Beautiful Sacrifice: A Novel

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Hunter was entirely too quick, or she was too easy to read. Or both.

  “The fifth photo fits with the time frame and ceremonial theme,” Lina said, sticking to what she knew rather than what she feared or desired. “The censer appears to be clay, beautifully crafted so that the incense smoke would seem to be pouring from the mouths of gods.”

  “Looks like snakes to me.”

  “The feathered serpent was a common Maya theme. If the censer was originally found with the other objects—”

  “Unknown.”

  “—the assumption would be that you have the trove of a high priest or a king.”

  “You keep saying priest or king,” Hunter said.

  “The English language makes the distinction. There is no proof that the Mayan language did. From all we have learned, it appears that nobility supplied the priest-kings. The duties, if they were separate at all, overlapped so heavily as to make a distinction meaningless.”

  “I love it when you go all academic on me. Such a contrast to your—” Abruptly Hunter closed his runaway mouth.

  Lina raised one dark, wing-shaped eyebrow.

  “Off the subject,” he said. “I’m a man. My thoughts sometimes wander.”

  She didn’t ask where they went. She knew. And she liked it, which confused her. He had strong-armed her into helping him, but she wasn’t as mad as she should be. He was flirting with her, and she liked it way too much. She’d slapped down less aggressive males without a thought.

  Hunter took thought.

  “The Maya believed that a god’s words could be seen in smoke, in dreams,” she said.

  “Drug-induced?”

  “Perhaps. Peyote enemas are a documented archaeological reality, as are mushroom and other psychotropic substances. But there are other ways to induce visions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Pain. Enough pain, enough self-bloodletting, can cause what Western people label hallucinations and Maya called communication with the gods.”

  The part of herself that was instinctive, bone-deep, knew that the censer in the photo had been used in just such rituals.

  “I wonder what the gods told him,” she said softly.

  “Him? What about women?”

  “Maya weren’t, and aren’t, much for equal opportunity between sexes. A Maya queen could never ascend the throne unless she was pregnant and her husband was recently dead.”

  “So women weren’t part of ritual ceremonies?” Hunter asked.

  “The queen was, and perhaps the wives of the highest nobles. A female let blood through her tongue. Knotted twine was pulled through a vertical cut.”

  “Ouch.”

  “They were a visceral people. And are today. Only the ceremonies change. Not that the Maya lacked intellectual accomplishments,” Lina added quickly. “Their mathematical system understood the necessity of a zero. The fact that their numerical system was based on twenty rather than ten makes it difficult for us to fully understand and appreciate. Our problem, not theirs. Their astronomy was superb, the equal of any world culture.”

  “You admire them.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “The more I know, the more there is to admire.”

  Not touching that one, Lina thought. He will not suck me into a world of double meanings.

  “The last photo,” she said, forcing her thoughts away from Hunter’s temptations, “is as incredible as the cloth bundle. Perhaps more so.”

  “I’m ready.”

  Lina barely resisted the temptation to check out the fit of his jeans.

  Focus, she told herself.

  It was hard.

  Like him.

  “This.” She cleared her throat and tried to remember all the reasons she should be angry with him. But breathing in his male scent, sensing the muscular warmth of this body, made anger as impossible as her attraction to Hunter Johnston. “This is as unique as the cloth bundle.” She let the photo of a mask draw her in and down, back into a past that was as fascinating as it was lost. “Maybe more unique. If it’s real.”

  “Looks real to me.”

  “Frauds are real, too,” Lina murmured.

  “Are you saying that the mask is a fraud?”

  “I’m saying that I can’t be sure until I’ve examined it under a microscope for machine marks.”

  “Somebody killed to keep its secrets,” Hunter said. “Assume it’s real.”

  “Killed?”

  “The driver. Maybe others. Life is cheap.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Or me.” An echo of Suzanne’s death twisted through him, scraping his soul. “We’re creatures of our culture. Other cultures, other creatures.”

