The mummy case

THE

MUMMY CASE

A Jim Knighthorse Novel

by

J.R. RAIN

Acclaim for J.R. Rain:

“
Be prepared to lose sleep!”

—
James Rollins
, international bestselling author of
The Doomsday Key
on J.R. Rain’s
The Lost Ark

“
I love this!”

—
Piers Anthony
, bestselling author of
Xanth
on J.R. Rain’s
Moon Dance

“
Dark Horse
is the best book I’ve read in a long time!”

—
Gemma Halliday
, award-winning author of
Scandal Sheet

“
Moon Dance
is absolutely brilliant!”

—
Lisa Tenzin-Dolma
, author of
Understanding the Planetary Myths

“
Powerful stuff!”

—
Aiden James
, author of
Deadly Night
on J.R. Rain’s
An Uncommon Quest

“
Moon Dance
is a must read. If you like Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum, bounty hunter, be prepared to love J.R. Rain’s Samantha Moon, vampire private investigator.”

—
Eve Paludan
, author of
Letters From David

“
Impossible to put down. J.R. Rain’s
Moon Dance
is a fabulous urban fantasy replete with multifarious and unusual characters, a perfectly synchronized plot, vibrant dialogue and sterling witticism all wrapped in a voice that is as beautiful as it is rich and vividly intense as it is relaxed.”

—
April Vine
, author of
The Midnight Rose

OTHER BOOKS BY J.R. RAIN

VAMPIRE FOR HIRE

Moon Dance

Vampire Moon

American Vampire

THE JIM KNIGHTHORSE SERIES

Dark Horse

The Mummy Case

Hail Mary (coming soon)

THE EXCALIBUR SERIES

An Uncommon Quest (coming soon)

The Merlin Game (coming soon)

THE ELVIS SERIES

Elvis Has
Not
Left the Building

You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog (coming soon)

THE SPINOZA SERIES

The Vampire With the Dragon Tattoo

The Vampire Who Played Dead (coming soon)

STANDALONE NOVELS

The Lost Ark

The Body Departed

The Silent Echo (coming soon)

WITH SCOTT NICHOLSON

Cursed!

Ghost College

WITH PIERS ANTHONY

Aladdin Relighted

Aladdin Sins Bad (coming soon)

WITH AIDEN JAMES

Plague of Coins (coming soon)

WITH H.T. NIGHT

Bad Blood (coming soon)

SHORT STORIES

The Bleeder and Other Stories

Teeth and Other Stories

Vampire Nights and Other Stories

SCREENPLAYS

Judas Silver

Lost Eden

COLLECTIONS

Rain Dance: Three Novels

Rainy Nights: Three Novels

Black Rain: Dark Tales

Knighthorse: Two Novels

Vampire for Hire: Two Novels

Dark Quests: Two Screenplays

ANTHOLOGIES

(With Other Writers)

Vampires

Whodunits

Comedy & Tragedy

Ghost Stories

Sin City

Skeleton Tango

Vampires, Zombies and Ghosts, Oh My!

The Mummy Case

Published by J.R. Rain at Amazon Kindle

Copyright © 2010 by J.R. Rain

Amazon Kindle Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To Chuck, thanks for everything.

Chapter One

I was doing decline push ups when my office door opened. Decline push ups cause a lot of blood to rush to your head and a fabulous burn across the upper pectorals. They also looked pretty damn silly in a professional environment. Luckily, this wasn’t a professional environment.

Somebody was quietly watching me, probably admiring my near-perfect form or the way my tee shirt rippled across my broad shoulders. Either way, I rattled off twenty more, completing my set of a hundred.

In a distinctive country twang, a man’s voice said, “I could come back.”

“
And miss my near-perfect form?”

I eased my running shoes off the desk and immediately felt a wave of light-headedness. Granted, I didn’t entirely mind the light-headedness. I am, after all, a sucker for a good buzz.

The man who came swimmingly into view was wearing a cowboy hat and leaning against my door frame, a bemused expression on his weathered face. He was about twenty years my senior.

“
Howdy partner,” I said.

He tipped his Stetson. “So what are those push ups supposed to do, other than cause a lot of blood rush to your head?”

“
That’s enough for me,” I said happily. “Oh, and they happen to be a hell of a chest workout.”

“
Seems like a lot of trouble,” he said.

