“The Flamingo by Alexander Calder,” the scrivener informed him.
The cowboy let out a whistle of disbelief. “Flamingo? The feller who slapped that thing together must of been smokin’ some powerful loco weed if he mistook that bird for a flamingo.” He stepped past the Arkana agents to study the sculpture at close range. Not satisfied, he walked to the far side to examine it further. Eventually, he returned shaking his head. “That ain’t no flamingo. That’s a ostrich spray-painted red and the poor critter sunk his head into the ground like to die from the shame of it all.”
Cassie and Griffin exchanged a dubious look.
“I tell you what.” Hunt snorted in derision. “The Windy City has got some crazy notions about what is and what ain’t art. Take this here ostrich, for example. Then a couple blocks yonder, you got the lady with the fork in her head and the cross-eyed horse. And don’t even get me started on that giant lima bean over by the lake.”
“I’m sure Calder, Miro, Picasso, and Kapoor would love to hear your reductive assessment of their work,” Griffin observed archly.
“Dogs playing poker would probably be more your speed,” the pythia quipped.
“Hell, yes!” the cowboy agreed without a hint of irony. “At least I don’t need no goddam sign to tell me what I’m lookin’ at. A body can see that the dogs is dogs, not three-eyed lizards.”
“And the fact that the dogs are playing poker doesn’t trouble you at all?” Griffin asked.
“Course not. The poker chips ain’t made to look like flyin’ saucers with beetle wings. Modern art!” he growled. “Ain’t nothin’ in nature that looks natural once a modern artist gets his paws on it.”
Griffin turned to Cassie and confided, “I can’t believe this is the same fellow who’s attempted to murder us in cold blood on more than one occasion.”
“What?” Hunt seemed offended by the comment. “I ain’t allowed to have interests outside my job?’
“Your job is killing people,” Cassie declared flatly.
“Yeah and I’m damn good at it! But that don’t mean I ain’t got opinions about other stuff.”
Cassie groaned in frustration. “Why do I bother talking to you?”
“It’s just as well if we terminate this discussion,” Griffin said. “We have company.”
All three turned toward the Clark Street side of the plaza where Daniel was ushering his father to meet them. Abraham Metcalf leaned heavily on his son’s arm and on a cane for additional support.
Cassie had never seen the diviner of the Blessed Nephilim in person before. In her mind’s eye, she’d always pictured him as Charleton Heston parting the Red Sea in The Ten Commandments. The reality was far less impressive—a frail old man crumbling to dust with every step. As he approached and glanced dismissively at each of them in turn, his blue eyes glowed with hostile fire under heavy white eyebrows. They were the only part of the diviner’s anatomy that exhibited any spark of life.
Abraham and Daniel came to a halt in the center of the square. An awkward silence engulfed the five as they sized one another up. Cassie found herself wondering what a good opening remark might be. “Hi, pleased to meet you. Thanks for trying to kill us every chance you get.”
Eventually, Abraham spoke. “My son says you have a matter of importance to discuss with me.” He directed his comment toward Griffin, but it was Cassie who replied.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re all after the same thing—the Sage Stone.”
Instead of acknowledging the remark, the diviner scrutinized the pythia. “You must be the one they call ‘Cassie.’ You’re rather bold for a girl so small.”
“Small but mighty,” she rejoined. “Just ask Leroy.”
The cowboy shuffled his feet in embarrassment, obviously remembering their previous encounters. In an effort to change the subject, he gestured toward the scrivener. “And this here’s Grif.”
“Griffin,” the scrivener enunciated emphatically.
Ignoring the introduction, the diviner directed his next comment to Cassie. “You were saying something about the Sage Stone.”
“We want it. So do you. Only one side can win.”
“And you think that will be you?” Metcalf gave a mirthless bark of a laugh. “You seem quite confident for someone who doesn’t have the final artifact which points to the Sage Stone’s location.”
“As a matter of fact, we do,” Griffin averred quietly.
The old man stared at him in disbelief. “What are you saying?”
“That the one you’ve got is a fake,” Cassie informed him curtly.
“Impossible! You’re a liar!” Metcalf wheeled on his son who took a step backward. “These people know nothing, and they’re attempting to trick us! Why did you bring me here? This is a complete waste of my time.” The old man’s pallid complexion had flushed to an angry shade of purple.
“Take it down a notch, gramps, before you have a stroke.” Cassie eyed him dispassionately.
The old man gasped as if she’d struck him. Metcalf was obviously unused to any response other than deference.
The pythia smiled thinly. “You’re forgetting that you’re in our world now and nobody here is scared of you.” She tilted her head slightly in Daniel’s direction. “Except maybe for him.”
The cowboy turned aside and cleared his throat, attempting to mask a chuckle.
Cassie forged ahead. “We’re not lying. We have the real relic. Yours is a copy.”
“How is that possible?” Daniel sounded baffled. “Mr. Hunt and I arrived only minutes after you entered the cave. You wouldn’t have had time to create a copy and substitute it!”
“That would be true if we’d only found the artifact minutes before you arrived.” Griffin paused to regard his bewildered listeners. “We actually retrieved it a week earlier. Just long enough for us to have a duplicate made and place it inside the cave. It was our bad luck that you arrived before we’d had time to put the replica in its hiding place.”
Leroy tilted the brim of his hat back and scratched his head. “What the hell...”
“Why would you go to such lengths?” Daniel challenged.
“Because you’d get off
