The Book of the Dead (42 page)

“It’s nothing that a convalescence won’t fix,” Kidder said sharply, turning to the two responding EMTs. “Load him and take him down to infirmary B. We’ll do a blood workup, an X-ray series, stitch up a few of those cuts. Tetanus booster and a course of amoxicillin. I don’t see anything so far that’ll require a transfer to an outside hospital.”

One of the EMTs snorted. “Nothing’s going in or out until the escapees are apprehended and all prisoners accounted for, anyway. They’ve had a morgue-mobile idling outside the gate for half an hour already.”

“The morgue-mobile’s never in a rush,” said Kidder dryly. He wrote down the guard’s name and badge number on his clipboard. He didn’t recognize the man—but then, he was from building C and his face was cut up pretty bad.

As they were loading the patient onto the stretcher, Kidder heard a sudden uproar of shouting from down the corridor as another prisoner was apprehended. Kidder had been working at Herkmoor for almost twenty years and this was the biggest escape attempt yet. Of course it had no chance of succeeding. He just hoped the guards weren’t beating hell out of too many would-be escapees.

The EMTs raised the stretcher and trundled the whimpering guard off to the infirmary, Kidder following. These guards acted so tough when everything was under control, he thought, but knock them around a bit and they fell apart like so much overcooked meat.

The infirmary in building B, like the other infirmaries in Herkmoor, was divided into two completely separate, walled-off areas: the free area for staff and guards, and the incarceration area for prisoners. They wheeled the guard to the free area and covered him with a blanket. Kidder worked up the man’s chart, ordered some X-rays. He was starting to prep the guard for stitching when his radio beeped. He lifted it to his ear, listened, spoke briefly. Then he turned to the patient. “I’ve got to leave you for a while.”

“Alone?” the injured guard cried in a panic.

“I’ll be back in about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, with the radiologist. We have some injured inmates—”

“Taking care of inmates before me?” the man whined.

“They’re in need of rather more urgent care.” Kidder didn’t tell him about the call he’d just received. It was as he feared: the guards had beat the crap out of several of the escapees.

“How long will I have to wait?”

Kidder sighed irritably. “Like I said, maybe forty-five minutes.” He readied a needle with a mild sedative and painkiller.

“Don’t stick me with that!” the man cried. “I’ve an awful fear of needles!”

Kidder made an effort to control his annoyance. “This’ll ease the pain.”

“It’s not that bad! Turn on the TV for me. That’ll distract me.”

Kidder shrugged. “Have it your way.” He put away the syringe and handed the patient the remote. The man immediately turned it to an asinine game show and cranked up the volume. Kidder left, shaking his head, his already low opinion of prison guards having sunk even lower.

Fifty minutes later, Kidder returned to the infirmary in a ferociously bad mood. Some of the guards had jumped at the chance to settle scores with a particularly unsavory group of inmates, breaking half a dozen bones in the process.

He checked his watch, wondering about the guard he’d left behind. Fact was, in any of the big New York emergency rooms the man would have had to wait at least twice as long. He pulled back the curtain and gazed at the guard, all bundled up and turned toward the wall, sleeping heavily despite the excessively loud game show playing on the television.

Are you sure, Joy, that door number 2 is your choice? All right, then, let’s open it up! Behind door number 2 is… (huge groan from the audience)…

“Time for your X-rays, Mr.—” Kidder glanced at the clipboard. “Mr. Sidesky.”

No response.

… a cow! Now, isn’t that the most beautiful Holstein cow you’ve ever seen, ladies and gentlemen? Fresh milk every morning, Joy, think of it!

“Mr. Sidesky?” Kidder said, raising his voice. He reached for the remote, turned off the TV. A sudden, blessed silence.

“X-ray time!”

No response.

Kidder reached over and gave the man’s shoulder a gentle push—then jerked back with a muffled cry. Even through the covers, the body felt
cold
.

It wasn’t possible. The man had been brought in an hour ago, alive and healthy.

“Hey, Sidesky! Wake up!” With a trembling hand, he reached out again, pressed on the shoulder—and once again felt that hideous muffled cold.

With a feeling of dread, he grasped the corner of the covers and drew them back, exposing a naked corpse, purple and grotesquely bloated. The stench of death and disinfectants rose up, enveloping him like a miasma.

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.”

A
t 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 banner draped over the museum’s neoclassical facade billowed in a light breeze. It depicted a gigantic Eye of Horus with words in faux Egyptian script written underneath:

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 announced the arrival of the next car and he filed in with the rest of them, packed in like black and white sardines, waiting for the elevator to make the crawl to the basement. The doors opened again at last and they were greeted with another blaze of light, the swirling sounds of an orchestra, and beyond, the great Egyptian Hall itself, its nineteenth-century murals beautifully restored. Along the walls, gold, jewels, and faience glittered from every case, while exquisitely laid tea tables and dining tables, flickering with thousands of candles, covered the marble floors. Most important, Smithback thought as his eye roved about, were the long tables along the walls groaning with smoked sturgeon and salmon, crusty homemade breads, huge platters of hand-cut San Daniele prosciutto, silver tubs of pearly-gray sevruga and beluga caviar. Massive silver cauldrons heaped with shaved ice stood at either end, bristling with bottles of Veuve Clicquot like so many batteries of artillery, waiting to be fired and poured.