The Book of the Dead

“We shouldn’t be working at all today,” said Bulke. “This is supposed to be our day off. We’re entitled to a little refreshment.”

“That’s the way I look at it, too,” said Morris.

“You were smart to bring that along.”

“Never go anywhere without it.”

Bulke glanced at his watch. Four-forty. The light filtering in through the skylights was slowly dying, the shadows deepening in the corners. Night would be coming soon. And with this section of the attics undergoing repairs and currently without electricity, that meant switching to flashlights, making their search all the more a

Bulke felt the creeping warmth of the whiskey in his gut. He sighed heavily, leaned his elbows on his knees, looked around. “Look at that shit, will you?” He gestured at a series of low metal shelves beneath the eaves, filled with countless glass jars containing jellyfish. “You think they actually study this crap?”

Morris shrugged.

Bulke reached out, fished a jar off the shelf, took a closer look. A whitish blob floated in the amber liquid, amidst drifting tentacles. He gave the jar a quick shake; when the turbulence settled, the jellyfish had been reduced to swirling shreds.

“Broke into a million pieces.” He showed the jar to Morris. “Hope it wasn’t important.” He issued a guffaw and, with a roll of his eyes, shoved the jar back onto the shelf.

“In China, they eat ’em,” said Morris. He was a third-generation museum guard and considered he knew a great deal more about the museum than the other guards.

“Eat what? Jellyfish?”

Morris nodded sagely.

“Frigging Chinese’ll eat anything.”

“They say they’re crunchy.” Morris sniffed, wiped his nose.

“Gross.” Bulke looked around. “This is bullshit,” he repeated. “There’s nothing up here.”

“The thing I don’t get,” Morris said, “is why they’re reopening that tomb, anyway. I told you how my granddad used to talk about something that happened in there back in the thirties.”

“Yeah, you’ve been telling everybody and his brother about that.”

“Something real bad.”

“Tell me some other time.” Bulke glanced at his watch again. If they really thought there was something up there, they would have sent cops-not two unarmed guards.

“You don’t think the killer dragged the body up here?” Morris asked.

“No way. Why the hell would he do that?”

“But the dogs-”

“How could those bloodhounds smell anything up here? The place reeks. They lost the trail down on the fifth floor, anyway-not up here.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I am right. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done up here.” Bulke rose, slapped the dust off his butt.

“What about the rest of the attics?”

“We did ’em all, don’t you remember?” Bulke winked.

“Right. Oh, right. Yeah.”

“There’s no exit up ahead, but there’s a stairwell back a ways. We’ll go down there.”

Bulke turned, began shuffling in the direction from which they’d come. The attic corridor wandered up and down, so tight in places that he had to turn sideways to get through. The museum consisted of dozens of separate buildings joined together, and where they met the floor levels sometimes differed so greatly they had to be linked by metal staircases. They passed through a space filled with leering wooden idols, labeled Nootka Graveposts; another space filled with plaster casts of arms and legs; then yet another filled with casts of faces.

Bulke paused to catch his breath. A twilight gloom had descended. The face casts hung everywhere on the walls, white faces with their eyes closed, each one with a name attached. They all seemed to be Indians: Antelope Killer, Little Finger Nail, Two Clouds, Frost on Grass…

“Think all these are death masks?” asked Morris.

“Death masks? What do you mean, death masks?”

“You know. When you’re dead, they take a cast of your face.”

“I wouldn’t know. Say, how about another shot of Mr. Beam?”

Morris obligingly removed the flask. Bulke took a swig, passed it back.

“What’s that?” Morris asked, gesturing with the flask.

Bulke peered in the indicated direction. A wallet lay tossed in the corner, spread open, credit cards spilling out. He went over, picked it up.

“Shit, there must be two hundred bucks in here. What do we do?”

“Check out who it belongs to.”

“What does that matter? Probably one of the curators.” Bulke searched through, pulled out the driver’s license.

“Jay Mark Lipper,” he read, then looked at Morris. “Oh, shit. That’s the missing guy.”

Feeling a strange stickiness, he looked down at his hand. It was smeared with blood.

Bulke dropped the wallet with a jerk, then kicked it back into the corner with his foot. He felt abruptly nauseous. “Man,” he said in a high, strained voice. “Oh, man…”

“You think the killer dropped it?” Morris asked.

Bulke felt his heart thumping in his chest. He looked around at all the shadowy spaces, the shelves covered with the leering faces of the dead.

“We gotta call Manetti,” said Morris.

“Gimme a moment… Just gimme a moment here.” Bulke tried to think through a fog of surprise and rising fear. “Why didn’t we see this on the way in?”

“Maybe it wasn’t there.”

“So the killer’s up ahead.”

Morris hesitated. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Bulke felt blood pounding in his temples. “If he’s in front of us, we’re trapped. There’s no other way out.”

Morris said nothing. His face looked yellow in the dim light. He pulled out his radio.

“Morris calling Central, Morris calling Central. Do you read?”

A steady hiss of static.

Bulke tried his radio, but the result was the same. “Jesus, this frigging museum is full of dead spots. You’d think with all the money they’ve spent on security, they’d put in a few more repeaters.”

“Let’s start moving. Maybe we’ll get reception in another room.” And Morris started forward.

“Not that way!” Bulke said. “He’s ahead of us, remember?”

“We don’t know that. Maybe we missed the wallet on the way in.”

Bulke looked down at his bloody hand, the nausea growing in his gut.

“We can’t just stay here,” Morris said.

Bulke nodded. “All right. But move slowly.”

It was now twilight in the attics, and Bulke slipped his flashlight out of its holster and flicked it on. They moved through the doorway to the next attic, Bulke flashing the light around. This space was crammed with elongated heads carved from black volcanic stone, packed so tightly that the two could just squeeze down the center.

“Try your radio,” Bulke said in a low voice.

Again, nothing.

The attic corridor took a ninety-degree angle into a tight warren of cubicle-like rooms: rusted metal shelves stacked with cardboard cartons, each carton overflowing with tiny glass boxes. Bulke shone his light over them. Each contained a huge black beetle.

As they reached the end of the third cubicle, a crash came from the darkness ahead of them, dying away in a rattle of falling glass.

Bulke jumped. “Crap! What was that?”

“I don’t know,” said Morris. His voice was trembling and strained.

“He’s ahead of us.”

As they waited, another crash came.

“Jesus, sounds like someone’s trashing the place.”

More shattering glass, followed by a bestial, inarticulate scream.

Bulke backed up, groping for his own radio. “Bulke calling Central! Do you read?”

“This is Central Security, ten-four.”

Crash! Another gargled scream.

“Jesus, we got a maniac up here! We’re trapped!”

“Your location, Bulke?” came the calm voice.

“The attics, building 12! Section 5, maybe 6. Someone’s up here, tearing up the place! We found the missing victim’s wallet, too. Lipper’s. What do we do?”

A hiss of static, the reply breaking up.

“I can’t read you!”

“… retreat… do not engage… back…”

“Retreat where? We’re trapped, didn’t you hear me?”