Dedication
To Isotope, who is eating all the burgers
Epigraph
Either he’s dead or my watch has stopped.
—Groucho Marx
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
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About the Author
Also by Richard Kadrey
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
The sixth floor of the Department of Peculiar Science looked exactly like an ordinary office in an ordinary office building and not the slightest bit like the home of a highly secret government agency. There were desks, computers, copiers, paper clips, and not a single sentient robot, grotesque monster, or revenant in sight. Those—the ones that hadn’t gone home for the day—were on the lower floors, leaving the sixth floor a superb example of the stultifyingly normal.
Except for the break-in.
The room in which the crime was being carried out was completely dark, except for a single spot of light. Charlie Cooper—Coop to his friends—stared at the metal cabinet, adjusted his headlamp, and frowned. “One time I stole a magic coloring book that spelled out the future with pictures of kittens. Seriously. The next president. Super Bowl winners. The whole bit.”
“I know, dear,” said Giselle, sitting nearby on a step stool.
“Another time I stole a solid-gold bust of Aleister Crowley out of a bank vault protected by vampire bats the size of ostriches. The bust could see the future, too.”
“I thought it was the other way around,” said Giselle. “Bloodsucking ostriches.”
“No. That was when I stole a fortune-telling . . . well, sexual implement.”
“You can say ‘dildo,’ dear. We’re all adults.”
“It predicted gold futures, though I’m not exactly sure how.”
“Yes, you are,” said Giselle. She made little moaning sounds.
“Shh,” said Coop. “I’m trying to concentrate.”
Agent Bayliss, one of the DOPS agents who’d recruited Coop, stood nearby looking extremely uncomfortable, though in the darkness it was impossible to tell if it was because of the current discussion or the break-in she’d arranged. Either way, she was clearly desperate to change the subject as she said, “It sounds like you stole a lot of fortune-telling gadgets.”
Coop nodded and wiped sweat from his forehead. “People are crazy for the stuff. I stole a fortune-telling muffin tin. A parrot that would only say ‘fuck you’ and lottery numbers.”
“Yes, dear,” said Giselle. “You’ve stolen a lot of things, and we’re very impressed. How is this particular crime going?”
“Just fine. Stop talking.”
“You’re the one who started it.”
“Did I?” said Coop. “Well, I just wanted to make it clear that this thing I’m doing now? It’s exactly the kind of thing I don’t do.”
“I’m really, really grateful,” said Bayliss.
“You have no idea who’s been stealing your office supplies?” said Giselle.
Bayliss shook her head. “None. And I can’t bring any from home. It’s not allowed. They have hexes that can detect it.”
“Why can’t you just complain to management?”
“And get audited? Have you ever been audited?”
“No.”
“Let me tell you, they don’t just search your desk. They search everywhere,” said Bayliss.
“You mean . . . ?”
“Yes. Wait. You mean . . . ? Eww. No. They just read your mind. But it leaves you loopy for days.”
“Oh. Still, eww.”
“I agree,” said Coop. “Eww. Now please pipe down, both of you.”
“Why is it taking so long?” said Giselle.
“The lock is cursed. It keeps melting my damned picks.”
“Be careful,” said Bayliss. “We can’t get caught.”
“How much longer do you think it will it be?” said Giselle.
Coop leaned his weight into the lock. “Right about now,” he said as the office-supplies cabinet swung open, revealing forbidden stacks of rubber bands and staples.
“Thank you! Thank you!” said Bayliss, giving Coop a quick hug as he stood up.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Now, please, don’t ever ask me to steal this kind of thing again. It’s depressing enough working here, and stealing paper clips makes me not want to be alive.”
Bayliss loaded things into a canvas bag. “I understand. Thank you.”
Coop sighed. “You know, I once stole a fortune-telling cat from a witch in Salem. She tried charging tourists to hear their future, but the cat wasn’t interested. It would only tell you the next time you were going to eat flounder.”
“Why didn’t you keep any of the fortune-telling things?” said Bayliss. “You might be rich. You might not have gone to . . .” She turned red and stopped talking.
Coop quietly set a pack of Post-its on her pile.
“She means jail, dear,” said Giselle.
“I guessed.”
“Sorry,” said Bayliss.
“I’m a respectable criminal,” said Coop, taking off his gloves. “The great toner caper here? No one can ever know about it. Not even Morty.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” said Bayliss.
“Good. Anyone. Now let’s get out of here.”
Coop locked the supply cabinet and led the way back out into the utterly ordinary and completely deserted office corridor.
As they walked back to Bayliss’s desk, Giselle prodded Coop in the shoulder. “Why didn’t you ever keep any of those fortune-telling toys and bet everything on the World Series? I wouldn’t mind a house in France.”
Coop shoved the gloves into his pants pocket. “I did. It was a Zune that predicted horse races.”
“What’s a Zune?” said Bayliss.
“A manic-depressive iPod.”
“Why didn’t you bet on a race?” said Giselle.
“I did,” said Coop. “The horse lost by a mile. Turns out it had a stutter.”
