“Lara Croft, watch out!” DeMeo said, looking around and laughing at his witticism.
The group entered the burial chamber, where Lipper paused again. “The visitors will hear things before they see anything-breakage, shouting. As they enter this end of the burial chamber, they’ll be stopped by a gate, here. And then the main event begins. First, it’s dark, with frightened, excited voices. Then more smashing and breaking. A sudden flare, and another, and the torches are lit up. We see the sweaty, terrified, avaricious faces of the priests. And gold! Everywhere, the gleam of gold.” He turned to Wicherly. “Just as you wrote in the script.”
“Excellent!”
“As the torches are lit, the computer-controlled lighting will come up, dimly illuminating parts of the burial chamber. The thieves will shove off and smash the stone lid of the sarcophagus. Then they’ll hoist up the top of the inner sarcophagus-the one in solid gold-and one of them will leap in and begin ripping off the linen wrappings. Then, with a shout of triumph, they’ll hold up the scarab and smash it, thus breaking its power.”
“That’s the climax,” said Menzies, breaking in excitedly. “That’s where I want the peal of thunder, the strobes simulating flashes of lightning.”
“And you’ll have it,” DeMeo said. “We got a complete Dolby Surround and Pro Logic II sound system and four Chauvet Mega II 750-watt strobes, along with a bunch of spots. All controlled by a twenty-four-channel DMX lighting console, fully automated.”
He looked around proudly, as if he knew what the hell he was talking about instead of, once again, quoting verbatim from Lipper’s carefully designed specs. God, Lipper couldn’t stand him. He waited a moment before resuming.
“After the light and thunder, the holographic projectors will switch back on, and we’ll see Senef himself rise from the sarcophagus. The priests will fall back, terrified. This is all meant to be in their minds, what they imagine, as was written in the script.”
“But it will be realistic?” Nora asked, frowning. “Not hokey?”
“It’ll all be 3-D, and the holographic images are a bit like ghosts-you can see through them, but only when there’s strong light behind. We’ll manipulate the light levels very carefully to exploit that illusion. Some of it’s video-based, some of it C.G. Anyway, Senef rises, violated, and points a finger. To more flashes of lightning and thunder, he speaks of his life, what he has done, what a great regent and vizier he was to Thutmosis, and of course, this is where you slip in the educational stuff.”
“Meanwhile,” said DeMeo, “we’ve got a 500-watt Jem Glaciator hidden in the sarcophagus, pumping out an awesome ground fog. Two thousand cubic feet a minute.”
“My script doesn’t call for artificial smoke,” said Wicherly. “This could damage the paintings.”
“The Jem system uses only environmentally friendly fluids,” Lipper said. “Guaranteed not to chemically alter anything.”
Nora Kelly was frowning again. “Forgive me for raising this question, but is this level of theatricality really necessary?”
Menzies turned to her. “Why, Nora! This was your idea to begin with.”
“I was imagining something lower-key, not strobe lights and fog machines.”
Menzies chuckled. “As long as we’re going this route, Nora, we should do it right. Trust me, we’re creating an unforgettable educational experience. It’s a marvelous way to slip a little learning to the vulgus mobile without them ever realizing it.”
Nora continued to look doubtful, but said nothing further.
Lipper resumed. “As Senef speaks, the robbers fall to the floor in terror. Then Senef melts back into his sarcophagus, the robbers vanish, the holographic screens retract, the lights come up-and suddenly the tomb is as it was, before the robbery. A museum exhibit once again. The gate slides back and the visitors are free to tour the burial chamber as if nothing had happened.”
Menzies raised a finger. “But they will do so having gained an appreciation of Senef and been entertained in the process. Now for the million-dollar question: can you finish by deadline?”
“We’ve already outsourced as much of the programming as possible,” Lipper said. “The electrical staff are working flat out. I’d say we can have it installed and ready for alpha testing in four days.”
“That’s excellent.”
“And then comes the debugging.”
Menzies cocked his head questioningly. “Debugging?”
