“Are things all right with the situation out back?” Klein said.
Froehlich looked past him, making sure the others were out of earshot. “You mean with Gilbert’s body?”
“Shh!” said Klein.
Froehlich flinched. “Don’t worry. The truck came last night and took everything away.”
Klein took a deep, relieved breath. “Good man. With all this mummy nonsense, a dead body is the last thing we need.”
“But what if someone finds out about the borrowed mummies? The fake artifacts?”
Klein waved to Baxter and Rockford. “No one cares about anything except Harkhuf,” he said. “They’re not even looking at anything else.”
“If you say so. Anyway, the Gilbert situation is all squared away.”
“I knew I could count on you. And don’t worry about that detective or the police. I’ve got your back.”
“Yeah, but Ms. Baxter wants my neck,” Froehlich said.
“Yes. Too bad she couldn’t take a header into the trash,” Klein said
Froehlich stared after the other two. “Accidents do happen,” he said, picturing a delightful scene in which Baxter was sinking below layers of crates and cardboard boxes. “Just one little push . . .”
Klein cocked an ear. “Sorry. I didn’t hear that last part.”
“Nothing,” said Froehlich, almost, but not quite, dismissing the idea. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
Klein shook Froehlich’s hand. “Don’t worry. This will all blow over soon. Oh, by the way, that drink truck you suggested is coming by today.”
Froehlich raised his eyebrows. “Why? We’re closed. There’s nothing to sponsor anymore.”
“Too late to stop it, I suppose. Deal with it when it gets here, will you?”
“Of course.”
Klein clapped him on the back. “All right. Chin up. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Thanks.”
The moment Klein and the others disappeared around a corner, Froehlich headed out the back to the loading dock.
Outside, he made a quick circuit of the area to make sure no one was there. Seeing that it was all clear, Froehlich ducked behind some crates left by the exhibit load-in crew. Alone, he took out the miniflask he kept in his inside jacket pocket and unscrewed the top. The antiseptic perfume of vodka greeted him like an old friend. He took a quick pull off the flask and thought about Baxter. What would it take to lure her back here? And how could he do it without anybody knowing it was him? It was a puzzle, but maybe one worth solving. He put the cap back on the flask and slipped it into his pocket.
Froehlich took out a piece of xylitol gum and chewed it vigorously, trying to get the scent of vodka off his breath. Sighing, he leaned against the dock wall. However, instead of feeling brick on his back, he hit something that was softer and more brittle. Like sticks or balsa wood. It cracked under his weight.
“Shit.”
Sure he’d broken a no-doubt-important crate, he turned around to inspect the damage.
It wasn’t a crate he’d crushed. It was a mummy.
Froehlich stared at it for a minute, wanting to make sure that he wasn’t hallucinating something out of wishful thinking or panic. He reached out a hand and touched the dead man’s wrappings.
Nope. Those are real.
He stepped back for a better look. A giddy little thrill danced in his gut.
I found Harkhuf. I solved the case. I’m a goddamned hero.
Then the eternal flicker of despair at his core did what it always did at happy moments like this. It roared up and barbecued his hopes and dreams like a careless marshmallow at a cookout.
He looked again. The mummy wasn’t Harkhuf.
Is an extra mummy better or worse than finding the right one? If I found Harkhuf, that creep Rockford will think I him stole him, then chickened out and brought him back. But if this one isn’t Harkhuf, it means there’s an extra mummy, which is bad because it means someone was screwing around with mummies before the robbery while I was still in charge.
Froehlich took a drink to settle his nerves. Not that it helped. His heart pounded against his ribs like it was trying to start a fight with them. He took a few deep breaths and went over the situation in his head a few times before making a decision.
