Blumgard called a meeting of the museum staff. Susan took a seat at the long, mahogany table at the conference room. Her stomach rumbled. She glanced sideways at Esther Plum. The prim, silver-haired archivist showed no sign of hearing the noise. If she had heard it, she was the type to pretend she hadn’t.

  It growled again. More loudly this time. Esther stared at her folded hands.

  “Excuse me,” Susan said.

  “It’s quite all right, my dear.”

  “I haven’t eaten since seven.”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t eat a bite myself after what happened to that poor man.”

  Blumgard entered, shut the door. He stepped to the head of the table.

  Susan liked the man. Though he conducted himself with strict formality, he was never quite able to conceal his shyness or his enthusiasm. He loved his work. He cared for those who worked with him, as if they were all partners in a wonderful, shining quest. His eyes were red-rimmed behind his glasses. His hand trembled as he lit his pipe.

  “I’m certain,” he began, “that we’re all aware of the tragedy that struck here last night. Barney Quinn was a fine man, a loyal and trusted member of our staff. Many of you never had the pleasure of meeting Barney, since he worked the graveyard shift.” Blumgard’s eyes showed that he regretted his choice of words. “Those of us who did know Barney will miss him.”

  He cleared his throat, relieved to be done with that part of the business.

  “The police tell me that Barney apparently died of injuries sustained by falling down the central stairway. Whether he fell accidentally or was pushed, they won’t say. Or they don’t know. Neither do they know how the burglars entered our facility. They found no evidence of forced entry. Therefore, we may assume one of two possibilities: Either the robbers used a key to gain entry, or they entered with the public and secreted themselves before closing time. I, personally, think the latter possibility the more likely.” He cleared his throat again. “I also think it likely they will return.”

  Esther murmured, “Oh, dear.” Several others at the table frowned and muttered.

  “The police suspect youthful vandals may have been responsible. Who else, they said, would attempt to steal a mummy? While their position seems reasonable, in some respects, I have made known my reservations.”

  His forefinger curled over the bowl of his pipe and tamped down the loose ashes. “As many of you know, there has been a recent increase worldwide in thefts of Egyptian antiquities. Some, no doubt, were committed by the same breed who plundered tombs down through the ages in search of personal wealth. This is not the majority, however. It has become increasingly apparent that a great number of these robberies were committed by professionals—Egyptian patriots. Many priceless objects stolen from museums and private collections have been reappearing in Egypt. It’s quite possible that those responsible for last night’s tragedy had such a destination in mind for our collection… a misguided effort to return the mummy, Amara, to her homeland.”

  Susan raised a finger, catching Blumgard’s attention. “Yes, Mrs. Connors?”

  “I think it odd that men like that would remove the mummy from its coffin. From what I’ve heard of their operations, they’d be more likely to take the coffin and the whole collection, for that matter.”

  “I certainly agree with you. I have no idea why they should see fit to take only the mummy. Nor do I understand why they left so abruptly, taking nothing. Perhaps the police are right in suspecting vandals. I would like us all to assume, however, that this was the work of professional thieves who may return to finish the job they began last night.

  “All of us must be on our guard. A word to the docents would certainly be in order. We must keep our eyes open for suspicious behavior, especially as we approach closing time. If you see anything out of the ordinary, report it at once to Hank.”

  Hank, the daytime security guard, nodded confidently. He looked as if he wanted to grin, but knew it would be out of place at that particular time, with his nighttime counterpart lying cold on the mortuary slab.

  “I have contacted the Haymer Security Agency. They will be sending us two armed guards tonight. Hopefully, their presence will discourage any further robbery attempts.”

  Blumgard tapped the bit of his pipe against his front teeth. “Are there any questions or comments regarding this matter?”

  Nobody spoke up.

  “All right, then. We’ll reopen our doors at one P.M.”

  Susan bit into her sandwich. The tangy egg-
salad filling tasted marvelous. Just enough mustard, just enough ground pepper. Turning the sandwich, she licked the edge where a dollop had squeezed out.

  A sound of footsteps made her look up. Damn.

  She quickly looked away, pretended to concentrate on her sandwich.

  Just make eye contact with one of these people and you’ve had it. They’ll hit you up for a quarter, or start jabbering nonsense, or God knows what.