“That’s the killer. A rule of thumb says the debugging takes twice as long as the original programming.”
“Eight days?”
Lipper nodded, uneasy from the sudden darkening of Menzies’s face.
“Four plus eight is twelve-two days before the gala opening. Can you finish the debugging in five?”
Something in Menzies’s tone led Lipper to think it was more an order than a question. He swallowed: the schedule already verged on the insane. “We’ll certainly try.”
“Good. Now, let’s talk for a minute about the opening. Dr. Kelly suggested we duplicate the original opening in 1872, and I wholeheartedly concurred. We are planning a cocktail reception, a bit of opera, and then the guests will be escorted into the tomb for the sound-and-light show. Dinner will follow.”
“How many are we talking about?” Lipper asked.
“Six hundred.”
“Obviously we’re not going to fit six hundred people into the tomb at one time,” Lipper said. “I’ve been estimating two hundred at a go for the sound-and-light show, which lasts about twenty minutes, but we could up that to, say, three hundred for the opening.”
“Fine,” said Menzies. “We’ll divide them into two groups. The first in, of course, will be the A-list: the mayor, governor, senators and congressmen, the museum’s top brass, the biggest patrons, movie stars. With two showings, we’ll get guests through the exhibit within an hour. Finish off the entire crowd.” He looked from Lipper to DeMeo. “You two are crucial. There can’t be any mistakes. Everything’s riding on you finishing that sound-and-light show on time. Four days plus five: that’s nine days.”
“I’ve got no problem,” said DeMeo, all smiles and self-confidence: gofer and cable-puller extraordinaire.
Those disquieting blue eyes now turned back to Lipper. “And you, Mr. Lipper?”
“It’ll happen.”
“Delighted to hear it. I trust you’ll keep me up-to-date with progress reports?”
They nodded.
Menzies glanced at his watch. “Nora, if you’ll excuse me, I have to catch a train. I’ll check in with you later.”
Menzies and the curators were gone, leaving Lipper alone with DeMeo once again. He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going, DeMeo, because I’d like to get to sleep tonight before four A.M. for a change.”
“What about Darkmord?” DeMeo asked. “You promised to have the band of warriors ready for the attack by midnight.”
Lipper groaned. Shit. They would just have to launch the attack on Castle Gloaming without him.
Chapter 17
When Margo Green awoke, a bright afternoon sun was slanting in through the windows of the Feversham Clinic. Outside, puffy cumulus clouds drifted across a lazy blue sky. The distant call of waterbirds came from the direction of the Hudson River.
She yawned, stretched, then sat up in bed. Glancing at the clock, she noticed it was quarter to four. The nurse should be in soon with her afternoon cup of peppermint tea.
The hospital table beside her bed was crowded: back issues of Natural History, a Tolstoy novel, a portable music player, a laptop, and a copy of the New York Times. She reached for the newspaper, flipped through the C section. Maybe she could finish the crossword before Phyllis brought her tea.
Now that her condition was no longer critical, recovery at the clinic had settled into a kind of routine. She found that she looked forward to the afternoon chats with Phyllis. She hardly had any visitors-no visitors at all, actually, save her mother and Captain Laura Hayward-and the thing she m
issed most, other than her career, was companionship.
Picking up a pencil, she applied herself to the crossword. But it was one of those late-in-the-week puzzles, full of coy clues and obscure references, and mental exercise still tired her. After a few minutes, she put it aside. She found her thoughts straying back to Hayward ’s recent visit and the unpleasant memories it had reawakened.
It disturbed her that her memory of the attack remained shadowy. There were bits and pieces, disconnected, as if from a nightmare-but nothing coherent. She’d been inside the Sacred Images exhibition, checking the arrangement of some Native American masks. While there, she’d become aware of a presence: somebody else in the exhibition, lurking in the shadows. Following her. Stalking her. Cornering her. She dimly remembered making a stand, fighting with a box cutter. Had she wounded her pursuer? The actual attack itself was the most fragmentary: little more than a searing pain in her back. And that had been all-until she woke up in this room.