He checked the dock again. When he found it empty he sidled up to the mystery mummy, grabbed it, and ran to the Dumpster. It arced beautifully through the air. The moment the mummy left his hand he had an even better, if ill-timed, idea. Clambering clumsily down into the Dumpster, Froehlich piled papers and crushed boxes on top of his inconvenient discovery. Just before the damned thing disappeared from sight, he broke off one of the mummy’s index fingers and put it in his pocket. Climbing back onto the dock, he shoved another piece of gum into his mouth. He was sweating badly from both fear and exertion.
If anyone asks, I was in the back looking for the truck Klein told me about.
Froehlich wiped away the sweat from his face with his jacket sleeves, which left damp streaks down his arms. After patting the dirt off his clothes, he went back into the museum. He paused by the door, hoping he looked relatively normal and not like someone who’d been busy burying a three-thousand-year-old pain in the ass.
Rockford appeared to be gone and no one else was interested in what a disgraced museum flunky was up to. He took the elevator up to the top floor and wandered the exhibit halls alone, pretending to do his rounds. Instead, Froehlich’s mind raced in the special way that only the mind of a man full of vodka and dread can. It would have been perfect if it had been Baxter he’d tossed into the Dumpster, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help her halfway in.
Froehlich hurried down a floor, into the restricted area of the building, where employees ate lunch and some of the board members kept small offices. He went straight to Baxter’s and knocked lightly on the door. There wasn’t an answer. He turned the knob and the door opened. The office was empty. Stepping quickly inside, he closed the door behind him.
From his pocket, Froehlich pulled out the mummy’s finger. Crushing it in his hand, he left mummy dust on the edge of Baxter’s desk and the carpet beneath. When he was done, Froehlich dropped the finger into her wastebasket.
Let’s see what the cleaning crew makes of that when it falls out. Rockford will forget all about me and go straight for her.
Froehlich made it out of Baxter’s office just as his walkie-talkie crackled. It was one of the new security men. Carlson? The one whose neck bulged like a boa constrictor that had just swallowed a sheep.
“Froehlich, get your ass down here.”
“What is it?”
“There’s a truck out back. The driver said he’s supposed to talk to you.”
The sponsor’s truck. One more piece of bullshit to deal with . . .
“I’ll be right down.”
“Make it fast. I have better things to do than babysit your asshole buddies.”
“He’s not my buddy,” said Froehlich. “And you can’t talk to me like that. I’m head of security.”
Carlson laughed. “And I’m the security your boss hired to watch you and your Teletubbies. Now move your ass.”
“Listen to me, pal . . .” said Froehlich, but Carlson was gone.
He took the elevator downstairs and hurried to the dock. The mummy exhibit sponsor’s garish logo, all tentacles and lighting bolts, covered the whole side of the truck. KRAKEN ZAP, it said. As he signed to accept the now useless sport-drink banners and display cases, Froehlich took a discreet look at the Dumpster. Someone had piled more garbage inside, burying the superfluous mummy even deeper. He happily handed the forms back to the driver. As the Kraken Zap crew loaded drinks and T-shirts onto handcarts, for the first time all day, Froehlich felt vaguely human.
He wandered calmly back and forth between the museum’s interior and the loading dock, making sure he was seen by as many people as possible while being as boring as he could be. Nope. Nothing to see here, he thought. He was just a lowl
y museum drone carrying out his dull duties and not at all the kind of person who would wish a board member dead or plant damning evidence in her office.
A half hour later, he gave the truck a jaunty wave as it pulled away from the loading dock. On his way back inside, Froehlich spotted a can of Kraken Zap that had fallen from one of the carts. He took it behind a pile of crates and opened it up. It wasn’t so bad after all, he thought, especially when he fortified it with a little vodka.
Back inside the museum, Froehlich made a big deal out of piling up the cardboard displays and cases of Kraken Zap in a corner of the lobby.
Carlson came over to watch him. He picked up a T-shirt.
“I’ve had this stuff. It’s swill,” he said. He unfolded a T-shirt at least six sizes too small for him. “Who’s Ozzy?” he said.
“Harkhuf, the metal mummy. It was my idea. What do you think?” said Froehlich.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Carlson said.
