Relic

by Gretchen McNeil

“Why?”

  “Apparently, someone found a mummy outside Bull Valley Mine.”

  I wait until the engine of Dad’s SUV roars to life in the driveway before I throw off the comforter and spring out of bed. I peek cautiously through the venetian blinds just in time to catch the sight of his white Shasta County Sheriff’s Office Bronco disappearing down the street.

  A mummy near Bull Valley Mine? That’s totally and completely impossible. Mummies don’t just spontaneously appear, and we certainly didn’t see a centuries-old corpse dotting the path up to the mine entrance. Ned must be mistaken.

  I’m at my desk in an instant, firing up my laptop. It’s a hand-me-down MacBook that isn’t as spry as it used to be, and the rainbow pinwheel of death seems to spin endlessly, mocking my impatience as one by one the desktop programs pop up on the screen. The silence of the empty house feels oppressive, elongating time as I stare expectantly at my laptop. I click my Google icon half a dozen times in rapid succession and I’m about ready to chuck the whole damn computer out the window when finally my browser fills the screen.

  I take a quick breath, focusing myself. Dad said someone had alerted the local media. That probably means Rick Sanchez at KRED, the only local news station out of Redding. I search for their home page, and as soon as I open the link, I see an enormous “BREAKING NEWS” banner across the top of the page, red and white and blinking like some emergency beacon. I click the banner and hold my breath.

  A video player with the heading “Decades-Old Missing Persons Case Solved” fills my screen, and lo and behold, I find Rick Sanchez standing on the shores of Shasta Lake, silhouetted by a sparse tree line. I recognize the location immediately: he’s just feet from where our houseboat was anchored twelve hours ago.

  “Usually, missing persons cases that aren’t solved within the first few weeks find themselves in cold storage indefinitely. But today on the shores of Shasta Lake, a thirty-four-year-old mystery comes to an end, and in its wake a host of new questions are left unanswered.”

  The live feed cuts away, and Rick’s voice narrates over some grainy archival news footage showing a manhunt in the woods. “The year was 1982 when local fisherman Benjamin Cooper went missing during a routine outing on Shasta Lake. His boat was located on the shores of Slaughterhouse Island, but no other clues to his whereabouts were found in the vicinity. After an exhaustive police investigation turned up empty, friends and family organized search parties that canvassed the area, but no body was ever found. Until today.”

  The video cuts back to Rick, live on the beach. The camera has pulled away to get a wider view of the area, with deputies and crime scene investigators scurrying back and forth behind him. I can see the remains of our campfire from last night. How long before they trace it back to us?

  “A body wearing clothes that match Cooper’s at the time of his disappearance was discovered early this morning by hikers near the entrance to the old Bull Valley Mine,” Rick explains, “across the lake from the fisherman’s last known location.”

  A photo pops onto the screen and every ounce of warmth in my body drains away. I know that face. Not smiling like he is in the photo—the face I remember is haunted and drawn—but there is absolutely no doubt I’m looking at the same person.

  It’s the fisherman who attacked me on the beach at Slaughterhouse Island.

  SIXTEEN

  I STARE AT THE PHOTO ON MY LAPTOP SCREEN, UNABLE TO tear my eyes away. It’s labeled “Benjamin Cooper, circa 1982,” but he’s got the same mullet, the same smile, the same everything. Everything. As if he hadn’t aged a day in the thirty-four years he’d been missing.

  “Cause of death is not immediately known,” Rick continues, “but according to sources in the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office, Cooper’s remains appear to be perfectly mummified. The body has been transported to the Coroner’s Office, where an autopsy will be performed in the coming days. This is Rick Sanchez, KRED TV-Thirteen.”

  The video ends, but I sit motionless, my skin clammy and cold despite the warmth of the summer morning. Benjamin Cooper disappeared thirty-four years ago, and according to the photo on the news report, he hadn’t aged a day since then. The face is exactly the same one I saw on the shores of Slaughterhouse Island. Exactly the same. Was that even possible?

  Maybe.

