“Get what you need. I’ll get snacks, water, and trail food. And party hats.” He smiled at her. “We’ll change in the gas-station restrooms after I get fuel.”
She looked startled. “We aren’t going back to your uncle’s house?”
“Depends on Crutchfeldt.”
Lina tilted her head and watched him with unblinking, bittersweet-chocolate eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“If he gives us a good lead, we’ll work it wherever it goes,” Hunter said. “If somebody picks up our trail, we’re on the next plane to Cozumel. Keeping you safe is my first priority. Finding who’s after you is second.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GROUND FOR BUILDING ON SOUTH PADRE ISLAND WAS scarce—protected wetlands thrived on one side and the ocean on the other. Simon Crutchfeldt’s house was built on enough land for a small subdivision. The two-story faux Georgian clashed with the wild tangles of scrubland that surrounded all but the ocean side of the estate. The manicured lawn looked as improbable as big boobs on a skinny woman. The tall, showy rows of sabal palms lining the approach and clumped artfully around the house looked plastic.
In north Houston, the estate would have been right at home. On Padre, it was slightly ridiculous.
“Sometimes money doesn’t talk,” Lina said. “It screams.”
Hunter drove up the long drive and parked his Jeep in an area set aside for guests. Beyond a waist-high hedge of gardenias there was a pool set in several acres of landscaping and tilework. Although it was just after nine, their host had told them to look for him there.
“I’m along for the ride,” Hunter said, turning off the Jeep and pocketing the key. “You just pursue your area of interest and don’t pay attention to Mr. Harold Kerrigan. That’s me.”
“Is Mr. Kerrigan the strong, silent type?” she asked, smiling.
“Yeah. But if I start coming on like a middleman for a collector with an agenda, you be your usual shocked, upright academic self. I’m just a guy you’ve dated once or twice and you’re really pissed off. That way, if the ivory tower ever gets wind of this charade, you’ll be covered.”
“You make me sound like a prig.”
“Caesar’s wife, sweetheart. ‘Prig’ is the first word in the job description.”
Lina didn’t like it, but said nothing. Hunter was hardly the first person to notice her determined respectability in all things archaeological.
They climbed out of the Jeep and headed toward the pool area. Like everything else about the estate, the pool was oversize, made of hand-set tiles, and surrounded by greenery more suitable to Hawaii than Padre. Tropical flowers made the air dense with perfume.
“Mr. Crutchfeldt has never heard of too much of a good thing,” Hunter said in a low voice. “Including the man himself.”
A huge human lump of white and tan lay on a mahogany chaise along the turquoise pool. He wore white cotton shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, also cotton. The buttons had been undone over his stomach, revealing a swath of tanned and hirsute flesh.
“Carpet doesn’t match the drapes,” Hunter muttered.
Lina looked from the body bristling with gray hair to the very dark hair on Crutchfeldt’s head. His Panama hat was perched rakishly in a style more suited to Indiana Jones than Indy’s father. Crutchfeldt was a thoroughly senior citizen chasing a youth he was never going to catch.
“Good morning,” Crutchfeldt said, rising and buttoning his shirt. He had the voice of a man who liked to talk, supple and able to go for hours without needing a break. “Lina, it’s so good to finally meet you in the flesh. Your mother talks often about your expertise.” His big hands engulfed hers. “And who is your…friend?”
Lina introduced “Harold Kerrigan” while trying to get her hands back without being insulting about it. Despite the heat of the day, Crutchfeldt’s hands were cool, almost clammy. She wondered if he had some kind of circulatory problem. It could explain why he spent so much time in the sun.
“It’s good of you to interrupt your day to show us your collection,” Lina said, tucking her hands in the pockets of her cargo shorts.
“Oh, my pleasure, dear. It’s always nice to share conversation with someone who can appreciate the, ah, peculiarities of my little hobby.” Crutchfeldt’s smile was as oversize as he was.
