The Book of the Dead (34 page)

“Are you all right?”

“I’m
fine!”
But as he spoke, one side of his face suddenly contracted in a grotesque twitch.

“Adrian, I honestly think you need a break. You’ve been working too hard.” She kept her voice calm and cool. As soon as he left, she would call Menzies and suggest he order Wicherly home for the day. Much as they needed his expertise—and despite his obnoxious behavior, he’d proved invaluable—they couldn’t afford a crack-up just before the opening.

His face twitched again, a horrible muscular contraction that screwed his handsome features into a brief grimace before allowing them to spring back into normalcy.

“Why did you ask me that, Nora? Don’t I seem all right?”

His voice had risen in volume. She noticed his hands were gripping the arm of the chair so hard that the fingernails were digging into the fabric.

Nora rose from her seat. “You know, with all your hard work, I really think you’ve earned a day off.” She decided she wouldn’t even check with Menzies: she was the curator of the show, and she was going to send him home. Wicherly was in no condition to be supervising the moving of millions of dollars’ worth of artifacts.

Another hideous twitch. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“You’re exhausted, that’s all. I’m giving you the day off. This is not optional, Adrian. I want you to go home and get some rest.”

“Not optional? And since when have you been my boss?”

“Since the day you arrived here. Now, please go home or I’ll be forced to call security.”

“Security? They’re a ruddy joke!”

“Please remove yourself from my office.” And Nora reached for the phone.

But suddenly Wicherly—rising—lunged forward and swept it from the desk to the floor, stomped on the cradle, yanked the wire out the back, and tossed it aside.

Nora froze. Something terrible was happening to Wicherly, something utterly beyond her experience.

“Look, Adrian,” she said calmly. “Let’s just cool down here.” She stood up, then began edging along the desk.

“You bloody
tart
,” he said in a low, menacing tone.

Nora could see his fingers twitching now, contracting a little more with each twitch until they formed a spastically clutching fist. She could almost smell the air of violence gathering around him. She came around the desk, not fast, but with slow determination.

“I’m leaving,” she said as firmly as she could. At the same time, she braced for a fight. If he came at her, she’d go straight for his eyes.

“The
fuck
you are.” Wicherly stepped across her path while at the same time reaching behind his back and turning the lock in the door.

“Get away from me
now!”

He stood his ground, eyes bloodshot, pupils like tiny black bullets. She struggled against a rising panic. What would work: calm persuasion or stern command? She could smell his sweat, almost as strong as urine. His face had screwed itself up again in a series of spastic jerks, his right fist clenching and unclenching. He looked exactly as if he’d been possessed by demonic forces.

“Adrian, everything’s okay,” she said, working a soothing note into her trembling voice. “You just need help. Let me call for a doctor.”

More twitching, his neck muscles knotting and bulging.

“I think you might be having a seizure of some kind,” she said. “Do you understand, Adrian? You need a doctor immediately. Please let me help you.”

He tried to say something but instead he spluttered, spittle drooling down his chin.

“Adrian, I’m going to step outside now and call you a doctor—”

His right hand jerked up like a shot, striking her hard across the face, but she had been tensing for just such an attack and she managed to sidestep the main force of the blow. She fell backward. “Somebody help me!
Guards! Call the guards!”

“Shut up,
bitch!”
He shuffled forward, dragging one leg, and struck at her again, wildly. She stumbled against the side of her desk, off balance, and he leaped on top of her immediately, slamming her down and sending her laptop crashing to the floor.

“Help! I’m being attacked!”

She stabbed at his eyes with the rigid fingers of her hand, but he swatted her arm away and dealt her a blow across the side of her head, while his other hand grabbed the top of her blouse and ripped downward, scattering buttons.

She screamed again and tried to twist away from his grip, but his free hand came around and wrapped around her neck with shocking force, cutting off the sound. She scrabbled with her legs, trying to find a purchase, but he scissored them in his own.

“So, you think you’re the boss?” He raised his other hand and together they began squeezing her neck harder. She flailed, tore at his hair, pounded his back, but he seemed not even to notice, so fixated was he on the grip of his hands, his sweaty, stinking, twitching face shoved into hers.

“I’ll show you who’s boss around here.”

Nora punched and clawed helplessly, her diaphragm heaving to suck in air that wouldn’t come. Her larynx felt nearly crushed under the awful pressure. He’d blocked the blood flow to her brain and she felt the strength draining away like water from a burst hose; her eyes were suddenly flecked with a million exploding stars, and a spreading stain of darkness began clouding the edges of her vision like ink poured into water.

“How does it feel,
bitch?”

She heard sounds in the background, as if from far away; a violent hammering and splintering of wood; and then, from the furthest edge of consciousness, she felt the iron grip of his hands loosen and fall away. She was still swimming in a sea of dimness when she was jolted by a burst of shouting and an incredibly loud bang.

