The Third Gate (26 page)

“I just want a little fun,” he said as Whistler reached again into the gilded box. “I mean, stuck out in the ass end of nowhere for three weeks—I’m going crazy here.”

“Take a walk out in the swamp. Then come back and count the mosquito bites. That’ll give you something to do.” Whistler shook his head. “Last tomb I worked on was a Neolithic sand pit burial. Compared to that, this is heaven.”

“You know what? You need to get out more.”

“Maybe.” Whistler pulled another object from the box, examined it. “Item A three fifty-one. Tablet. Polished limestone.”

“Not another one,” Carmody groaned. “Somebody shoot me. Just shoot me, please, and get it over with.”

Out on the metal grating, the guard’s radio crackled into life. “Maw Base to Eppers, come in.”

The guard raised the radio to his lips. “Eppers here.”

“Sensors are picking up a pressure spike in the Umbilicus, at waypoint nineteen. We’d like you to climb up and do a visual before we send a repair team down.”

“Copy that.” The guard snugged his radio into his belt, then turned toward the metal rungs and climbed out of sight.

Carmody watched him disappear. Then he looked around the chamber. As he’d already pointed out, it had been cleared of most of the easily transportable items. Beyond the gilt box and a scattering of grave goods, only the furniture and the huge guardian statue, covered by a tarp, remained.

His eye settled on one of the chairs: intricately carved, decorated with gold filigree. “Watch this,” he said. He walked over to the chair and sat down in it with an air of mock gravity.

Whistler looked at him with a mixture of surprise and horror. “What the hell are you doing? Get out of there! It hasn’t been fully curated—you could damage it!”

“No way. This stuff is solid as a rock.” He folded his hands over his chest. “King Narmer speaking. Bring me the virgin du jour.”

Whistler looked worriedly up at the security camera. “They’re going to see you. Stone’s going to have your ass.”

“Calm down. Paxton’s manning the desk this afternoon—he’s a buddy of mine.” Carmody got out of the chair, looked around to make sure the guard was still out of sight, then walked over to the massively constructed royal bed. While the legs, posts, and canopy were dense with inlay and gold leaf, the bed surface itself was of plain, unornamented wood. He tested it with his fingers, pressing, and then—satisfied—lay down on it.

“Carmody, you’ve gone frigging stir-crazy,” Whistler said, his voice low and serious. “Get out of there before the guard sees you.”

“I’ll just take a quick forty winks first,” Carmody replied. He
raised his head, made a show of looking around the chamber. “Hey, Cleopatra, get your ass over here, I’ve got a royal scepter that needs polishing—”

There was a sudden, sharp cracking noise; the entire frame of the bed vibrated, then gave a violent shear. Before Carmody could move, there was a little puff of displaced air and—with a second, even louder crack—the massive wooden canopy overhead broke loose from its anchors and hurtled down onto his prostrate form.

A flash of brilliant white—a moment of unspeakable, crushing pain—and then nothing at all.

41

When Logan entered the forensic bay of the Station’s medical suite, Dr. Rush was just pulling a green shroud over Robert Carmody’s crushed and broken body. Hearing footsteps, the doctor looked over, caught sight of Logan, and shook his head.

“I’ve never seen a body so thoroughly destroyed as this one,” he said.

“They’ve finished the preliminary investigation,” Logan told him. “The gold bolts holding the canopy bed together appear to have been deliberately loosened.”

Rush frowned. “Loosened? You mean, as in sabotage?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps in preparation for being pocketed by somebody. They’re solid gold, after all, each one as big as a railroad spike.”

Rush was silent a moment. “What’s the mood?”

“More or less what you’d imagine. Shock. Grief. And anxiety. Talk of the curse has spiked again.”

Rush nodded absently. He looked pale, and there were dark patches beneath his eyes. Logan recalled what the doctor had told him on the plane:
I trained as an ER specialist. But somehow, I could never get used to the death. Oh, I could handle natural causes all right. But sudden, violent death …
He wondered if this was the right time to talk to Rush; decided there wasn’t likely to be a better.

“Do you have a moment?” he asked quietly.

Rush glanced at him. “Let me just finish up here, make a few notes. You can wait in my office if you like.”