“The horse?”
“No. The Zune. That’s the last time I ever trusted anything that predicted the future.”
Giselle leaned against the partition when they reached Bayliss’s desk. “No vacation châteaus for us, I guess.”
“Not on a government salary. Of course, I could always start moonlighting.”
“I hear the Tooth Fairy is fake, so don’t go looking for a fortune in quarters.”
“The Easter Bunny is supposed to be loaded, though.”
“Only in jelly beans, and banks don’t take those anymore.”
Bayliss emptied the canvas bag into the bottom drawer of her desk. “Don’t even joke about stealing on your own,” she said. “You’ll end up in the mook department.”
Mooks were one of the DOPS’s more successful experiments. They were people in the sense that they had two legs
, two hands, and two eyes, but they weren’t quite people in the sense that they were all incredibly dead. This technicality made it hard to come up with enticing Match.com profiles, but it made them great janitors and hallway picture straighteners.
“Speaking of corpses, how’s Nelson doing these days?” said Coop.
Nelson, Bayliss’s old partner, had recently entered the ranks of the employed deceased because a few weeks earlier she’d shot him. But she didn’t really have a choice. Well, she did in the sense that all sentient beings have free will, but Nelson was going to shoot Coop, so Bayliss shot him. Of course, Nelson filed a complaint against her, but it was dismissed. Still, it didn’t stop him from whining to HR when no one came to his funeral.
Bayliss took out some purloined staples and began refilling her stapler. “He’s still in the mail room, but he got promoted to night manager.”
Coop looked over the empty cubicles. “Ambitious dead people make me nervous. And by ‘nervous,’ I mean I want to get on a plane to Antarctica.”
“You don’t think he’s the one who’s been taking your office supplies, do you?” said Giselle.
“I wondered about that, but no one’s seen him on this floor since he got the job downstairs.”
“Maybe he’s in cahoots with a kleptomaniac rat,” said Coop. “Or a ghost. Or a ghost rat. That sounds like Nelson’s social circle.”
Giselle gave him a look. “I know you’re worried, but maybe you should speak to security about getting some wards to protect your cubicle.”
“Complain that your wastebasket has become a hellmouth,” said Coop.
Bayliss frowned. “That sounds a little farfetched.”
“Tell it to Ellis upstairs. He ignored the voices under his desk and now he’s infested with imps. He has to wear a sort of demon flea collar and makeup to hide the spots.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
Giselle sat on Bayliss’s desk. “Trust me, a demon rash is the most interesting thing about him.”
“Bologna on white bread with mayo thinks he’s boring,” said Coop.
“Good luck with this bunch of supplies,” said Giselle. “I hope they don’t disappear, too.”
Bayliss smiled. “Don’t worry. Management just started an office pet program. It’s supposed to be a morale builder. I asked for a desk squid. Want to see it?”
“I’ll give you a dollar not to ever show it to me or mention it again,” said Coop.
“What exactly is a desk squid?” said Giselle.
“They’re adorable. Baby Horrid Old Ones. As long as I feed it and keep it surrounded by silver crucifixes, it’s my best friend.”
Coop took a minuscule step back. “And if you forget to feed it?”
Bayliss arranged Post-its on her desk. “It’ll grow up and maybe sort of destroy the world,” she said quietly.
Giselle smiled. “Speaking of destroying the world, I’m hungry. Who else is hungry? I’m buying.”
“Thanks, but I have to catch up on some work,” said Bayliss.
“Okay. Have a good night.”
“Good luck with the squid and the supplies,” said Coop. “But the squid more.”
“Thanks again for everything.”
“I’m glad to help.”
Giselle took his arm. “Let’s go get some flapjacks.”
“Do they serve drinks there?”
“At the pancake place? I doubt it.”
“Sounds horrible.” As they reached the elevator, Coop punched the button for the garage. “I should have kept that magic coloring book. Seeing my miserable future here would be a lot easier with kittens.”
“Maybe we should get you that drink before food,” said Giselle.
“You’re the best.”
“I’m smart. If I don’t get your mind off the squid, soon you’re going to be up all night seeing suckers in the shadows.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time I stole a plate of fried clams that could find pirate treasure?”
The elevator doors opened and they got inside.
“Let me guess. The owner got drunk and ate them.”
“No. His dog did.”
“Ah. Did it at least poop doubloons?”
“No one knows. The last time anyone saw it, the mutt was headed to Vegas in a convertible with a poodle under each arm.”
Giselle smiled. “You’re the worst liar ever.”
When they reached the garage, Coop put a hand over his heart. “I swear. It’s why you should never let a dog know your ATM number.”
She lowered her eyebrows at Coop. “Or your phone number.”
“Too late. I know where you live.”
“Be a good boy and I’ll let you sit up front in the car like people.”
“Woof,” he said, getting into the passenger seat. He was all smiles on the outside, but deep inside he was dying a little.
Morty’s going to find out about tonight. Phil is going to find out. Who else? Lots of people maybe. Bad news always finds a way out.
