Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) Read Online Free Page A

into irrelevancy as genetic modification becomes the norm, a mummy, various cursed artifacts and, of course, a jackalope mount. I could trump this place 10 times over with what’s hidden in the crawlspaces and within the floorboards of my apartment, but it isn’t half bad, either.
    Missing, however, is the “ Epic CREATURE FROZEN in a Block of ICE!!!” advertised on the posters outside, a beast so mysterious it cannot even be found in the short hallways of the museum. A few others take note of this discrepancy, too, voicing their dissatisfaction to whomever is listening. But only the jackalope responds, howling away with animatronic glee.
    I knew those things weren’t real.
    I wouldn’t put it past a place like this to advertise a feature it didn’t actually have. How many suckers do those posters outside pull in? My bullshit detector is overheating in this cramped museum. Time to leave.
    The corner of my eye catches something unusual as I head toward the door, which is to say it’s rather mundane. A sign on one of the walls reads, “CLOSED.” It’s framed neatly in the center of a rectangular patch of wall not cluttered with forgeries and fraud that resembles the outline of a door. I doubt anyone else noticed it, but this is the dividend of a mind on overload, subconsciously scanning for breaks in patterns.
    I walk to the wall and place my hand on the CLOSED sign while pretending I’m interested in strip of fender from James Dean’s last ride. My hand gives the sign a push. The wall doesn’t give way completely, but there’s enough play to suggest there’s a hinge somewhere inside the wall.
    This is a door.
    Before I can investigate further, I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder.
    “Can I help you?” a voice says from behind me.
    I turn to see a woman with a vague resemblance to Hillary Clinton looking back at me, right down to the pantsuit. I know right away who she is, and the timing couldn’t be better.
    “Actually, yes. I’d like to speak to the owner,” I say.
    “You’re looking at her,” the woman says. She shakes my hand. It’s a well-rehearsed handshake. I get the feeling she worked in corporate America before buying an eccentric museum for shits and giggles for her retirement hobby. “Hillary Carter. What can I help you with?”
    Called the first name correctly. Not too bad.
    “Yeah, the sign outside said something about a creature frozen in a block of ice. Doesn’t seem to be here, though,” I say.
    “You were on the right track,” Hillary says. She points at the CLOSED sign. “Unfortunately, the exhibit is closed for maintenance. I’d be happy to refund part of your ticket price.”
    I don’t believe either part of that, including the refund. You can keep the $3.
    I point a thumb back at the sign. “Nah, that’s OK. What’s with the hidden passageway?”
    Hillary starts to say something but stops. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” she says.
    “Baker,” I say. “Chase Baker.”
    “Baker, ah, yes, well, a pleasure to meet you,” Hillary says. She stumbles on her words as if she’s running my name through her memory. “You see, Mr. Baker, our centerpiece exhibit is highly valuable, and we take certain precautions to keep out any unwarranted activity.”
    Yep. Corporate America.
    “Do you know when the exhibit will be back open?” I say.
    “It depends, but we’ll make an announcement on our website. Do you know the address?” Hillary says.
    How could I not? It’s plastered on every free inch of space in here.
    “I know it,” I say. “Must be some maintenance you’ve got going on behind that door.”
    Hillary nods in reservation. “You have no idea.”
    My curiosity keeps me in the game, and this conversation is no different. Our talk isn’t ending here.
    I stop Hillary before she turns to give the same speech to another gaggle of irked patrons.
    “I happen to be in the maintenance business myself,” I say. If I had a business card, I’d be handing it