  “Assuming this is real,” Lina said, “it’s the single most extraordinary artifact I’ve ever seen. Obsidian is rare in the Yucatan, though not in what became Mexico.”

  “So the object isn’t from the Yucatan?”

  “Trade was commonplace. The Maya had huge canoes that ferried merchandise along the Gulf and around the Yucatan peninsula. I’ve seen a fragment of a mask so intricately inlaid with obsidian that the artifact was a complex mosaic of black with silver-gold light turning beneath. But I don’t see any sign of inlay in this photograph of the mask, just a solid, unbroken surface.”

  “Could it have been made of a single chunk of obsidian?” he asked.

  “If you’re asking if obsidian comes in pieces this large, yes. I’ve seen obsidian boulders as big as a car. But…”

  Hunter waited. He was good at it.

  “The time and effort that would go into flaking and polishing a piece of obsidian into a mask is extreme,” she said finally. “Obsidian is friable, it shatters. It’s very difficult to make it smooth.”

  Like your skin, Hunter thought, leaning close again. Smooth.

  “Making this would be the same as taking a ragged hunk of glass the size of a washing machine and slowly working it into a mask the size of a human face,” Lina said, breathing him in, wanting him to understand just how astonishing the mask was. “Chipping, flaking, grinding, polishing. Starting all over with a new chunk when something came apart. Big pieces of obsidian have natural flaws that make the material fracture in surprising ways.”

  He watched her with eyes the silver blue of a glacier beneath the sun, framed in the darkness of a winter past.

  A woman could get lost in those eyes. Lina felt a shiver go over her at the thought. She tried to believe that it was fear, not desire, cold rather than heat. But she had been curious about Hunter for too long, and he was so close to her now.

  “The Chinese worked jade,” Hunter said. “Some pieces took generations to finish. It’s not impossible that the Maya did the same.”

  “No,” she said huskily, “it’s not impossible.” But you are, Hunter Johnston. You’re the most impossible thing about this whole situation.

  Lina forced herself to look away, to concentrate on the obsidian mask, volcanic glass lovingly worked and polished until it shone like a gold-tinted mirror beneath the harsh flash used to take the photo. Hunter’s like that. The surface isn’t what is important.

  “Lina?” he asked.

  Belatedly she realized that she was looking at him again, falling into darkness and light.

  “The central part of the mask is human,” she said, her voice low. “The eyes are heavy-lidded, half open. The nose is a blunt blade of nobility, the cheekbones high and broad, the mouth a grim slit of judgment. This is a god on the brink of a catastrophic temper tantrum.”

  “Not a gentle god.”

  “The Maya revered the jaguar, a climax predator. If tenderness was valued, we’ve seen little indication of it in their religious-civic art.”

  “Sounds like the Yucatan I know and love,” Hunter said dryly, thinking of his last assignment. Being a courier in a kidnap-ransom scheme wasn’t his favorite job, but it brought a lot of money into the family business. And saved lives. Sometimes. If he was very lucky, very careful.

  �
��Do you know the Yucatan?” Lina asked, surprised.

  “Better than most, not as well as you do. What are these things along the edges?” he asked, pointing to the mask. As he touched the photo, it shifted, making it seem alive, breathing, waiting.

  “Symbolic feathers or flames or even lightning. It’s difficult to tell against the flash.” As Lina spoke, she typed into her notebook. “These are very vigorous symbols, incised and brought into relief. Delicate and vivid, polished to the same hard gleam as the face itself. See the drill holes that would hold cord or leather, allowing it to be fastened to a man’s head? Amazing, incredible artisans created this.”

  Hunter watched her profile, a more feminine, much more elegant echo of the mask.

  “Imagine this in torchlight,” Lina said. “It would be inhuman, terrifying, awesome in the original sense of the word. It’s clearly a ceremonial piece, but who wore it? For what purpose? It must have been traded for, but why and when?”

  She made an exasperated sound and smacked her palm on the desk.

  Hunter waited.

