The mummy sensed pursuit and headed toward Kieran. But then, it headed back in Harley’s direction with a purpose and a vengeance, no longer staggering.

  “Come on, come on, I’m ready for you!” Harley thought. “Police! Police!” she cried.

  And then the thing was upon her, placing a hand on her chest. It looked right at her, but she couldn’t see its eyes. They were covered in the same linen gauze that stretched over the body, dirtied and rendered old, as if—mummy or zombie—the creature had long been dead.

  * * *

  THE THRONG OF people was impressive, particularly for a charity event.

  Micah assumed many people were out just for the entertainment value and, of course, the fun of dressing up as a zombie.

  But it made for a massive crowd—tens of thousands at the very least, and maybe many more considering the size of New York City.

  “I see Kevin Finnegan,” Craig said.

  “Where?”

  “Leading the zombie charge.”

  “You’re sure that’s Kevin?”

  “Yes, and if so, Kieran is near him, and if she is...”

  “Then Harley’s near Kieran. Let’s go!”

  Wending their way through the horde of people wasn’t easy. Apparently, no one had thought to tell the regular performers who thronged Times Square daily in costume, charging for tourist pictures, that zombies would be ruling the day.

  Maybe it didn’t matter. As they hurried past the Times Square Marriott, Micah saw a zombie posing with a Disney figure and with one of the imitation “naked” cowboys who’d staked a claim on the street.

  He kept up a brisk pace, saying “excuse me” almost every other second.

  And then he saw Kevin Finnegan, laughing, talking, making announcements through a speaker and pointing to the bleachers ahead.

  He also saw Joe Rosello dancing along with a group as he moved forward in costume—ragged jeans, ripped rock band T-shirt and heavily made-up face and body.

  And there...

  A mummy!

  A mummy, standing in the street, touching Harley, touching her with wrapped hands that appeared to be wet, soaked in something.

  “Stop now!” he shouted.

  He barely avoided knocking over a teenager playing zombie-on-a-crutch. In a circuitous route, he cleared a number of teens. As carefully as he could without losing speed, he continued to press forward through and around people.

  The mummy saw him—and turned to run.

  He heard Harley shout. She was starting to run after the thing.

  “No!” He caught up with her.

  “We have to catch that mummy!” she said.

  “No, no—get your shirt off!”

  “What?”

  “Your shirt. Get your shirt off.”

  “Here? In Times Square?”

  Craig, gasping for breath, had reached them. “Get your shirt off! The hands—the mummy’s hands were covered in something. Get it off now. Harley, damn it, there could be poison on your shirt. Get it off before...”

  She cried out, all but ripping the shirt from her body. It fell to the ground.

  There were creatures of all kinds gathering around them.

  “Way cool!” a passing zombie said.

  “Yeah,” said another. “It’s legal, you know. Men can go topless, and women can go topless! New York City, man. What a great place.”

  “Maybe she’ll take off her bra!”

  “Moron!” Harley breathed, swinging around.

  “I’ve got the shirt,” Craig said, slipping into gloves and reaching down.

  “The mummy’s probably shedding poison with every step,” Micah said. “Cops. Get cops over here. Warn them there’s a hazard...gloves, bags...”

  He didn’t need to talk; Craig knew what had to be done as well as he did. Micah had already begun moving, and as he did, he swore. The “mummy” was indeed shedding, leaving what was likely poisoned and hazardous material every few steps.

  But the trail of wrappings at least gave him a direction to take, as clear as tracking any animal, human included, in a forested wilderness.

  “Look!” a girl cried. “It was a mummy! A mummy!”

  She’d picked up some of the shredded linen that had been cast on the ground. Micah swore again, using his gloved hands to snatch it from her.

  “Hey!” she protested.

  “Get to a cop. Get to a doctor. That might be poisoned material,” Micah said. A man quickly appeared at the child’s side, holding her, and taking Micah more seriously than she did, apparently.

  “Cop! Doctor!” Micah ordered.

  “Yes, sir!” the man said, clutching his daughter.

  Micah hurried on.

  Cops were filling the area. Craig had gotten to Kevin Finnegan, and Kevin was announcing the problem, warning people not to touch the linen, to get to a cop, hospital, or doctor if they had.

  Micah kept running. He saw more of the linen along the road. Swearing, he knew he’d have to stop and add it to the growing cache he stuffed into a large evidence bag as he hurried along.

  The “mummy” had planned well, knowing that the police and FBI were fully aware that poison—using poisoned linen—was his or her talent.

  And that they’d definitely be delayed in their pursuit, trying to keep others from becoming victims of possible illness or even death.

  The last piece of linen was in front of an alley that led from Times Square down one of the side streets.

  Micah swung around the corner, racing down the street. And then he stopped.

  The street was filled with massive office buildings; there was also a massage place, a Chinese restaurant and somebody’s bar and grill.

  And there was no one on the street.

  It was New York! Where was everyone?

  But it was Sunday. Offices were closed. Whoever was getting a massage was already inside; any diners at the Chinese restaurant were already seated.

  Micah hurried along the street. The mummy couldn’t possibly have changed so quickly.

