His partner, Morris, sat down lightly beside him.
“This is bullshit,” said Bulke. “Day’s almost over, and we’re still at it. There’s nobody up here.”
Morris, who never saw the point in disagreeing with anybody, nodded.
“Lemme have another shot of that Jim Beam.”
Morris slipped the hip flask from his pocket and passed it over. Bulke took a slug, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, passed it back. Morris took a delicate sip himself and slid it back in.
“We shouldn’t be working at all today,” said Bulke. “This is supposed to be our day off. We’re entitled to a little refreshment.”
“That’s the way I look at it, too,” said Morris.
“You were smart to bring that along.”
“Never go anywhere without it.”
Bulke glanced at his watch. Four-forty. The light filtering in through the skylights was slowly dying, the shadows deepening in the corners. Night would be coming soon. And with this section of the attics undergoing repairs and currently without electricity, that meant switching to flashlights, making their search all the more annoying.
Bulke felt the creeping warmth of the whiskey in his gut. He sighed heavily, leaned his elbows on his knees, looked around. “Look at that shit, will you?” He gestured at a series of low metal shelves beneath the eaves, filled with countless glass jars containing jellyfish. “You think they actually study this crap?”
Morris shrugged.
Bulke reached out, fished a jar off the shelf, took a closer look. A whitish blob floated in the amber liquid, amidst drifting tentacles. He gave the jar a quick shake; when the turbulence settled, the jellyfish had been reduced to swirling shreds.
“Broke into a million pieces.” He showed the jar to Morris. “Hope it wasn’t important.” He issued a guffaw and, with a roll of his eyes, shoved the jar back onto the shelf.
“In China, they eat ’em,” said Morris. He was a third-generation museum guard and considered he knew a great deal more about the museum than the other guards.
“Eat what? Jellyfish?”
Morris nodded sagely.
“Frigging Chinese’ll eat anything.”
“They say they’re crunchy.” Morris sniffed, wiped his nose.
“Gross.” Bulke looked around. “This is bullshit,” he repeated. “There’s nothing up here.”
“The thing I don’t get,” Morris said, “is why they’re reopening that tomb, anyway. I told you how my granddad used to talk about something that happened in there back in the thirties.”
“Yeah, you’ve been telling everybody and his brother about that.”
“Something real bad.”
“Tell me some other time.” Bulke glanced at his watch again. If they really thought there was something up there, they would have sent cops—not two unarmed guards.
“You don’t think the killer dragged the body up here?” Morris asked.
“No way. Why the hell would he do that?”
“But the dogs—”
“How could those bloodhounds smell anything up here? The place reeks. They lost the trail down on the fifth floor, anyway—not up here.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“I am right. As far as I’m concerned, we’re done up here.” Bulke rose, slapped the dust off his butt.
“What about the rest of the attics?”
“We did ’em all, don’t you remember?” Bulke winked.
“Right. Oh, right. Yeah.”
“There’s no exit up ahead, but there’s a stairwell back a ways. We’ll go down there.”
Bulke turned, began shuffling in the direction from which they’d come. The attic corridor wandered up and down, so tight in places that he had to turn sideways to get through. The museum consisted of dozens of separate buildings joined together, and where they met the floor levels sometimes differed so greatly they had to be linked by metal staircases. They passed through a space filled with leering wooden idols, labeled Nootka Graveposts; another space filled with plaster casts of arms and legs; then yet another filled with casts of faces.
Bulke paused to catch his breath. A twilight gloom had descended. The face casts hung everywhere on the walls, white faces with their eyes closed, each one with a name attached. They all seemed to be Indians: Antelope Killer, Little Finger Nail, Two Clouds, Frost on Grass…
“Think all these are death masks?” asked Morris.
“Death masks? What do you mean, death masks?”
“You know. When you’re dead, they take a cast of your face.”
“I wouldn’t know. Say, how about another shot of Mr. Beam?”