The Book of the Dead (36 page)

After the briefest of hesitations, she nodded. “I think I will.” She sank down in a wing chair and Collopy noted that her skin was pale and she looked exhausted. And yet her violet eyes were anything but dull.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” he asked.

She withdrew a sheaf of folded papers from her pocket. “I’ve got here the results of the autopsy on Wicherly.”

Collopy raised his eyebrows. “Autopsy? Is there some mystery about how he died?”

By way of answer, she withdrew another piece of paper. “And here’s a diagnostic report on Lipper. The bottom line is they both suffered identical, sudden brain damage to the ventromedial cortex of the brain.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. In other words, they both went insane in exactly the same way. The damage produced a sudden, violent psychosis in each of them.”

Collopy felt a cold sensation along the base of his spine. This was exactly what they had dismissed—that the incidents were somehow connected. This could ruin everything.

“The evidence suggests there’s some kind of environmental cause, and that it may be in or around the Tomb of Senef.”

“The tomb? Why do you say that?”

“Because that’s where both of them were immediately prior to the onset of symptoms.”

Collopy swallowed painfully, pulled at his collar. “This is astonishing news.”

“The M.E. thinks the cause could be anything: electrical shock to the head, poison, fumes or perhaps a malfunction in the ventilation system, an unknown virus or bacterium… We don’t know. This is, by the way, confidential information.”

“I’m glad of that.” Collopy felt the sensation of cold begin to spread. If this got out, it could put the lie to their statement and destroy all they had worked so hard for.

“Since I received this information two hours ago, I’ve put a special toxicological forensic team into the tomb. They’ve been at it for an hour and so far haven’t found anything. Of course, it’s early in their search.”

“This is very disturbing, Captain,” Collopy replied. “Is there any way the museum could be of assistance?”

“That’s exactly why I’m here. I want you to postpone the opening until we can locate the source.”

This was precisely what Collopy had been afraid of. He let a beat pass. “Captain, forgive me for saying so, but it seems you’ve jumped to two huge conclusions here: first, that the brain damage was caused by a toxin, and second, that this toxin is present in the tomb. It could have been anything—and happened anywhere.”

“Perhaps.”

“And you forget that others—many others—have spent significantly more time in the Tomb of Senef than Lipper and Wicherly. They’ve manifested no symptoms.”

“I didn’t forget that, Dr. Collopy.”

“In any case, the opening isn’t for four days. Surely, that’s enough time to check out the tomb.”

“I’m not taking any chances.”

Collopy took a long, deep breath. “I understand what you’re saying, Captain, but the fact is, we simply can’t delay the opening. We’ve invested millions. I’ve got a new Egyptologist arriving in less than an hour, flown in all the way from Italy. The invitations have been mailed and acceptances returned, the catering paid for, the musicians hired—everything’s done. To back out now would cost a fortune. And it would send the wrong message to the city: that we’re frightened, that we’re stymied, that the museum is a dangerous place to visit. I can’t allow that.”

“There’s something else. It’s my belief that Diogenes Pendergast, the person who attacked Margo Green—and who stole the diamond collection—has a second identity as a museum employee. Most likely a curator.”

Collopy looked at her, shocked. “What?”

“I also believe this person is somehow connected with what’s happened to Lipper and Wicherly.”

“These are very serious accusations. Who’s your suspect?”

Hayward hesitated. “I don’t have one. I asked Mr. Manetti to comb the personnel records—without telling him what I was looking for, of course—but no criminal histories or any other red flags came to light.”

“Naturally not. Our employees all have spotless records, especially the curatorial staff. I find this whole line of speculation to be personally offensive. And it certainly doesn’t change my position about the opening. A postponement would be fatal to the museum. Absolutely fatal.”

Hayward looked at him a long time, her violet eyes weary yet alert. They seemed almost sad, as if she had already known the conclusion was foregone. “By not postponing, you risk putting many lives in danger,” she said quietly. “I must insist on it.”

“Then we are at an impasse,” said Collopy simply.

Hayward rose. “This isn’t over.”

“Correct, Captain. A higher power than us will have to make the decision.”

She nodded and left the office without further comment. Collopy watched the door close behind her. He knew, and she knew, that it would boil down to a decision by the mayor himself. And in that case, Collopy knew exactly how the chips would fall.

The mayor wasn’t one to miss the opportunity for a good party and speech.