  I hoped we’d be able to put what happened at Bull Valley Mine behind us, but now this. Cooper’s mummified remains discovered right outside the mine entrance? It can’t be a coincidence. I think of the shadow that chased me in the twisting shafts underground. I want to laugh it off as a figment of my imagination, but I heard those footsteps in the darkness, felt a massive something behind me reach out and touch my hair. The shadows might have been a trick of the eye, but not that. And not Benjamin Cooper’s body.

  I shudder, recalling the cold, damp stench of the mine. I can feel it spreading over me, as if its creepiness has followed me home.

  My phone rings and I start, its usually melodic tone somehow harsh against the eerie silence of my room. I reach for it with shaky hands, not even bothering to look at the caller ID. I already know who it is.

  “Did you see him? Did you see the TV footage?” Sonya’s voice is pitched so high she sounds like she’s sucked down a gallon of helium. “It’s impossible!” she squeaks.

  “I know.”

  She’s silent for a moment, but I can hear the clacking of her keyboard over the phone. “They found the body right outside the main entrance to the mine.” Apparently she’s already accessed the police database. “Annie, we were right there. We should have seen it.”

  “Look, don’t panic,” I say, not sure whether the words are meant more for Sonya or for myself. “I’m sure there’s a rational explanation.”

  “What are we going to do? There are officers combing the scene. They’ll find our campfire, trace it back to us, know that we were there.” She takes a strangled breath. “What if they think we killed him?”

  “The body is mummified,” I reply, forcing a laugh. “I doubt they’re treating this as a murder investigation.”

  “We need to tell your dad,” she continues. “Come clean right away and confess to the trip, the mine, everything. They need to have all the details about the victim if they’re going to find out what happened to him.”

  A mummified corpse who was alive and well just hours earlier? Somehow I doubt our experience with Benjamin Cooper is going to help my dad figure out this mystery, but now is clearly not the time to say that to Sonya, who is teasing herself up into a manic episode.

  “Calm down. I’m going to talk to Jack, okay? I’ll call you back.”

  “Jack?” Her voice is sharp, less panicked and more annoyed. “How is he going to help?”

  “Just don’t tell anyone about this until you hear from me.”

  She pauses before she responds. “Fine.”

  Jack has clearly just been roused from a very deep sleep when he answers my FaceTime. His eyes are half-open, his hair plastered over his forehead, and the initial syllables that come out of his mouth sound like a cross between “Hello?” and “Hate you.”

  “Hey!” I’m trying not to sound excited or scared or nervous or any one of the dozen or so other emotions swirling around in my head, but I’m not fooling him.

  “What’s wrong?” he says, pushing his hair from his face, immediately alert. “Annie, are you okay?”

  “They found a body at the entrance to Bull Valley Mine.”

  “Huh?”

  “This morning. Some hikers came across the mummified remains of someone who disappeared thirty-four years ago.”

  He runs a hand through his hair, which sticks up in different directions. “That’s weird.”

  “Jack, it’s not weird. It’s impossible.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “Impossible?”

  I take a steadying breath. “It’s the fisherman who attacked me.”

  Jack stares at the screen for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. The real
ity of what I’m saying hasn’t sunk in yet. “That guy must have been in his early sixties.”

  Late sixties.

  “He definitely aged well,” Jack continues.

  “He hadn’t aged at all. They showed his photo on the news, back from when he disappeared in 1982. It’s the same face.”

  “It was dark, Annie,” he says. “And the firelight—”

  “Jack!” I’m frustrated that he’s trying to reason this away. “I saw him up close. Not only was that not the face of an old man, but it was identical to his photo from thirty-four years ago.”

  “Okay, okay.” Jack puffs his cheeks. “Did they show a photo of the mummy on TV?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then maybe it’s a mistake.”

  I catch my breath. I hadn’t thought about that.

  “There’s only one way to know for sure if it’s the same guy,” Jack continues.

  “How?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “We need to see the body.”

