The Complete Kane Chronicles Page 2

  “Our plane was late,” I told her.

  She popped a bubble, rubbed Muffin’s head, and tossed the cat inside. “Gran, going out!”

  From somewhere in the house, Grandma Faust said something I couldn’t make out, probably “Don’t let them in!”

  Sadie closed the door and regarded me as if I were a dead mouse her cat had just dragged in. “So, here you are again.”

  “Yep.”

  “Come on, then.” She sighed. “Let’s get on with it.”

  That’s the way she was. No “Hi, how you been the last six months? So glad to see you!” or anything. But that was okay with me. When you only see each other twice a year, it’s like you’re distant cousins rather than siblings. We had absolutely nothing in common except our parents.

  We trudged down the steps. I was thinking how she smelled like a combination of old people’s house and bubble gum when she stopped so abruptly, I ran into her.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  I’d almost forgotten about the dude in the trench coat. He and my dad were standing across the street next to the big tree, having what looked like a serious argument. Dad’s back was turned so I couldn’t see his face, but he gestured with his hands like he does when he’s agitated. The other guy scowled and shook his head.

  “Dunno,” I said. “He was there when we pulled up.”

  “He looks familiar.” Sadie frowned like she was trying to remember. “Come on.”

  “Dad wants us to wait in the cab,” I said, even though I knew it was no use. Sadie was already on the move.

  Instead of going straight across the street, she dashed up the sidewalk for half a block, ducking behind cars, then crossed to the opposite side and crouched under a low stone wall. She started sneaking toward our dad. I didn’t have much choice but to follow her example, even though it made me feel kind of stupid.

  “Six years in England,” I muttered, “and she thinks she’s James Bond.”

  Sadie swatted me without looking back and kept creeping forward.

  A couple more steps and we were right behind the big dead tree. I could hear my dad on the other side, saying, “—have to, Amos. You know it’s the right thing.”

  “No,” said the other man, who must’ve been Amos. His voice was deep and even—very insistent. His accent was American. “If I don’t stop you, Julius, they will. The Per Ankh is shadowing you.”

  Sadie turned to me and mouthed the words “Per what?”

  I shook my head, just as mystified. “Let’s get out of here,” I whispered, because I figured we’d be spotted any minute and get in serious trouble. Sadie, of course, ignored me.

  “They don’t know my plan,” my father was saying. “By the time they figure it out—”

  “And the children?” Amos asked. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. “What about them?”

  “I’ve made arrangements to protect them,” my dad said. “Besides, if I don’t do this, we’re all in danger. Now, back off.”

  “I can’t, Julius.”

  “Then it’s a duel you want?” Dad’s tone turned deadly serious. “You never could beat me, Amos.”

  I hadn’t seen my dad get violent since the Great Spatula Incident, and I wasn’t anxious to see a repeat of that, but the two men seemed to be edging toward a fight.

  Before I could react, Sadie popped up and shouted, “Dad!”

  He looked surprised when she tackle-hugged him, but not nearly as surprised as the other guy, Amos. He backed up so quickly, he tripped over his own trench coat.

  He’d taken off his glasses. I couldn’t help thinking that Sadie was right. He did look familiar—like a very distant memory.

  “I—I must be going,” he said. He straightened his fedora and lumbered down the road.

  Our dad watched him go. He kept one arm protectively around Sadie and one hand inside the workbag slung over his shoulder. Finally, when Amos disappeared around the corner, Dad relaxed. He took his hand out of the bag and smiled at Sadie. “Hello, sweetheart.”

  Sadie pushed away from him and crossed her arms. “Oh, now it’s sweetheart, is it? You’re late. Visitation Day’s nearly over! And what was that about? Who’s Amos, and what’s the Per Ankh?”

  Dad stiffened. He glanced at me like he was wondering how much we’d overheard.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “I have a wonderful evening planned. Who’d like a private tour of the British Museum?”

  Sadie slumped in the back of the taxi between Dad and me.

  “I can’t believe it,” she grumbled. “One evening together, and you want to do research.”