She rolled over, coughing violently and holding her bruised neck… and suddenly Menzies was there, cradling her in his arms and calling for a doctor. She felt utter confusion. There seemed to be a terrific commotion beyond the desk, a knot of museum guards, shouting… and then she saw a river of blood spreading out across the floor. What had happened?

“I had to do it, he came at me with a knife!” came a desperate voice, edging into her returning consciousness.

“… just a letter opener, you idiot!”

“… a doctor!
Now!”

“… tried to strangle her…”

The cacophony of loud, panicky voices continued, the shattered phrases sounding in her head as it all began to come back… She coughed, trying to block it all out, trying not to think, while Menzies eased her down into the wing chair, whispering all the time: “You’re all right, my dear, everything’s fine, the doctor’s on his way. No, don’t look over there… Close your eyes and all will be fine… Don’t look, don’t look…”

C
aptain Hayward looked down at the huge puddle of blood on the linoleum floor of the office, all smeared about by the frantic and useless efforts of the EMTs trying to restart a heart that had been obliterated by a point-blank 9mm round fired from a Browning Hi. The scene was now being carefully examined, sorted, tagged, and bottled by the forensic teams and a variety of specialized crime scene investigators.

She backed out of the office, leaving it to the experts to make sense of what was clearly a senseless, tragic act. She had another assignment: to speak with the victim before she was taken to the hospital.

She found Nora Kelly waiting in the staff lounge, with her husband, Bill Smithback; the chairman of the Anthropology Department, Hugo Menzies; and several EMTs, police officers, and museum guards. The EMTs were arguing with Kelly about whether she would go to the hospital for a checkup and treatment.

“I want the guards and museum staff out,” said Hayward. “Except Drs. Kelly and Menzies.”

“I’m not going,” said Smithback. “I’m not leaving my wife.”

“You can stay, then,” said Hayward.

One of the EMTs, who had obviously been arguing with Nora for a while, leaned in for one last try. “Listen here, miss, your neck is bruised and you might have a concussion. The effects can be delayed. We’ve got to take you in for tests.”

“Don’t ‘miss’ me. I’m a Ph.D.”

“The paramedic’s right,” Smithback added. “You need to go for at least a quick exam.”

“Quick? I’ll be in the emergency room all day. You know what St. Luke’s is like!”

“Nora, we can get along quite well without you today,” Menzies said. “You’ve had a terrible shock—”

“With all due respect, Hugo, you know as well as I do that with Dr. Wicherly… Oh, God, this is
terrible!”
She choked up for a moment, and Hayward used the opportunity to speak.

“I know this is a bad time, Dr. Kelly, but can I ask you a few questions?”

Nora wiped her eyes. “Go ahead.”

“Can you tell me what happened leading up to the attack?”

Nora took a deep, steadying breath. Then she proceeded to relate the events that had occurred in her office just ten minutes before, as well as the pass Wicherly had made at her a few days before. Hayward listened without interrupting, as did her husband, Smithback, his face darkening with anger.

“Bastard,” he muttered.

Nora waved an impatient hand at him. “Something happened to him today. He wasn’t the same person. It was like he had… a seizure of some kind.”

“Why were you in the museum so early?” Hayward asked.

“I had—
have
—a busy day ahead of me.”

“And Wicherly?”

“I understand he came in at three A.M.”

Hayward was surprised. “What for?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Did he go into the tomb?”

It was Menzies who answered. “Yes, he did. The security log shows he entered the tomb just after three, spent half an hour in there, then left. Where he was between then and the attack, we don’t know. I looked all over for him.”

“I assume you checked his background before you hired him. Did he have a criminal record, a history of aggression?”

Menzies shook his head. “Absolutely nothing like that.”

Hayward looked around and saw to her relief that Visconti had been assigned to the museum that day. She motioned him over.

“I want you to take statements from Dr. Menzies and the guard who shot Wicherly,” she said. “We can get Dr. Kelly’s when she returns from the hospital.”

“No way,” Nora said. “I’m ready to give a statement now.”

Hayward ignored her. “Where’s the M.E.?”

“Went to the hospital with the body.”

“Get him on the radio.”

A moment later, Visconti handed her a radio. Then he led Menzies off to take a statement.

“Doctor?” Hayward spoke into the radio. “I want an autopsy performed as soon as possible. I want you to look for lesions to the temporal lobe of the brain, particularly to the ventromedial frontal cortex… No, I’m not a neurosurgeon. I’ll explain later.”

She handed the radio back to Visconti, then cast a firm eye on Nora. “You’re going to the hospital. Now.” She gestured to the EMTs. “Help her to her feet and get moving.”

Then she turned to Smithback. “I want to talk to you privately, in the hall.”

“But I want to go with my wife—”

“We’ll have a police car take you after we speak, sirens, the works. You’ll get there at the same time as the ambulance.”