The Lucifer Sanction Read Free Page B

mist.
Fellini’s voice was fearful. “What are they?”
“Don’t move,” Drummond barked, raising a hand.
“There could be some type of deterrent.”
“What?” Fellini quivered. “You think a rain of
arrows will shoot across from the walls.”
Craig Drummond glanced at the Blick man, “Oh,
we have a movie fan here, do we? You think protection like
that couldn’t be in effect here, Fellini?” There was no reply.
The doctor stretched a hand toward the darkness. “If you’re
so curious, go on ahead – be my guest.”
*****
    Drummond took a cautious step backward, nodded
at the three box-like objects and gesticulated for the reporter
to move on, but Fellini held his ground.
    “They’re sarcophagi,” Drummond said.
“This will make you famous,” Mateo murmured.
Drummond hesitated, relished the word – famous.
“Go ahead, laddie, role your bloody camera, for the record,
as you said . . . for posterity.”
    Fellini’s camera recorded the setting as the three
sarcophagi became more visible through the settling mist.
Drummond made his way to the nearest container
bearing the name Robert Campion. The doctor hesitantly
worked a screwdriver around the perimeter of the casket,
eventually separating the lid from its base. He took a
nervous step back as a hissing vapor escaped.
The thought of arrows shooting from walls was
now farthest from Fellini’s mind. The Blick man cautiously
moved a little nearer as the doctor motioned to Mateo and
Portman to come and help.
“Doctor, you sure it’s safe?” Portman asked. “The
mist coming from the casket . . . could it be toxic, something
like King Tut’s tomb?”
Drummond waved a hand through the haze and
warily sniffed his fingers. “Hmm, good point, laddie. It
appears to be some kind of formaldehyde. Don’t be worried,
I’ve smelled similar during preservation research back in
Glasgow.” He nodded at the lid. “I need you strong lads to
lift this, lift it slowly, keep the opening as level as possible,
just a wee bit at a time.”
Drummond took in Portman’s fear, and passed him
an assuring shrug. “It’s only preservative, don’t be worried,
watch what you’re doing now lad. Lift gradually, a wee bit
at a time.”
Portman countered with a thin smile while Mateo
gave a look of resentment as he sheepishly stepped forward.
They raised the lid and eyeballed the mist as it hissed from
the chamber.
Mateo lost his balance, staggered back, allowing
the lid to slip from his grasp. It clattered to the floor and
came to a rest at their feet. Drummond flashed his beam
into the casket and caught his first glimpse of the remains
of a medieval clad occupant.
Fellini recorded the surroundings with the mania
of a Cecil B. De Mille. Drummond, somewhat amazed by
Fellini’s over enthusiasm, gave the reporter a peripheral
glance.
But then, there was that carrot, Mr. Pulitzer,
dangling mere inches from the Blick man’s lens.
A trickle of fear ran through Drummond’s veins.
He put on a brave face while trying to believe his own
formaldehyde theory. He moved nearer, focused his
flashlight on the near skeletal remains of the medieval
figure. He took a pencil, moved it to the edge of a front
tooth. “Look at this,” and he tapped on the tooth with the
tip of the pencil. “It’s a crown.”
“This eh . . .” and he took a closer look at the
nameplate, “. . . this Robert Campion, he had better teeth
than me,” Fellini said, as he tightened the shot. “I thought
medieval teeth were decay ridden.
This guy has great
teeth.”
And Fellini could taste his Pulitzer.
Drummond moved to the second container, set the
screwdriver down and stretched a hand to Fellini. “Pass me
your flashlight. I see a skeletal hand in here; looks like it’s
clutching a sword.”
“Mother of God, who are they?” Mateo asked.
Drummond removed his glasses, wiped them on
the edge of his neck cravat, leaned forward and studied
the nameplate on the