Delaney stepped up the ramp and ran his finger over the smooth surface of the lid. “Why’s it so damn cold?”
“Isn’t that more your department?” Lucas replied, touching the ossuary himself. The stone was cold, colder than the ambient temperature of the room, and what little he could make out of the figures was confusing. On one side of the lid, it looked like a shepherd with a staff, herding animals, presumably sheep, but on the other side, the figure looked more like a monkey, with long arms dangling down and a curled-up tail. Words and symbols, some of which resembled Egyptian hieroglyphs, had been incised into the sides of the stone. One looked like a diamond tilted on its axis.
To top it all off, the box had been bound shut with several crudely wrought iron chains. Cutting through them, Lucas thought, was not going to be easy.
“You know what’s inside it?” Delaney asked.
“Bones, for sure. But maybe something else, too. Coins, jewelry. Judging from the glyphs, this one’s probably Egyptian. But ossuaries found in the Roman catacombs have contained everything from the occupant’s cosmetic tools to her house cat.”
“We’re going to need a blowtorch or a hacksaw to get these chains removed.”
“I’ve already put in a request to the campus maintenance department.”
Lucas’s instructions from Colonel Macmillan had been to gauge the age and origins of the box, employing Delaney’s latest research into radio isotopes wherever useful. Any organic remains inside would be especially susceptible to his techniques. But he could see, just from the expression behind Delaney’s scruffy beard, that something was bothering him. “You okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” Delaney said, though he had promptly removed his hand from the cold stone. “I just had kind of a weird feeling.”
“Of what?” It was comforting to Lucas to hear that someone else felt it, too.
“The calm before the storm. When I was growing up in the Midwest, you could always tell when a tornado was brewing. The air would get really still, the birds would stop singing, and the sky… the sky would turn this kind of sickly green.” He rubbed his fingers together, as if to remove any residue from the stone.
“How much of a sample are you going to need?” Lucas asked, and it took Delaney several seconds to refocus. “To do your carbon-14 tests?”
“Oh, right — not much. Just a sliver or two of bone, whatever you can spare. Desiccated flesh, too, if there’s anything left of it.”
“There probably won’t be much. Traditionally, corpses in northern Africa and the Middle East were first thrown into a ditch and left there for wild animals and the elements to strip away all the meat. When only the skeleton remained, the pieces were picked up — the skull most importantly — and consigned to the box. You should have plenty of bones to choose from, especially given the royal treatment these remains received.”
“Do you mean that literally?” Delaney asked. “Was this the sarcophagus of a king?”
“Hard to say. There’re a lot of markings on it — a lot more than you usually see on these things, so I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
“I see a monograph getting written, with full tenure not far behind.”
“Not likely,” Lucas replied. “The OSS will never let this project become public knowledge. I’ll be lucky if they don’t bury me with it.”
Delaney nodded, turned away, and stepped down the ramp. “Got a precept to lead. Thanks for the tour.”
But even if he hadn’t had a class to teach, Lucas could tell he was eager to leave. So was Lucas, though he found himself riveted for several more minutes, examining the bizarre markings. Then he picked up the tarp, and though there was no real reason to cover it up again, threw it over the ossuary. Retrieving the mop, he hastily wiped up the remaining mess on the floor, got out of the janitor’s coveralls, and made for the exit himself.
When he closed the door behind him, he leaned his back against it, face tilted toward the ceiling, and deeply exhaled. But he couldn’t shake the feeling, completely irrational, that something else was breathing, too, right on the other side.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Another?” the bartender asked, and Lucas just raised one finger from the glass to say yes.
The bartender poured him another double on the rocks, and Lucas pressed the cold glass to the spot on his forehead where the shrapnel had hit, rolling it back and forth across his skin. Sometimes the pain was sharp but brief, and other times, like tonight, it was a dull ache that no amount of aspirin could touch. All he could do was try to numb the sensation. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror that backed the bottles on display behind the bar, he saw a guy slumped on a stool, with a black patch over one eye, rocking a glass of scotch against his head, and it was clear why the stools on either side of him were conspicuously empty.
It had taken longer than he expected to get things cleaned up in the conservation wing, and once he had, he’d stopped by the hospital to check on the janitor. The nurse at the front desk told him that only immediate family were allowed to visit, but she didn’t look, or sound, sanguine about Wally’s prospects. That’s when the pounding in his head had started up again.
Benny Goodman was playing on the jukebox, and the lights were low. If he went home to Mrs. Caputo’s, she’d fuss over him, and Amy would try to read him her latest book report. All he wanted now was peace and solitude.
Which was why he was surprised, and not altogether pleased, when he heard the door open and close and sensed a woman had taken the stool just two seats over. He stared down into his glass as she ordered a Campari and soda, and only glanced up at the mirror again after the bartender had delivered it.
His gaze was met by a pair of dark eyes staring directly back at him. Startled, he looked down again. Christ, the last thing he needed was someone chatting him up, and, inevitably, asking him where he’d served in the war. But why, he wondered, did she look familiar?
Benny Goodman was replaced by Tommy Dorsey before he risked another glance at the mirror. Even as he did so, she was swiveling on her stool and saying, “Excuse me, but aren’t you Professor Athan?” It sure sounded like she already knew the answer.
He had to turn his head completely in order to see her with his good eye. She was a dark-haired beauty with a tawny complexion, wearing a crisp white blouse under a tweedy jacket.
“Yes.”
“Then allow me to introduce myself,” she said in an accent that bespoke Oxford or Cambridge. “My name is Simone Rashid.”
She stretched her hand across the empty stool, and he shook it. And now he did place her: she’d been at the art museum with the older man. “I’ve come a long way to meet you.”
A long way to meet him? “Why?” he said, genuinely perplexed.
“May I?” she said, moving to the stool beside him.
But this wasn’t really a question either, as she was already settling in.
“We’re in the same general field,” she said. “Antiquities.”
“I’m not a dealer,” he said, “if that’s what you mean. I’m just a professor — an associate professor at that — at the university.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But I’ve done a bit of research — that’s my forte, to be honest — and I see you’re also one of the leading lights in Greco-Roman art.”
“Are you a college recruiter?” he said, having met one or two in his time. “Because I’m perfectly happy here, and I have no plans to leave.” Not that the OSS would let him leave even if he wanted to.