She folded up the newspaper, put it back on the table. The most disturbing thing was that, even though she knew her attacker had spoken to her, she couldn’t remember anything he had said. His words were gone, fallen into the darkness. Curiously, she did remember, seared into her mind, the man’s strange eyes and his hideous, dry chuckle.
She turned restlessly in her bed, wondering where Phyllis was, still thinking of Hayward ’s visit. The captain had asked a lot of questions about Agent Pendergast and his brother, a man with the peculiar name of Diogenes. It all seemed strange: Margo hadn’t seen Pendergast in years, and she had never even known the FBI agent had a brother.
Now at last the door to her room opened and Phyllis walked in. But she wasn’t carrying a tray of tea things, and her friendly face bore an official expression.
“Margo, you have a visitor,” she said.
Margo barely had time to react to this announcement before a familiar figure appeared in the doorway: the chairman of her department at the museum, Dr. Hugo Menzies. He was dressed as usual in rumpled elegance, his thick white hair combed back from his forehead, his lively blue eyes darting briefly around the room before settling on her.
“Margo!” he cried, coming forward, patrician features breaking into a smile. “How wonderful to see you.”
“Same here, Dr. Menzies,” she replied. Her surprise at having a visitor was quickly replaced by embarrassment: she wasn’t exactly dressed to receive her boss.
But Menzies, as if sensing her discomfort, was quick to put her at ease. He thanked Phyllis, waited until the nurse had left the room, then took a seat beside the bed.
“What a beautiful room!” he exclaimed. “And with an exquisite view of the Hudson River Valley. The quality of the light here is second only to Venice, I think; perhaps that’s why it has drawn so many painters.”
“They’ve been very good to me here.”
“As well they should. You know, my dear, I’ve been terribly worried about you. The entire Anthropology Department has. We can’t wait for your return.”
“Neither can I.”
“Your location has been almost a state secret. Until yesterday, I never even knew this place existed. As it was, I had to charm my way past half the staff.” He smiled.
Margo smiled back. If anyone could charm his way in, Menzies could. She’d been lucky to get him as her supervisor: many museum curators lorded it over their minions, behaving like conceited philosopher-kings. Menzies was the exception: affable, receptive to the ideas of others, supportive of his staff. It was true-she couldn’t wait to get out of here and back to work. Museology, the periodical she edited, was rudderless in her absence. If only she didn’t grow tired so easily…
She realized her mind was drifting. She roused herself, glanced at Menzies. He was looking back at her, concern on his face.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m still a little out of it.”
“Of course you are,” he said. “Perhaps that’s why this is still necessary?” And he nodded at the saline drip hanging beside the bed.
“The doctor said that’s just a precautionary measure. I’m getting plenty of fluids now.”
“Good, very good. The loss of blood must have been a severe shock. So much blood, Margo. There’s a reason they call it the living liquid, don’t you agree?”
A strange current, almost like a physical shock, passed through Margo. The weakness, the feeling of torpor, receded. She suddenly felt wide awake. “What did you say?”
“I said, have they given you any indication of when you can leave?”
Margo relaxed. “The doctors are very pleased with my progress. Another two weeks or so.”
“And then bed rest at home, I assume?”
“Yes. Dr. Winokur-that’s my primary physician here-said I would need another month’s recuperation before returning to work.”
“He would know best.”
Menzies’s voice was low and soothing, and Margo felt torpidity returning. Almost without realizing it, she yawned.
“Oh!” she said, embarrassed anew. “I’m sorry.”
“Think nothing of it. I don’t want to overstay my welcome, I’ll leave shortly. Are you tired, Margo?”
She smiled faintly. “A little bit.”
“Sleeping all right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I was worried you might have been having nightmares.” Menzies glanced over his shoulder, toward the open door and the corridor beyond.
“No, not really.”
“That’s my girl! What spunk!”