Hunter smiled back amiably. He’d met Crutchfeldt’s type before, big and overbearing, teeth like an all-white concert piano’s keyboard. Some of those men had been vain and stupid. Crutchfeldt might be vain, but he wasn’t stupid. His blue eyes watched the world with sharp, predatory intelligence.
Maybe this won’t be a complete waste of time after all, Hunter thought.
“I’m guessing that you both would prefer to chat inside, yes? One man’s paradise is another’s overheated hell. Follow me, if you please.”
Crutchfeldt didn’t wait for their agreement. He led them at a brisk pace up a wide, paved walkway toward large double doors hanging open to the sun and heat.
The entryway was dry and cool, illuminated only by indirect sunlight and a row of small windows just beneath the line of the ceiling. Pottery was arrayed on pedestals along either side of the gallery-size hallway.
Lina didn’t need the discreet brass plates to know that the artifacts were pre-Columbian, Maya, mostly of highland origin, and worthy of a wing in anyone’s museum. The intricacy and balance of the blackware vases were riveting. Each one told a story of a king’s rise and fall, glyphs highlighted in red pigment leading from one to another to yet another, whispering of a past beyond her reach. But not beyond her yearning.
Lina kept falling farther and farther behind as Crutchfeldt led the way down the hall. The quality of the artifacts fascinated her. The thought of sunlight from the open doors and high windows accidentally touching them made her wince inside.
Why is Crutchfeldt displaying these pieces so recklessly? Not even a velvet rope or a UV-glass case to shield them.
And yet, the very lack of pomp and boundaries made the artifacts all the more remarkable. They existed as they had been created to be, nothing between the eye and the object.
Reluctantly Lina admitted that such a method of display was brilliant, even if it made her academic soul flinch.
“Something to eat or drink?” Crutchfeldt asked, watching Lina.
The expression on his clean-shaved face was that of a cat being stroked. Though Lina hadn’t said a word, she obviously was entranced by the hallway artifacts.
“No, thank you,” she said without looking away from the glyphs detailing the triumph of Sky Macaw over Jaguar Lily Pad. The vase was staggering, with just enough imperfection and wear to make it genuine. “We’ve imposed on you enough simply by being here.”
Crutchfeldt smiled as Lina’s gaze was drawn back to the vases. This smile was less flashy, more real.
“These are extraordinary,” she said, gesturing around the hall. “Highland Maya. Late Classic. A few Terminal Classic. Just…incredible. I’ve never seen such quantity and quality.”
“Lifetimes of passion,” Crutchfeldt said. “My family has been exploring and collecting Maya goods for almost two hundred years.”
Convenient, Hunter thought sarcastically. Predates any antiquities laws in the world. Provenance? No problemo, your honor. My great-greats brought it home for Christmas.
Lina wanted to say that these pieces belonged in a museum, open for scholarly study, as well as the awe of people who barely understood the meaning of the word “Maya.” But she bit her tongue. Her thoughts, however, were uncensored by the rules of civility.
I can’t believe these pieces are all legitimate exports. Mexico would want some of them for its own museums.
“I’m surprised you got export permits for goods of this quality,” she said before she could stop herself.
Crutchfeldt’s laugh was loud enough to rattle pottery. “My dear, even leaving aside the long collecting history of my family, everything has a price, and every person. Surely your mother taught you that?”
Lina managed a noncommittal sound and hoped Crutchfeldt didn’t notice how still she was. “I spent more time at the digs with my father. My, uh, passions were closer to his.”
“They are very much appreciated,” Crutchfeldt assured her. “Without people like you and your father, I’d find very little worthy of being added to my collection. And your mother, of course. A shrewd businesswoman after my own heart.”
Does he mean to be insulting? Lina asked herself. Or, like Philip, does he see the world only through the prism of his own desires?
“Lots of stuff,” Hunter said casually. “Is this it?”
Lina looked at him in disbelief. Stuff?
Then she realized that he was deflecting attention, giving her time to rein in her temper.