  Or maybe it had. Maybe the linens had been shed completely and the mummy was just a normal person now, enjoying a delicious bowl of lo mein.

  Micah moved on down the street.

  Yeah, by now, the mummy might be just a “normal” person.

  But Micah was sure it was going to be a normal person he knew. And he was determined to find that person. This time, he was chasing the damned mummy—person, whoever it was—to Jersey or Connecticut if he had to.

  There! Up ahead.

  The mummy was turning onto Fifth Avenue and heading north.

  Micah started to run.

  * * *

  “DO YOU KNOW who it was? Do you have any clue who it was?” Kieran asked Harley.

  It had been a ridiculous, uncomfortable day. She was still half-naked, feeling embarrassed and exposed. Just because one could go topless according to NYC’s equality laws, didn’t mean she had any desire to do so! She was running through the crowd, Kieran keeping pace beside her, anxious to get to a car so she could go home and have a shower.

  A taxi stopped for them when they made it over to Eighth Avenue. The driver grinned wolfishly at Harley, nodding when they gave him her address. A quick conversation with one of Craig’s ME friends had assured them that Harley’s going home for a shower would be fine; if the poison had touched only her clothing, there should be no problem, and of course, once the contaminated linen was analyzed, they’d know what they were looking at.

  “We aren’t even sure there is poison on the wrappings,” Harley said.

  “What do you want to bet?” Kieran asked her.

  Harley didn’t want to bet.

  The mummy had taken her completely by surprise.
She’d wanted to knock the thing in the head and rip the linen wrappings from it.

  And instead...

  It had touched her, and only Micah’s arrival had kept her from contact with linen that was possibly doused in nicotine.

  “How the hell is that damned mummy wearing poison and not dropping dead?” she demanded. The driver was staring back at her in his rearview mirror, even more interested than he’d been earlier. She leaned forward, ready to snap at him—and then didn’t.

  What the hell. She dropped back against the seat.

  “Kieran, how is he or she doing it? All that poison?”

  “Wearing something underneath the wrapping, I guess. We don’t have anything analyzed yet, although I’m convinced that was actually an attempt on your life—or a warning for you to back off.”

  “Okay, so the mummy found me. But it looked as if the mummy was running through the crowd, touching anyone and everyone,” Harley said.

  “That was to stop the police or anyone in pursuit,” Kieran told her.

  “Hey!” Harley snapped. The taxi driver was grinning; he was about to take a roundabout route to her building. “No, go straight and then turn right!” she said.

  “One-way street,” the driver said in a singsong voice.

  “And it’s going the way we want it to!”

  They reached their destination and Kieran paid the cabbie as they stepped out; Harley realized she was being rude.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to make you pay that!”

  “Harley, that’s the least of our concerns at the moment,” Kieran said.

  “They haven’t called? Micah or Craig?”

  “Harley, Micah was in hot pursuit and Craig was headed in to get those wrappings to the lab. It takes time. We’re here. Listen, just smile at the clerk or security guy on duty,” Kieran advised. “He’s staring at you just like the taxi driver was. Now let’s get up to your place.”

  Harley did manage a nice smile for the security guard on duty. He was staring at her, as Kieran had said, but at the last minute sent her a confused smile in return.

  Upstairs, Harley told Kieran to make herself comfortable, and Kieran said she would. Harley showered.

  And showered, nearly scrubbing herself raw in the process.

  She emerged from the shower, wrapped in a robe, and hurried downstairs.

  Kieran was on the phone. She turned to look at Harley.

  “Good call on Micah’s part. Yes, those wrappings were soaked in nicotine.

  There was something odd about the way she was speaking.

  “What is it?”

  “Micah followed the mummy on foot—all the way up to Central Park and the museum.”

  “The New Museum of Antiquity?” Harley said.

  “Yes. And he found a mummy...half-dead.”

  “Mummies are dead.”

  “No, I mean... I’m sorry, Harley. Arlo Hampton is probably going to die. He was found on the floor, stretched out in wrappings, right in front of the Temple of Ra.”

  Chapter Seven

  The same day Vivian Richter was released from the hospital, Arlo Hampton was rushed in, swiftly ripped out of torn swaths of mummy wrappings.

  This whole thing was his fault, or so it appeared.

  He was both the would-be killer—and his own victim, in the end.

  At least, Harley thought, that was how it appeared. Or how it was supposed to appear.

  It seemed evident that he’d dressed up as a mummy but carefully gloved his hands in plastic before soaking a number of loose and shredded strips of “decayed” linen in nicotine and then heading out to assault a “zombie” crowd. Afterward he’d returned to the museum, only to collapse there.

  Perhaps he had started back in the Sahara. Perhaps his jealousy, his determination to rise in his field, had caused him to attack Henry Tomlinson back at the expedition prep tent. He must have attacked Vivian as a mummy. She’d blacked out and he had dressed her up and when she came to, he’d sent her, crazed, into the crowd, where she’d been saved.

  Today...