  SEVENTEEN

  DESPITE OUR LOCATION A HUNDRED MILES FROM NOWHERE, my dad’s Sheriff’s Office is hardly backwater. Thanks to the Shasta Dam, and the lake that bears its name, our county law enforcement is responsible for patrolling the second-largest source of drinking water for the entire state of California, and our local politicians lobby aggressively to make sure we have the latest and greatest when it comes to facilities.

  That said, the county morgue isn’t exactly a state-of-the-art secure building that would make the FBI proud—more like a converted storeroom with a souped-up freezer unit manned, most days, by a high school dropout named Denny Lee who gets his weed from Terrence and buys black-market urine from his buddy at the hospital lab in order to pass his yearly drug test.

  Which is why Terrence and I are squeezed into the cab of Jack’s pickup truck as we speed across town.

  Bright fluorescent lights illuminate the spartan lobby of the Coroner’s Office—if having two plastic chairs against the wall even constitutes a lobby—their long tubes reflecting off the highly polished tile floor. On either side of the room, old metal-framed glass doors open onto hallways, and facing us is a long desk, partially obscured by a low wall. Sitting at the desk—feet propped up, eyes closed—is Denny.

  He wears the beige polo shirt with “Coroner’s Office” stitched in black near the right shoulder and black pants that make up the official uniform for his department, but instead of the crisp, clean appearance of most other county employees I’ve met, Denny’s shirt is stained and he’s wearing a pair of black Chucks that are coming apart at the seams. His arms are crossed over his chest, hands tucked into his armpits, and his head is thrown back over the outdated office chair, jaw slack, with a thin trail of drool snaking from the left corner of his mouth.

  I approach the desk. “Denny?” He doesn’t even stir.

  Jack pushes himself up on the counter, swinging his body forward so he’s inches from Denny’s ear, and screams, “DUDE!”

  Denny flails as if he’s been electrocuted. His hands fly out of their resting place so quickly, Jack has to duck to keep from getting bitch-slapped as Denny kicks his legs upward from the desk, tilting the chair beyond its point of stability. For one breathless moment the chair seems to hang suspended between its wheelie base and the force of gravity, until the latter wins out and the entire contraption, along with Denny, goes crashing to the floor.

  “Oof,” Denny grunts, rolling over the chair on the hard tile.

  “You okay?” Jack asks.

  “Dude.” Denny sits up, eyelids heavy and thick. “I have narcolepsy,” he says defensively. “You can’t fire me. I’m protected by the Americans with Disabilities Act.”

  Terrence leans over the wall. “We’re not here to fire you.”

  “T-Man!” Denny cries. He scrambles to his feet, kicking aside the upended chair, and reaches out to Terrence for a fist bump. “Dude, it’s so good to see you.”

  Terrence returns the gesture. “You remember Jack, right?”

  Denny’s brows knit together as if he’s not quite sure. “Um, yeah.” His gaze shifts to me. “And you’re the sheriff’s daughter.”

  I have a name. “Annie.”

  Denny’s eyes grow wide as he glances from me to Terrence. “Are you two banging?”

  “Um . . .”

  Denny doesn’t wait for an answer. “That is awesome!” He holds his hand up to Terrence, this time for a high five. “Way to go. Banging the sheriff’s daughter.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Jack mutters.

  I narrow my eyes, fighting the urge to punch Denny in the face. “Denny! I need you to focus for like two seconds.” I nudge Terrence, who holds up a Ziploc bag of weed. “Okay?”

  Denny’s instantly serious. He glances behind him suspiciously, looking for someone. “Um, ma’am,” he says dramatically, his voice an octave lower than usual, “I have no idea why you would bring a controlled substance for which I do not have a medical license onto government premises. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “We just need a favor,” Terrence says soothingly. “Then this is yours.”

  “Ma’am,” he repeats, his eyes locked on me. “It is illegal for an employee of the Shasta County Coroner’s Office to partake—”

  “Knock it off, dickhead,” Jack says. “This isn’t a sting.”

  Denny cocks an eyebrow. “You’re not cops?”

  “Do we look like cops?” I ask.

  “Cuz you’d have to tell me if you were. There are laws against entrapment.”

  “It’s true,” Terrence says. “We would.” He smiles at Denny. “But we’re not.”

