The Book of the Dead (55 page)

She glanced around again, but the crowd hadn’t noticed the glitch—they assumed it was just part of the show. If the technicians could fix it soon, maybe nobody would know. She hoped they were on the ball.

Now the strobes were speeding up even further, except for one—particularly bright—that kept flashing, not quite in time… the lights blended to form a kind of visual Doppler effect that almost made Nora dizzy.

With a deep groaning sound, the mummy abruptly rose from the sarcophagus. The holographic robbers fell back with shrieks of terror—at least that part of the show was still working—some dropping their torches in fright, the light flickering off their staring faces as they cringed in fear.

Senef!

But somehow the mummy didn’t look right to Nora—it was bigger, darker, somehow more menacing. Then a bony arm broke free of its bandages—something not even in the script—and, clawing and twitching, reached up to its own swathed face. The arm was distorted, as elongated as an ape’s. The bony fingers sank into the linen wrappings and ripped them away, revealing a visage of such horror that Nora gasped, backing up instinctively. This was over-the-top—way over-the-top. Was this some joke of Wicherly’s? Obviously, something this dreadful, this effective, had to be carefully programmed—it wasn’t a mere glitch.

There were audible gasps from the audience. “Oh, my goodness!” the mayor’s wife said.

Nora looked around. The crowd continued to stare at the still-rising mummy as if mesmerized, swaying, uncomfortable now. She could feel their fear rising like a miasma, their voices tight and hushed. Viola caught her eye, gave her a questioning frown. Beyond, Nora could make out the face of Collopy, the museum director. He looked pale.

The malfunctioning strobe lights kept flashing, flashing,
flashing
in her peripheral vision, so very brightly, and Nora felt a real twinge of dizziness. Another gut-twisting low note sounded, and she closed her eyes momentarily against the combined assault of the brilliant lights and the deep sounds. She heard more gasps around her, then a scream, choked off almost before it started. What the hell was this? Those sounds—she had never heard anything like them. They were like the sounding of the last trump, full of dread and horror, so loud it seemed to violate her very being.

The mummy now began to open its jaw, the dry lips cracking and flaking off as they drew back from a rack of brown, rotting teeth. The mouth became a sinkhole of black slime, which began to seethe and wriggle. Then, as she watched in horror, it morphed into a swarm of greasy black cockroaches, which began rustling and crawling their way out of the ruined orifice. Another horrible groaning, and then there was a second explosion of strobe flashes of such incredible intensity that, when she closed her eyes, she could still see them flashing through her eyelids…

… but a hideous buzzing sound forced her to open her eyes again. It now looked as if the mummy were vomiting blackness—the swarm of insects had taken flight, the cockroaches morphing into fat lubricious wasps, their mandibles clicking like knitting needles as they flew toward the audience with a horrible believability.

She felt a sudden wave of vertigo, and she swayed, instinctively grabbing the person next to her—the mayor—who was himself stumbling and unsteady.

“Oh my God—!”

She heard someone vomiting, a cry for help—and then a flurry of short screams as the crowd surged back, trying to escape the insects. Although Nora knew they had to be holographically generated, like everything else, they looked amazingly real as they came straight at her, each with a vicious stinger extruded from its abdomen, gleaming with venom. She stumbled backward instinctively, felt herself falling, with no bottom, falling like the robber in the well, to a chorus of wails around her like the shrieks of the damned being sucked into hell itself.

C
onstance was awakened by a discreet rapping on her bedroom door. Without opening her eyes, she turned over with a sigh, nuzzling gently at the down pillow.

The knock came again, a little louder now. “Constance? Constance, is everything all right?” It was the voice of Wren—shrill, worried.

Constance stretched languorously—deliciously—then sat up in bed. “I’m fine,” she said with a twinge of irritation.

“Is anything the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter, thank you.”

“You’re not ill?”

“Certainly not. I’m fine.”

“You’ll forgive my intrusion. It’s just that I’ve never known you to sleep all day like this. It’s eight-thirty, past time for supper, and you’re still abed.”

“Yes,” was all Constance said in return.

“Would you care for your usual breakfast, then? Green tea and a piece of buttered toast?”

“Not the usual breakfast, thank you, Wren. If you could manage it, I’d like poached eggs, cranberry juice, kippers, half a dozen rashers of bacon, a grapefruit half, and a scone with a pot of jam, please.”

“I—very well.” She heard Wren fussing his way back down the hall toward the stairs.

Constance settled back into the pillows, closing her eyes again. Her sleep had been long and deep and completely dreamless—most unusual for her. She recalled the bottomless emerald green of the absinthe, the strange feeling of lightness it gave her—as if she were watching herself from a distance. A private smile flitted across her face, vanished, then returned again, as if prompted by some recollection. She settled deeper into the pillows, letting her limbs relax beneath the soft sheets.