“Sorry about staring at the blackware,” Lina said. “I don’t mean to be rude.”
“My dear, your fascination is a compliment of the most truthful kind. Whenever you’re ready…” He gestured toward the room opening off the hall.
“I’ll never be ready,” she said honestly, then bit her lip.
Crutchfeldt gave her a smile, the genuine kind. “Such open interest is as fascinating to me as the artifacts are to you.”
Hunter watched. Yeah, lap it up, you bastard. Innocence and honesty are rarer in this house than sunshine in hell.
But Hunter was a better poker player than Lina. He hid his response to the fact that the artifacts compelled him almost as much as they did her. He also hid his antagonism toward Crutchfeldt. Instead, Hunter let himself soak in the artifacts. There was something heady about being in the presence of so much beauty from a time and a place that would never come again. He didn’t have Lina’s detailed knowledge of the artifacts, but he shared her visceral appreciation of them.
“Of course, openness and acquisition don’t always walk in each other’s footsteps,” Crutchfeldt said.
Hunter watched the man watching Lina. Crutchfeldt’s voice was casual, but his glance was probing her as intently as a dental pick looking for decay.
Don’t let him rattle you, sweetheart, Hunter thought urgently.
She kept staring at the artifacts.
“I’m sure,” Crutchfeldt added, “that you understand how easily reputations can get tarnished when dealing with artifacts today.”
Lina waved her hand without looking away from a magnificent blackware vase.
Hunter allowed himself to breathe. Lina knew the game Crutchfeldt was playing. She didn’t like it one damn bit, but liking wasn’t part of the game. Staying in it was.
“Acquisition is such a delicate process,” Crutchfeldt said. “Naturally, everything I have purchased since the onslaught of antiquities laws has been well documented and watermarked by all necessary authorities.”
“Of course,” Lina said absently.
Hunter knew her well enough to understand that she was speaking through clenched teeth. But her shoulders were relaxed, her stance outwardly casual as she turned toward her host.
“I only wish other collectors were as thorough as you are,” she said. “Celia has nothing but praise for your discrimination and finesse.”
Smiling, Crutchfeldt drew Lina into the larger room at the end of the hall. “Your mother is a woman of rare archaeological understanding and political expertise.”
Lina made a sound that said she was there.
Hunter watched from beneath hooded eyes. He wanted to hug her, to tell her she was doing a great job, but that wasn’t in the rules of the game they were playing.
Carefully Lina didn’t look at Hunter. Being civil to the odious Simon Crutchfeldt was like jamming splinters into her flesh. All that kept her from screaming at her smug host was the memory of bullets powdering concrete near her feet and the cruel intimacy of a man’s blood welling up between her fingers.
“You’ve barely looked at the headdress, my dear,” Crutchfeldt said. “It’s one of my most recent acquisitions from your mother.”
“I’m still…overwhelmed by the blackware,” Lina managed.
Dutifully she looked where her host was pointing. Her breath came in hard and stayed there, aching, until she thought she would explode.
The artifact was extraordinary. The wood, clay, and what were probably woven fastenings looked far too new to be as old as her gut said they were. The colorful feathers were frayed and brittle, possibly as old as what they decorated. The band of glyphs that would have wrapped around a priest’s skull were in the style of other finds from Reyes Balam lands.
What Lina could see of the glyphs told of power and prestige, nobility and the jaguar, god-smoke and knowledge. All that was missing was the distinct glyph signifying Kawa’il.
“Celia sold this to you?” Lina asked neutrally.
“She knew it would require a particularly discriminating buyer,” Crutchfeldt said.
His tone said that “discriminating” was another word for “unquestioning.”
Silently Hunter wondered why Crutchfeldt was baiting Lina. Perhaps it was simply because he could. Perhaps he had a more sinister purpose.
Servants moved behind them at the far end of the hallway, cleaning house and calling in soft Spanish to one another about church and children, faithless men and the need for more money.
