Beautiful Sacrifice: A Novel

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.”