But then he shrugged. He’d found “natural” mummies at other sites—servants who’d stood guard after burial rites and died where they collapsed after the tombs were sealed and they slowly asphyxiated.
Henry walked back over to his desk to dictate notes into a recorder for the exhibit, which would one day be based on this project. “The earliest Egyptians buried their dead in small pits in the desert sand. The sand and the heat naturally ‘mummified’ the dead. Later, to prevent animals from digging up the bodies, they resorted to creating coffins. Coffins kept out animals, but they didn’t allow for the natural mummification that had been occurring when the bodies had gone straight into the sand. So the Egyptians began to learn the art of embalming. They quickly discovered that the ‘wet’ parts of the body needed to be removed. That included the heart and lungs, brain and liver and other organs. These were stored in canopic jars, where they were guarded, just as the body was guarded, so the dead were protected and ready as they entered into the afterlife. The process became forty days of drying with natron, a form of salt. Of course, a body was never simply dried. It was adorned with oils at various stages and also treated with religious rites.”
Henry stopped speaking; he thought he’d heard something moving in the preparation tent. That was odd. The local guards and the staff who worked for Alchemy were weary and bored with the findings. Egyptians had been unearthing mummies forever and ever, and even the security force of Americans and Brits was more bored by the ancient than intrigued. Most of them had worked around the world. They were, in a word, jaded—and far more interested in the pay scale than the work itself.
He looked around the tent. Nothing. Everything as it had been. Crates and boxes and mummies and treasures!
He shook his head, impatient with himself. He was incredibly lucky to have this time alone in the preparation tent. He’d been the one to do the research and the calculations; he’d been the one who’d garnered the sponsorship that had provided the money for this expedition. His papers had raised significant interest. It was—yes, indeed—his baby.
But eventually Dr. Arlo Hampton would want his time here, his chance to study these mummies, these treasures. So would Yolanda Akeem, their liaison with the Department of Antiquities. Then, of course, there was Ned Richter…and his wife. He’d bet that Richter couldn’t care less if he got any time with the mummies and ancient treasures or not. Richter was there to guard Alchemy’s interests and, Henry suspected, to ensure that they looked as if they were being incredibly magnanimous to the Egyptian government. After all, Alchemy financed these expeditions, he was almost certain, for tax breaks—and the media attention and promotion they provided.
Fine. The excavation was a great success. And this was his time. His time alone with all his treasures!
He started to go back to his work, but he could’ve sworn he’d seen movement from the corner of his eye.
He stood up and walked around.
Nothing.
Henry sat back down and continued his recording.
“Ancient Egypt—”
There was something behind him!
He tried to spin about.
And he saw nothing but binding, the linen binding that had been used on the ancient dead, saw it wrapped around fingers and a hand, saw the fingers and the hand circle his neck and—
Fingers, like wire, clutching his throat, so powerful, so strong…
He fought their hold. Wriggled and squirmed. He tried to rise; he couldn’t. The pain was terrible. The world began to blacken before him; little dots of light exploded in the darkness. And all he could think was that—
The mummy!
The mummy had risen to kill him!
It was impossible. Impossible. Impossible…
He was a scientist. Rational. He didn’t believe.
He was a scientist…
And as the last electrons exploded against the stygian pit of his dying mind, he couldn’t help but think…
He was a scientist.
Being killed by an ancient Egyptian mummy.
It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t right.
CHAPTER ONE
One Year Later
The New Museum of Antiquity
New York City, New York
The moon that shone down through the skylights in the temple region of the museum created a stunning vision. Opalescent light shimmered on the marble and made it appear that the ribbon of “Nile” river by the temple was created of crystal and glass. The lights in the area were dim, designed to look as if they were burning torches set along the walls.
The exhibit in the New Museum of Antiquity was impressive—even to Harley, despite all the time she’d spent in the real Sahara. In designing this space, the organizers had also borrowed heavily from another famous NYC museum, all to the benefit of the Egyptian displays. Harley felt a sudden breeze from an air-conditioning vent, and she shivered.
“Mummy thing getting to you, huh?”
“Pardon?” Harley turned quickly to see the speaker. The words had been teasing; they’d also been spoken in a pleasantly deep, masculine voice.
The voice aroused a strange memory she couldn’t quite reach—and seemed to whisper to something inside her, far beneath her skin.
She hadn’t seen the speaker before, despite the fact that his voice seemed oddly familiar. Here, on opening night, she should’ve known most of the invited crowd. But she didn’t know him, and—as her chosen field of criminology had taught her—she studied anyone she didn’t recognize in a situation such as this evening’s event.
A soiree to celebrate the exhibition. This was opening night for the traveling exhibit that would, in the end, return to Egypt, where the precious artifacts of that country would then remain. But tonight they celebrated the very first time the exhibit had been seen! It would open to the public in the morning. It had, quite properly, been named in honor of Henry—the Henry Tomlinson Collection of Egyptian Culture and Art.
There would be toasts in his honor, of course.
