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He staggered, hand over his mouth, choking, mind reeling in confusion and disbelief. The man had not only died, he had started to decay. How was it possible? He looked around wildly but there was no other patient in the ward. There had been some terrible mistake, some crazy mix-up…
Kidder took a steadying breath. Then he grasped the figure by the shoulder and pulled him over onto his back. The head flopped around, eyes staring, tongue lolling like a dog, face horribly blue and bloated, mouth draining some kind of yellow matter.
“God!” he moaned, backing up. It wasn’t the injured guard at all. It was the dead prisoner he had worked on just the day before, helping the radiologist produce a series of forensic X-rays.
Trying to keep his voice normal, he paged the Herkmoor chief physician. A moment later the man’s irritated voice came over the intercom.
“I’m busy, what is it?”
For a moment, Kidder didn’t quite know what to say. “You know that dead prisoner in the morgue-”
“Lacarra? They carted him away fifteen minutes ago.”
“No. No, they didn’t.”
“Of course they did. I signed the transfer myself, I saw them load the body bag into the morgue-mobile. It was waiting outside the gate for the all-clear so it could come in for the corpse.”
Kidder swallowed. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think what? What the hell are you talking about, Kidder?”
“Pocho Lacarra…” He swallowed, licked dry lips: “… is still here.”
Twenty miles to the south, the mortuary vehicle was on the Taconic State Parkway, heading toward New York City through light traffic. Within minutes, it pulled over at a rest area and cruised to a stop.
Vincent D’Agosta tore off his white morgue uniform, climbed into the rear, and unzipped the body bag. Inside was the long, white, nude form of Special Agent Pendergast. The agent sat up, blinking.
“Pendergast! Damn, we did it! We frigging did it!”
The agent held up a hand. “My dear Vincent, please-no effusive demonstrations of affection until I am showered and dressed.”
Chapter 46
At 6:30 that evening, William Smithback Jr. stood on the sidewalk of Museum Drive, looking up at the brilliantly lit facade of the New York Museum of Natural History. A broad velvet carpet had been unrolled down the great granite steps. A seething crowd of rubberneckers and journalists was held back by velvet ropes and phalanxes of museum guards, while one limousine after another rolled up, disgorging movie stars, city officials, kings and queens of high finance, society matrons, gaunt vacant-eyed fashion models du jour, managing partners, university presidents, and senators-a stupendous parade of money, power, and influence.
The great and powerful ascended the museum steps in a measured flow of black, white, and glitter, looking neither left nor right, heading through the pillared facade and vast bronze doors into a great blaze of light-while the rabble, held back by velvet and brass, gaped, squealed, and photographed. Above, a four-story ba
GRAND OPENING
THE GREAT TOMB OF SENEF
Smithback adjusted the silk tie of his tuxedo and smoothed his lapels. Having arrived in a cab instead of a limo, he had been forced to get out a block shy of the museum and had pushed his way through the crowd until he’d arrived at the ropes. He showed his invitation to a suspicious guard, who called over another, and after several minutes of confabulation they grudgingly allowed him through-right in the perfumed wake of Wanda Meursault, the actress who had made such a fuss at the Sacred Images opening. Smithback considered how distressing it must have been when she lost out in her bid for Best Actress at the recent Academy Awards. With a thrill of pleasure, he marched in the parade of power and passed through the shining gates.
This was going to be the mother of all openings.
The velvet carpet led across the Great Rotunda, with its brace of mounted dinosaurs, through the magnificent African Hall, and from there wound its way through half a dozen musty halls and half-forgotten corridors to arrive at a set of elevators, where the crowd had backed up. It was quite a distance from the entrance, Smithback thought as he waited in line for the next elevator-but the Tomb of Senef was located in the very bowels of the museum, about as far from the front entrance as you could get. He adjusted the knot of his tie. The hike might just pump a little blood through some of these dried-out old husks, he thought. Do them good.
A chime a
And these, Smithback thought, were merely the hors d’oeuvres-the di
He was contemplating which of the food tables to assault first when he felt an arm slip through his from behind.
“Nora!” He turned to embrace her. She was dressed in a sleek black gown, tastefully embroidered with silver thread. “You look ravishing!”
“You don’t look so bad yourself.” Nora reached up and smoothed his unrepentant cowlick, which promptly sprang up again, defying gravity. “My handsome overgrown boy.”
“My Egyptian queen. How’s your neck feeling, by the way?”
“It’s fine, and please stop asking.”
“This is amazing. Oh, God, what a spread.” Smithback looked around. “And to think-you’re the curator. This is your show.”
“I had nothing to do with the party.” She glanced over at the entrance to the Tomb of Senef, closed and draped with a red ribbon, waiting to be cut. “My show’s in there.”
A slim waiter came sweeping by, bearing a silver tray loaded with flutes of champagne, and Smithback snagged two as the man passed, handing one to Nora.
“To the Tomb of Senef,” he said.
They clinked glasses and drank.
“Let’s get some food before the crush,” said Nora. “I’ve only got a few minutes. At seven, I’ve got to say a few words, and then there’ll be other speeches, di
“Later, I’ll see more.”
As they approached the tables, Smithback noticed a tall, striking, mahogany-haired woman standing nearby, dressed incongruously in black slacks and a gray silk shirt, open at the neck, set off by a simple string of pearls. It was down-dressing in the extreme, and yet somehow she managed to pull it off, make it look classy, even elegant.