Douglas Preston - The Book of the Dead

TheBook of the Dead (2006)

BY

DOUGLASPRESTON AND LINCOLN CHILD

(Book 3 of thePendergast Trilogy)

Lincoln Child dedicates this book to his mother, Nancy Child

Douglas Preston dedicates this book to Anna Marguerite McCannTaggart

We would like to thank the following people at Warner Books:Jaime Levine, Jamie Raab, Beth de Guzman, Jennifer Romanello, MaureenEgen, and Devi Pillai. Thanks also to Larry Kirshbaum for being abeliever in us almost from day one. We want to thank our agents, EricSimonoff of Janklow & Nesbit Associates and Matthew Snyder ofthe Creative Artists Agency. A bouquet of hothouse orchids to EadieKlemm for keeping us all neat and dusted off. Count NiccolCapponi of Florence, Italy, suggested (brilliantly) our use of theCarducci poem. And, as always, we want to thank our wives and childrenfor their love and support.

Early-morning sunlight gilded the cobbled drive of the staffentrance at the New York Museum of Natural History, illuminating aglass pillbox just outside the granite archway. Within the pillbox, afigure sat slumped in his chair: an elderly man, familiar to all museumstaff. He puffed contentedly on a calabash pipe and basked in thewarmth of one of those false-spring days that occur in New York City inFebruary, the kind that coaxes daffodils, crocuses, and fruit treesinto premature bloom, only to freeze them dead later in the month.

Morning, doctor, Curly said again andagain to any and all passersby, whether mailroom clerk or dean ofscience. Curators might rise and fall, directors might ascend throughthe ranks, reign in glory, then plummet to ignominious ruin; man mighttill the field and then lie beneath; but it seemed Curly would never beshifted from his pillbox. He was as much a fixture in the museum as theultrasaurus that greeted visitors in the museums GreatRotunda.

Here, pops!

Frowning at this familiarity, Curly roused himself in time tosee a messenger shove a package through the window of his pillbox. Thepackage had sufficient momentum to land on the little shelf where theguard kept his tobacco and mittens.

Excuse me! Curly said, rousing himselfand waving out the window. Hey! But the messengerwas already speeding away on his fat-tire mountain bike, black rucksackbulging with packages.

Goodness, Curly muttered, staring at thepackage. It was about twelve inches by eight by eight, wrapped ingreasy brown paper, and tied up with an excessive amount ofold-fashioned twine. It was so beaten-up Curly wondered if themessenger had been run over by a truck on the way over. The address waswritten in a childish hand: For the rocks and minerals curator, TheMuseum of Natural History.

Curly broke up the dottle in the bottom of his pipe whilegazing thoughtfully at the package. The museum received hundreds ofpackages every week from children, containingdonations for the collection. Such donationsincluded everything from squashed bugs and worthless rocks toarrowheads and mummified roadkill. He sighed, then rose painfully fromthe comfort of his chair and tucked the package under his arm. He putthe pipe to one side, slid open the door of his pillbox, and steppedinto the sunlight, blinking twice. Then he turned in the direction ofthe mailroom receiving dock, which was only a few hundred feet acrossthe service drive.

What have you got there, Mr. Tuttle?came a voice.

Curly glanced toward the voice. It was Digby Greenlaw, the newassistant director for administration, who was just exiting the tunnelfrom the staff parking lot.

Curly did not answer immediately. He didnt likeGreenlaw and his condescending Mr. Tuttle. A few weeks earlier,Greenlaw had taken exception to the way Curly checked IDs, complainingthat he wasnt really looking at them.Heck, Curly didnt have to look at themhe knewevery employee of the museum on sight.

Package, he grunted in reply.

Greenlaws voice took on an officious tone.Packages are supposed to be delivered directly to themailroom. And youre not supposed to leave yourstation.

Curly kept walking. He had reached an age where he found thebest way to deal with unpleasantness was to pretend it didntexist.

He could hear the footsteps of the administrator quickenbehind him, the voice rising a few notches on the assumption he washard of hearing. Mr. Tuttle? I said you should not leaveyour station unattended.

Curly stopped, turned. Thank you for offering,doctor. He held out the package.

Greenlaw stared it at, squinting. Ididnt say I would deliver it.

Curly remained in place, proffering the package.

Oh, for heavens sake.Greenlaw reached irritably for the package, but his hand falteredmidway. Its a funny-looking thing. What isit?

Dunno, doctor. Came by messenger.

It seems to have been mishandled.

Curly shrugged.

But Greenlaw still didnt take the package. Heleaned toward it, squinting. Its torn.Theres a hole Look, theres somethingcoming out.

Curly looked down. The corner of the package did indeed have ahole, and a thin stream of brown powder was trickling out.

What in the world? Curly said.

Greenlaw took a step back. Its leakingsome kind of powder. His voice rode up a notch.Oh my Lord. What is it?

Curly stood rooted to the spot.

Good God, Curly, drop it! Itsanthrax!

Greenlaw stumbled backward, his face contorted in panic.Its a terrorist attacksomeone call thepolice! Ive been exposed! Oh my God, Ive beenexposed!

The administrator stumbled and fell backward on thecobblestones, clawing the ground and springing to his feet, and then hewas off and running. Almost immediately, two guards came spilling outof the guard station across the way, one intercepting Greenlaw whilethe other made for Curly.

What are you doing? Greenlaw shrieked.Keep back! Call 911!

Curly remained where he was, package in hand. This wassomething so far outside his experience that his mind seemed to havestopped working.

The guards fell back, Greenlaw at their heels. For a moment,the small courtyard was strangely quiet. Then a shrill alarm went off,deafening in the enclosed space. In less than five minutes, the air wasfilled with the sound of approaching sirens, culminating in an uproarof activity: police cars, flashing lights, crackling radios, anduniformed men rushing this way and that stringing up yellow biohazardtape and erecting a cordon, megaphones shouting at the growing crowdsto back off, while at the same time telling Curly to drop the packageand step away, drop the package and step away.

But Curly didnt drop the package and step away. Heremained frozen in utter confusion, staring at the thin brown streamthat continued to trickle out of the tear in the package, forming asmall pile on the cobbles at his feet.

And now two strange-looking men wearing puffy white suits andhoods with plastic visors were approaching, walking slowly, handsoutstretched like something Curly had seen in an old science fictionmovie. One gently took Curly by the shoulders while the other slippedthe package from his fingers andwith infinitecareplaced it in a blue plastic box. The first man led himto one side and began carefully vacuuming him up and down with afunny-looking device, and then they began dressing him, too, in one ofthe strange plastic suits, all the time telling him in low electronicvoices that he was going to be all right, that they were taking him tothe hospital for a few tests, that everything would be fine. As theyplaced the hood over his head, Curly began to feel his mind coming backto life, his body able to move again.

Scuse me, doctor? he said to one of themen as they led him off toward a van that had backed through the policecordon and was waiting for him, doors open.

Yes?

My pipe. He nodded toward the pillbox.Dont forget to bring my pipe.