Текст книги "Mummy Dearest "

Автор книги: Josh lanyon

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“Fake. Bogus. Phony baloney. Just what I said. If you want my expert opinion, which has been reinforced after sitting through The Mummy again, I think it’s probably a prop from either that film or one of the other early Mummy films.”

Fraser started walking again, though more slowly. I glided along beside him.

“But how could that be?”

I explained how that could be. I explained about the inscription being a quote from the movie. And when he tried to suggest that the movie researchers had simply done their research, I explained about the difference between hieratic and hieroglyphics and how legitimate hieratic script wouldn’t be written left-to-right.

He heard me out without interruption. “So the princess is a fake.”

The cold air, walking, and having to be halfway coherent had sobered me considerably. “Not necessarily. I mean, the mummy really is a mummy. Is it Egyptian? Sixth Dynasty? Is it royal? The only way to know for sure is to run tests. It’s possible that it’s legitimate. That’s why I’d like to talk to Doctor Solvani about its provenance and the provenance of the sarcophagus. They may have been matched up along the way by someone at the museum who simply assumed they went together. These old dime museums don’t exactly keep records like the Smithsonian.”

Fraser grunted.

“Does learning this mess up your show?”

“Not necessarily. The legend is the important thing. So long as the mummy is real…”

“It could be.”

He nodded, but his expression was troubled as we continued to walk.

After a time I noticed we were passing a park and that ahead of us was an old, closed theater.

“Hey.”

Fraser looked up. “Hey?”

“Look where we are.”

He nodded. “The museum.”

“Why? Why are we at the museum?”

“I thought we ought to look in on your fiancée, the princess.”

That still struck me as funny, but the cold and the exercise had exerted their blessedly sobering effect and I restrained myself to a snort.

“Why?”

“Seems like a good idea, don’t you think?”

No, actually. The hotel and a warm, comfortable bed seemed like a much better idea. “How are we getting inside?” I gave him an uneasy look. “We’re not breaking in, are we?”

“I’m shocked. Shocked I tell you. Do you really think I would commit breaking and entering?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, well we don’t have to.” Fraser held up a set of keys and dangled them before my nose. “Babe gave me a spare key so I could check my equipment.”

“Your equipment seemed like it was in perfect working order to me.” Did I say that aloud? Who was writing my material? Obviously I was still three sheets to the wind.

Fraser gave a little hoot of amusement. “I can’t believe you said that, Dr. Lawson. I must be rubbing off on you.”

I opened my mouth, but movement over his shoulder caught my eye. A light had flared on inside the museum.

“Hey. Look at that.”

Fraser turned to look at the cheerful brightness shining behind one square-paned window. “Well, well, well,” he said softly.

“Is someone from your crew in there?”

He shook his head.

“Maybe it’s on a timer? A security measure to protect the museum?”

“I don’t think they could give away most of the junk in that place.”

“Maybe it’s a nightlight for the princess.”

“Come on.”

“Wait. Maybe we should—”

Once again I was talking to myself. Fraser went charging down the sidewalk, up the porch steps, and then—then—belatedly showed a little discretion and stealthily unlocked the front door.

He slipped inside and waved for me to join him, and showing the same fabulous good sense I’d shown all evening, I did just that. I crept through the open door behind him.

We stood for a few seconds, listening. The light from the exhibit room threw a sharp triangular shadow across the hallway floor, and I found myself trying to decide if it looked like a pyramid or not. And whether that was relevant. And whether I was going to beg Fraser to shoot me in the morning. I could hear the very faint whir of some kind of electronic equipment.

Fraser made a motion for me to stand still. Why I should stand still and not him, I had no idea—and I wanted to discuss it. But he gestured sharply for me to stay quiet before turning away to step cautiously toward the exhibition room. One of the floorboards squeaked beneath his foot like the crack of doom.

He froze and looked at me. No way could that sound be mistaken for anything like the building settling or wooden joints contracting in the cold. And the total stillness from the other room confirmed it.

I shook my head. Fraser nodded solemn understanding—and then did exactly what I was afraid he’d do. He rushed headlong into the exhibition room. It sounded like he drove into a brick wall. The whole building shook, and there was a sound of a smashing clash and crashing wood.

I burst into the room after him to witness a scene straight out of a Hammer film. Fraser was locked in combat with a mummy. A mummy built like Lurch from The Addams Family. The mummy had its big bandaged paws on Fraser’s shoulders and was shaking him like a rag doll—until Fraser hauled off and delivered a punch that sent the mummy careening back into the small offering table. I cried out as the canopic jars went flying. They smashed to the floor and one cracked open. Sand spilled out.

