J Rain - The Mummy Case

It was after hours and we were with Sylvester. Jones T. Jones was chain smoking. Wet rings circled his armpits. For the ninth time, I told him to breathe and not to get his hopes up.

“This feels right,” he said for the tenth time.

If I had told him that I suspected Sly was really a woman and I had proof that her name was Bertha, Jones would have said the same thing: this feels right.

“Well, don’t get your hopes up,” I said.

“Too late, they’re up. Way up. Besides, I’ve lived my whole life with my hopes up. I’m not afraid to get them dashed every now and then. Getting your hopes dashed builds character.”

“Then this might be a character-building exercise.”

“So be it,” he said. “I enjoy living life with my hopes up. Keeps me out of therapy and off of the mood-enhancers.”

It was after eight p.m. The store was closed for the night, and most of the lights were out. I was keenly aware that I was currently being watched by about two dozen shrunken heads. Rubber, granted. But shrunken nonetheless. And I was keenly aware that I was standing in front of a very dead man. One of the deadest men I had ever seen. Hell, if I wasn’t so tough, I might have been nervous.

“This store gets creepy at night, huh?” said Jones. Perhaps he was a mind reader. Or perhaps he saw me look nervously over my shoulder.

“Hadn’t noticed,” I said.

“We hear voices at night, you know. And sometimes we show up in the morning and the displays are knocked over.”

“Maybe it’s mice.”

Jones wasn’t listening. “Say, do you investigate the paranormal as well?”

“No.”

“Too bad, I could have thrown some more work your way.”

“More publicity for the store?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said. Jones was shameless. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get more customers in through those doors.”

“Even make up ghost stories.”

“If I have to,” he said. “But these are real.”

“Sure,” I said. “Now help me move this.”

And so we spent the next few minutes turning the display case away from the back wall. Soon, Jones was gasping for air, which was funny since I was the one doing all the work.

“That’s good,” I said.

Jones’s skinny body was crowding me. I glanced at him over my shoulder.

“Sorry.” He took a step back, but I could still feel his hot breath on my neck, which smelled a little like chicken wings and tobacco.

For some reason, my stomach growled.

Jones jumped. “You hear that?”

“That was my stomach,” I said.

“Oh,” he said, but inched closer to me anyway.

We had already moved the heavy Plexiglas case away from the wall. Ignoring Jones, I stepped around the case and examined Sly with a handy pen flashlight I kept on my key chain.

Before me, the dead man’s back looked like the surface of some bizarre, distant world, complete with gullies and basins and arroyos. The splotchy skin, which looked shrink-wrapped to his bones, rippled in corrugated waves, giving the impression of perpetual motion, which was kind of ironic for a man frozen in place for all eternity.

I stepped closer, raised the flashlight up to Sly’s shoulder.

My breath fogged on the glass before me. Next to me, Jones’s own breath came quicker and faster. He was either going to climax or have a heart attack. I wasn’t sure which would be worse.

Exposure to the elements had caused many irregularities in Sly’s skin. One such irregularity was near his left shoulder blade. It was about an inch long. A tear in his mummified flesh.

No, not a tear. It was a clean cut.

An unhealed knife wound.

I stepped carefully around the display case and looked the dead man in the eyes, or what was left of his eyes.

“Howdy, Boonie,” I whispered. “It’s been a long time.”

I returned from my two-hour lunch break in time to see three men kick open my office door. Actually, one of them was doing the kicking; the other two hung back, crowding the upstairs iron railing. All were wearing stylish cowboy hats with the brims rolled into uselessness. Two of them were holding pistols.

Their backs were to me. I had been climbing the exterior stairs, coming up along the side of the building. My building is L-shaped. My office is located on the top floor in the nook of the L. They hadn’t seen me, and to keep it that way, I strategically stopped climbing.

Now with the door kicked open, they looked a little confused. Maybe they thought I had been hiding inside, cowering with fear. The one doing the kicking stuck his head inside the door. He popped back out and motioned the others to follow. As they spilled into my office, I climbed the rest of the stairs two at a time and removed my pistol and entered behind them.

They were all big men, broad shouldered, wearing jeans and tee shirts. I glanced down. My doorjamb was demolished.

“Turn around and I’ll shoot,” I said.

They flinched, and one considered turning. I drew a bead on him. But then he thought better of it and froze. Best decision of his life.

“Good boys. Now the two goons are to bend down slowly and set their guns on my office carpet. Ignore the sorry condition of the carpet. And, yes, that’s a bloodstain in the center of the room. Don’t ask.”

They did as they were told. And they didn’t ask.

“Okay, this next part could get tricky, and really depends on how coordinated the goons are. I want them to sort of kick their guns back to me without turning.”

They were both coordinated enough, kicking back their guns with their first try, although the one on the right stumbled a bit. The guns skittered to a stop next to me, and I kicked them into the far corner of the office. Actually, considering the size of my office, the far corner really wasn’t that far.

I stepped around the three men and slid into my leather chair behind my desk. I held my gun loosely in front of me.

“Everyone empty your wallets,” I said.

“What?” said the third man. He was quite a bit older than the two goons. Not to mention he looked vaguely familiar. He’d recently had some plastic surgery done. His cheeks were as taut as two Samoan war drums.

“I need some cash to fix my door,” I said. “Unless you would prefer I call the police?”

They started for their wallets.

“Not so fast. One at a time. You, on the left.”

“Me?”

“No, my left.”

“Who, me?”

“Yes, you. You first. Nice and slow.”

He reached back and slowly removed a fat wallet.

“Good, now drop it on my desk.”

He did so, and I went through this routine with the others. I next removed a total of two hundred and eight-two dollars. Then, using my scanner, I made copies of all three of their licenses. “For my records,” I said, grinning.

I tossed back the wallets and studied the photocopied licenses before me. The two young thugs were brothers; the older man was the father.

“You’re running for a House seat,” I said, recognizing the name.

Tafford Barron looked sick to his stomach, sweat running down his too-smooth face. His sons’ names were Jack and Bartholomew. Both were just a little older than I was, although certainly not as handsome.

“Which one’s Bartholomew?” I asked.

The one on the right-my right-nodded. “I am.”

“What do you think of your parents naming you Bartholomew?”

He shrugged. “Don’t mind it so much.”

Tafford said, “Look, can we get on with this, I have things to do today.”

I looked at the older Barron. “Like putting together a campaign to run for Congress?” I asked. “Or more breaking and entering?”