Erased From Memory (29 page)

“I haven’t the faintest notion what you’re talking about,” I tell him.

“Your dad caught on.” It takes him a minute to say this. His eyes wobble unfocusedly. “You know? He noticed the hieroglyphs.”

“Scott, listen.” I grab him again by the shoulders and again he screams and I have to let go. “Think now. Think hard. You’re not making sense. What happened? With my father? Is he hurt? Where is he?”

Scott looks at me as if he were seeing six people.

I’m probably taking a big chance. I don’t know the result of combining alcohol with shock. And anybody can see that Scott’s in shock. This guy may be dangerous. Also, in dangerous condition. The hand that grabbed me by the wrist is vibrating. His eye-pupils, when they stop revolving, are tiny. His breathing jerks; he’s cold.

I feel around him to his back pants pocket.

If he were his usual self, he’d decide I’m getting personal.

I find his silver flask and pull it out and shake it to be sure there’s something inside. Then I unscrew the cap and hold the flask to his lips.

He drinks. For a minute he seems moderately grateful. After that he subsides back into his rocky cradle, muttering religious remarks.

So I grab him by the ankles and get rough. “Scott. Come on. Get it together, shape up, focus. WAKE UP.” I don’t ask, Are you a man or a mouse; our Manor lecture implied that Taser is pretty vicious.

“Where is my dad?” I ask.

“Why, here I am,” a voice announces. It’s my father’s voice, and it indeed belongs to my father, who is walking down the passageway from the blue skull alcoves. He does this almost silently; he’s had years of investigating passageways where if you coughed you could destroy priceless evidence or bring the roof down on you. He emerges, pad, pad, delicate as an old cat, and looking pretty alert and catlike, come to think of it. There are a few flakes of plaster on his jacket. I start rushing at him and he pauses. “My dear, have you been looking for me?”

I stumble and half fall and pick myself up and stumble further to embrace him. “Where were you? How are you? Are you hurt? . . . Oh, good lord, let me look at you . . .

“Why couldn’t I find you?” I ask after a minute.

“Quite amazing, the construction here,” he says, brushing off his shoulder. “Scott, are you better? I think you were feeling poorly.”

“Listen, Daddy. Concentrate. What’s happening? Did you eat anything? You didn’t, did you? Where were you?”

“You know,” he says contemplatively, “I don’t know what he was thinking about. But there are passageways behind some of those places. The blue chambers where the relicts are.”

“The alcoves with the skulls,” I interpret. “Sure. Oh, right. I should have thought . . .” I’m pretty incoherent. “One of them has an aperture behind it.”

“A passageway. Small. But I climbed down it. Of course, it was very tight. But I don’t mind that.”

I remember, from experiences at the Manor, that Daddy really enjoys exploring small confined areas. Back to basic archaeology, discovery, the thrill of the birth channel.

Scott is sitting up now. “That was really smooth of you, Ed. You figured it out and got out. And I got really zapped here. That bitch Bunny. He told her to; she’s a genuine minion of his. I feel godawful.”

Daddy is solemn. “You were hurt.”

“And you noticed them,” Scott says. “The hieroglyphs. What an idiot I was. What an idiot all along. Stupid, stupid, jerk, jerk. Carla, it’s all been a fraud.”

I’m trying to juggle six subjects at once. Scott is probably the enemy, but it’s hard to think that of someone who’s calling himself a jerk. “Hieroglyphs?” I ask. I want to get back to the subject of my dad, and why he was hiding, and whether he’s in danger now. But both he and Scott are fixed on this hieroglyph idea.

I look around. There are hieroglyphs on the wall painting, but those aren’t the ones Scott’s aiming at. He’s watching the upper layer of the sarcophagus. At first I want to object that there’s no writing there, and then I see that there is. Scratches, really. Just the way Daddy said when he saw Marcus move. Scratches around the lip of the top container. They don’t look at all as if they were part of the design. They look like amateur defacement. Like graffiti. The kind of defacement kids do. The kind that somebody inscribes in wet cement. “KM loves MK.” And so imperfectly done that I can see it only from certain angles.

I bend my head and squint and finally see a whole row. Yes, hieroglyphs, and yes, I can make out one word.

“Adore,” I say. The figure for
adore
is easy for a nonscholar to remember. It looks like a wine bottle with a TV aerial sticking out of it. It’s usually for describing one’s feelings about a god, as in, “Oh, great one whom I adore.”