Considering what should have spilled out, that was maybe a good thing.

The mummy tore free of Fraser’s grip and charged toward the entrance, which meant me. As he brushed by Fraser’s equipment, he knocked the camera on its tripod, and I dived to save it.

The mummy flew past me and pounded down the hallway. It disappeared into another room.

“Come on!” Fraser whipped by next, and I ran after him.

We pounded into the room where the mummy had disappeared. We were in a small office. There was a desk and a number of wooden file cabinets. Framed black-and-white photos lined the wall. The room was empty. A window on the opposite side stood wide open, and the cold, Wyoming night air gusted through, rippling the papers on the desk.

Chapter Seven

Fraser began to swear.

I ignored him and picked up a framed photo that had fallen from the desk to the floor. The image was of a dark-haired woman, hand propped on chin, smiling for the camera.

Dr. Solvani’s wife? Dr. Solvani?

Fraser stopped swearing at last. “We better call the cops. Or the sheriff. Whatever they have for law enforcement in this hick town.”

“I’m not so sure.” I was still gazing at the photograph. Something about it was familiar, but I couldn’t think what.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it.” I met his eyes. “One mummy appearance tonight could be chalked up to coincidence. Two mummy appearances might be a joke. Three mummy appearances indicate a plan.”

“A plan? What plan?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. But we didn’t randomly stumble in here tonight.”

“How do you figure that? No one could know we were going to drop by. We didn’t even know until fifteen minutes ago.”

“Really? Your equipment is here. The Princess is supposed to walk tonight. And in case you lost track of that fact, Mummy Man keeps popping up to remind you. I think you received everything but an invitation with hieroglyphics to get over to the museum.”

Fraser frowned, thinking this over. “What would be the point?”

“I don’t know.”

He scratched his beard absently.

I said, “Think about it. What was he doing in here except waiting for us to show up? The light didn’t even go on until we were standing outside the building. I think we’re going to look like total fools if we call the cops. Maybe that’s the point.”

His gaze darkened. “You think someone’s out to discredit the show?”

“Uh…” Was there a way to discredit a show like The Mysterious? Not that I was unwise enough to say so, but since he put it like that, I couldn’t imagine the goal was to destroy Fraser’s credibility in the scientific or historical community.

But I also didn’t think it was by chance that we’d stumbled on our friend the mummy for the third time that night.

“Is your equipment okay?” I asked instead.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. Thanks for saving my camera, by the way.”

I nodded acknowledgment. “Those canopic jars.”

“What about them?”

“They’re filled with sand.”

“So?”

“You know what they should contain.”

“The internal organs of the deceased.”

“Exactly. Canopic jars were used by the Egyptians to store the large internal organs during the mummification process so that their owner could use them in the afterlife.”

“I know. I know about the whole sucking-the-brain-out-with-a-straw thing too.”

I sighed. “Something about those jars is triggering my warning system.”

“You have a warning system? Like the Emergency Broadcast System? Like the National Severe Weather Warning Service?”

“No, smartass. More like the Traffic Collision Avoidance System. I think we’re headed for a pileup if we call the cops. Assuming we can even convince them this isn’t a prank call.”

“I guess the truth is there’s no rush in calling anyone.” Fraser checked his wristwatch. “It’s two in the morning. I can’t see what difference a couple of hours will make.”

Not to the police. I was thinking I’d kill for a couple of hours sleep.

“You convinced me,” Fraser said. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We’ll report the break-in to Babe in the morning.”

I don’t remember much about the walk back to the hotel. I think I did it on automatic pilot. Or maybe I was sleepwalking by then. But as we reached the hotel and let ourselves inside the glass door, I began to wake up a little and wonder…

I looked at Fraser, but he seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts.

We walked past the bank of vending and ice machines. When we reached the lobby, Fraser seemed to shake off his preoccupation. “I’ll walk you to your door.”

I laughed because of course he was going to walk me to my door and to my bed.

But when we reached my room and I finally found my cardkey and got the door open, Fraser politely kissed me on the cheek and stepped back.

I grabbed his jacket sleeve. “Where are you going?”

“Well,” he said with clear reluctance, “it’s pretty late. I think it’s time to say good night.”

“Good night? Aren’t you– I mean, wouldn’t you like to—?”

“I would, yeah, but…I’m sure you’re tired.”

“Tired?” That was so lame an excuse as to be almost offensive.

“Hey, I’m tired.”

“Fine. Sleep tight. Good night.” I turned away.

