Beautiful Sacrifice (14 page)
She looked at Hunter, trying to see if he understood.
He nodded. “What about Mercurio?”
“Possible, of course. But impossible to keep secret. Take the mask in your photo,” she said. “Even today, creating that from a piece of obsidian would take artisans of enormous sophistication a very long time to complete. No matter where you find those people, they will have friends, associates, competitors, whatever. Over time, that number of people can’t keep a secret. If the piece is machined, rather than handmade, the ‘secret’ is out as soon as someone who knows what they’re doing examines it under a microscope.”
“In other words, why bother?” Hunter said.
“Exactly. To me, that mask looks even more sophisticated than Aztec mask work, which is considered by many to be the zenith of the art.”
“Anything else?” Hunter asked.
“Your mask glowed and reflected like a smoking mirror, which is one interpretation of glyphs associated with priests of Kawa’il.”
Hunter whistled tunelessly. “And Kawa’il is a god of death. Then and now.”
“It makes a whacked sort of sense,” Jase said. “Cartels are always looking for an edge in the fear department. Living human sacrifices made to a god of death are scarier than the narco’s Santa Muerte cult with its ghosts and groans.”
“That’s a travesty of the original intention of sacrifice, literally to be made holy,” she said. “In the past, the ritual was an act of awe and reverence, a way to communicate with the gods, with the very structure of the Maya universe. Look at this piece of wood. Look with your mind and emotions as well as your eyes and experience.”
Jase and Hunter leaned closer, but it was Hunter’s warmth she felt.
“This”—Lina traced the glyphs in the wood, not quite touching the case itself—“is the radiance of the gods and their wisdom shared, brought to the Maya by a priest-king-god who climbed up from the earth wearing a mask like a smoking mirror, his very breath the exhalation of gods.”
Hunter’s eyes narrowed. He followed her words, her finger, her voice describing a sacrament rather than the barbarism of the basement in a crumbling stucco house.
“The carving is of dream serpents,” Lina said. “See the delicate tracery of individual feathers on the mouths of the beasts? The carver didn’t see these creatures as monsters in the modern sense of the word. They were guardians, keepers of knowledge that was sometimes bestowed upon the wise, the brave, the worthy.”
Jase grunted. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Hunter didn’t look up from the case. Lina’s voice curled around him, sank into him like smoke, like dreams.
“The central image,” Lina said softly, almost reverently, “shows a human figure emerging from the fanged mouth of a huge serpent. The man is astride its jaws, forcing it open from within. Instead of being consumed by the knowledge, he is escaping with it, returning to his people to share the teachings of the gods.”
Hunter unfocused his eyes just slightly, imagined light from fire rather than electricity…and felt his skin ripple in primal response.
“Now look below the escaping man,” she said, her voice low. “Look where his face is watching. His mouth is open and he’s speaking.”
With a frown, Jase tried to see Lina’s words in the artifact. He looked sideways at Hunter. His friend was rapt, intent, a predator scenting game.
“See the masked figure?” she asked, tapping lightly on the case over the glyph. “He is himself emerging from the ground like a flower, legs as roots in the soil below. He seems to be looking up. His face is covered in an elaborate and—to modern eyes—terrifying mask, with something like wings flaring out from the sides, displaying fantastic feathers. There is even a marking that seems to indicate light coming from this mask, subtle rays, almost like a reflection.”
“Is it the mask shining?” Hunter asked. “Or is something shining on him?”
“Professionally, I can’t be certain.”
“What about your instincts?”
She hesitated, then said, “I think the mask is made of something reflective.”
“Gold?” Jase asked instantly.
“Not even silver,” she said. “Wrong time, wrong place, wrong material. In fact, the more I look at it, the more I believe it represents something translucent enough to be shining from within.” She laughed. “Never mind. That’s my fancy, not my training. The point is, I think the wood might have originally been carved in Tulum, near our estates. There’s something about the style of the glyphs.”
“Where did you get it?” Jase asked.
“On loan from Mexico’s Museum of Anthropology. We’re dating it.”
Silently Hunter studied the piece, then tapped lightly on the case. “What is this? The man the snake is swallowing?”