  “Focus,” Jack says. He grabs the weed. “This is a bag of Terrence Katzenstein’s finest. Do you want it or not?”

  Denny’s eyes grow wide. “Your special blend?”

  “One and the same.” Terrence smiles.

  Denny reaches for the bag, but Jack pulls it out of his reach. “A favor first.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Denny eyes me suspiciously. “I mean, she’s cute, but I’m not really into threesomes.”

  Neither am I. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Jack doesn’t flinch. “We want to see the body they brought in this morning. The mummy.”

  “Dude,” Denny says, shaking his head. “Her dad would kill me.”

  “Just a peek, Denny,” I say, smiling. “No one will know.”

  He rubs his hands together, unconvinced. “There’s a really strict policy on unauthorized access.” He sounds like he’s reading from a script.

  “There’s also a really strict policy,” Terrence says, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, “on drug use.”

  “Aw, come on, man. Be cool.”

  “Look, Denny,” Jack says, using his smoothest voice. “We’ll all get busted if anyone finds out. You won’t tell. We won’t tell. . . .” He smiles out of the right side of his mouth and his dimple deepens. “And Terrence certainly won’t tell. In fact, I bet there’s a little bonus bag for you in this. On the house.”

  Denny’s eyebrows shoot up, though his eyes remain thin slits. “There is?”

  “There is?” Terrence echoes.

  “Yes.” Jack jabs him in the ribs with his elbow. “There is.”

  I glance at the clock on the wall. Someone might show up at any moment. We need to do this quickly. “So just show us the body, okay? Before anybody comes looking for it.”

  Denny just stands there, eyes fixed on the door as if it’s going to open itself, motionless except for the obsessive rubbing of his hands. Finally, his chin drops in defeat. “I guess.”

  The morgue is not my favorite place. My dad took me here once, right after I got my learner’s permit. He showed me the body of a motorcyclist who lost a battle with a moving truck. It was some kind of a scared-straight preempt, which only made me swear to myself that I’d never ride a motorcycle. Ever.

  The coldness of the refrigerated storage room doesn
’t hit me like I expect it to when Denny swings open the heavy security door; instead it feels like a cool breeze blowing across your skin on a hot day—pleasant but not bracing. The smell, however, makes up for the lack of shocking cold—a mix of ionized air and industrial-strength disinfectant that’s going to follow me home and makes me realize the instant the acrid scent hits my nose that it’s industrial strength for a reason: it has to be powerful to cover up the stench of corpses.

  While I fight to keep down my breakfast, Denny is completely unfazed. He saunters up to a storage unit right in the middle of the wall and slides open the drawer, displaying a body-like form draped in a white sheet.

  “So here’s King Tut,” he says, grabbing the top of the sheet. Then he looks at me over his shoulder and snickers like a ten-year-old. “I call him that because he’s all mummified. Get it?”

  There really isn’t much to get, is there? “Yeah.” I force a laugh. “Funny.”

  “Voilà!” Denny whisks the sheet back, and my eyes focus on the husk on the table.

  He’s on his side, scrunched in a fetal position with his arms pinned together between his knees. At least I think they’re his arms. What remains of his skin is wrinkled and tanned, and clings to the bone as if nothing exists between it and the skeleton beneath.

  My eyes trail up the grayish-brown form and all the remaining warmth drains out of my body as I stare into the face of my attacker.

  If it weren’t for the matching clothes and hat, and the stringy remains of a mullet plastered to what used to be his head, I’m not sure if I could make a positive ID. Benjamin Cooper had been flesh and bone two nights ago: sweaty, wild-eyed, and very much alive. This body is anything but. His skin has shriveled up and sticks to his skull: all the moisture and fatty tissue beneath have been drained away. It looks rough and fragile, as if his skin has been replaced by tissue-thin parchment paper that might disintegrate into nothing if I touch it. His eyelids are open, but the sockets beneath are empty.

  If there was any doubt in my mind whether or not Cooper’s body was actually mummified, it’s gone.

  “Holy shit,” Jack says by my side.