Fraser’s hand landed on my shoulder. I faced him again. “Drew, I’m not that tired.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Well, as you keep pointing out, you’re a little the worse for wear. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

“You don’t have to be diplomatic. I’ve been drunk off my butt most of the evening. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want, just that I’m braver about asking for it.”

Fraser chewed his lip. No wonder he needed all that ChapStick.

“I’d like to spend what’s left of the night with you,” I told him. “And it’s not because I don’t want to be alone—although, to be honest, I don’t—and it’s not because I fear the curse of the mummy.”

He spluttered a laugh.

“I just…like being with you.”

“Yeah, but will you like being with me in the morning?”

“I can’t see why I wouldn’t.”

For an instant his face looked young and unguarded. “Really?”

I nodded. “As weird as this night has been, it’s also been the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

He said quite seriously, “I am fun.”

“I know. And to be honest, I haven’t been able to get that thing you said about making beautiful, passionate, mind-blowing love to me out of my head all night.”

“Do you want me to make love to you?” He said it so seriously, it gave me a moment’s qualm.

“I do. But, as we’ve both noticed, I’m slightly smashed, so I think we better consider it more in the light of having sex and just leave the L word out of it. For now.”

He suddenly broke into a smile. “You speak very slowly and precisely when you’re smashed.”

“The rain in Spain is giving me a pain.”

He laughed.

“Yeah, but you’re listening to me, right?” I was earnest about this. The idea of hurting Fraser or leading him astray was terrible to me. “I want to fu-have tonight together, but I don’t want anyone to get hurt. Enough people already got hurt this evening.”

His face changed. “I won’t hurt you, Drew. And I already know that you’re a very bad emotional risk. So if it’s what you want, I’ll be happy to fuck your brains out.”

I started to laugh at that, and so did he. It had to be the dregs of alcohol floating in our systems, but abruptly we were both laughing so hard—and so silently, which made it all the funnier somehow—that we could hardly get inside my room.

I finally managed to shut the door and fall down on the bed beside him. The mattress was shaking beneath him, but he sobered at last. I began to pluck at the waistband of my jeans.

Fraser jumped up, the mattress bouncing as he sprang to the window and drew the curtains all the way.

“Good thinking.”

But as he came back to the bed, his expression was glum.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Guess what?”

“What?”

“I don’t have a condom.”

“I do.” I lifted my right hip and pulled a foil square from my pocket.

His eyebrows shot up. “You always carry one of those?”

“I bought it in the bathroom at the bar. I got two of them, in fact.”

“You weren’t kidding about it being on your mind.”

“Nope.” I reached up and snapped off the light.

After Fraser fell asleep I watched the shadows swaying across the ceiling and listened to the soft sounds of his breathing.

Even in the dark, drowsy and boozy, I could tell I was not with Noah. It gave me a weird, homesick feeling. I looked at the clock on the table beside the bed, and I wondered what Noah was doing right now.

Sleeping probably. Probably at home in our king-size bed sleeping well, dreams untroubled because he was so comfortably sure he was in the right.

Was he in the right?

Last night at this time I had been awake too. Awake and miserable because I was flying out in the morning and Noah was angry with me for spoiling his weekend.

And, in all honesty, maybe there had been something childish, spiteful, in my choosing to leave this weekend even though we had plans. I could have put the trip to Wyoming off a week or so. I’d been hurt because Noah hadn’t defended me to Lionel and the others. He’d told me it was imperative I get something published as soon as possible, and I’d taken him at his word, knowing he didn’t mean it literally. Knowing he would not want his weekend plans upset.

I could have arranged to go next weekend, and Noah wouldn’t have had to fret about whether I’d miss Mirabelle’s garden party. If I had waited, we wouldn’t have quarreled. And I’d never have met Fraser Fortune.

I studied the moonlit strip of his face and found myself smiling faintly.

Looking back on the evening, it seemed almost surreal. Like a dream. That was partly the blur of alcohol, but it had been a weird night by anyone’s standards.

It had been a fun night too. Probably the most fun I’d had in years.

Two years, to be exact.

And the funny part was I’d started out thinking Fraser was a total jerk. And he still might be. Just because he’d made a good companion on the night’s adventures didn’t mean…couldn’t mean…

After all, it had taken me a year to figure out I was in love with Noah. So whatever this strange, relaxed, affectionate feeling was, it couldn’t be love. More likely too much alcohol and some of the best sex I’d ever had.

“Are you okay?” Fraser asked sleepily, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I could see the gleam of his eyes watching me.

“I didn’t know you were awake.”

“I wasn’t. You’re thinking so loud you woke me up.”

I registered the faint smile in his voice and relaxed. “Sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Why are you so far away?”