“I think that figure emerging from the snake is handing his bestowed wisdom to the figure below,” she said. “My guess is it’s a priest of Kawa’il passing something to man.”
“The man with the mask and his feet in the underworld?” he asked, shifting his position, watching the wood.
“Yes. Look between the figures, where the wood is cracked.” She indicated a place where there was a wedge of wood missing, but pointed at a spot on the high side of it. “If you study this area, you can see the hint of something. Like a section of zigzag line.”
“So?” Jase asked.
“It’s not a glyph I recognize—too many straight lines. But it seems to represent something being passed from one side to another. Those kinds of transactions only go one way,” she said. “Gods to man.”
“The break looks very recent,” Hunter said. “The wood along the edges hasn’t had time to age. Did you use it for dating?”
“You have a good eye,” she said. “No, we didn’t—wouldn’t—break the wood. It came to us in that condition.”
Slowly Hunter nodded. “Wonder what’s on the missing piece.”
“Whatever was passing from the priest-king to his people,” she said. “Probably instructions on how to perform certain rituals.”
“Verbal?” he asked.
“Not according to the narrative I see. No smoke coming from his mouth or any common sign of speech.”
“Moses and the stone tablets,” Hunter murmured. “Could he be passing on written commands? Like a codex?”
“It would have to be one that postdates Bishop Landa, after the Spanish conquest.”
“Surviving that would be worth commemorating,” Hunter said.
Silently he and Lina stared at the wooden piece, awed by something Jase didn’t see.
“Okay. Shining mask and all the rest,” Jase said. “How does this get us closer to finding the artifacts?”
Lina frowned. “I guess it doesn’t. Not directly. I’m just trying to give you an idea of how profoundly rare something like the mask is. If the other artifacts you’re looking for were associated with the mask, then it’s the equivalent of someone sacking a great church and stealing the most sacred of religious objects.”
“Makes sense, if you’re trying to get a new religion off the ground,” Hunter said.
“Are you talking about another Maya revolt, like in the twentieth century?” she asked. “That didn’t end well for the natives.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time blood, politics, and religion mixed it up.” He turned to Jase. “I haven’t heard about anything beyond the usual millennial garbage. Have you?”
“I have a friend or two in Special Investigations. If this is real, it’d be special. I’ll make some calls.”
Lina looked at her watch. “I think Mr. Beaumont—”
“Jase,” he cut in.
“—Jase, needs to understand what’s available on the high end of the Maya artifact market in Houston today,” she said. “Without that understanding, it’s easy to miss something important.”
Jase grunted. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Sometimes knowledge is emotional,” Lina said. “I’m not always with you. And frankly, you have no particular feel for the artifacts you’re chasing. They transcend the word
special.
”
“She’s got you there,” Hunter said.
Jase sighed but didn’t argue. He looked at Lina. “I don’t have time to get a Ph.D. You got a quick fix in mind?”
“Sort of. Pre-Columbian Dreams is open. It’s a gallery just across from Shandy’s.”
“Legitimate?” Jase asked. “The gallery, not the restaurant.”
Lina shrugged. “The owner says she can provide papers for anything in the front or back of the gallery.”
“Is the ink dry?” Hunter asked.
“So far, so good.”
Jase smiled. “Sounds like an interesting place.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Lina said quickly. “I have an academic prejudice against places that sell artifacts, but there has never been a verified incident of anything illegal in Pre-Columbian Dreams.”
“Gotcha,” Jase said. “I’ll leave the cuffs in the car.”
“Drop Lina and me off at the apartment so I can pick up my Jeep,” Hunter said. “I’ll take her out to Shandy’s after we see the gallery.”
“The lack of an invitation to dinner with you is making me bleed,” Jase said.
“You have a hot meal waiting for you at home.”
Jase’s smile widened. “And I’m a man with a real big hunger. Let’s do this gallery so I can get on home and…eat.”
P
URPLE DUSK WAS SLIDING OVER THE LAST ORANGE LIGHT
of day, but the parking structure still felt like a three-story oven as Hunter parked his Jeep. Jase’s white minivan idled by, looking for an empty space in the gloom.