It says, “The woman whom I adore,” my dad announces.

“Jesus, I meant it. I really loved her,” Scott says. “I loved her; I was crazy about her; I put her in that sarcophagus. And then I wrote that inscription about it. And what a fool I am. I went along with this whole fraud and then I killed her. An accident, I guess. I thought it was. An accident, sure. What an idiot.”

“Idiot?” says a voice from somewhere underground. “No, Scott, no.
Idiot,
no, no. Turncoat? Yes. Or traitor? Yes, yes. Traitor to the ideals. The ideals of Egypt. To the spirit of Re and Horis and Amun and Anubis and the renewal at Thebes and . . .”

These sounds come from inside the rock; the person doing them must be marching down the passage toward us. The person—it’s a he, that’s a man’s voice—the person doesn’t move silently, like my dad. He sounds out, loud and muddled and bass-echoing, from deep inside somewhere, a booming bray of voice with a stony crunch of feet, rock bouncing and tinkling, everything reverberating. For a minute I think I know the voice, and then I think I don’t, and after that I’m lost. A ringing, declamatory tone belting out from some distant loudspeaker system.

And finally a figure emerges. Tall, ungainly, maybe a revelation from Marcus’s movie or a god detached from the fake Egyptian wall-mural. It teeters as if it’s on stilts. White garments flow around it. “Betrayal!” it says. “Betrayal, treason, infamy.” It wears a teetering gold crown.

Finally I recognize it. It’s Egon.

I’ve never seen Egon look like that.

I’ve never heard him sound like that, either.

How long has he been in the passage?

He marches forward, spacing his rocking steps. What you’d call measured. His garment is voluminous, white-pleated; he sports a five-tiered gold and turquoise jeweled collar. Both the collar and the robe look regally Egyptian although the robe is a woman’s costume. A queen’s probably. I think it came from a display upstairs.

Underneath everything I can see Egon’s usual suit and shirt.

He’s balancing a tray. There’s something on the tray that skids around but doesn’t slide off. Maybe a small silver bottle.

“Scott!” he booms, as if he’s just discovered him. He balances forward. “I’ve brought you a drink. A suitable drink. Designed for a traitor. A dispatch toward ignominy. For someone who deserts his cause. Not Roman, though, no, no, not noble Roman, not in any way, more African than Egyptian. But perfect for you. I’ve brought a friend with me; she’s right behind me; here she is . . .”

He turns to aim himself and his crown toward the passageway. And Bunny appears there, framed by the arched exit, shuffling out, looking sturdy and ordinary in her usual guard’s uniform. Her face is stolid; she fixes her small squinty eyes on Egon.

“Well, sh-oot,” she says.

“My friend here,” Egon says, gesturing at Bunny, “will disable you. She has the appropriate measures. And then we will administer. Probably pour it down your throat. A corrosive substance . . .”

I’ve been surprised by all this, the kind of surprise that zaps you speechless for a while, but now I’m beginning to come to.

My dad stands off to the side, holding on to one of the peripheral pillars. Scott is still disabled in his rock cradle, his back against the sarcophagus pillar. I am standing in front of the sarcophagus, probably with my mouth ajar.

The scene is ridiculous, insane, unreal. Maybe if I shake my head, the entire outrageous prospect will disappear. I say, “Egon, what in hell is happening; what’s the matter; why are you dressed like that; it’s dramatic but really, really weird . . .”

As I’m talking, I can see I’m not having any effect. Egon’s face is unmoving. Not to mention strange. It’s decorated with makeup, a heavy line around each eye, lipstick, an orange bar down the forehead and across the nose. He blinks as if there’s too much light. He clears his throat.

“Scott”—still in his loudspeaker voice—“we will complete it. Your work of corruption. Your very own work of self-corruption. My drink will demolish your guts, bleed you out through your eyes, through your eyes and ears, your bowels will deliquesce into stinking red decay, you’ll writhe in agony on this floor. This floor which you have so desecrated. Because you are a turncoat, an apostate, a renegade . . .” Egon stops to draw a deep breath. He stands with his head back, his crown wobbling and his tray held aloft. He’s going to start talking again in a minute.

Bunny slouches against the wall of the passageway. Is it possible that she’s chewing gum?

