“Can you tell me what the question was?” Logan asked-but already he could guess the answer.
“It was asking me whether I was content with what I’d done with my life. If I had done enough.”
Logan nodded. So far, everything Jennifer had mentioned-the out-of-body experience, the dark tunnel, the Being of Light, the borderland, the “life review”-was consistent with other NDEs. He glanced at the timer. Over ten minutes had passed. This was longer-he knew from a cursory examination of the CTS documents-than any other near-death experience recorded at the Center.
“The Being asked the question again,” she said. “As it did, I saw my life-from early childhood, things I hadn’t thought about or even remembered for decades-flash before me. And then…” She swallowed again. “And then it started.”
Logan took tighter grasp of her hands. “Tell me.”
Even in the dark room, he could see the beautiful lines of her oval face become strained. “The Being said a single word: ‘Insufficient.’ And then it… changed.”
Her breathing grew a little labored.
“Just relax,” Logan said. “Describe it to me. How did the Being change?”
“At first, it was just a sensation I had. I felt the inexpressible, endless love begin to die away. So did the warmth, the well-being, the joy. It was so slow, so subtle, I didn’t realize it at first. But when I did realize it, I suddenly felt… exposed. And then the Being… grew dark. The bright light dimmed. And now I could see its face.”
For a moment, an image appeared in Logan’s mind: a face, leering, hirsute, goatish.
Jennifer’s breathing grew more rapid. “Suddenly, the border ahead of me… began to change, too. It was no longer golden. It wavered, become wet somehow. It looked like a curtain of blood. Then… and then it melted away.” Her voice began to tremble. “And beyond… beyond…”
“Go on,” Logan barely whispered.
“Beyond lay… lay the screaming dark. I tried to run, to get away. But I was being pulled in, I couldn’t fight. And then it was too late. There was no light, there was no air. I couldn’t breathe. There were… bodies, all around me, invisible, slippery, sliding past me. Screaming, always screaming. I was hemmed in by the bodies, I couldn’t move. I felt…” She was gasping now. “I felt a terrible pressure. A pressure inside me. As if the very essence of my being was getting sucked away… And always he was laughing… And then I felt the edge of the-the… oh, God!”
And suddenly, Logan sensed it again: the malignant, demonic presence; the endless enmity and hatred and rage. It was a tangible thing that almost pushed him back in his chair.
“Jesus!” he said, jerking violently, breaking contact with Jennifer.
She gasped. For a moment, the office was quiet. And then she dissolved into racking sobs.
Logan embraced her gently. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”
But she only continued to weep.
40
Robert Carmody stood in the dust-scented confines of chamber one, moodily playing with the focus ring on the lens of his digital camera. Nearby, Payne Whistler was kneeling on the newly cleaned floor, holding a carved tablet in a gloved hand.
“Item A three forty-nine,” Whistler murmured into a pocket recorder. “Tablet. Polished limestone.” He pulled out a ruler, measured the object carefully. “Seven centimeters by nine and a half centimeters.” He scrutinized the tablet’s face for a minute. “It appears to be an invocation for the pharaoh’s safe journey to the next kingdom.”
He made a few additional remarks, then gently placed the tablet on a white linen cloth that lay nearby. “All right, Bob,” he said.
With a sigh, Carmody wheeled over a freestanding light, then leaned in, focused his camera on the tablet, snapped a dozen shots from different angles, bracketing the exposures. Then he straightened up and reviewed his work on the camera’s LED screen. “Another masterpiece.”
Whistler nodded, then picked up the tablet, tagged it, carefully wrapped it in a fresh cloth, and placed it in a plastic evidence locker. Carmody jotted down the photo reference numbers in a small notebook.
“Jesus,” he said, flipping the notebook closed. “We’ve been here-what-three hours already? And not one interesting damn piece.”
Whistler glanced at him. “You kidding? All this stuff is interesting. More than interesting-these are the grave goods of the first pharaoh of unified Egypt.”
Carmody scoffed. “Listen to you. You’re starting to sound like Romero.”
Whistler stood up, brushed his pants back into place. “You have to be patient. If you wanted instant gratification, you picked the wrong profession.”
“What profession? You’re the archaeologist.”
“Surveyor,” Whistler corrected.
“I’m a photographer. I’ve been here three weeks now. Can’t call home, can’t order in a pizza, can’t even go for a damn jog.”
“There’s all the pizza you could ever eat in the mess. And the exercise room has plenty of treadmills.”
“Can’t get HBO. Can’t play World of Warcraft. Can’t get laid.”
“Well, that’s your problem.” Whistler set the evidence locker aside.
“I mean, I’m not stupid. I knew what I was getting into when I signed the nondisclosure forms. But I thought I’d get to shoot pictures of, you know, mummies. Golden masks. That kind of thing. Stuff that would look good on the resume, later, when I could talk about it. But he’s picked this place clean, cleared out everything sexy. He’s keeping all the good stuff for himself. I mean, look at that.” And Carmody gestured toward the rear of the chamber, where a locked partition sealed off the entrance to chamber two.
“What did you expect? March is the head archaeologist. Stop grousing-you’re getting well paid. I mean, you could have it a lot worse. You could be doing his job.” And Whistler jerked a finger out toward the Umbilicus platform, where a security guard stood, monitoring their progress.
“I didn’t sign on to be a door shaker. I’m an artist at what I do. I don’t just point my camera and fire away. I’ve had my work in five different shows.”
“Sell anything?” Whistler grinned wickedly.
“That’s not the point.”
“Let’s get on with it.” Whistler turned and carefully removed another object from the gilt-edged wooden box that sat nearby. He turned it over in his hands, peered at it closely. “Item A three fifty. Tablet. Polished limestone.” He measured it. “Six and a half centimeters by nine centimeters.” He glanced at its inscription. “It appears to be an itemized list of the gifts Narmer’s wife, Niethotep, was given on her thirtieth birthday.” He nodded to himself. “Now this is interesting.”
“Yeah. As interesting as watching paint dry. How do you say ‘fuck you’ in hieroglyphics?”
Whistler raised his middle finger. Then he placed the tablet on the linen cloth. “Do your thing.”
With a huge sigh, Carmody raised his camera, took the obligatory shots. He made some notations in his book, then watched sourly as Whistler put the tablet carefully away for curation and documentation.
“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.”