  It was the only drawback to eating lunch in the museum park: You had to contend with an assortment of beggars and crazies.

  She studied chunks of egg white and pepper in her sandwich as the footsteps came closer. The steps, slow, uneven. In front of her, they stopped.

  She didn’t look up. Bit into her sandwich. Stared at the woman’s black shoes. Broken laces, knotted in a few places. Toes scuffed. Dog turd crusting one heel. Green socks hung limply around her ankles. The ankles looked thick and gray; crimson blotches… Great, my sandwich… once it had tasted delicious, but now… uh…

  Is that ulcer on her shin leaking yellow pus?

  “That’s it,” snapped a woman’s voice. “Look me over, why don’t you?”

  Susan raised her eyes to the woman’s glowering face. “I wasn’t…”

  “You’re a real petunia, you know that?”

  Susan chewed her mouthful, but had a hard time swallowing.

  “Think you’re prime stuff, don’t you?”

  “I just want to eat my lunch, thank—”

  “Look at you. Look at them clothes. You’re a real petunia. Think you’re special, don’t you? A real princess?”

  Susan shook her head, wishing the woman would disappear. “I don’t think anything. I just want to finish my lunch, okay?”

  “Where do you get off?”

  “Right here,” Susan retorted. Angry, helpless, she stuffed the remaining half of her sandwich into her bag and stood up.

  “You ain’t going nowhere.”

  “I sure am, lady. There’s no law I have to sit here and take abuse. So, if you’ll—”

  She clutched Susan’s arm with her big gray paw.

  “Damn it! You let go of me!”

  The woman’s hand shot out, slapping Susan’s cheek. “How’s that, huh?” She slapped again. “How’s that? How’s a taste of knuckle sandwich for a change?”

  Susan’s sleeve ripped as she wrenched her arm free. She pushed. The heavy woman stumbled backward, arms windmilling, a strange growl in her throat. Susan saw the pain on her face as her rump hit the path.

  Made her hesitate.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  The woman kept growling. Lip rising like a canine snarl, exposing gaps where teeth should be, and lousy chunks of enamel and decay where teeth were still rooted into the unhealthy-looking gums.

  Susan looked around, feeling guilty, wondering if anyone had witnessed the struggle. Nobody was nearby. She turned again to the woman. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you shouldn’t have—”

  “Ain’t you something?” The woman muttered. “Knock a person down.” Rolling over, she got to her hands and knees. She stood, brushing leaves from her shabby dress. “What’d I ever do to you, huh?”

  “You hit me for starters. Tore my blouse… You ought to be locked up.”

  Susan started to leave. Hearing rapid footsteps behind her, she looked back and saw the woman charging. She tried to run, but a hand gripped her collar. It tugged backward, pulling her off balance. She felt herself hit the concrete. It didn’t hurt much, but then the big woman was on her—sitting on her, the big buttocks crushing down on her stomach; the woman pinned down her arms.

  “Get off!” Susan twisted, trying to throw the woman off.

  “Lay still.”

  She began to yell for help, but the woman let go of one arm long enough to smash her face.

  “Listen here, princess.”

  Susan stared at the pale, bloated face, with its cluster of pimples around her mouth, like spotty lipstick. The face broke an ugly smile, revealing more of those brown teeth stubs.

  “You just keep your dirty whore hands off my guy, you hear? You got no right. Keep off. You don’t, I’m gonna do a job on you… a real thorough job, you understand?”

  “You’re Mabel.”

  “That’s me, honey.”

  “Tag’s going to hear about this.”

  “He does and you’re in fer it. You and your runt.” With a smile, she started working her mouth.

  Susan knew what was coming. Couldn’t believe it. The last person to try such a thing was her older brother when they were little kids, and he’d missed on purpose. Just planning to gross her out a little.

  Mabel, she realized, didn’t plan to miss.

  She bucked and twisted as a stream of drool spilled from Mabel’s mouth. Pressing her lips shut, she turned her head away and closed her eyes. The sticky wetness dropped onto her cheek and rolled toward her ear. She felt its crawling path across her skin.

  With a harsh laugh, Mabel climbed off.

  Susan used her sleeve to wipe away the gelatinous mass. Sitting up, she watched Mabel limp away, heavy arms swinging.