  Dad tried for a smile. “Sweetheart, it’ll be fun. The curator of the Egyptian collection personally invited—”

  “Right, big surprise.” Sadie blew a strand of red-streaked hair out of her face. “Christmas Eve, and we’re going to see some moldy old relics from Egypt. Do you ever think about anything else?”

  Dad didn’t get mad. He never gets mad at Sadie. He just stared out the window at the darkening sky and the rain.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I do.”

  Whenever Dad got quiet like that and stared off into nowhere, I knew he was thinking about our mom. The last few months, it had been happening a lot. I’d walk into our hotel room and find him with his cell phone in his hands, Mom’s picture smiling up at him from the screen—her hair tucked under a headscarf, her blue eyes startlingly bright against the desert backdrop.

  Or we’d be at some dig site. I’d see Dad staring at the horizon, and I’d know he was remembering how he’d met her—two young scientists in the Valley of the Kings, on a dig to discover a lost tomb. Dad was an Egyptologist. Mom was an anthropologist looking for ancient DNA. He’d told me the story a thousand times.

  Our taxi snaked its way along the banks of the Thames. Just past Waterloo Bridge, my dad tensed.

  “Driver,” he said. “Stop here a moment.”

  The cabbie pulled over on the Victoria Embankment.

  “What is it, Dad?” I asked.

  He got out of the cab like he hadn’t heard me. When Sadie and I joined him on the sidewalk, he was staring up at Cleopatra’s Needle.

  In case you’ve never seen it: the Needle is an obelisk, not a needle, and it doesn’t have anything to do with Cleopatra. I guess the British just thought the name sounded cool when they brought it to London. It’s about seventy feet tall, which would’ve been really impressive back in Ancient Egypt, but on the Thames, with all the tall buildings around, it looks small and sad. You could drive right by it and not even realize you’d just passed something that was a thousand years older than the city of London.

  “God.” Sadie walked around in a frustrated circle. “Do we have to stop for every monument?”

  My dad stared at the top of the obelisk. “I had to see it again,” he murmured. “Where it happened…”

  A freezing wind blew off the river. I wanted to get back in the cab, but my dad was really starting to worry me. I’d never seen him so distracted.

  “What, Dad?” I asked. “What happened here?”

  “The last place I saw her.”

  Sadie stopped pacing. She scowled at me uncertainly, then back at Dad. “Hang on. Do you mean Mum?”

  Dad brushed Sadie’s hair behind her ear, and she was so surprised, she didn’t even push him away.

  I felt like the rain had frozen me solid. Mom’s death had always been a forbidden subject. I knew she’d died in an accident in London. I knew my grandparents blamed my dad. But no one would ever tell us the details. I’d given up asking my dad, partly because it made him so sad, partly because he absolutely refused to tell me anything. “When you’re older” was all he would say, which was the most frustrating response ever.

  “You’re telling us she died here,” I said. “At Cleopatra’s Needle? What happened?”

  He lowered his head.

  “Dad!” Sadie protested. “I go past this every day, and you mean to say�
��all this time—and I didn’t even know?”

  “Do you still have your cat?” Dad asked her, which seemed like a really stupid question.

  “Of course I’ve still got the cat!” she said. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “And your amulet?”

  Sadie’s hand went to her neck. When we were little, right before Sadie went to live with our grandparents, Dad had given us both Egyptian amulets. Mine was an Eye of Horus, which was a popular protection symbol in Ancient Egypt.

  In fact my dad says the modern pharmacist’s symbol is a simplified version of the Eye of Horus, because medicine is supposed to protect you.

  Anyway, I always wore my amulet under my shirt, but I figured Sadie would’ve lost hers or thrown it away.

  To my surprise, she nodded. “’Course I have it, Dad, but don’t change the subject. Gran’s always going on about how you caused Mum’s death. That’s not true, is it?”

  We waited. For once, Sadie and I wanted exactly the same thing—the truth.