“Not at all.”
The security behemoth wadded up the T-shirt and tossed it with the rest of the Kraken Zap display. “You are the biggest loser I ever met.”
Froehlich did an exaggerated sigh. “You might be right.”
Carlson went over to some of a cluster of other security men. He pointed at Froehlich as he refolded the T-shirt. The giants laughed at him.
Normally, a moment like this would crush Froehlich’s already minuscule spirit, leaving him bitter and broken for the rest of the day. Instead, he hummed as he worked. The more people who saw him working the better. Everything was working out great.
“Come to me,” said someone behind him.
Froehlich turned around, but there was no one there. He went back to work, but soon the voice came back.
“Weak and soulless one, obey me.”
He spun around this time. The lobby was full of busy people going back and forth, but there wasn’t anyone near him. No one was paying him the slightest bit of attention.
Froehlich set down a last case of drinks on top of a stack he’d made in the corner. When he was done, he went back into the mummy exhibit. Sometimes things echoed weirdly off the museum’s marble walls.
“Hello?” he said.
Nothing. But just as he was walking away, Froehlich heard something. This time the voice seemed to be coming from inside his head.
“Worthless mortal cur.”
He turned in a slow circle. “Who is that? Ms. Baxter?”
The voice seemed to be coming from the far corner of the room, by one of the sideshow mummies.
“Wretched dog.”
When Froehlich got closer, his mouth fell open. It wasn’t a cheap, flea-bitten stiff in the corner. It was Harkhuf.
“Hello? Who’s there?” Froehlich said to the room.
“Come closer,” said the voice.
He went right up to Harkhuf and stared into his empty eye sockets. They suddenly seemed like the most interesting things in the world.
The voice said, “Be my thrall.”
Without thinking, Froehlich took out his flask and drained it. Still mesmerized, he stared at the mummy. It felt like it staring back at him.
“Your will is mine. Your body is mine,” said the voice.
Froehlich’s eyes fluttered shut. He felt great. Better than he’d felt in years. It was like being drunk, but even better.
“Be my thrall.”
A goofy smile spread across Froehlich’s face.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and saw Klein.
“Are you all right?” said Klein. “I was calling you.”
“Sorry, but doesn’t that mummy look like—”
“Never mind. Come along. I need you.”
Klein started away. Froehlich glanced back over his shoulder at Harkhuf. He could swear that the mummy winked at him. He winked back.
“Are you coming?” said Klein.
Froehlich’s goofy smile widened. “I live to serve.”
“What an odd thing to say.”
Froehlich’s consciousness snapped back into sharp focus. “Sorry. My mind wandered.”
“Hurry along. There are things to do.”
“Yes,” Froehlich said. “There’s so much to do.”
16
“Shouldn’t we all have cop uniforms?” said Morty.
“You’re wearing your uniforms,” said Coop.
“Yeah, but what if we get stopped? You look fine, but the rest of us aren’t exactly in standard cop issue.”
“If we get stopped, you’re my prisoners.”
“You think that will work?”
“I can always handcuff you.”
“Yay. I volunteer to be handcuffed,” said Giselle.
Morty looked from her to Coop.
“Coop, you dirty old man,” said Phil Spectre inside everybody’s head.
“Everyone pipe down. If we get stopped, I’ll just hit them with some of the amnesia gas.”
Giselle crawled up to the front of the van. “So, no cuffs?” she said in mock disappointment.
“Later, dear.”
She flopped down between the seats. “Promises, promises.”
The break-in team prowled through the city at four A.M. in a police van courtesy of the DOPS. Not that it was a real LAPD vehicle. It was Coop’s understanding that the DOPS had 3-D printed it. It was also his understanding that they could also print human organs, five-lens spider-friendly glasses, robot parts, and—for office picnics—geometrically perfect s’mores.
“These giant shoes are killing me,” whined Morty. He took off his round red nose, sneezed, and put it back on.
