The Red Pyramid -1 Read Online Free PDF Page B

trench coat who'd been arguing with Dad across the street--he'd said something about the Per Ankh.

    Had he meant ankh as in the symbol for life, and if so, what was a per? I supposed he didn't mean pear as in the fruit.

    I had an eerie feeling that if I saw the words Per Ankh written in hieroglyphics, I would know what they meant.

    I put down the picture of Mum. I picked up a pencil and turned over one of my old homework papers. I wondered what would happen if I tried to draw the words Per Ankh. Would the right design just occur to me?

    As I touched pencil to paper, my bedroom door opened. "Miss Kane?"

    I whirled and dropped the pencil.

    A police inspector stood frowning in my doorway. "What are you doing?"

    "Maths," I said.

    My ceiling was quite low, so the inspector had to stoop to come in. He wore a lint-colored suit that matched his gray hair and his ashen face. "Now then, Sadie. I'm Chief Inspector Williams.
    Let's have a chat, shall we? Sit down."

    I didn't sit, and neither did he, which must've annoyed him. It's hard to look in charge when you're hunched over like Quasimodo.

    "Tell me everything, please," he said, "from the time your father came round to get you."

    "I already told the police at the museum."

    "Again, if you don't mind."

    So I told him everything. Why not? His left eyebrow crept higher and higher as I told him the strange bits like the glowing letters and serpent staff.

    "Well, Sadie," Inspector Williams said. "You've got quite an imagination."

    "I'm not lying, Inspector. And I think your eyebrow is trying to escape."

    He tried to look at his own eyebrows, then scowled. "Now, Sadie, I'm sure this is very hard on you. I understand you want to protect your father's reputation. But he's gone now--"

    "You mean through the floor in a coffin," I insisted. "He's not dead."

    Inspector Williams spread his hands. "Sadie, I'm very sorry. But we must find out why he did this act of...well..."

    "Act of what?"

    He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Your father destroyed priceless artifacts and apparently killed himself in the process. We'd very much like to know why."

    I stared at him. "Are you saying my father's a terrorist? Are you mad?"

    "We've made calls to some of your father's associates. I understand his behavior had become erratic since your mother's death. He'd become withdrawn and obsessive in his studies, spending more and more time in Egypt--"

    "He's a bloody Egyptologist! You should be looking for him, not asking stupid questions!"

    "Sadie," he said, and I could hear in his voice that he was resisting the urge to strangle me.
    Strangely, I get this a lot from adults. "There are extremist groups in Egypt that object to Egyptian artifacts being kept in other countries' museums. These people might have approached your father. Perhaps in his state, your father became an easy target for them. If you've heard him mention any names--"

    I stormed past him to the window. I was so angry I could hardly think. I refused to believe Dad was dead. No, no, no. And a terrorist? Please. Why did adults have to be so thick? They always say "tell the truth," and when you do, they don't believe you. What's the point?

    I stared down at the dark street. Suddenly that cold tingly feeling got worse than ever. I focused on the dead tree where I'd met Dad earlier. Standing there now, in the dim light of a streetlamp, looking up at me, was the pudgy bloke in the black trench coat and the round glasses and the fedora--the man Dad had called Amos.

    I suppose I should've felt threatened by an odd man staring up at me in the dark of night. But his expression was full of concern. And he looked so familiar. It was driving me mad that I couldn't remember why.

    Behind me, the inspector cleared his throat. "Sadie, no one blames you for the attack on the museum. We understand you were dragged into this against your will."

    I turned from the window. "Against my will? I chained the curator in his office."

    The