Hunter and Lina got out and stood near the Jeep, waiting for Jase. Even after he went by, she kept looking around, checking out the cars coming in. Hunter was doing the same thing, but it was a survival habit he had picked up on the job. Like most animals, he had a sixth sense that told him when he was being watched. Every time he was around Lina, the prickly warnings would go off, a constant stretch of nerves that had nothing to do with sexual attraction.
“Do you have an ex who is a stalker?” Hunter asked Lina.
She blinked. “What?”
“You act like someone who’s afraid she’s being followed.”
“No ex-anything, including stalker.” She went back to staring at the entrance.
Hunter waited, watching her.
“Okay, I know this sounds crazy,” she said after a minute, “but sometimes I feel like I’m being followed.”
“How long has it been going on?”
She kept watching the garage entrance. “A month, maybe more. It didn’t happen all of a sudden. Just a sort of gradual awareness until I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”
“You ever see anyone?”
“No. Unless a shadow here and there counts. Nothing I can put a face to. Just a…feeling. An almost-itch on the back of my neck. Maybe Philip’s paranoia is catching.”
“Or his caution,” Hunter said easily. “Sounds like your father made a few enemies along the way. What about you?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’m not everyone’s best friend forever, but enemies? Not that I know of.”
“Think about it.”
“I have,” she said, narrowing her eyes as another car came in.
Like a lot of the vehicles in the lot, it was a dark SUV with tinted windows. It turned down a different aisle and vanished.
Jase found a parking spot a few rows over. He got out, locked up, and threaded himself between parked cars until he reached Hunter and Lina.
“Let’s go get a dose of education,” Jase said, walking toward the garage exit.
Lina shook her head at his tone of voice. “Such enthusiasm.”
“You’ve only been on this case for two days,” Jase said. “I’ve spent enough time that I’m getting really cheesed about tiny steps forward, big steps backward, and most of the steps running round in circles until I feel hungover.”
Hunter looked at his friend. He knew that underneath the easy tone of voice, Jase was tight, exhausted, feeling time dripping away like blood.
“Anything new turn up from the basement?” Hunter asked.
“We’re up to ten bodies now. Is that new?”
“I meant from processing the gangbangers that were arrested.”
Jase smiled grimly. “Oh, we learned boatloads, but nothing that applies to this case. Snakeman has never been in our system, or in any of the law enforcement databases we’ve accessed. He’s clean except for a lack of immigration papers. Given that his lawyer is slick as snot, he’ll get off with deportation.”
“That’s fu—ah, crazy,” Hunter said, looking sideways at Lina.
Jase made a sound that could have been a laugh. “It’s scary, is what it is.”
“That, too,” Hunter agreed.
“All but the last body—LeRoy—died without mutilation,” Jase continued in a casual voice. “Well, they were beheaded, but still intact otherwise. From the tracks the gangbangers left in the legal system, we should be giving them medals for skimming scum off the cesspool. Except for LeRoy—who had only minor stuff in his record—I’d have done them myself for free.”
“I so don’t want to meet your ‘clients,’” Lina said.
Jase’s smile was all teeth. “Every day is a new lesson in dickheads.”
After the gloomy heat and conversation in the garage, the street looked like heaven. The gallery was located on Houston’s answer to Rodeo Drive, where money, fashion, money, jewelry, money, cars, and money were on display inside and outside of the shops. The gallery itself went for an ambience of exceptionally classy artifacts for exceptionally discriminating multimillionaires. Pools of white-gold light haloed objects that would be sullied by the very thought of a price being attached to them.
But there’s always a pric
e, Hunter thought cynically.
In that, the gallery wasn’t so different from the gory basement. Just better lighting.
A woman approached, a thin blonde who had pushed ordinary good looks as far as she could with skillful makeup and clothing. She was seductive, but kept well back from the edge of the cliff called trashy. Green eyes, unlikely boobs for such a thin frame, artfully cut hair, expensive-looking clothes, and gold jewelry with pre-Columbian designs.
“I’m Ms. Arkan. If you have any questions, I’m at your disposal.”
“Thank you,” Hunter said. “Right now we just want to look around.”