Ten minutes later, Rush came into the office. He appeared to be more composed, and the color had come back into his face. “Sorry for the delay,” he said as he took a seat behind his desk. “What’s up, Jeremy?”

“I’ve spoken with Jennifer,” Logan said.

Rush sat forward. “Really? Did she tell you about her NDE?”

“We basically relived it together.”

Rush looked at him for a moment. “She’s never spoken of it in detail at CTS. It’s rather awkward, really, given my position there.”

“I think she needed to speak about it to somebody who was completely objective,” he said. “Somebody with experience dealing with—the unusual.”

Rush nodded. “What can you tell me?”

“I suppose I should get her permission before I go into details with anyone—even you. I can tell you that the first part of the experience was relatively textbook. But the last part—where she was ‘over’ longer than anyone else in your database—was the opposite of textbook.” Logan paused. “It was … horrible. Terrifying. It’s no wonder she doesn’t want to speak of it to anybody—let alone relive it.”

“Terrifying? Really? I suspected there was some unpleasant aspect, given her unwillingness to confront it, but I had no idea …” Rush’s voice trailed off for a moment. “Poor Jen.”

For a moment, the office fell into silence. It was on the tip of
Logan’s tongue to say:
There’s something else. I can’t say why—but Jennifer’s description of her NDE, of the horror near its conclusion, reminds me strongly of King Narmer’s curse
. But he could not explain why; it was just a feeling, like the seed between one’s teeth that wouldn’t go away. Nothing would be helped by mentioning it. But maybe … maybe … there was another way he could help.

He cleared his throat. “I strongly recommend that she have no more channeling sessions. They’re upsetting her and may even be psychically damaging.”

“I mentioned as much to Stone,” Rush said. “He’s agreed to dial back the number of future sessions to just one or two more. He wants me to ask her about the third gate and what lies beyond. Also, what she meant about that odd tomb painting: ‘That which brings life to the dead, and death to the living.’ ”

“It’s a bad idea,” Logan replied. “And the sessions I’ve witnessed haven’t provided you with anything material.”

“Actually, the last session did. Tina Romero’s been studying some of the utterances—and she finds them to be very intriguing, given the context of what’s known about the stability of ancient Egyptian texts.”

“You asked me to see Jennifer—and I’m giving you my recommendation.” Logan took a DVD case out of his pocket, placed it on the desk, and tapped it with a finger. “Here’s the data you provided me with from your CTS files. I’ve been going over it.”

“And?”

“And I want you to answer a question—please answer it honestly. Has Jennifer been acting differently since her NDE? Is she in any way a changed person?”

Rush looked at Logan but did not respond.

“I’m no expert in such matters. But based on what I’ve read in these files, from what you’ve already told me about your changed relationship with your wife, and from what she’s said herself—not only was Jennifer’s NDE very different from other people’s, but I believe her
behavior
in its wake has been different from the others you’ve studied at the Center.”

For a long moment, Rush remained silent. Then, at last, he sighed. “I haven’t wanted to admit it—even to myself. But it’s true. More than just our relationship has changed.”

“Can you qualify the change for me?”

“It’s subtle. At times I think it’s more me than her, seeing things that aren’t there. But she seems … remote. Detached. She was always so warm, so spontaneous. I don’t sense that as much in her these days.”

“That doesn’t necessarily have to do with her near-death experience,” Logan said. “Those could be manifestations of depression, as well.”

“Jennifer was never a depressive personality. And it’s not just that. She …” Rush paused. “I don’t know how to put it. She seems to have less of a—a moral center than she used to. Here’s a stupid example. She was always a sucker for sappy movies. Toss in a little melodrama, and she’d be crying like a baby. But not anymore. One of the first nights here on the Station, they screened the old tearjerker
Dark Victory
for the crew. Even some of the toughest roustabouts were choked up by the end. But Jennifer remained stone-faced throughout. It was as if the emotion … well, as if it no longer penetrated.”

When Logan next spoke, it was slowly, thoughtfully. “You know, Ethan, there are cultures on earth who believe that—under the right circumstances—a person can be separated from their inner spirit.”

“Inner spirit?” Rush repeated.

