‘All right.’ She rubbed her fingertips together, then reached into the case for a second attempt at unveiling the jar’s interior.
With utmost finesse, Brooke curled her fingertips around the lid’s thick rim. She lifted away the plate-like clay disc and gave it to Flaherty. ‘Hold this.’
Hesitant, he said, ‘What if it’s cursed or something?’
She shot him a chastising look. ‘For real? You’re a Catholic, not an occult freak.’
‘Fine.’ He begrudgingly took the lid from her and held it at his side like a discus.
Brooke and Flaherty peered down at the uncovered jar.
‘Looks like one of those jumbo candles from Pottery Barn … without the wick,’ said Flaherty.
‘Kinda does,’ she agreed. Brooke tapped a fingernail on the solid glossy layer that levelled off just below the jar’s rim, and it made the
‘I’m not seeing anything inside it,’ Flaherty said. ‘You?’
‘No.’ But her hopes weren’t dashed, because if the ancient Mesopotamians had preserved the jar’s contents employing the same method used on Lilith’s head, then deep inside the jar, something had been trapped inside a viscous substance that over the centuries had hardened like glass. They just couldn’t see it yet.
‘Maybe we can shine a light in there, or something,’ he suggested.
‘I’ve got a better idea.’ Closely studying the cut lines that split the circular rim into two equal arcs, Brooke could see paper-thin slivers of light squeezing through the fine gaps. ‘I don’t think this is glued.’
‘Oh. Well maybe we could …’
Reaching in with both hands, she pinched the top of the rim at the middle of each half and applied gentle outward pressure on the opposing sides.
‘… crack it open, or something.’
It was sticky at first. She bit her lip and put some more push behind her fingers. The pottery yielded with a gritty creak, yawned open along its front side from top to bottom like a giant pistachio. ‘Hah … there we go.’
Flaherty tilted his head sideways for a better look, but refused to get any closer to the relic. With the bulbous core still masked in the jar’s shadows, he couldn’t yet decipher the contents.
Thrilled, Brooke was grinning ear to ear. ‘Oh, this is amazing.’
Flaherty’s eyes twinkled with admiration as he watched how she worked the pieces apart with patient dexterity. There was an endearing childlike innocence lurking beneath Brooke Thompson’s sophisticated exterior; that wide-eyed wonderment that seemed to exist only on Christmas morning. And in this intimate moment, her passion for archaeology and discovery burned like the sun.
Brooke spread the pottery halves so that their crescent-shaped bottom surfaces slid out from under the solidified inner mass. The liberated core clunked down against the bottom of the display case. ‘My God, Tommy … look at this!’ she gasped
Setting aside his irrational superstitions, he stepped up to the case and peered in at what she’d found. He cringed at the frightful sight. ‘Mother Mary.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘Beautiful?’ Flaherty said. What had been inside the jar resembled a solid, honey-coloured crystal ball, much the same as the one containing Lilith’s ghastly head. And coiled up inside the opaque mass was a considerably large snake whose jaws were hinged open and frozen in place, as if it had been drowned. Like its beheaded charmer, the snake’s malevolent eyes were wide open in a threatening glare. Its hooked fangs were easily five centimetres long. The black, ropey body - thick as a beer can - was covered in scales the size of his thumbnail. He guessed that if he could stretch the thing out, it would be nearly two metres. ‘That’s a bizarre choice for a pet.’
‘Sure is,’ she said.
‘Think it was poisonous?’ he asked, fixated on the fangs.
‘Sure looks like it,’ Brooke said, slowly circling the case to see the snake from all angles.
‘Why the hell would she be carrying this thing around?’
‘I don’t know. But think about it, Tommy … a snake is one of the central figures in Creation mythology, just like in the story of Adam, Eve and Lilith.’ Then halfway around the case, she froze. ‘Wow, look here,’ she said, waving him over.
Tommy stepped around to have a look. She was tapping on the glass to indicate a huge bulge in the snake’s wide midsection; something caught inside and ballooning the body outward.
‘Looks like the snake’s last meal wasn’t fully digested,’ Brooke said.
‘Not to change the subject of this fascinating discussion, but speaking of meal … I’m starving,’ Flaherty said. He checked his watch. ‘Seeing as we’re going to be here awhile, I’m thinking we should raid that vending machine out in the hall. You like chips? Pretzels? Candy bars? The sky’s the limit.’
‘I could eat.’
‘You, uh, like the Celtics?’ Flaherty said with a polite cough.
‘Huh? What? Yeah, I love the Celtics,’ she said.
You’re the woman of my dreams, he thought.
‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked.
‘Stokes has a big-screen TV in his office, rigged for satellite. Supposed to be a great game tonight - playing the Lakers. Starts in about ten minutes. You, ah, interested?’
‘Are you asking me out on a date, Agent Flaherty? I thought you were abstaining from gambling in Vegas.’
He blushed. ‘Not sure if taking you into a room contaminated by anthrax, with a shot preacher lying on the floor, would qualify as romance. But I’m looking for a safe bet. So yeah, let’s call it a date.’
75
IRAQ
Ramirez blazed like a thunderbolt through the cave, determined to return to the outside world in record time. Doing his best to keep the light directed towards the dodgy ground, he pumped his arms and legs like pistons, remembering how it felt to sprint the fifty at high school track meets. Normally he’d be looking over his shoulder for anyone sneaking up in his wake. For this race, however, he wasn’t looking back.
He could barely stomach the idea of his niece’s caged gerbil, Felix. The hell with Felix. Felix was nothing but a pimped-out mouse.
But rats? A cave full of huge, filthy rats? Repulsive. Made his nuts pull up into his stomach. And these rats seemed to be out for blood. The way they came at him like that? Pursued him? That couldn’t be normal. Rats didn’t eat live meat, did they? he wondered. But they sure liked the taste of Holt. The poor bastard was covered in the things. And there was nothing Ramirez could’ve done about it. It’s not like he could’ve swatted them away or shot them off Holt’s chest. There were so
There was only one option: run …
Back in the cave, when he’d discarded his M-16, he’d barely glimpsed Hazo marooned on top of one those sadistic breeding kennels where some twisted psycho nurtured those flesh-eating-rodents-from-Hell. He’d be sure to send some guys with flamethrowers and grenades back inside to fry the critters and pull Hazo out - assuming he didn’t die from demon pestilence first.
As Ramirez tore through the tunnel, the squealing din faded and he became confident he’d make it out from the mountain unscathed. In fact, it sounded as if the rats had stayed inside the cave.
Ramirez’s relief, however, instantly withered when up ahead in the tunnel’s dark throat, a series of bright flashes coincided perfectly with the metallic hammering of automatic gunfire delivered at point-blank range.
The bullets struck him low - one shattering his left kneecap, six more to the groin and thighs. His legs instantly went out and his face slammed into the ground like a pile driver. It was so fast, so shocking, that he didn’t even scream. With all the adrenaline pumping through his system, even the pain was slow coming.
But when the gunman emerged into the glowing cone of his fumbled flashlight, the sting of treachery came instantaneously.
‘Crawford?’ he groaned, blood streaming into his right eye from a ragged gash that split his forehead. ‘Wh - why?’
There was no answer. The colonel simply pressed the M-16’s muzzle against Ramirez’s head and delivered the kill shot.
