“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.
She turned, saw him, and continued walking.
“What’s the problem?” he said as he caught up with her.
“That bastard March,” she said without stopping. “Before the expedition began, we set down ground rules about how the artifacts would be curated. Everything would be studied in situ, carefully documented and stabilized. Anything to be removed would be agreed upon first by a committee of the team leaders. But that scumbag has gone behind my back. Already he’s managed to remove just about everything of value from the tomb that hasn’t been nailed down. It’s all being tagged and labeled by those pack rats of his. All I have are the frigging videos.” Her voice trembled slightly as she spoke. “Now, to get access to anything, I have to fill out requisition forms. I can’t believe Stone went along with this bullshit. And now, for Christ’s sake, he’s even got Narmer’s mummy…” She shook her head. “It’s times like this that I wish this whole goddamned Station would just sink to the bottom of the swamp.”
They walked for a moment in silence.
“Porter Stone has always been known for his noninvasive touch,” Logan said.
“I know. He’s famous for it. But he’s also super-paranoid about how tight our schedule’s become. The Af’ayalah Dam is well ahead of schedule-this whole place could be underwater, flooded out, in weeks rather than months. March has been using that fact to goad Stone into speeding things up. He keeps pointing out how this is the greatest find of Stone’s career, preying on his ego. And now that the artifacts are out of the tomb, up here… well, it’s going to be hard as hell convincing those two to ever put any of them back.” She shook her head in bitter resignation.
They had reached the hallways of Red. Logan followed the Egyptologist into her office and they took seats on either side of her artifact- and notebook-covered desk.
“I was curious,” Logan said, “if you’d made any progress. On the aspects of the tomb that have you so puzzled, I mean.”
“The whole damn thing’s a puzzle,” she growled. Her mood was still dark but she seemed to be calming down.
“You said there were inscriptions that didn’t make sense. Unusual serekhs. Items that don’t jibe with the pharaohs and the traditions that followed later.”
She nodded. “Riddles within riddles.”
“I was wondering-do you think what we’ll find in the third chamber might clear any of that up?”
“It’s possible. Normally, the final chamber of a tomb is where the most valuable, important objects are.
