3 Blood Lines (16 page)

“Is Dr. Shane expecting you?”

“Not at this precise moment, no.”

“I’ll have to call up.”

“Oh, yes, of course.”

A moment later she was in the elevator, a small pink badge pinned to her trench coat with
Celluci
and the number forty-two written on it. To her surprise, an attractive dark-haired woman met the elevator on the fifth floor.

“Mike. Is it . . .” she began, stepping forward as the doors opened. Then she stopped, flushed, and stepped back as Vicki moved out into the hall. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Detective-Sergeant Celluci?” Vicki guessed. She had a pretty good idea of who this must be from Celluci’s description, but she wondered just how much, exactly, the detective in question
hadn’t
told her about the good doctor. Why would she be coming to meet him at the elevator?

“That’s right, but . . .”

“You must be Dr. Shane.”

“Yes. However . . .” Then she managed to read the name on the badge and her cheeks darkened. “You’re not his wife are you?”

Vicki felt herself flush in turn. “Not hardly.” Dr. Shane looked relieved but still embarrassed and again Vicki found herself wondering what Mike hadn’t told her. And whether she really wanted to know. “I’m his cousin,” she continued. “He thought he left some papers here and, as I just work around the comer on Bloor Street, he asked me to come by.”

“Papers? Oh.” Dr. Shane turned and started down the hall. “Well, if he left them, the departmental secretary Ms. Gilbert will know. I don’t think she’s left for the day.”

As they walked down the hall, Vicki noted doorways, locks, lines of sight, and Dr. Rachel Shane. Celluci could, of course, eat lunch with anyone he chose—their relationship had always been nonexclusive—but Vicki had to admit to being curious. He’d been so completely neutral when talking about the assistant curator that she’d known right away he was interested. Celluci wasn’t that neutral about anything. Cursory observation showed Rachel Shane to be above average in height, attractive, self-assured, pleasant, polite . . .
And obviously intelligent or she couldn’t do her job. Christ, the perfect woman of the 90s. What do you want to bet she cooks, composts, and reads nonfiction?
A muscle jumped in her jaw and, surprised, Vicki unclenched her teeth.

“So why didn’t Detective Celluci come himself?”

“I don’t know.” Dr. Shane’s question had been asked in a tone as aggressively noncommittal as any Vicki had ever heard.
That must’ve been some lunch
, Celluci.

There were, of course, no papers to find, although Ms. Gilbert, tying a plastic rain hat over permed hair, promised to keep an eye out.

“Thanks for looking.” As the older woman hurried out of the office, Vicki glanced down at her watch. Time for her to be leaving as well. This next bit had to be tightly choreographed. She held out her hand. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me, Dr. Shane.”

“I’m just sorry we couldn’t find the detective’s papers.”

She had a firm handshake and a dry palm. Another two points in her favor. “Time he started remembering where he leaves things anyway. But if they do turn up, will you call him?”

“Yes, of course I will.”

I’ll bet.
All of a sudden it was an effort to sound pleasant. “Did he give you his home number?”

“Yes, he did.”

And just what does that Mona Lisa smile mean?
“Well, thanks again. I’ll find my own way back to the elevator. I mean, it’s a straight length of hall, I can hardly get lost.”

Back on the first floor, a steady stream of staff members moved through the security area, leaving for the day. Vicki, with one eye on the clock, made sure the guard noticed her sign out and return her badge. Shift change would be in two minutes.

“Oh, blast, I left my umbrella upstairs.” She shot a panicked look at the outer doors where sheets of rain were slapping against the glass, then turned to the guard. “Mind if I run up and get it?”

“Nah, go ahead.” He shot a disgusted look of his own at the rain.

The best lie isn’t a lie at all,
Vicki mused retrieving her umbrella from behind one of the temple dogs at the door to the Far East Department. She hurried down the hall to a small supply cupboard, just past the photocopy machine. The door had been open earlier and it had seemed like the perfect hiding place. Unfortunately, the door was now locked and she’d be in plain sight of anyone approaching from either direction while she worked on it.