  No one really knew his intent. Had he just meant to poison a bunch of random “zombies”? Had he known, perhaps, that Joe Rosello was going to be among the actors? Had he thought Joe knew something and needed to be silenced?

  He’d come up to Harley.

  He had touched her with his poisoned linen rags.

  But he couldn’t have known Harley would be there; Harley hadn’t even known that herself until the last minute. That seemed to make Joe the chosen target.

  Unless, of course, Arlo Hampton had just wanted to indiscriminately poison people in the crowd. None of them could determine the truth as yet. And if Arlo died, they might never find out.

  Arlo might be accused of killing Henry, or the attempted murder of Vivian—and intent to attack Joe Rosello and a number of innocent “zombies” in the crowd. But he’d calculated wrong; he hadn’t taken the right care. He had not been immune to the poison he’d been trying to administer to others.

  They knew this, because Craig gave them whatever information he could over the phone. He and Micah had managed to get to the museum quickly; in fact, Micah had reached it just minutes after everything happened. He’d pursued the mummy from Times Square!

  Harley insisted that she and Kieran needed to get to the museum.

  She didn’t know why; she just knew the whole thing simply didn’t feel right.

  They got there fairly fast. Officers in uniform were maintaining crowd control—the entire museum had been closed down—but someone on duty recognized Kieran. Craig was summoned, and the two of them were let through with Craig leading the way past more officers, spectators, and a sea of media at the entry.

  Arlo Hampton no longer there, of course; he’d been rushed to the hospital. Photographers and crime scene technicians were still at work. Apparently, Arlo had been discovered by a pair of teenage girls who remained in a corner of the room, huddled together. They were still in shock. According to them, Arlo had grunted and tried to reach for them when they’d first found him, nearly giving them joint heart attacks. They’d now told their story a few times and were waiting for their parents.

  Rydell and McGrady were there; it remained, after all, a joint investigation. They were with Craig and Micah, trying to create rational scenarios as to what might have happened.

  Micah was looking at crime scene photos on his phone, photos snapped by the security guard first on the scene.

  McGrady tried to stop Harley when she stepped forward to reach Micah.

  “Ms. Frasier, I’m sorry, but you’re in the way.”

  Micah immediately came to her defense. “She’s got more degrees in criminology than the rest of us put together. She knew Arlo. She was stalked by him earlier and he tried to get to her at the zombie walk. Ms. Frasier may have something useful to say.”

  “What’s there to say?” McGrady muttered. “He’s probably going to die. We weren’t there to get him to a hospital fast enough. Nicotine poisoning. Doc just said so—it’s all over the wrappings. Jerk dressed up as a mummy for that damned zombie walk, and now he’s dead by his own hand.”

  “It’s not him,” Harley said.

  “What?” McGrady spun on her.

  “That’s not him—”

  “Harley, it is Arlo Hampton,” Craig interrupted, his tone firm as he frowned at her.

  “Yes, Micah, I know Arlo’s the one who was found here, but that’s not the mummy who was at the zombie walk.”

  “Harley,” Micah said slowly, “trust me. I’ve been running after him. Olympic-style running. I saw him when he turned north on Fifth. I followed this mummy from the zombie walk, and then I followed him down a bunch of streets, and I saw him go through the tunnel entrance to the museum. By the time I g
ot through the maze down there and back up to the exhibit, those two teenagers were screaming.” He was quiet for a minute. “Harley, it had to be him. We can’t find any other mummies in the museum.”

  Harley blinked, looking at him.

  “Yes, sorry, I know,” Craig said, sounding aggravated and weary. “The museum’s full of mummies. I mean living mummies. Living people dressed up as mummies. This place is crawling with security and we—”

  “You’re being an ass!”

  He winced, and quickly apologized. “Yeah, sorry. I just don’t see—”

  “There are so many rooms and tunnels, and I’m telling you, this isn’t the same mummy.”

  “What’s different?” Craig asked her.

  She didn’t know! She couldn’t tell. Judging by the photographs Craig and Micah had shown them, the wrappings appeared the same. True, the mummy walking through the crowd had been stripping off pieces of his wrapping, but that wasn’t what bothered her, since Arlo’s wrappings looked quite disheveled.

  Somehow, this mummy—the mummy in the pictures, the Arlo Hampton mummy—was different. Not the wrappings so much, but...something.

  “You think the cops are incompetent, Ms. Frasier?” McGrady turned his back on her.

  Rydell shrugged apologetically.

  “No, Detective, I think the cops are great. I’ve worked with lots of cops, including some of the ones here right now. Like I told you, I think they’re great. You’re not great. You’ve got a chip on your shoulder a mile wide.”

  “Harley,” Micah said quietly.

  “He’s not just being patronizing and rude, he’s jeopardizing an investigation!”

  “Yes, that’s true, but for the moment...”

  “We’re lead on this,” Craig said.

  “We need to start another search!” Micah announced, his voice booming.

  “This is going to be reported,” McGrady threatened.

  “You bet,” Micah promised him.

  “Rydell, you saw it all.”

  “Yeah, I did,” Rydell said.

  Furious, McGrady stomped off. He seemed to be heading for the exit.