The Oracle (Fargo Adventures 11)

Her uncle put his arm around her. “There, there. No need for tears.”

Sam put the car in gear and slid into traffic, calculating the driving time from the airport to Bulla Regia. “Try Lazlo again.”

As before, it went straight to voice mail.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

The persons we eat with are the ones to kill us.

– AFRICAN PROVERB –

The villa floor was flooded when Lazlo, Hank, and José arrived later that morning. “What …?” Hank said, standing on the deck, looking down.

“Osmond,” José said.

Hank gave an exasperated sigh, kicking at the hose that Osmond had hooked up to the water tank and draped over the deck into the opening. “I told him to wet the floor, not drown it.” He pulled out the hose, seeing nothing but a dribble of water coming from the nozzle. “Glad LaBelle’s not here to see this,” he said, climbing down the ladder. “Looks like the entire tank ended up down there.”

Lazlo and José followed him to the first level. They leaned over the railing, seeing a couple of inches covering the floor below. “You have to admit,” Lazlo said, “it definitely brings out the colors of the tiles.”

“It does at that.” Hank turned on the lamp that was clipped to the rail, its long orange extension cord swinging below them.

Lazlo moved around the tool bucket and stepped over a coil of rope to get to the rail. José, however, didn’t see it, losing his footing momentarily. He stepped back, caught himself on the railing, bumping the lamp clamped to it. “Glad that didn’t go over,” he said, righting the lamp, then peering over the edge. “Hate to see what would happen if it hit the water.”

Lazlo returned his attention to the mosaic. “Simply stunning. Imagine what it would’ve looked like back in the day.”

Hank nodded. “I expect they’d have a couple of chairs on the far wall so one could sit and admire the beautiful floor.”

“Or sit and admire where this map is hidden.”

Hank glanced at Lazlo. “You think there really is a map down there?”

“I have no idea. But I always say, no time like the present to look.” As Lazlo shifted his feet, bits of dirt and gravel from the platform dropped into the water, the surface rippling as it hit. He watched, fascinated by the subtle changes the moving water had on the pattern of the mosaic, especially the blue and white tiles, which he assumed were originally meant for the reflecting pool in front of the temple.

“You know what I find odd,” Hank said. “The artist didn’t include Narcissus’ reflection in the mosaic. That’s a big part of the legend.”

Narcissus, on the bottom step of the temple, seemed to be looking at his hand draped into the water. “Perhaps,” Lazlo suggested, “beyond the artist’s skills? The reflecting pool is rather digital-looking in comparison to the detail of the temple, the trees, and …”

“And what?” Hank asked.

“Quite extraordinary … The blue and white squares in the reflecting pool. It’s a pixelated version of the temple.”

José agreed. “Like a digital photo that’s been enlarged.”

“The six columns, the portico, the pediment … And Narcissus’ reflection.”

“Where?” Hank asked.

Lazlo said, “Close your eyes and look through your lashes—it’ll smooth out the pixels. See where Narcissus is pointing? The reflection of the stairs? Those tiles on that side are actually darker. Could it be …?”

“Be what?” Hank asked.

“I daresay, it’s a hidden staircase.”

Hank squinted. “Son of a gun … It was here the whole time. In the temple ruins.”

“We need photos.” Lazlo patted his pocket. “Left my bloody phone in the kitchen,” he said as a shadow darkened the opening above them.

They looked up to see Amal looking down at them.