NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • An archaeological expedition digging where it shouldn’t ... A crown so powerful it is rumored to be cursed ... And the one man who can explain it all ... Deep in a nearly impassable swamp south of the Egyptian border, an archaeological team is searching for the burial chamber of King Narmer, the fabled pharaoh. Narmer's crown might be buried with him: the elusive "double" crown of the two Egypts. Amid the nightmarish, disorienting tangle of mud and dead vegetation, strange things begin to happen. Could an ancient curse be responsible? Jeremy Logan, history professor and master interpreter of bizarre and inexplicable enigmas, is brought onto the project to investigate. What he finds raises fresh questions ... and immediate alarm Don't miss Lincoln Child's new thriller, Chrysalis ! “Lincoln Child’s novels are thrilling and tantalizing.” — Vince Flynn "By mixing fact and fiction as well as science and the occult, Lincoln Child once again has created an offbeat thriller that is both exciting and thoughtprovoking." -- The Free Lance-Star "Bestseller Child ( Terminal Freeze ) more than succeeds in making a mummy's curse terrifying in this superb supernatural thriller...Child evokes fear through understatement...Readers will hope to see more of [lead character] Logan in a sequel." --Publishers Weekly (starred review) "Ample gadgetry, New Age soul-shifting, and pyrotechnics sufficient to employ a stable of stuntmen when brought to film: Child’s newest is the sort of thing to delight all those who got wrapped up in The Mummy. Think, a Dan Brown-ian adventure amongst Pharaohs ready with a pocket full of curses." -- Kirkus "Its characters are well drawn, and the mystery is nicely handled, keeping readers guessing as to whether something supernatural is going on here. Of the author’s solo novels, this could be the best so far." --Booklist LINCOLN CHILD is the New York Times best-selling author of Terminal Freeze, Deep Storm, Death Match, and Utopia , as well as coauthor, with Douglas Preston, of numerous New York Times best sellers, most recently Fever Dream . He lives with his wife and daughter in Morristown, New Jersey. 1 Three Years Later Growing up in Westport, currently teaching at Yale, Jeremy Logan thought himself familiar with his home state of Connecticut. But the stretch through which he now drove was a revelation. Heading east from Groton—following the e-mailed directions—he’d turned onto US 1 and then, just past Stonington, onto US 1 Alternate. Hugging the gray Atlantic coastline, he’d passed Wequetequock, rolled over a bridge that looked as old as New England itself, then turned sharply right onto a well-paved but unmarked road. Quite abruptly, the minimalls and tourist motels fell away behind. He passed a sleepy cove in which lobster boats bobbed at anchor, and then entered an equally sleepy hamlet. And yet it was a real village, a working village, with a general store and a tackle shop and an Episcopal church with a steeple three sizes too large, and gray-shingled houses with trim picket fences painted white. There were no hulking SUVs, no out-of-state plates; and the scattering of people sitting on benches or leaning out of front windows waved to him as he passed. The April sunlight was strong, and the sea air had a clean, fresh bite to it. A signboard hanging from the doorframe of the post office informed him he was in Pevensey Point, population 182. Something about the place reminded him irresistibly of Herman Melville. “Karen,” he said, “if you’d seen this place, you’d never have made us buy that summer cottage in Hyannis.” Although his wife had died of cancer years ago, Logan still allowed himself to converse with her now and then. Of course it was usually—though not always—more monologue than conversation. At first, he’d been sure to do it only when he was certain not to be overheard. But then—as what had started as a kind of intellectual hobby for him turned increasingly into a profession—he no longer bothered to be so discreet. These days, judging by what he did for a living, people expected him to be a little strange. Two miles beyond the town, precisely as the directions indicated, a narrow lane led off to the right. Taking it, Logan found himself in a sandy forest of thin scrub pine that soon gave way to tawny dunes. The dunes ended at a metal bridge leading to a low, broad island jutting out into Fishers Island Sound. Even from this distance, Logan could see there were at least a dozen structures on the island, all built of the same reddish-brown stone. At the center were three large five-story buildings that resembled dormitories, arranged in parallel, like dominos. At the far end of the island, partly concealed by the various structures, was an empty airstrip. And beyond everything lay the ocean and the dark green line of Rhode Island. Logan drove the final mile, stopping at a gatehouse before the bridge. He s