The Mummy Tomb of the Dragon Emperor by Max Allan Collins

bone?”
    O’Connell sought Evy’s eyes again and saw his wife was rolling them in “Oh, brother” mode. He had once again stuck his foot in it . . .
    “Son, that’s not what I meant . . .”
    Jonathan, who was more attuned to this conflict than he let on, changed the subject. “Listen, I’ll pick you up in an hour and we’ll go out and celebrate the New Year in style. What do you say?”
    Evelyn frowned at the back of her brother’s head. “Aren’t you going, Jonathan?”
    “My dear darling sister, I have seen enough mummies to last a lifetime. Make that a thousand lifetimes. And besides . . .” He nodded to the left. “. . . my favorite watering hole in Shanghai is just around the corner.”
    O’Connell made a face at his brother-in-law. “Jonathan, you already own your own bar.”
    “Ah yes,” Jonathan said, pulling in at the portico of the massive museum, whose lights were mostly off, “but what fun is it running up a tab on yourself?”
    Soon, Alex had led his parents into the rotunda of the museum, where the formality of the marble floor and massive, arched stained-glass windows were at odds with the work in progress. Crates of artifacts were stacked against the walls, and repair scaffolding lined either side of the vast chamber; a desk, presumably Roger Wilson’s, was scattered with books and other research materials.
    The Emperor’s memorial, discovered in the crypt of the tomb, resided under worklights in the midst of the rotunda, scaffolding forming an L around the monument’s platform. Almost as attuned to museum restoration as his highly trained wife, O’Connell could tell that the chariot, horses and cortege wagon—as well as the bronze statue of the Emperor himself—had been cleaned up considerably since his son discovered them.
    Alex pointed. “There he is—Er Shi Huangdi himself.”
    “They say,” O’Connell said, “that he was one evil son of a bitch.”
    Evy said, “Rick!” But she didn’t disagree.
    The three O’Connells strolled along the cortege wagon and chariot, taking it all in, and settled in front of the bronze steeds. Evy’s eyes were wide in a mixture of parental pride and historian’s interest. O’Connell, however, had an odd tingling feeling at the back of his neck, probably due to their proximity to a mummy, even if it was Chinese and not Egyptian.
    “Very impressive,” Evy said. She turned to her son, but she seemed like the youthful one, asking, “When do you get to open the sarcophagus?”
    Alex grinned. “After the official red tape has been cut. I can hardly wait.”
    O’Connell smirked. “The phrase rest in peace never really took with you two, did it?”
    They ignored him, Alex asking his mother, “So why don’t you stick around for the next few days? We can open the Emperor’s box up together . . . unless you have to get back to your new book.”
    She smiled wryly. “I would grasp at any excuse not to get back to my new book . . . but even without the benefit of avoiding work, I would like that very much. Very much indeed.”
    That obviously pleased Alex.
    O’Connell said, “Son, would you mind tracking down Professor Wilson? And tell him we’re here.”
    “Sure,” Alex said. “No problem.” Then he lifted an eyebrow and a forefinger at the bronze statue of the Emperor, then brought it over to the coffin. “Just don’t wake the old fella up while I’m gone. I know what you two are capable of . . .”
    Alex headed out, and Evy gave her husband a sharp look that meant Say something!
    So he did: “Hey, uh, Alex?”
    Alex turned. “Yes, Dad?”
    O’Connell patted the bronze rear end of the steed nearest him; he nodded toward the sarcophagus and the rest of the magnificent find. “This sure is something.”
    Alex just stared at him.
    “Big stuff,” O’Connell said awkwardly.
    “Right, Dad. Whatever you say.”
    And the boy went off.
    Alex was moving through the darkened hallway of the closed museum when he sensed something, and