  “This is maddening,” she said. “Without context, my questions can’t be answered. I might get a chemical analysis and be able to match the obsidian to the original quarry site, but that’s such a tiny part of this mask’s history. To date it, I would need to know where it was found, in what layer of dirt, with what other objects or signs of habitation. All I have is this photograph.”

  Hunter noted the flush of temper darken her high cheekbones. The lady had passion. It was part of what attracted him to her. Then he watched anger fade into something close to puzzlement.

  Silence stretched.

  “What?” he asked.

  She flinched as though she’d forgot he was there. “I’m not sure. I feel like I’ve seen something similar to this, but I can’t remember where or when. The shining…” She smacked the desk again with her palm. “Damn the grave robber who cared more about money than knowledge!”

  “Grave robbers are poor. Only the endgame is rich.”

  She blew out a hard breath. “I know. I spent most of my childhood running barefoot through villages that depended on my family’s generosity for food, clothing, everything but water. And sometimes even that. I didn’t understand then. I just laughed and played with the village children while Philip and their fathers dug through the jungle, seeking Maya heritage.”

  “You can’t eat heritage.”

  The air-conditioning kicked on, a cool breath settling over the office.

  Suddenly Lina looked defeated. She shook her head. “I know. If my child was hungry, I’d be in the front line of grave diggers, shoveling hard.”

  His hand squeezed her shoulder, lingered.

  “So would I,” he said. “Tell me more about Maya and masks.”

  She looked into his silver-blue eyes and saw shadows. She knew he understood loss at a level as deep, even deeper than hers. She tried to remember why she should be angry with him.

  She couldn’t.

  “Masks,” she said, gathering herself. “Masks were an integral part of Maya rituals. The nobles/priests wearing them would take on the aspects of the god whose mask they wore, or the god would speak through the mask wearers. Either or both.”

  “I don’t think the news coming from that obsidian mask would be good.”

  “All masks are fearsome to some degree, because the gods are fearsome. But this one gives me chills.”

  Yet I know this mask.

  Or will.

  A movement at the ground-level window caught her attention. Whatever it was vanished before she could focus. Just like all the other times she’d looked over her shoulder, feeling watched.

  “You okay?” Hunter asked.

  “Yes,” she said automatically, even as her instincts shouted no.

  Hunter’s phone vibrated against his butt. A text had just come in. He fished out the device, hit the button, and read Jase’s message: NEED U. NEW INFO.

  “I have to go,” Hunter said, gathering up the photos and stuffing them into their envelope.

  “But—” she began.

  “For now, you’ll have to work from your notes,” he cut in. “I’ll call as soon as I’m free. Have something good for me.”

  The office door closed behind Hunter before she could say anything. The man moved like a cat.

  Then she remembered why she was mad at him.

  With a muttered word, Lina booted up her big computer and went to work. It wasn’t like she had a lot of choice, after all.

  And if she kept telling herself that, she might not have a case of rapid pulse every time he came near her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WHEN HUNTER LEFT THE MUSEUM BUILDING, HE DIDN’T notice the rising, oddly dry heat of the day. His long legs moved with deceptively lazy speed as he covered ground to the parking lot where he had left his beat-up Jeep. As he walked, he speed-dialed Jase’s number.

  “What’s up?” Hunter asked as soon as Jase answered.

  “While you were sniffing around the sexy professor, I reviewed those warehouse tapes until my eyes started to bleed.”

  “I was working, not sniffing,” Hunter said. A half-truth.

  “Nice work if you can get it. I found something interesting.”

  So did I, Hunter thought as he slid into the Jeep with its open windows and canvas cover. Her skin smells like cinnamon.

  “One of the nights covered on those security tapes,” Jase said, referring to the digital record that got wiped every three weeks, “the custodian made an extra trip through the warehouse. Other than that, he was as regular in his rounds as a robot.”

  “Huh.” Hunter turned the key. The engine started instantly. Only the exterior looked careless. Every working part was better than new. “You at my apartment?”