  “The night your mother died,” my father started, “here at the Needle—”

  A sudden flash illuminated the embankment. I turned, half blind, and just for a moment I glimpsed two figures: a tall pale man with a forked beard and wearing cream-colored robes, and a coppery-skinned girl in dark blue robes and a headscarf—the kind of clothes I’d seen hundreds of times in Egypt. They were just standing there side by side, not twenty feet away, watching us. Then the light faded. The figures melted into a fuzzy afterimage. When my eyes readjusted to the darkness, they were gone.

  “Um…” Sadie said nervously. “Did you just see that?”

  “Get in the cab,” my dad said, pushing us toward the curb. “We’re out of time.”

  From that point on, Dad clammed up.

  “This isn’t the place to talk,” he said, glancing behind us. He’d promised the cabbie an extra ten pounds if he got us to the museum in under five minutes, and the cabbie was doing his best.

  “Dad,” I tried, “those people at the river—”

  “And the other bloke, Amos,” Sadie said. “Are they Egyptian police or something?”

  “Look, both of you,” Dad said, “I’m going to need your help tonight. I know it’s hard, but you have to be patient. I’ll explain everything, I promise, after we get to the museum. I’m going to make everything right again.”

  “What do you mean?” Sadie insisted. “Make what right?”

  Dad’s expression was more than sad. It was almost guilty. With a chill, I thought about what Sadie had said: about our grandparents blaming him for Mom’s death. That couldn’t be what he was talking about, could it?

  The cabbie swerved onto Great Russell Street and screeched to a halt in front of the museum’s main gates.

  “Just follow my lead,” Dad told us. “When we meet the curator, act normal.”

  I was thinking that Sadie never acted normal, but I decided not to say anything.

  We climbed out of the cab. I got our luggage while Dad paid the driver with a big wad of cash. Then he did something strange. He threw a handful of small objects into the backseat—they looked like stones, but it was too dark for me to be sure. “Keep driving,” he told the cabbie. “Take us to Chelsea.”

  That made no sense since we were already out of the cab, but the driver sped off. I glanced at Dad, then back at the cab, and before it turned the corner and disappeared in the dark, I caught a weird glimpse of three passengers in the backseat: a man and two kids.

  I blinked. There was no way the cab could’ve picked up another fare so fast. “Dad—”

  “London cabs don’t stay empty very long,” he said matter-of-factly. “Come along, kids.”

  He marched off through the wrought iron gates. For a second, Sadie and I hesitated.

  “Carter, what is going on?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “Well, stay out here in the cold if you want, but I’m not leaving without an explanation.” She turned and marched after our dad.

  Looking back on it, I should’ve run. I should’ve dragged Sadie out of there and gotten as far away as possible. Instead I followed her through the gates.

  C A R T E R

  2. An Explosion for Christmas

  I’D BEEN TO THE BRITISH MUSEM BEFORE. In fact I’ve been in more museums than I like to admit—it makes me sound like a total geek.

  [That’s Sadie in the background, yelling that I am a total geek. Thanks, Sis.]

  Anyway, the museum was closed and completely dark, but the curator and two security guards were waiting for us on the front steps.

  “Dr. Kane!” The curator was a greasy little dude in a cheap suit. I’d seen mummies with more hair and better teeth. He shook my dad’s hand like he was meeting a rock star. “Your last paper on Imhotep—brilliant! I don’t know how you translated those spells!”

  “Im-ho-who?” Sadie muttered to me.

  “Imhotep,” I said. “High priest, architect. Some say he was a magician. Designed the first step pyramid. You know.”

  “Don’t know,” Sadie said. “Don’t care. But thanks.”

  Dad expressed his gratitude to the curator for hosting us on a holiday. Then he put his hand on my shoulder. “Dr. Martin, I’d like you to meet Carter and Sadie.”

  “Ah! Your son, obviously, and—” The curator looked hesitantly at Sadie. “And this young lady?”

  “My daughter,” Dad said.

  Dr. Martin’s stare went temporarily blank. Doesn’t matter how open-minded or polite people think they are, there’s always that moment of confusion that flashes across their faces when they realize Sadie is part of our family. I hate it, but over the years I’ve come to expect it.