“Hm?”

He stretched his hand out across the width of sheet. “Arm’s length.”

“Oh. Noah doesn’t like to be touched while he’s sleeping.”

“I think I hate Noah.”

I bit back a guilty laugh.

We were silent, listening to the Wyoming wind rattle the metal chairs in the pool yard. It felt like a very long way from Los Angeles. I was glad Fraser was here.

He said finally, huskily, “Are you going back to him?”

“I don’t see how I can now.”

“Is that why we had sex?”

I turned my head on the pillow, trying to see his face, wanting to be sure he knew this was the truth. “No.”

“You wouldn’t have to tell him.”

“Yes, I would.”

He thought that over quietly. “If he loves you, he’ll forgive you.”

“I think he would.” I didn’t know that I wanted him to.

Fraser reached over and tugged me toward him. “Come here.”

I scooted over and let him fold me into his arms.

He murmured, “You don’t hate being touched.”

“No.” I tucked my head into the warmth of his neck. It was surprisingly comfortable. I closed my eyes.

I woke with a pounding headache and a mouth like a gorilla’s armpit. As I lay there, very still, listening to the sounds of running water in the bathroom and trying to fool my body into believing I was still asleep, a name came floating into my mind like the message on a Magic Eight Ball. Just as though I’d been worrying at a problem all night in my dreams. And so I had, but not this problem.

This problem was named Solvani. Dr. Solvani.

The door to the bathroom flew open and I said, “Dr. Solvani.”

It must have sounded like a plea for medical attention.

“Nah, you’ll feel better after you drink some coffee and have a couple of aspirin,” Fraser promised. “The coffee’s just about ready.”

I feebly identified the fragrances wafting around my hotel room as complimentary shampoo and instant coffee.

“I just remembered something.” I sat up—very carefully—and tottered over to the desk. I powered on my laptop and gingerly felt my way into the chair. “What do you know about the Lasse Dime Museum?”

“What I don’t know is why it’s called the Lasse Dime Museum when it was opened in 1904 by Wallace Hiram. It’s currently owned by Jillian Hiram. I think she’s the great-great-great-granddaughter of the original Hiram.”

I peered blearily at the computer screen. Was the screen flickering or was that me? “Did you talk to Dr. Solvani while you were arranging to film this segment of your show?”

“Sure.”

“Directly?”

“Not directly. I think Jeannie talked to his secretary. We mostly corresponded by email.”

I too had communicated strictly by email with Solvani. “Why would the curator of a tiny museum the size of the Lasse need a secretary? How would they even afford to pay her on what that museum must bring in?”

Fraser was briskly toweling his head. “I don’t know.”

“He wouldn’t. I’ll tell you something else.” I winced and shielded my eyes as the Windows logo came up with that earsplitting start-up sound. “The Great Solvani is a character in The Mummy’s Hand.”

Fraser stopped mid-toweling. At last he said, “I’m sure more than one person in the world has been named Solvani.” But he came over to join me at the desk, watching the screen as I began typing.

“Yeah, well Babe Jenson is another character from the same movie.”

There was a sharp pause. “Are you serious?”

I nodded—which was a mistake. I moaned and pressed my fingers to my temples. Fraser’s hands landed lightly on my shoulders, and he began to knead them very gently.

“Oh my God, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

He laughed quietly. “I won’t.”

After a time, I sighed and resumed clicking away at the keys. “I’m a big fan of those goofy old mummy movies. I’ve seen them all a million times. In fact, I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out what was going on.”

“What is going on?”

“She’s trying to save her museum by manufacturing a mummy curse.”

“Who is?”

I brought up the Lasse Museum website, clicked on the About Us button.

A thumbnail-size photo came up next to the words “Museum Director.”

Fraser bent over my shoulder, peering down at the screen. “Hey is that…? Why does that picture look so familiar?”

“That’s the photo we knocked over in the museum last night. I mean, a smaller image, obviously.”

“Hmm. I guess so. They need to update this page.”

“I think it is updated.”

“But that’s not…”

“Yes,” I said. “It is.”

“That’s not Dr. Solvani.”

“That’s what I keep telling you. There is no Dr. Solvani.”

“That’s impossible. She referred us to Dr. Solvani.”

“She being?”

“Her.” He nodded at the laptop monitor. “Jillian Hiram. She said Dr. Solvani was now the museum director and she put us in contact with him.”

“With her.”

“With…what?” He straightened, staring down at me.

I said patiently, “Look at this page. Look at this photo. This is a one-woman operation. And that woman is Jillian Hiram. AKA Babe Jenson. AKA Dr. Solvani.”