Beautiful Sacrifice (20 page)

She let out a breath. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Whatever. Just make sure you have two changes of clothes and shoes you can run in. The sort of stuff you could wear on a dig or at the beach. Are you on birth control?”

She blinked. “Ah, no.”

“Good. Then we don’t have to worry about getting you meds.”

“I can live without vitamins, but a toothbrush would be very nice.”

“No problem. We’ll pick them up along with a new stock of party hats.”

Lina bit back a smile. “Colors and flavors?”

He gave her a hot sidelong look. “Want to pick them out?”

She blushed, laughed, and shook her head.

With a last check around the parking lot, Hunter followed Lina into the store. His eyes were never still, but he didn’t find anything that set off his internal radar. They hadn’t been followed past the edge of Houston and nobody seemed interested in them now.

Once in the store, Lina quickly found what she needed. Even if she’d been the shopping kind of woman, this wasn’t a place she would have lingered. But shopping was something she did when she had to, with a list in hand. Like jaguars were climax predators, she was a climax shopper; she knew what she needed, she took it when she saw it, and that was that. The only thing she tried on was a pair of all-purpose athletic shoes. She threw in socks and a pair of flip-flops and took her armload back to where Hunter waited, watching other shoppers.

“Your turn,” she said.

He went through the men’s department with an efficiency that spoke of long experience with unexpected trips and living off the land. His last selection was a cheap sports duffel that could hold everything the two of them had selected. He paid for the lot at one of the checkout stands. As soon as they were in the parking lot, he put everything into the duffel and headed for the market.

“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.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

G
ROUND FOR BUILDING ON
S
OUTH
P
ADRE
I
SLAND 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.