Gradually, very gradually, she became aware of something. There was a scent in the room, an unusual scent.

She sat up in bed again. It was not the scent of—of
him;
it was something she didn’t think she’d ever smelled before. It was not unpleasant, really… just different.

She looked around for a moment, trying to trace the source. She checked the bedside table without success.

It was only as an afterthought that she slipped a hand beneath the pillows.

There she found something: an envelope, and a long box, wrapped in an antique paper and tied with a black ribbon. These were the source of the scent: a musky smell redolent of the deep woods. Quickly, she pulled them out.

The envelope was of cream-laid linen paper, and the box was just large enough to hold a diamond choker, or perhaps a bracelet. Constance smiled, then flushed deeply.

She opened the envelope eagerly. Out fell three pages of dense, elegant handwriting. She began to read.

I hope you slept well, my dearest Constance: the sweet sleep of the innocent.

There is a good chance it will be your last such sleep for some time. Then again—if you take the advice in this letter—sleep may come again, and very soon.

As I’ve whiled away these pleasant hours with you, I must admit to having wondered something. What has it been like, all these many years, to live under the same roof as Uncle Antoine, the man you called Enoch Leng: the man who brutally murdered your sister, Mary Greene?

Did you know this, Constance? That Antoine killed and vivisected your sister? Surely you must have. Perhaps at first it was just a supposition, a strange twinge of dark fancy. No doubt you ascribed it to your own perverse cast of mind. But over time—and you two had so
very
much time—it must have come to seem, first a possibility, then a certainty. Yet no doubt this was all subconscious, buried so deep as to be almost undiscoverable. And yet
you knew it:
of course you did.

What a deliciously ironic situation. This man, Antoine Pendergast, killed your very own sister—for the furthering of his own mortal life… and ultimately yours as well! This is the man to whom you owe everything! Do you know how many children had to die so that he could develop his elixir, so that you could enjoy your abnormally extended childhood? You were born normal, Constance; but thanks to Uncle Antoine, you became a freak of nature. That was your word, wasn’t it?
Freak
.

And now, my dear, duped Constance, you can no longer shove this idea aside. You can no more dismiss it as a flight of imagination, or a dark irrational fear on those nights when the thunder rumbles and you cannot sleep. Because the worst is, in fact, true: this is precisely what happened. Your sister was murdered to prolong your life. I know, because before he died,
Uncle Antoine told me so himself
.

Oh, yes: I had several chats with the old gentleman. How could I not seek out a dear relative with such a colorful history, with a worldview so similar to my own? The very possibility that he might still be alive after all those decades added excitement to my search, and I did not rest until I at length tracked him down. He quickly sensed my own true nature, and naturally became most anxious that your path should never cross mine—but in return for my promise never to meet you, he seemed happy enough to discuss his, shall we say,
unique
solution for a broken world. And he confirmed everything: the existence of his concoction for the prolongation of life—although he withheld from me the manner of its preparation. Dear Uncle Antoine, I was sorry to see him go; the world was a most interesting place with him in it. But at the time of his murder, I was too closely involved in my own plans to help him escape his fate.

So I ask one more time: what was it like for you to live in this house for so many, many years as helpmate to your sister’s killer? I can’t even begin to imagine it. No wonder your psyche is so frail—no wonder my brother fears for the soundness of your mind. Together, alone, in this house: was it possible that you even grew to become, shall we say, on
intimate terms
with Antoine? But no, not that: I am the first man to become master of that shrine, dearest Constance: the physical evidence was incontrovertible. But you loved him—no doubt
you loved him
.

And so what now is left for you, my poor pitiable Constance? My precious fallen angel? Handmaiden to fratricide, consort to your sister’s murderer? The very air you breathe you owe to her, and to Antoine’s other victims. Do you deserve to continue this perverse existence? And who will mourn your passing? My brother, surely not: you would be a guilty burden to him no more. Wren? Proctor? How risible.
I
shall not mourn you: you were a toy; a mystery easily solved; a dull box forced and found empty; an animal spasm. So let me give you a piece of advice, and please believe this to be the one honest, altruistic thing I have ever told you.

Do the noble thing. End your unnatural life.

Ever your

Diogenes

P.S. I was surprised to see how juvenile your earlier attempt at suicide was. Surely, you now know not to slash willy-nilly across your wrists; the knife is arrested by the tendons. For a more satisfactory result, cut lengthwise, between the tendons: just one cut: slow, forceful, and above all,
deep
. As for my own scar: isn’t it remarkable what one can do with a bit of greasepaint and wax?

A long, unfathomable moment passed.

Then, Constance turned her attention to the small present. She picked it up and unwrapped it, slowly, gingerly, as one might a bomb. Inside was a hinged box of beautifully polished rosewood.