When Hunter finally became certain that none of the missing artifacts were in view, he decided to throw some reality into all the scholarly conversation and self-congratulation.
“If there were certain pieces that you’d heard rumors about,” Hunter asked, “where would you go looking for them?”
Crutchfeldt gave him a measuring look. “What kind of artifacts?”
“Late Terminal Classic. Yucatec,” Hunter said with a trace of impatience, and an accent that could only be described as worldly. “The real deal. Unique and bloody valuable.”
Crutchfeldt blinked and looked at Lina.
She looked back at him.
“Hmmm,” Crutchfeldt said. “Sometimes a collector simply wants a piece that will bind all the other pieces together. Take this mask.” He pointed to a clay mask beautifully inlaid with stone and shell. “This is a contemporary piece, bought and sold as such. Celia found it for me because she knew that I required just such a piece.”
Lina didn’t bother to hide her surprise. “She didn’t mention that she was handling modern art.”
“If she knows one of her very good customers is looking for a specific artifact and hasn’t yet found it on the market, she will sometimes find a modern version made to very exacting standards,” Crutchfeldt said. “The process requires proper tools, proper materials, and very skilled artisans.”
A sense of relief crept through Lina. She had noticed several artifacts in Crutchfeldt’s gallery whose condition was simply too good to be believed. Part of her had feared that her mother had been involved in fraud.
“You’re not alone in filling holes in your collection,” Lina said. “Even in the later days of the Maya empire—and I use the term loosely, for it was less an empire than a culture that changed through time—there were artisans who were specifically commissioned to replicate items hearkening back to the kings of old. Perhaps it was a way to invoke the gods of a more powerful time, before the culture began to unravel.”
“Fake is fake,” Hunter said.
“Even fakes tell us about the culture they came from,” Lina said. “Yet I understand your point. Authentic artifacts are always preferable.”
“So who would you go to for something authentic to add to your collection?” Hunter asked the older man. “Something you’ve heard rumors of but have never seen.”
“Well,” Crutchfeldt said, “Celia Reyes Balam, of course.”
“What if she didn’t have it?” Hunter said. “Where would you go next?”
“If she doesn’t have it,” Crutchfeldt said, “no one does.”
“What if it came up the chain from grave robbers?” Hunter asked casually.
Lina made a startled sound. “Then it would be illegal.”
“Yeah,” he said, without looking away from Crutchfeldt. “So who would be likely to have it and how would you get in touch with them?”
“That’s—” Lina began.
“I’m curious,” Hunter said, not looking at her. “If you aren’t, go sit by the pool or something.”
She didn’t hide her irritation. “Mr. Crutchfeldt might not like the implications of your questions.”
“You insulted?” Hunter asked Crutchfeldt.
“I’m a collector,” the other man said easily. “In order to pursue the avenues you are implying, I’d have to want the item very, very badly. I don’t have many such items, but…”
Hunter and Lina followed Crutchfeldt’s glance to a nearby alcove where a teardrop light illuminated half of what appeared to be a stone knife. It was chipped, dull and unremarkable, broken into three pieces. Yet on closer inspection, the sheer craftsmanship glowed through the haze of time and damage. On one of the blade segments there was a small marking. Hunter looked at it curiously, sensing that he’d seen the sign or something much like it on one of the pieces that Jase had lost.
With a soft sound, Lina edged closer. The broken knife had a sigil on it, a marking that made her pulse spike. The mark was a cluster of four triangles all turned point out, with jagged lines joining them on their longest side.
Four corners joined by lightning.
Kawa’il.
“Where did you find this?” Lina asked tightly.
“If memory serves, it probably wasn’t from a sponsored dig,” Crutchfeldt said, his smile more a hint than a real curve. “It’s from a lowland site in the Yucatan. Post-Classic period. It actually postdates the official end of the Maya civilization, though there were many artisans who kept working with motifs and styles—”
“Yes, I know,” Lina interrupted curtly. “Which site.”
It was a demand, not a question.
“South of Padre,” Crutchfeldt said blandly.
She took a careful breath before she looked at Hunter. “You never wanted to date me. You just wanted to use me.”
He stared back, unreadable.
“I’ll be in the Jeep,” Lina said.
Without another word, she left.
“Sensitive young lady,” Crutchfeldt observed. “It’s that Latin temperament.”
Hunter wanted to roll his eyes. “I haven’t noticed that Latins have the only tempers on earth. If you’re talking temper, I come from Vikings via Genghis Khan.”
For the first time, Crutchfeldt looked at Hunter with real interest. “What do you want?”
“I have a client who wants to acquire artifacts from that period.” Hunter nodded toward the alcove before he added a deliberate echo of Crutchfeldt’s words. “Very, very badly.”
“You should have dated the mother, not the daughter.”
“Celia doesn’t have access to the artifacts,” Hunter said.
“And you think I do.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Hunter reached into one of the pockets of his cargo shorts and pulled out the pictures of the missing artifacts. The photos showed the rubs and creases of careless handling, but the artifacts were quite identifiable.
Curious, Crutchfeldt leaned closer. Hunter yanked back the photos and held them like a poker hand, close to his chest. With an impatient sound, Crutchfeldt plucked one of the photos free.
A mask, shining like a smoking mirror, ringed with glyphs of power and death.
“Kawa’il,” Crutchfeldt breathed. For an instant the avarice of a collector gleamed in his eyes. Then the businessman took over. “What is the provenance?”
“My client wants the artifact,” Hunter said, “not the pedigree.”
“I don’t have either one.”
Hunter had known that the moment Crutchfeldt looked at the photo with the eyes of a man who wanted, not one who already owned.
“Who would?” Hunter asked.
There was a long silence. Then Crutchfeldt sighed. “I rarely give advice, yet…Dr. Taylor’s exquisite appreciation of my collection was very satisfying.”
Hunter waited.
“There are grave robbers on Reyes Balam lands,” Crutchfeldt said. “They take, but they don’t sell to me or anyone I know. Their leader is more ruthless than your Genghis Khan.”
“Who is he?”
“To speak his name is death.” Crutchfeldt smiled thinly and handed over the photo. “I prefer life.”
“Is he Mexican?”
Crutchfeldt nodded.
“Is he called El Maya?”
Crutchfeldt’s eyelids flinched. “Good day, Mr. Kerrigan. You know the way out.”
Hunter wanted to argue, but he knew a losing hand when he held it. With a smooth motion, he pocketed the photos and walked out, leaving Crutchfeldt and his collection behind. The sun seemed unusually hot and vital after the mansion.