“I mean the intangible life force that links us from this world to the next. The Byzantines, the Incans, certain Native American tribes, Enlightenment-era Rosicrucians, all had variant belief structures regarding such a thing—there were, and are, many others.”

Rush looked at him but did not speak.

“At the end of her NDE, Jennifer mentioned feeling a terrible pressure. She felt as if—let me try to recall her exact words—‘as if the very essence of my being was getting sucked away.’ ”

“What is it you’re saying, exactly?”

“I’m not saying anything. I’m just speculating. Is it possible that
your wife was clinically dead for so long that she … well, that she lost an integral part of her human spirit?”

Rush let out a short, explosive laugh. “Her
spirit
? Jeremy, that’s crazy.”

“Is it? I plan to research it further. But one could argue that such phenomena might explain the need for one of the rites of the Catholic Church itself.”

“Oh? And what rite is that?”

“The rite of exorcism.”

A sudden, freezing silence fell over the office.

“What is it you’re implying?” Rush asked after a minute. “That Narmer isn’t just speaking
through
Jennifer? That in those crossings she’s being
—possessed
by Narmer?”

“I don’t know what’s happening during those crossings,” Logan replied. “I don’t think anybody can know, exactly. I only know it might be dangerous.”

Rush fetched a deep sigh. “Just one last crossing. To ask about the third gate. Then I’ll refuse to authorize any more.”

42

Logan stepped into the brilliantly lit Staging Area, notebook in hand. Somewhere here—amid the bustle, noise, and ceaseless activity—was the workman who had reported hearing strange, ominous whisperings in the night. He was next on Logan’s list to interview … if he could manage to find him.

He glanced around, then stopped short. Something was happening at the Maw. Numerous people were gathered around it—technicians, roustabouts, a scientist or two. Porter Stone and Fenwick March were among them, speaking earnestly together. Logan stepped closer, curious. Industrial-grade mesh netting of blue plastic had been lowered into the Maw, suspended from a heavy winch, looking like the strings of some monstrous marionette.

Even as he watched, the winch motor started up; with a clanking of gears, the netting began to rise. Stone was leaning over the
mouth of the Maw now, staring down intently, as he gestured with an upraised palm for the winch operator to keep hoisting.

Logan looked on as the netting spooled up around a capstan set just below the winch. A minute later, Stone gave the operator a signal to slow. And then Logan saw a large stainless-steel box, held in place by the netting, emerge into the light. It was about seven feet by three feet long, and it looked to Logan almost like a coffin.

At that moment, he realized it
was
a coffin. There was only one thing it could possibly contain: the mummy of Narmer.

With exquisite care, two technicians pulled the netting-enclosed coffin over to a waiting medical gurney, lowered it onto the gurney, then pulled the netting free. This operation was supervised by March, who flitted around the technicians like an angry insect, barking orders. Stone looked on, arms folded, his face expressionless.

All of a sudden, Logan caught movement in his peripheral vision. He turned to see Tina Romero, framed in the entrance of the Staging Area. She glanced around for a moment, then caught sight of the coffin and the gurney. For a second, she froze. Then her eyes narrowed. She stalked forward, stopping directly before March. Logan heard a low, angry exchange. Then, quite abruptly, Romero exploded.

“You selfish, arrogant
prick
!” she shouted, grasping his shirt, bunching it in her fist, then physically pushing him backward. “You keep your hands off him!”

There was a brief, shocked silence. Then Porter Stone quickly inserted himself between the two, put an arm around Romero’s shoulder, and half walked, half propelled her away from the group, all the time talking to her in a gentle but urgent voice. March, his face red as a beet, tucked in his shirt, passed a hand through his thinning hair, and turned back to the gurney.

Logan stepped a bit closer to Stone and Romero. “… only being removed for the CT scan,” he heard Stone say before his voice dropped even further.

After a few more minutes of quiet talk, Stone squeezed Romero’s shoulder, looked at her intently for a moment, then turned away and rejoined the group by the Maw. Romero stood where Stone left her,
breathing heavily, her mouth set in a grim line. Then she, too, turned away and quickly left the Staging Area.

Logan hurried after her down the catwalk leading out of Yellow. “Tina!” he called.