This phenomenal display would not have been possible without him.
But Henry was gone, as much a part of history as his treasures.
She sensed that this man—with his deep, somehow familiar voice—was connected to Henry.
She definitely hadn’t seen him before.
He wasn’t the kind of man you forgot.
He was tall—well over six feet, she thought. Because she’d recently taken identification classes that taught criminologists to look for details to include in descriptions, she also noted that not only was he about six foot three, but he had excellent posture. Nicely muscled, too. She had no doubt that he was the kind of man who spent time in a gym, not to create impressive abs, but to train the complex human machine that was his most important tool.
How could she be so sure of this? she asked herself. And yet she was.
He wore a casual suit, no jewelry. He was freshly shaven, and kept his dark hair cropped close to his head.
Someone’s bodyguard?
Beneath the glimmer of the moon that showed through the skylights, she couldn’t quite ascertain the color of his eyes. She had a feeling they were light, despite the darkness of his hair.
Thirty-three to thirty-six years old, she estimated. Carefully nondescript clothing—dark blue suit, dark blue shirt, pin-striped tie in shades of blue and black. Sunglasses resting on head.
He moved closer to her; she was certain he’d been doing the same kind of study on her that she’d nearly completed on him.
No, she’d never seen him before, but she had heard his voice.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. You’re not afraid of mummies, right?” he asked again, his expression quizzical.
“No, not at all,” she assured him. “Ah, well, that’s a bit of a lie. I
might be afraid of some of the bacteria that can be found in old tombs, but as for the mummies themselves…no. My dad was a cop, a very good one. He taught me to fear the living, not the dead.”
“Sounds like a bright man,” he said. He stepped toward her, offering his hand. “Micah. Micah Fox.”
She shook his hand. “Harley Frasier. How do you do? And pardon me, but who are you? Do I know you?”
He smiled. “Yes, and no. I’m an old student of Dr. Tomlinson’s,” he said. “I was at Brown when he was teaching there. About twelve years ago, I was lucky enough to join him on one of his expeditions. Back then, he was looking for the tomb of a princess from the Old Kingdom, Fifth Dynasty.” He paused, still smiling, and shrugged. “He found her, too—right now she’s in one of the display cases in a room not far from here, near the temple.” He stopped, studying her again, and asked, “Are you surprised by that?”
“No, no, I’m not. You don’t look like an Egyptologist,” Harley said. “Sorry! It’s not that Egyptologists look a certain way. I just—”
“It’s okay. I’m not an Egyptologist,” he told her. “I meant is it surprising that he found his princess? No, of course not. Henry was the best. But even though I began in archeology, I changed my major. I’m with the government now.”
“FBI?” Harley guessed.
He nodded.
“Something seems to be coming back. I’m not sure what,” she said. “I know your voice, but I don’t know you. I mean—”
“Yes, you know my voice. I guess I should start over. I called you soon after the incident when you were staying in Rome. Your group was shipped from place to place, and we were trying to get a handle on what happened. I’m the Fox from those phone calls. Special Agent Micah Fox—though I admit, I was working on my own, and not as assigned by the bureau. And I apologize, because I do know a lot about you, although it wasn’t appropriate to bring that up at the time. You’re Craig Frasier’s first cousin, and Craig and I have actually worked together. Of course, we’re in different offices now. Naturally, you’ve met a number of the men and women with the New York office. Craig told me you finished grad school, and you’re deciding what to do with all your education—join up with NYPD’s finest, remain with the private agency employing you now, or go into a federal agency. But tonight, you’re here for the same reason I am, honoring our old professor. For one summer, you were an unofficial Egyptologist. And, as I just explained, you recognize my voice because we spoke on the phone. I’m Criminal Division, FBI. Right now, I’m assigned down in DC. I’ve taken some leave to be here.”
“I…see,” she said.
Did she?
No, not really.
Wait. Fox—yes, that was the name of the man she’d spoken with about Henry Tomlinson, just once, what now seemed like a lifetime ago.
These days, that time was mostly a blur. Maybe because she didn’t want to think of it. But she couldn’t stop her mind from rushing back to the night they’d returned to the camp, laughing and loaded down with food and drink for their professor, only to find him on the floor, along with the broken coffin and the “screaming” mummy. He’d been garroted by his own belt, eyes open and bulging, throat blackened and bruised, a swatch of ancient linen wrapped around it.
There’d been an immediate outcry. Security was convinced that no one from outside had been anywhere near the expedition tents; they kept a tight perimeter around the work area, which included the tents that had been set up for the staff. Egyptian police had come out, ready to help with the investigation.
Then, all hell had broken loose. The computer had picked up more chatter. And word had come that the fledgling, unaffiliated militant group calling themselves The Ancient Guard was bearing down on the expedition. Perhaps they intended to steal the artifacts to finance their cause. Not an uncommon scenario… It meant that everyone and everything needed to go as quickly as possible. Government forces were being sent out, but no one wanted scientists from around the world caught up in an exchange of gunfire.