“Damn.”

The open orange doors had to belong to the workroom; Vicki could hear Dr. Shane discussing the restoration of a mural. The double yellow doors across from them were ajar. Vicki slipped inside as the voices from the workroom grew louder.

“. . . so we’ll take another look at that plaster patch tomorrow.”

They were in the hall now.

Vicki turned. Obviously, she was in the storeroom; the black stone sarcophagus Celluci had mentioned sat barely an arm’s length away. Just as obviously, someone would be arriving momentarily to turn off the lights and lock the door. After a quick glance at the lock—being trapped inside was low on her list of useful ways to spend the night—Vicki scanned the room for a hiding place. Unfortunately, the sheer volume of stuff made quiet movement impossible and the sarcophagus stood so close to the door that hiding behind it would be useless.

But in it?

She scrambled inside seconds before the storeroom door opened.

“Did you hear something, Ray?”

“Not a thing, Dr. Shane.”

“Must’ve been my imagination . . .”

She didn’t sound convinced and Vicki held her breath. A moment later, there was a soft click and the lights went out, then the door closed and Vicki heard keys in the lock.

The interior of the sarcophagus was actually quite roomy, having been built to hold a full-sized coffin, but Vicki had no intention of remaining inside. She crawled out and set both bag and umbrella on the top of the stone box. As far as the new guard knew, she’d signed out and was gone. The odds were slim to none that the old guard had told him she’d gone back inside. If the mummy was messing with people’s heads—and as no one remembered it, it certainly looked like it was—there was nothing in anyone’s head to incriminate her.

She was actually quite proud of the way she’d gotten past security. With the paranoia caused by two deaths, plain old sneaking in would have been impossible. That what she had done—and was doing—was illegal, bothered her a little, but as she wasn’t going to hurt anything, or even disturb anything, her conscience would just have to roll with the punches. Actually, it had gotten pretty good at that since meeting Henry.

She fished her flashlight out of her bag by touch and checked her watch. Sunset would be in fifteen minutes. She’d give Henry half an hour to clear his head and get over to the museum, then she’d start working on the lock.

“Meanwhile,” she turned the tight beam on the sarcophagus, “let’s see what I can find out here.”

 

Henry stood for a moment watching Vicki work. Although emergency lights put the hall in twilight rather than true darkness, he knew that for Vicki they were one and the same. She could no more see the lock, inches in front of her face, than she could see him, yet her touch was sure as she probed at the mechanism. Silently, he moved a little closer and smiled as he realized her eyes were tightly shut.

“Well done,” he said softly as, with a sound only he could hear, the lock disengaged.

Heart pounding, Vicki fought the urge to leap to her feet and spin around. “Thank you very much, Henry,” she muttered, aware that no matter how low her voice he could pick it up, “you’ve just cost me a good six years of my life and almost made me shit my drawers.” Running her hand lightly up the door so as not to become disoriented, she stood. “Now, if we could get out of the hall before someone comes along . . .”

He reached past her, turned the knob, and pulled one of the double doors partway open. Before he had a chance to act as guide, Vicki slipped through the narrow space and into the room beyond. Puzzled, he followed, pulling the door shut behind him. “Can you see?” he asked.

“Not a damn thing.” Although still bitter about her night blindness, a certain amount of pride colored her voice. “But I could feel the difference in the air where the door wasn’t. Now then, be useful and find the lights. The doors fit tightly enough, there’ll be no spill into the hall. Or not much anyway,” she amended as the multiple banks of fluorescents came on. Eyes streaming from the sudden glare, she turned to face Henry and found him slipping on a pair of dark glasses.

She grinned. “You look like a spy.” The black leather trench coat and sunglasses made an exotic contrast with the red-gold hair and pale skin.

His brows rose. “Isn’t that what we’re doing? Spying?”

“Not really. If we get caught, it’s breaking and entering.”