“My friend”—Egon gestures at Bunny—“will disable you. She has an effective tool. And I . . .” He sets the tray down on the roof of the sarcophagus. Yes, the tray has been balanced on top of a gun, he’s holding that; it’s clutched in his right hand. A big gun, shiny, black, and effective-looking. “I have a weapon. There are so many of you.”

He aims the gun at my father. His voice moves into a combination of stentorian and whiny. “I truly did not count on so many. These duties. They pile up. They mount so tediously . . . Stop that!” This is to Scott, who has started to move. “I will have her hit you. Or I will hit you. Hers will paralyze, mine will kill.” He sighs loudly. “I will have to shoot you.”

 
 
Scott is trying to get away from him. But Scott still can’t stand up. He moves himself over the rocky floor, but doesn’t travel far. He says—his voice sounds okay, wobbly but also somewhat stentorian, like Egon’s—“You’re stark raving crazy. Totally nuts. I’ve known it for a while.”

Scott is eight million percent right, but I have the feeling this isn’t the best approach. “Egon.” My own voice squeaks out from some far-distant place. “Are you going to do a ceremony?”

I swallow and breathe and try again. “A cleansing ceremony? A repositioning ceremony?” I’ve never heard of a repositioning ceremony, but it’s a good idea. Especially if Egon will need to think about it.

“And you,” Egon says, still stentorian, still to Scott, “are a murderer.” His body is pointed at Scott, although the gun in his hand travels back and forth across all of us. Egon handles the gun easily, as if he’s familiar with it. “A murderer. A cowardly one. Killer. Killer of the woman you loved. But you didn’t have the courage to do the act and then be proud. Not a liberator. But that is what I am. I am a liberator . . .”

Then, “A ceremony?” he says, jolting slightly. He acts as if my words have just reached him on a delayed mail delivery. “No, I didn’t think of a ceremony. Not until now. A ceremony is always good. Always helpful. Elevating. I think she would approve.

“My sainted grandmother, Kirsten.” He supplies this like a footnote.

“She is always with me, of course.” He’s addressing me now. I’ve been promoted to being his audience. “She’s with me, at my side, guiding me. She directs my hand. She stands behind when I decide. The decision is mine. But it’s also hers. Her ba flew in my window. It is blue and striped and entirely beautiful and I knew totally that everything that has happened was right. She told me so. She said, ‘The judgment of Osiris has arrived. Villainy and treason surround you; the air is thick with them, but you have the duty of liberating . . .’ ” He pauses for a minute. “Were we talking about a ceremony?”

I just say, “Yes.” I don’t make a speech. I’m beginning to be anxious about this ceremony.

My father speaks. “A ceremony, Egon? Surely purification is needed. Before performing it. It seems so confused and hot down here.”

Egon aims his gun at him. He says, “This old man needs an ankh in his mouth. He knows too many things.”

“Truly,” Daddy says. “I am so sorry to say it. My memory is bad these days. But you know, I don’t think you can perform a ceremony. When it’s so confused. It won’t come out right.”

“You are blathering.” Egon’s face is bright red. His gun hand wobbles.

“It is really too bad,” Daddy says, shaking his head.

“This old man—this evil old man—has been watching from his corner. He is an extraneous force.” Egon hawks loudly; he has something caught in his throat.

“You evil old force”—he points himself at my dad again—“I contained you. Took care of you. Reined you in, made you helpless for a while. And the sheriff helped. He helped a lot—he contained you, too. And I surrounded you. And magicked you. And the ba of my sainted grandmother—she intervened. Why are you still here? You aren’t supposed to be on this side. Not on this side of the river.”

He turns toward Bunny at the passageway. His crown slides down, half over one eyebrow. “Bunny, yes. The time, I think, yes. The time is now. The time for action. Perhaps both of us together. You can aim and I can aim. Both at the same time. It is necessary to counteract him. He’s an evil force . . . All together, you and I, yes . . .”

He moves his head in Bunny’s direction. He doesn’t even look at her. He wants her to shoot and he will shoot, too.

Several things suddenly happen simultaneously. Scott wrenches and scrambles himself to his feet. I, who used to practice aikido moves with Rob, fling myself at Egon bodily, aiming my right shoulder at the arm holding the gun.

I unbalance Egon. He staggers backward into the middle of the room.

Bunny produces, from somewhere in the back of her clothing, a very large Buck Rogers-type weapon. She says, “Well, crud.”