Hunter hoped no one was armed, but assumed some of the faithless men under discussion worked as guards for their host. As much money as was on display here required guarding. And weapons.
“You haven’t seen this before?” Crutchfeldt asked Lina blandly, referring to the headdress. “Celia assured me it was from Reyes Balam land.”
“I don’t spend much time on the digs there anymore,” Lina replied. “The glyphs are correct for artifacts we’ve found in the past.”
“You’re certain.”
“As I’m sure you know,” Lina said, her smile all teeth, “glyphs are as much individual art as shared cultural meaning. Rather like Chinese calligraphy, in fact. Uniformity wasn’t prized. Elegance and originality were.”
Crutchfeldt tried to say something.
Lina didn’t let him.
“Each artist,” she said, “took commonly understood symbols and raised them to new levels of communication and beauty. Meaning becomes transformed according to the position of a glyph or the choosing of one glyph instead of others that had similar denotations but different connotations. A noble could be subtly mocked by his glyph artisan, yet the skill in execution was itself a compliment to the noble’s ego.”
Hunter wanted to high-five Lina. Crutchfeldt looked like a cat being stroked just right. Praise the artifact, praise the discriminating owner.
Crutchfeldt had an unusual appetite for appreciation.
“I admit I don’t really understand glyphs except at an aesthetic level,” he said, but his confidence belied his words. “The style on that mask is particularly pleasing to me. Celia assures me it is the hallmark of Reyes Balam goods.”
Hunter tried not to think about how prime it would feel to introduce Crutchfeldt’s smug face to the marble floor.
“The surviving priest-kings were blessed with the cream of the surviving artisans,” Lina said. It was her classroom voice, confidently neutral in the face of a student with an agenda.
“And the Reyes Balam family has been blessed with an industrious archaeologist and a politically astute businesswoman,” Crutchfeldt said.
Still digging for something, Hunter thought, disgusted. But he wasn’t worried about Lina. If she hadn’t lost her temper yet, he doubted she would.
Lina managed a nod that might be misunderstood as gracious. “Celia is an inspiration.”
“Yes, indeed,” Crutchfeldt said. “She understands that there are some collectors who value ownership more than legal hairsplitting in the name of artifacts that belong to a culture and time that predated today’s nations and absurd notions of ‘owning’ antiquity.”
With a sound that could have meant anything, Lina moved farther into the room. Crutchfeldt followed her like a yapping sh
adow. Hunter was two steps behind both of them, alert to any change in Lina’s demeanor in the face of the abundant, priceless artifacts. But she went through the room with the polite ruthlessness of someone who knew exactly what was in front of her and was looking for something else.
When Hunter finally became certain that none of the missing artifacts were in view, he decided to throw some reality into all the scholarly conversation and self-congratulation.
“If there were certain pieces that you’d heard rumors about,” Hunter asked, “where would you go looking for them?”
Crutchfeldt gave him a measuring look. “What kind of artifacts?”
“Late Terminal Classic. Yucatec,” Hunter said with a trace of impatience, and an accent that could only be described as worldly. “The real deal. Unique and bloody valuable.”
Crutchfeldt blinked and looked at Lina.
She looked back at him.
“Hmmm,” Crutchfeldt said. “Sometimes a collector simply wants a piece that will bind all the other pieces together. Take this mask.” He pointed to a clay mask beautifully inlaid with stone and shell. “This is a contemporary piece, bought and sold as such. Celia found it for me because she knew that I required just such a piece.”
Lina didn’t bother to hide her surprise. “She didn’t mention that she was handling modern art.”
“If she knows one of her very good customers is looking for a specific artifact and hasn’t yet found it on the market, she will sometimes find a modern version made to very exacting standards,” Crutchfeldt said. “The process requires proper tools, proper materials, and very skilled artisans.”
A sense of relief crept through Lina. She had noticed several artifacts in Crutchfeldt’s gallery whose condition was simply too good to be believed. Part of her had feared that her mother had been involved in fraud.
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