Henry sighed. “Wonderful. Vicki, why are we here? All the evidence has certainly been cleared away.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I wanted to get a look at the scene of the crime.” Taking one final swipe at her eyes, Vicki glanced around the workroom. It had to be at least fifty feet square, perhaps larger; the high beige walls tended to draw the eye up. Rows of chest-high wooden cabinets covered half the room and floor-to-ceiling metal shelves—filled with stone, and pottery, and sculpture—the other half. They stood in an area obviously used for paperwork beside a buried desk and a number of laden bookshelfs. To their left, a camera stood on a tripod before a neutral background and to their right a small kitchenette—fridge, counter, cupboards, and sink—ran along one wall. A lime green door just at the end of the counter led to the darkroom. Two padded sawhorses stood between the desk and the cabinets in the only open space of any size. Resting on them was the coffin, its lid on the closest cabinet. “Besides, I wanted you to take a look at that.”

Henry sighed again. He was willing to help, but he honestly didn’t see how this . . . excursion . . . was going to do any good. “Are you sure that’s the right coffin?”

Vicki’s mouth twisted as she studied the artifact. Even without Celluci’s description, she would have recognized it. The hair on the back of her neck rose and although she shrugged the feeling away, she was beginning to see why Celluci had been so willing to believe in his mummy. “I’m sure.”

Hands shoved deep in his pockets, Henry walked over to the coffin. His dark lenses somehow gave it an unreal appearance and painted the snakes covering it the color of blood. Very ominous—but he had no idea what he was supposed to be looking for. His nose twitched at the still overpowering smell of cedar, then he frowned and lowered his head toward the cavity. So faintly that only one of his kind could pick it up, he caught the scent of a life.

Eyes closed, he breathed in the signature of centuries. Not merely flesh and blood but terror, pain, and despair . . .

Not stone above him, but rough wood embracing him so closely that the rise and fall of his chest brushed against the boards. All around the smell of earth. Screaming until his throat was raw, he twisted and thrashed through the little movement he had
. . .

His eyes snapped open and Henry jerked back, away from the coffin, away from the memory of his own burial, trembling fingers sketching the sign of the cross. He turned to find Vicki watching him, her expression saying clearly that his reaction had been observed.

“Well?” she asked.

“Something spent a long time trapped in there.”

“Something human?”

He shrugged, more affected by the experience than he wanted to admit. “It was when they closed the lid. If it was aware for all those years, only God knows what it is now.”

Vicki nodded thoughtfully and Henry realized that his reaction had not only been observed but anticipated. “That was why you wanted me here.” He’d told her of his burial the night he’d told her of his creation.

She nodded again, not noticing his rising anger. “You keep going on about how your senses are more acute, so I figured if there’d been something, someone, in there for three thousand years you’d be able to tell.”

“You used me.”

Vicki’s jaw dropped at the fury in his voice and she took an involuntary step back. “What are you talking about?” She forced the words past a sudden throat tightening rush of fear. “I just assumed you’d be able to sense . . .” Then she remembered.

She wet her lips and in spite of every instinct that told her to run as he advanced, she held her ground. “Henry, I didn’t even think about you being buried. I didn’t want an emotional reaction, just a physical one. Jesus Christ, Henry!” She brought her hands up and laid them flat against his chest, beginning to grow angry herself. “I wouldn’t mess with my worst enemy’s mind that way, let alone a friend’s!”

The words penetrated through the red haze and he found he had to believe her. He was left shaken, aghast at how close he had come to loosing the beast. “Vicki . . . I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” His cheek felt smooth and cool under her palm. He looked as though he’d frightened himself as much as he had frightened her. “We’ve all got triggers that cause us to act without thinking.”

“And what are yours?” he asked, firmly jamming a civilized mask and a patina of control back into place.

“We haven’t got time to go into
that
right now,” Vicki snorted. “People’ll be coming back in about twelve hours.” She jerked her head toward the door, remembering the strain he was under lately, willing to forget the whole incident and go on. “We’d better go check out the offices. This place has told us everything it can.”