  Susan got to her feet. Her wet sleeve clung to her arm. Some hair close to her ear was matted. As she bent down to pick up her lunch bag, she caught the sour-milk stench of the woman’s spit.

  Gagging, she rushed into the bushes.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tag climbed the stairs, careful not to touch the railing. If he could have stopped breathing the moment he entered the building, he would have preferred it; the place smelled like a garbage can. His foot slid as it mashed something on the step. He didn’t look down to see what it was. When he reached the second floor, he headed down a hallway to Apartment 202.

  He couldn’t knock on the door without touching it, so he thumped it with the toe of his shoe.

  “What you want?”

  “Mrs. Rudge? This is Officer Parker from the police. I’d like to speak to you.”

  “Hang on.”

  He waited. The door opened.

  Mabel’s obese mother stood blocking the entry, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, fists on hips. Her T-shirt and boxer shorts revealed more than Tag ever wanted to see.

  “What’s your story?” she asked, squinting through the smoke.

  “May I come in?”

  “Suit yourself. Got nothing to hide.” She stepped backward, the motion rippling her flesh.

  “Is Mabel here?”

  “See for yourself.”

  “I asked you: Is she here?”

  “I don’t see her, do you?”

  “Are you aware of her recent activities, Mrs. Rudge?”

  “You mean do I know you been pronging her? Sure. She’s my girl. She don’t keep secrets.”

  “I haven’t been ‘pronging’ her.”

  “That ain’t what I hear. What I hear, you can’t get enough of her.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “That you beg her to do it without no protection.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “You should wear protection, you know? Sheaths don’t cost the earth.”

  “Listen to me—”

  “And that you force her to do things that aren’t nat-chral for a girl.”

  “I’ve done nothing.”

  “From what she says you prong her like some guys prong a farmyard animal.”

  “Listen to me.”

  “Gettin’ bloodstains out of underpants ain’t no picnic I can tell you.”

  “Listen. I’ve never had intimate relations with your daughter.”

  “Inta-which?”

  “I’ve never pronged her.”

  “That a fact?”

  “It’s a fact.” Tag said, his skin crawling at the thought of it. Him and Mabel… hell.

  “Horseshit. Can’t trick me. You been layin’ it to her, sure as you’re standing here. Made her bleed time and again too, and not jus’ from her womanly parts.” A column of ash dropped from the cigare
tte in her mouth. It crumbled to powder on a huge hill of breast, adding a patch of gray to her grimy T-shirt. She batted the ashes off, setting the breast in motion. “Don’t bother me where you stick it. You can stick Mabel from now till your dick curls up and drops off, don’t offend me. But wear a sheath. I don’t want her knocking up. We don’t want us a brat around here, crapping the place up.”

  “Mrs. Rudge. Do you want Mabel busted?”

  She blew smoke out of her nose. At least, she tried. One nostril must have been blocked. Smoke jetted thinly from her left nostril only.

  “Mrs. Rudge, in the past two days Mabel has flattened a tire, assaulted a lady friend of mine, and assaulted me.”

  “You?” She grinned.

  “That’s right.”

  “You like the rough stuff? Mabel’s the girl to dish it.”

  “I don’t want to arrest her, Mrs. Rudge. That’s why I came over. I want you to talk to her, explain I’m not interested in having a relationship with her, and let her know she’ll be thrown in jail if she pulls one more stunt.”

  “How’d you mean that you don’t want a relationship with her.”

  “I don’t want to prong her, screw her, poke her, pork her, touch her. I want her to leave me alone.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re dumping her?”

  “I’ve never had a relationship with her in the first place.”

  “What the matter with you, you queer?”

  “I already have a lady friend.”

  “No law you can’t have two.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Her eyes narrowed through the billowing smoke that began to burn Tag’s throat. “You telling me you don’t like my Mabel?”

  “Not as a lover.”

  “That so?”

  “That is so.”

  “I can see you never done her then, or you’d be whistling a different tune. You go on and let her show you a time before you start bad-mouthing her.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Social services guy who had her case couldn’t get enough of her. Bought her chocolates for her fifteenth.”

  “Mrs. Rudge, I’m not interested. Understand that.”