There: that strange electric tingle again. Menzies’s voice had changed-something about it was both foreign and disquietingly familiar. “Dr. Menzies,” she began, sitting up once more.
“Now, now, you just sit back and rest.” And with a gentle but firm pressure on her shoulder, he guided her back down onto the pillow. “I’m so glad to hear you’re sleeping well. Not everybody could put such a traumatic event behind them.”
“It’s not exactly behind me,” she said. “I just don’t seem to remember what happened very well, that’s all.”
Menzies laid a comforting hand on hers. “That’s just as well,” he said, slipping his other hand inside his jacket.
Margo felt an inexplicable sense of alarm. She was tired-that’s all it was. Much as she liked Menzies, much as she appreciated this break in the monotony, she needed to rest.
“After all, nobody would want such memories. The noises in the empty exhibition hall. Being followed. The invisible footfalls, the falling of boards. The sudden darkness.”
Margo felt an unfocused panic well up within her. She stared at Menzies, unable to wrap her mind around what he was saying. The anthropologist kept on talking in his low, soothing voice.
“Laughter in the blackness. And then, the plunge of the knife… No, Margo. Nobody would want those memories.”
And then Menzies himself laughed. But it wasn’t his voice. No: it was another voice, another voice entirely: a hideous, dry chuckle.
A sudden dreadful shock burned through the gathering lethargy. No. Oh, no. It couldn’t be…
Menzies sat in the chair, looking at her intently, as if gauging the effect of his words.
Then he winked.
Margo tried to pull away, opened her mouth to scream. But even as she did so, the feeling of lassitude intensified, flooding her limbs, leaving her unable to speak or move. She had a desperate realization that the lethargy wasn’t normal, that something was happening to her…
Menzies let his hand fall away from hers, and as he did so, she saw-with a thrill of horror-that his other hand had been concealed beneath. It held a tiny syringe, which was injecting a colorless liquid into the IV tube at her wrist. Even as she watched, he withdrew the syringe, palmed it, then replaced it in his suit jacket.
“My dear Margo,” he said, sitting back, his voice so very different now. “Did you really think you’d seen the last of me?”
Panic, and a desperate desire to survive, surged within her-yet she felt u
tterly powerless against the drug that was spreading through her veins, silencing her voice and paralyzing her limbs. Menzies swept to his feet, placed a finger against his lips, and whispered, “Time to sleep, Margo…”
The hated darkness surged in, blotting out sight and thought. Panic, shock, and disbelief fell aside as the mere act of drawing breath became a struggle. As she lay paralyzed, Margo saw Menzies turn and hasten from the room, heard his faint yelling for a nurse. But then his voice, too, was subsumed into the hollow roar that filled her head, and darkness gathered in her eyes until the roar dwindled into blackness and eternal night, and she knew no more.
Chapter 18
Four days after their meeting with Menzies, the sound-and-light show was finally installed and ready for debugging, and that night they were pulling the final cables, hooking everything up. Jay Lipper crouched by the dusty hole near the floor of the Hall of the Chariots, listening to various sounds emerging from the hole: grunts, heavy breathing, muttered curses. It was the third night in a row they’d worked on the install into the wee hours of the morning, and he was dog-tired. He couldn’t take much more of this. The exhibition had basically taken over his life. All his guildmates in Land of Darkmord had given up on him and continued with the online game. By now, they’d leveled up once, maybe twice, and he was hopelessly behind.
“Got it?” came DeMeo’s muffled voice from the hole. Lipper looked down to see the end of a fiber-optic cable poking out of the blackness.
Lipper seized the end. “Got it.”
He pulled it through, then waited for DeMeo to come around from the other side. Soon DeMeo’s blocky figure, backlit and faint in the dim light of the tomb, came huffing down the passageway, cables coiled about his massive shoulders. Lipper handed him the cable end and DeMeo plugged it into the back of a PowerBook sitting on a nearby worktable. Later, when the artifacts were all in place, the laptop would be artfully hidden behind a gilded and painted chest. But for now, it was out in the open, where they could access it.
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