  The curator regained his smile. “Yes, yes, of course. Right this way, Dr. Kane. We’re very honored!”

  The security guards locked the doors behind us. They took our luggage, then one of them reached for Dad’s workbag.

  “Ah, no,” Dad said with a tight smile. “I’ll keep this one.”

  The guards stayed in the foyer as we followed the curator into the Great Court. It was ominous at night. Dim light from the glass-domed ceiling cast crosshatched shadows across the walls like a giant spiderweb. Our footsteps clicked on the white marble floor.

  “So,” Dad said, “the stone.”

  “Yes!” the curator said. “Though I can’t imagine what new information you could glean from it. It’s been studied to death—our most famous artifact, of course.”

  “Of course,” Dad said. “But you may be surprised.”

  “What’s he on about now?” Sadie whispered to me.

  I didn’t answer. I had a sneaking suspicion what stone they were talking about, but I couldn’t figure out why Dad would drag us out on Christmas Eve to see it.

  I wondered what he’d been about to tell us at Cleopatra’s Needle—something about our mother and the night she died. And why did he keep glancing around as if he expected those strange people we’d seen at the Needle to pop up again? We were locked in a museum surrounded by guards and high-tech security. Nobody could bother us in here—I hoped.

  We turned left into the Egyptian wing. The walls were lined with massive statues of the pharaohs and gods, but my dad bypassed them all and went straight for the main attraction in the middle of the room.

  “Beautiful,” my father murmured. “And it’s not a replica?”

  “No, no,” the curator promised. “We don’t always keep the actual stone on display, but for you—this is quite real.”

  We were staring at a slab of dark gray rock about three feet tall and two feet wide. It sat on a pedestal, encased in a glass box. The flat surface of the stone was chiseled with three distinct bands of writing. The top part was Ancient Egyptian picture writing: hieroglyphics. The middle section…I had to rack my brain to remember what my dad called it: Demotic, a kind of writing from the period when the Greeks controlled Egypt and a lot of Greek words got mixed into E
gyptian. The last lines were in Greek.

  “The Rosetta Stone,” I said.

  “Isn’t that a computer program?” Sadie asked.

  I wanted to tell her how stupid she was, but the curator cut me off with a nervous laugh. “Young lady, the Rosetta Stone was the key to deciphering hieroglyphics! It was discovered by Napoleon’s army in 1799 and—”

  “Oh, right,” Sadie said. “I remember now.”

  I knew she was just saying that to shut him up, but my dad wouldn’t let it go.

  “Sadie,” he said, “until this stone was discovered, regular mortals…er, I mean, no one had been able to read hieroglyphics for centuries. The written language of Egypt had been completely forgotten. Then an Englishman named Thomas Young proved that the Rosetta Stone’s three languages all conveyed the same message. A Frenchman named Champollion took up the work and cracked the code of hieroglyphics.”

  Sadie chewed her gum, unimpressed. “What’s it say, then?”

  Dad shrugged. “Nothing important. It’s basically a thank-you letter from some priests to King Ptolemy V. When it was first carved, the stone was no big deal. But over the centuries…over the centuries it has become a powerful symbol. Perhaps the most important connection between Ancient Egypt and the modern world. I was a fool not to realize its potential sooner.”

  He’d lost me, and apparently the curator too.

  “Dr. Kane?” he asked. “Are you quite all right?”

  Dad breathed deeply. “My apologies, Dr. Martin. I was just…thinking aloud. If I could have the glass removed? And if you could bring me the papers I asked for from your archives.”

  Dr. Martin nodded. He pressed a code into a small remote control, and the front of the glass box clicked open.

  “It will take a few minutes to retrieve the notes,” Dr. Martin said. “For anyone else, I would hesitate to grant unguarded access to the stone, as you’ve requested. I trust you’ll be careful.”

  He glanced at us kids like we were troublemakers.

  “We’ll be careful,” Dad promised.

  As soon as Dr. Martin’s steps receded, Dad turned to us with a frantic look in his eyes. “Children, this is very important. You have to stay out of this room.”