Security forces from Alchemy, along with the Egyptian police, did their best to preserve what they could from the expedition, as well as the body of Henry Tomlinson so they could discover the circumstances of his death.
Much was lost. But at least no one else was killed. The final inquiry, conducted by the Egyptian police and the Alchemy security force, concluded that the brilliant archeologist Dr. Henry Tomlinson had driven himself mad and committed suicide. According to their conclusions, he believed a mummy had come to life with the intention of murdering him… It was suspected that some unknown bacteria had caused the temporary fit of insanity, and everything from the expedition would be scrutinized using proper precautions.
Harley had fought the verdict—vociferously. She was a criminology student; she knew what should have been done and a lot of it wasn’t. Pretty much nothing had been done, really, not as far as a crime scene examination went.
Not in her opinion, anyway.
How many men committed suicide with their own belts in such a manner? She sure as hell hadn’t seen or read about any. And she was studying criminology.
Nope, never heard of it!
Her friends backed her up, at first. And then, one by one, it seemed, they all decided that the poor professor—so caught up in his love and enthusiasm for his work—had gone mad, even if only temporarily. No one could find a motive for murdering him. Henry Tomlinson had been respected and dearly loved by everyone. No one could find a clue.
The police assigned to them had been incompetent, to Harley’s mind. Authorities in Egypt and in the United States hadn’t done enough.
And the Alchemy people…
They wanted it to be a suicide. They didn’t want to deal with a murder. They accepted the verdict without a whimper.
They were so sorry and sad, they’d claimed, and in hindsight, they could see so many mistakes.
They should’ve known to be more careful!
Henry should’ve known to be more careful!
But in fact, they said, the professor’s enthusiasm for the project had caused them all to bypass modern safety regulations that might have kept him alive.
A great company line, Harley thought in disgust.
And what was the matter with her? They might all have been killed by a crazy insurgent group that hadn’t defined exactly what it was fighting for or against. It was a miracle that they’d gotten out, that they were all alive.
Well, most of them. And Henry, poor Henry, he’d done himself in—according to the authorities and to Alchemy, who went on to say that now they’d never completely understand the biology of what had gone on. They weren’t allowed back on the site; the Egyptian government had stamped a foot down hard.
And that night…
First, they were shuffled to Cairo, then, almost immediately—on the orders of the Egyptian authorities and the US State Department—they were put on planes to Rome, and from Rome they were flown to New York City.
But, thinking back, Harley recalled that it was while she’d been staying at the little Italian hotel near the Spanish Steps that she’d spoken with this man. Fox. He’d wanted to know whatever she knew about the situation, and she’d told him everything, adding that she didn’t believe a word of the official explanation.
There was no way Henry had killed himself.
Special Agent Fox had seemed to accept her version, but apparently he’d been just as stonewalled as she had.
Like her, he’d been forced to realize in the end that no one was going to believe him. Or her.
And even if the authorities had believed him, they didn’t care enough to make a killer pay!
Here, tonight, for the first time in a year, everything about that horrible occasion was suddenly coming back.
Tonight was about honoring Henry Tomlinson. This would be an event during
which people would shake their heads sadly, missing the professor who’d done so much, declaring it tragic that he’d lost his mind because of what he’d loved so deeply.
“Ms. Frasier?”
She blinked, staring at the man in front of her, wondering how long she’d been lost in her own thoughts.
In a way, she did know him. They’d just never met in person. She’d left the Sahara before he reached it. Then she’d been flown out of Cairo, and soon after that she was back in New York.
“I’m sorry!” she said softly.
He shook his head. “Hey, it’s all right. I know you really cared, and that you tried to do something. It must have been hard to maintain your own belief that he’d been murdered when everyone else was telling you otherwise,” Micah Fox said.
It had been and still was. “Oh, don’t you know?” she muttered. “‘Henry went crazy. Bacteria in the wrappings. He just had to dig in before proper precautions were taken. It’s so tragic—don’t make it worse by rehashing every little thing!’”
Her tone, she knew, was heavy with sarcasm.
They were alone in the temple area—or so she believed. Still, she looked around and repeated, “I’m sorry. I tried… I do believe he was murdered. They did find bacteria, but not enough. Henry was murdered. And I couldn’t do a damned thing to prove it.”
Micah nodded at her. She liked his face. Hard-jawed, somewhat sharp-boned. His eyes, she saw now, were actually blue—sky blue—and they seemed to see a great deal.
“Remember, I was a student of his, too. And now I’m an FBI agent. And I couldn’t do anything, either. You have nothing to be sorry for.” He paused. “I should explain. I knew about you through Craig, of course. And also through Henry. We kept in touch when we could—he’d let me know what was up, what was going on. I went into law enforcement, but I still love Egyptology. Henry thought the world of you.” He shook his head. “I can only imagine what it was like that last night. I hope you’re okay now. Time…heals, so they say.”
“So they say.”
“It heals when you’re at peace with the past.”
Conspiracy to Murder Page 2