  “Yeah, I don’t want Ali to suspect that anything’s wrong, that I didn’t take the bus as usual to work. Can you pick me up? It’s Ali’s shopping day.”

  “Buses are a pain,” Hunter agreed, “especially with kids and groceries.”

  “And pregnant.” There was a smile in Jase’s voice, the sound of a man who was pleased with his woman.

  “On my way,” Hunter said.

  A few minutes later he pulled to a stop in front of his apartment building. Jase was waiting, dressed in jeans, sandals, and a clean blue shirt whose sleeves were already rolled up against the heat. A light wind jacket made an unnecessary layer, which told Hunter that Jase was carrying.

  “How close did the janitor get to the stuff?” Hunter asked as Jase slid into the passenger side of the Jeep.

  “That’s tough to tell. The recording devices are only triggered by movement. Some of the guys had complained about that and the lack of enough cameras to cover every angle, but the brass blew it off.”

  “Cameras cost money. Where we going?”

  As Jase told Hunter the address, the Jeep poked out into city traffic. People and faces flowed by on all sides, shades of pale sliding into rich mahogany. Cowboy hats were common, whether they were made of leather or felt or straw.

  “The janitor could’ve spent a few minutes in the area where the artifacts were,” Jase said. “I could see him come and go on the record, but not exactly what he did. That whole aisle wasn’t covered well.”

  “Budget is a bitch. Is this a regular janitorial guy?”

  “He’s on the crew, more or less checks out. But get this, he’s taken a few days of unannounced vacation, starting about three days ago.”

  Hunter’s eyebrows lifted. “Interesting.”

  “Yeah. So let’s go knock on his door, ask a few questions.”

  “How’d you get the address?”

  “Usual way.”

  “A warrant?” Hunter asked.

  “Ha-ha. I told the head of PR of DeWatt Industrial Solutions that he could talk to me or I’d come back with a warrant for his personnel files, checking so-called Social Security numbers against government databases.”

  “Oh. That usual way. Thoug
ht you weren’t supposed to show your badge.”

  “Brubaker can sit on it and spin.”

  Hunter smiled. “You do know where the address is?”

  “Dirtbag central,” Jase said.

  “Just so you know.”

  “Why do you think I wanted company? Going in there solo would be stupid. My mama didn’t raise no stupid kids.”

  When Hunter finally beat his way through traffic to the address, he was glad he and Jase were bilingual. In this area, English wasn’t even a second language.

  “I get to be the bad guy,” Hunter said as he parked the Jeep.

  “You always get to be bad.”

  “People look at your big brown eyes and trust you with their firstborn.”

  Jase grinned. “I always knew you were jealous. Serves you right for those icy Anglo eyes.”

  Hunter parked along the cracked, dirty curb a block away and half a block down a side street. Bits of paper trash lifted on the occasional breeze. With an automatic motion, he pulled the Jeep’s key, shoved it deep in his front pocket, and got out. He didn’t need to worry about locking up. Most of the time there was nothing inside the Jeep but dirt from both sides of the border. No radio, no antenna, no tire iron, no tools, no baggage. Nothing worth stealing.

  A few minutes later Jase studied the two-story apartment building. “Hard to imagine it new.”

  “Instant slums, built to sag and lean and rust overnight.”

  “Bet the rooms smell like mildew on a good day, cat piss the rest of the time.”

  In the heat, the smell reached right out to the curb.

  “Tell me this is the wrong address,” Hunter invited.

  “I never lie to you.”

  “What about the blonde, the redhead, and the Siamese twins?”

  “What about them?” Jase asked.

  Hunter shook his head and walked around the broken glass security door that hung drunkenly, allowing wind, dirt, and anyone who was interested into the hallway beyond. Inside, an aggregate concrete stairway held up by rusty iron gave access to the second floor. Every step was broken, cracked, or both. A ragged pyramid of Tecate cans stood unevenly off to one side of the bottom step, waiting to fall.