“You think I’m happy dressed like T. J. Hooker?” said Coop.
“Yeah, Coop. You look like you’re about ten seconds away from tossing yourself in the pokey,” said Phil.
“Shut up, Phil,” said Morty. “You and Coop are the only ones not dressed like Bozo’s hillbilly cousins. I hate wearing makeup.”
“You look fine, Morty. You could have a second career making balloon animals at kid parties,” said Giselle.
Morty looked back at Dr. Lupinsky. “I bet you’re happy you don’t have a regular body tonight.”
Wait a minute.
Dr. Lupinsky’s cat walked offscreen and came back wearing what looked like a pointy party hat.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Morty said.
“Looking at you idiots is making me feel great,” said Phil.
“What should make you feel better is messing with cops so they have to write the worst robbery reports in history,” said Coop.
“All I’m saying is we should have been ninjas.”
“Ninjas don’t give people nightmares. Clowns do.”
Morty considered it. “I guess that makes sense. But next time you come up with a plan like this, you get back here in the floppy shoes and I’ll drive.”
There was a flash from the back of the van.
“What was that?” said Coop.
“Nothing,” said Giselle.
“Did you just take a selfie?”
“Of course not.”
“Fibber,” said Phil.
Coop shook his head. “I can’t take you people anywhere.”
“But I’m adorable like this,” said Giselle. “I just wanted to commemorate the moment.”
Coop just shook his head and steered the van into a parking lot.
“No more class pictures or complaining,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
They drove around the very edge of the museum’s lot until they were behind the building. Coop stopped the van in a regular parking spot under one of the still-broken streetlights.
He turned around in his seat. “Everyone suited up? Wigs on? Noses in place?”
“This is humiliating,” said Morty.
“At least you’re not stealing office supplies,” said Phil.
“Yeah,” said Morty, brightening a bit. “You need to tell me about that sometime.”
“When we’re in
the old-folks home,” said Coop. He looked to the back of the van. “How are you doing, doc? Got your new batteries?”
I’m feeling fine. A little nervous.
“We’re all nervous,” said Giselle. “You’re going to do great.”
Thank you.
“Stick with me, Optimus Prime,” said Phil. “I won’t let you pop a rivet.”
Speaking as a fellow spirit, you’re very optimistic. How exactly did you die?
“Yeah, Phil. You’ve never talked about that. What’s your story?” said Giselle.
“I was rescuing a damsel in distress when a dragon got me,” he said.
“Or you got shot by a trumpet player in Sonny Brisco’s big band when he caught you climbing out of his girlfriend’s window,” said Coop.
“It’s true. I died for love.”
“And the trumpet player’s gold cuff links.”
“Just how old are you, Phil?” said Morty.
“Well . . .” said Phil.
“The way I heard it, at least one of you was wearing spats,” said Coop.
“Wow. You’re like ancient,” said Morty.
“At least I don’t look like I escaped from Captain Kangaroo’s basement,” Phil sputtered.
“Down, boys. Let’s get to work,” said Giselle.
“She’s right,” said Coop. “Here’s how it’s going to go. The doc and I’ll get things set up at the museum. When he lowers the line, you run like hell over to us. And don’t forget the gear.”
Everyone nodded in jittery agreement. Giselle honked her bicycle horn. Coop gave her a long stare, then lowered the ramp on the back of the van. He and Dr. Lupinsky bolted across the parking lot to an unlit area of the museum wall.
“You ready for this, doc?”
Dr. Lupinsky’s cat paced, its tail twitching nervously.
What if I fall?
“My advice is don’t.”
That’s good advice. Here I go.
Dr. Lupinsky put one of his tentacle-like legs against the wall, then another. When he had three legs on the stone, he gingerly lifted himself off the ground and curled the rest of his legs onto the wall. Once secure, he tiptoed up the side of the building like an ambivalent spider. A few minutes later, he disappeared over the lip of the roof.
“This isn’t terrifying at all,” said Phil.