The Unspoken. Heather Graham

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      “I still say…”

      “That it’s ironic?” Logan asked. “I thought that, too, but then, not so much. Not really. When the original Sam Stone was filmed in the early forties, the sinking of the ship in Lake Michigan had occurred half a century earlier. A writer, one who was fascinated by Egyptology, would readily have seized upon a real priest for his story. I looked into it and found out that the original screenplay was by a man named Harold Conway—who was born in Chicago. He grew up going to the Field Museum and hearing stories about the Jerry McGuen. The priest’s actual mummy, with the inner and outer sarcophagi, as well as other treasures, went down with the ship. So our screenwriter would definitely have known about Amun Mopat, and he was obviously interested enough in the historical character to use him in a movie.”

      “Great,” Kat muttered.

      “Hey, it could be an M.E.’s dream,” he said.

      “A mummy? An anthropologist’s dream, not mine,” she retorted. “But…all right, so I’m to examine the body and try to discern if he died by natural means, or…”

      She let her voice trail off.

      They dealt with the unknown, the world that lay beyond the veil. Their “sixth sense.”

      But Logan had a point. In her experience, and in that of the others, they’d never come across a ghost or a curse that killed.

      It was human beings who killed other human beings.

      “They’re not expecting to find much left of the people who went down with the ship,” Logan was saying. “According to the records, there were no survivors, and no bodies rose to the surface—or none that were found or recognized. But I’ve read that time would have destroyed even their skeletons by now. Is that true?”

      Kat nodded. “Unless someone was caught in a sealed area, it’s unlikely that there’d be any remains. Time and sea creatures take their toll. They may find skeletal remnants, but only once they’re into the bowels of the ship.”

      “So, it really is one big watery grave.”

      “It does seem respectful to salvage what might be important to history and the living, and then let the ship itself stay where it sank, a memorial to those who were lost.”

      “I believe that’s the eventual plan.” Logan flipped a page in the file that lay before him on the table. “You won’t be alone,” he told her, grinning as if he’d read her mind. She wasn’t afraid of being alone, nor was she unaccustomed to the strange and unusual.

      “Oh?”

      “A member of the original Krewe is out there now. He happened to be visiting an old buddy in Chicago when this came down. You’ll meet up with him. His name is Will Chan. He’ll stop by to see Alan, Bernie and Earl this afternoon, and he has an appointment with the people at the Preservation Center bright and early tomorrow morning. He’ll meet you at the morgue at 10:00 a.m.”

      “Okay, but do I need to reach him first?”

      “No. Head straight to the morgue. Will’s going to catch up with you there.” Logan handed her the folder. “His contact information is in here. Between the two of you, we’ll have a good sense of what’s going on, be it too much enthusiasm by a diving historian—or a predator with an enthusiasm for murder. Oh, and Alan King has hired private security to guard the dive site.”

      “You can guard a dive site?”

      “I thought you were a diver?”

      “Yes, but I dive because I love it, not because I’m looking for lost treasures.” Kat offered him a wry smile. “I’ve seen salvage from the Titanic and the Atocha in museums. I never went looking for them. And I usually dive in nice warm water in the Caribbean or the Gulf.”

      “Salvage rights are complicated. Federal law says that all wrecks belong to the state that claims the waters. Depending on what’s found, ownership of artifacts and the wreck itself may wind up in court for years. But the Preservation Center did file papers for the right to dive and work on the wreck. However, it’s not the legal aspect that people worry about as much as the black market.”

      “Other divers stripping the site and selling salvage illegally?” Kat asked.

      “You can’t begin to imagine what can be bought and sold on the black market.”

      “Still…it’s got to be tricky, raiding a dive site.”

      “Yes, but it’s been done. Hence, the security.”

      “I guess so.”

      “You have gone diving in cold water, right?” he asked next.

      “Well, yes.”

      “Make sure you pack a good dive suit. I understand the water temperature ranges between fifty and sixty at this time of year, and I believe that’s kind of cold when you’re down there.”

      “I’ve never been in Lake Michigan.” Kat frowned. “And I’ve never been involved with the discovery of a wreck.”

      “See, you’re all excited now.”

      “Excited. Well…I’m not sure that’s the best word to describe how I’m feeling, not after we nearly lost Madison Darvil to Amun Mopat—or his look-alike!”

      “We knew that Amun Mopat wasn’t the killer. And we know that mummy isn’t swimming around planning to kill anyone who discovers the ship.”

      “We don’t know that anyone is killing people at all yet,” Kat said. “We’ve probably been asked in because Alan King is feeling a little worried—since his luck with documentaries hasn’t been so good lately.”

      Logan looked up at the skylight. Then he looked back at her. “No, we won’t know anything until you examine the body and get more information. Since Alan has hired private security near the site, hopefully no one else will be exploring the area and ending up dead while the situation is investigated. You’re booked on a 5:40 p.m. flight out of Burbank. You should be in a nice cozy room by midnight, and then tomorrow… I’ll be waiting to hear what you have to say.”

      “What if I can’t find the answer in the autopsy?” Kat asked him. “Or in anything else we’re able to examine?”

      “Then we’ll join you—and figure out where the answer does lie.”

      Kat nodded and sipped her coffee. The sun seemed to come out again and stream through the skylight overhead.

      “You have information on the ship, the sinking, the discovery of the tomb—all kinds of stuff—in the folder,” Logan said. “Along with info on all the principle players working on the discovery and preservation of Egyptian antiquities.”

      “Anything else?”

      He grinned. “Be glad it’s not the dead of winter?”

      * * *

      There was no keeping down a true scholar.

      Will СКАЧАТЬ