The Book of the Dead by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child Read Free Book Online Page B

McCorkle interrupted, “that the tomb entrance was against that wall.” Dropping his bag on the floor, he pulled the plastic sheeting away from the shelves covering the far wall, exposing pots, bowls, and baskets, all filled with black shriveled objects.
    “What’s that inside?” Nora asked.
    Wicherly went over to examine the objects. After a silence, he straightened up. “Preserved food. For the afterlife. Bread, antelope joints, fruits and vegetables, dates—preserved for the pharaoh’s journey to the afterworld.”
    They heard a growing rumble coming through the walls, followed by a muffled squeal of metal, then silence.
    “The Central Park West subway,” McCorkle explained. “The 81st Street station is very close.”
    “We’ll have to find some way to dampen that sound,” Menzies said. “It destroys the mood.”
    McCorkle grunted. Then he removed an electronic device from the bag and aimed it at the newly exposed wall, turned, aimed again. Then he pulled out a piece of chalk, made a mark on the wall. Taking a second device from his shirt pocket, he laid it against the wall and slid it across slowly, taking readings as he went.
    Then he stepped back. “Bingo. Help me move these shelves.”
    They began shifting the objects to shelves on the other walls. When the wall was at last bare, McCorkle pulled the shelf supports from the crumbling plaster with a set of pliers and put them to one side.
    “Ready for the moment of truth?” McCorkle asked, a gleam in his eye, good humor returning.
    “Absolutely,” said Wicherly.
    McCorkle removed a long spike and hammer from his bag, positioned the spike on the wall, gave it a sharp blow, then another. The sounds echoed in the confined space and plaster began falling in sheets, exposing courses of brick. He continued to drive the spike in, dust rising… and then suddenly the spike slid in to the hilt. McCorkle rotated it, giving it a few side blows with the hammer, loosening the brick. A few more deft blows knocked free a large chunk of brickwork, leaving a black rectangle. He stepped back.
    As he did so, Wicherly darted forward. “Forgive me if I claim explorer’s privilege.” He turned back with his most charming smile. “Any objections?”
    “Be our guest,” said Menzies. McCorkle frowned but said nothing.
    Wicherly took his flashlight and shined it into the hole, pressing his face to the gap. A long silence ensued, interrupted by the rumble of another subway train.
    “What do you see?” asked Menzies at last.
    “Strange animals, statues, and gold—everywhere the glint of gold.”
    “What in heck?” said McCorkle.
    Wicherly glanced back at him. “I was being facetious—quoting what Howard Carter said when he first peered into King Tut’s tomb.”
    McCorkle’s lips tightened. “If you’ll step aside, please, I’ll have this open in a moment.”
    McCorkle stepped back up to the gap, and with a series of expertly aimed blows of the spike, loosened several rows of bricks. In less than ten minutes, he had opened a hole big enough to step through. He disappeared inside, came back out a moment later.
    “The electricity isn’t working, as I suspected. We’ll have to use our flashlights. I’m required to lead the way,” he said with a glance at Wicherly. “Museum regulations. Might be hazards in there.”
    “The mummy from the Black Lagoon, perhaps,” said Wicherly with a laugh and a glance at Nora.
    They stepped carefully inside, then stopped to reconnoiter. In the glow of their flashlight beams, a great stone threshold was visible, and beyond, a descending staircase carved out of rough limestone blocks.
    McCorkle moved toward the first step, hesitated, then gave a slightly nervous chuckle. “Ready, ladies and gents?”

9

    C aptain of homicide Laura Hayward stood silently in her office, looking at the untidy forest that seemed to sprout from her desk, from every chair, and to spill over to the floor—chaotic heaps of papers, photographs,