As they pulled out onto the street, Coop was already preparing his suicide note.
2
The crew uncrating the sarcophagus worked quietly, expertly, and with what seemed to Gilbert Ferris—the junior museum security guard on duty—just a little bit too much reverence. Yeah, the mummy case, the shiny gold jewelry, statues, and painted canopic jars were impressive, but in the end they amounted to knickknacks and an oversize shoe box for a stiff. If whoever buried him had any brains, they would have hit the sale table at some ancient Egyptian Walmart, chucked in the cut-rate loot, and kept the rest of the gold, or shekels—or whatever passed for money back then—for themselves. It’s what Gilbert would have done, what he sort of did do when grandma number two passed and he was in charge of the arrangements. The funeral was nice enough, but not over-the-top. Flowers, a preacher, and a tasteful wake afterward. Yeah, the preacher was a buddy in the Universal Life Church who he was paying in beer, and the wake catering came from the day-old table at Safeway, but it was all refrigerated, so who cares if the salami didn’t come straight off whatever kind of animal a salami was? Grandma wasn’t a saint, he wasn’t Bill Gates, and the money he saved (but still expensed to the family) made for a good down payment on a sweet El Camino he’d had his eye on. Gilbert justified everything by telling his friends that he expected the same kind of treatment when he died. Really, what Gilbert wanted was a Viking funeral, but putting something like that together required a level of concentration he wasn’t generally capable of. Instead, he made a deal with his Universal Life Church buddy to put his carcass in a wheelchair, take him to Disneyland, and set him on fire on the log flume ride. It wasn’t exactly sailing to Valhalla, but it was cheaper than a casket, more awesome than a funeral, and he’d probably get his picture on TV. That was a way to tag out of life. Not wrapped in sheets and boxed up like a dead cat the way old Harkhuf—the Egyptian stiff—went out.
“Shouldn’t you be doing something?”
Gilbert looked around. He’d been so transfixed by the mummy being placed in the display case that he hadn’t heard Mr. Froehlich, the museum’s head of security, come up behind him.
“Sorry, what?” said Gilbert.
“Shouldn’t you be doing something besides gawking?” said Froehlich. He was tall and his breath smelled like instant coffee. “The exhibit will be finished in a couple more hours. Until then, just go someplace and guard something.”
“It’s Monday. The museum is closed. There’s no one to guard anything from.”
“Then at least walk around the rest of the floor. The board of directors is in a cost-cutting mood. Nothing to guard against might mean fewer guards and fewer guard jobs. Got it?”
Gilbert did indeed get it.
“Don’t worry. I’ll find something that needs guarding.”
“Tell you what. The surveillance cameras are down in the modern painting wing. Why don’t you start there? We wouldn’t want anyone walking out with the Kandinsky in their pocket.??
?
Gilbert wasn’t quite sure what a Kandinsky was. It sounded dirty, but the museum didn’t have that kind of thing. Still, whatever a Kandinsky was, guarding it was a chance to get away from Froehlich and his coffee breath, and that was good enough.
He shot his boss a quick salute and headed for the elevators.
Upstairs, Gilbert found himself alone. He didn’t normally work the modern art area, so he made a quick circuit of the whole gallery. Finding nothing out of place, he was instantly bored. He quietly cursed Froehlich under his breath. At least if he was still downstairs he might be able to sneak out to the loading dock with the mummy movers and steal a quick smoke. But no, he was stuck all alone here with acres of pointless paint squiggles and inscrutable sculptures that made his head ache when he tried to figure out what they were.
The Brian Z. Pierson Museum of Art, Antiquities, and Folderol was falling on hard times. The trust that financed the place was running out of money and the museum’s name didn’t exactly help when they applied for grants. Sixty years earlier, Brian Pierson’s children and lawyers had tried talking him out of including “Folderol” in the museum’s name, but he hated the place and wanted the world to know it. For him, the whole project was a tax dodge and nothing more.
To try and not go buggy, Gilbert attempted to walk around the gallery backward, hoping it would make the place more interesting. It just made him dizzy and sick to his stomach. He fell back against what was supposed to be a statue of a woman, but that looked more to him like a vacuum cleaner with boobs.
It was because of the museum’s rapidly diminishing funds that the board decided to host the mummy exhibit. It was true that Harkhuf wasn’t a pharaoh or even a big name in Egyptian history, but he was well preserved and his sarcophagus was impressively gaudy and he was finally something new. Sure, he wasn’t going to bring in King Tut money, but he was an attraction they could build an advertising campaign around and get a few more tourists and school field trips into the place.
Gilbert rested his forehead against a marble wall. His boredom felt like a headache, then like a fever, then desperation, then it went back to plain old boredom again. After a few minutes of that, he kind of missed the headache and tried to will it back. That just made him dizzy again. What really bugged him was that all this crap that had him wandering an empty gallery like a lost dog was the result of something that had nothing to do with him and, in fact, had happened three thousand years ago. What was it? Gilbert gave up being miserable for a minute and dove into the bong water recesses of his brain trying to remember how the mummy had died.