“
It’s not easy being beautiful.”

“
Ah,” he said. “You must be Jim Knighthorse. I heard about you.”

“
Lucky you.”

As he spoke, his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a buoy in a storm. His white hat sported an excessively rolled brim—completely useless now against the sun or rain. Maybe he was a country music star.

“
I was told you could be a cocky son of a bitch.”

“
You would be, too,” I said. “If you were me.”

He looked at me and shrugged. “Well, maybe. You’re certainly a big son of a bitch.”

I said nothing. My size spoke for itself. He looked around my small office, perhaps noting the many pictures and trophies that cluttered the walls and bookcases, all in recognition of my considerable prowess on the football field. Actually, all but one. There was a second place spelling bee trophy in there somewhere. Lost it on
zumbooruk
, a camel-mounted canon used in the Middle East. Hell of a shitty word to lose it on.

“
I heard you could help me,” he said finally, almost pitifully.

“
Ah,” I said. “Have a seat.”

He did, moseying on into my small office. As he sat, I almost expected him to flip the client chair around and straddle it backward, cowboy-like. Instead, he used the chair as it was originally designed, although it was clearly not designed for someone as tall as he. His bony knees reached up to his ears and looked sharp enough to cut through his denim jeans. I sat behind the desk in a leather brass-studded chair that was entirely too ornate for its surroundings. The leather made rude noises.

Ever the professional detective, I kept a straight face and asked for his name.

“
Jones,” he answered. “
Jones T. Jones
, to be exact.”

“
That’s a lot of Joneses.”

“
Well, yes,” he said, blushing slightly. “It’s not really my name, you see. It’s sort of like a stage name. You know, a gimmick.”

“
So you’re an actor?”

“
No, I own a souvenir shop in Huntington Beach. But I’ve acted as the spokesperson in my own commercials.” Ah. It came to me then. I’d seen Jones before, late at night on the local cable circuit. Usually right before I passed out in a drunken stupor. Damn cheesy commercials, too, many involving what appeared to be a rabid monkey. Sometimes Jones and the monkey danced. I was embarrassed for Jones. “Maybe you’ve heard of it,” he continued. “Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe.”

“
Heard of it?” I said. “Hell, I spelled
old
and
shop
with extra
e’s
and
p’s
up until the fifth grade. My teacher, Mrs. Franks, thought I was Chaucer reborn.”

He laughed. “I wanted to change the name when I bought the store a number of years ago, but there was a big public uproar.” He cracked a smile, and I realized that he
enjoyed
the big public uproar. “So I gave in to pressure and kept the damn name. I regret it to this day.”

“
Why?”

“
No one can find us in the phone book...or even on the internet. They call us and ask: Are we under
Y
or
O
? Is it
Ye
or
The
?” He sighed and caught his breath, having worked himself up. “I mean, what were the original owners thinking?”

“
Maybe they were English.”

He shrugged. We were silent. Outside, in the nearby alley, a delivery truck was backing up, beeping away. I was one of the few people who appreciated the warning beeps.

“
So what can I do for you, Mr. Jones?” I asked.

“
I’d like to hire you.”

“
Zumbooruk!”
I said.

“
Excuse me?”

“
Exactly.”

Chapter Two

“
You know about Sylvester the Mummy, then?” asked Jones.

“
Still dead?” I asked.

“
As a doornail.”

Sylvester the Mummy was one of Huntington Beach’s main attractions—ranking a distant third behind
waves
and
babes—
and currently resided at the back of the Ye Olde Curiosity Gift Shoppe in a cozy polyurethane case for all the world to see. Sylvester had been found in the California deserts over a hundred years ago near a ghost town called Rawhide. Since then, he’d been passed from museum to museum, exhibit to exhibit, until finally coming to rest at Ye Olde Gift Shoppe in Huntington Beach. Wouldn’t his mother be proud? Although his identity is unknown, most historians figure Sylvester had once been a cowboy. Which, I figure, means he probably once owned a horse and a six shooter, ate beans from the can over an open campfire and sang lonesome songs about loose women. That is, of course, until someone put a bullet in his gut and left him for dead in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Experts figured the old boy had mummified within 24 hours due to a rare combination of extreme desert heat and chemicals in the sand. A true John Doe, he had been named after the very miner who discovered him, which I always found a little creepy.