M
rs. Doris Green paused at the open doorway to the intensive-care room. The afternoon light filtered through the partly screened windows, throwing peaceful stripes of light and shadow across her daughter’s bed. Her eye moved across the bank of medical equipment, which sighed and beeped softly in a regular cadence, and came to rest on her daughter’s face itself. It was pale and thin, a stray lock of hair running over the forehead and cheek. Mrs. Green took a few steps inside and gently moved the lock to its proper place.

“Hello, Margo,” she said softly.

The machines continued to beep and sigh.

She eased herself down on the side of the bed and took her daughter’s hand. It was cool and light as a feather. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

“It’s a beautiful day outside. The sun’s shining, and the cold weather seems to have broken. The crocuses are already coming up in my garden, just poking their little green shoots out of the ground. Do you remember when you were a little girl, just five years old—you couldn’t resist picking them? You brought me a fistful of half-crushed flowers one day, cleaned out the whole garden. I was so upset at the time…”

Her voice faltered and she fell into silence. A moment later, the nurse entered, her cheerful, rustling presence adding a sudden efficiency to the gauzy atmosphere of bittersweet memory.

“How are you, Mrs. Green?” she asked, straightening up some flowers in a vase.

“All right, thank you, Jonetta.”

The nurse checked the machines, jotting quick notes on a clipboard. She adjusted the IV, examined the breathing tube, then bustled about, plumping up more flowers and adjusting some of the get-well cards that covered the table and shelves.

“The doctor should be in at any moment, Mrs. Green,” she said, smiling and heading for the door.

“Thank you.”

Peace descended once more. Doris Green stroked her daughter’s hand ever so lightly. The memories came back, crowding in with no discernible order: diving with her daughter off the dock at the lake; opening the envelope containing her SAT scores; roasting Thanksgiving turkey; standing hand in hand beside her husband’s grave…

She swallowed, continued to stroke Margo’s hand. And then she felt a presence behind her.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Green.”

She turned. Dr. Winokur was standing there, a dark, handsome man in crisp white, exuding self-confidence and sympathy. Doris Green knew it wasn’t just his bedside manner: this doctor really cared.

“Would you care to talk in the waiting room?” he asked.

“I’d prefer to stay here. If Margo could hear—and who knows, maybe she can—she’d want to know everything.”

“Very well.” He paused, seated himself in the visitor’s chair, rested his hands on his knees. “The bottom line is this: we simply don’t have a diagnosis. We’ve performed every test we can think of and then some; we’ve consulted with the country’s top coma and neurology specialists, at Doctors’ Hospital in New York and Mount Auburn Hospital in Boston—and we just don’t have a handle on it yet. Margo is in a deep coma, and we don’t know why. The good news is that there’s no evidence of permanent brain damage. On the other hand, her vital signs are not improving, and some important ones are slowly declining. She simply isn’t responding to the normal treatments and therapies. I could load you down with a dozen theories we’ve had, a dozen treatments we’ve tried, but they all add up to one fact: she’s not responding. We could move her to Southern Westchester. But to tell you the truth, there isn’t anything down there that we don’t have here, and the move might not be good for her.”

“I’d prefer she stay here.”

Winokur nodded. “I have to say, Mrs. Green, you’ve been a wonderful patient’s mother. I know this is extremely hard on you.”

She shook her head slowly. “I thought I had lost her. I thought I’d buried her. After that, nothing could be worse. I know she’s going to recover—I
know
it.”

Dr. Winokur gave a small smile. “You could be right. Medicine doesn’t have all the answers, especially in a case like this. Doctors are more fallible—and illness a great deal more complex—than most people realize. Margo is not alone. There are thousands like her all over the country, very ill and without a diagnosis. I’m not telling you this to comfort you so much as to give you all the information I have. I sense that is how you’d prefer it.”

“It is.” She glanced from the doctor to Margo and back again. “Funny, I’m not much of a religious person, but I find myself praying for her every day.”

“The longer I’m a doctor, the more I believe in the healing power of prayer.” He paused. “Do you have any questions? Is there anything I can do?”

She hesitated. “There is one thing. I got a call from Hugo Menzies. Do you know him?”

“Yes, of course—her employer at the museum. He was with her when she had her seizure?”

“That’s right. He called me to tell me what had happened, what he’d seen—he knew I’d want to know.”

“Of course.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Yes, certainly. He’s been very good—he’s dropped in to check on Margo’s condition more than once since her relapse. He seems most concerned.”

Mrs. Green smiled faintly. “Having such a caring employer is a blessing.”

“It most certainly is.” The doctor rose.

“I’ll just stay here a little while with her, Doctor, if you don’t mind,” Doris Green said.