Excavation

The fax machine chimed its completion, and Henry picked up the phone. He dialed a second number. It rang five times before a breathless voice answered. “Hello?”

“Joan?”

A puzzled voice. “Yes?”

Henry pictured the pathologist’s slender face framed by a fall of hair the shade of ravens’ wings. Time had barely touched her: just a hint of grey highlights, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose, a few new wrinkles. But her most delightful features remained unchanged: her shadowy smile, her amused eyes. Even her quick intelligence and sharp curiosity had not been dulled by years in academia. Henry suddenly found it difficult to speak. “Th… this is Henry. I’m… I’m sorry to disturb you so early.”

Her voice lost its cold dispassion and warmed considerably. “Early? You just caught me arriving home from the hospital.”

“You worked all night?”

“Well, I was reviewing the scans of your mummy, and… well…”—a small embarrassed pause—“I sort of lost track of time.”

Henry glanced down at his own wrinkled clothing and smiled. “I know what you mean.”

“So have you learned anything new?”

“I’ve put together a few things.” He quickly related his discovery of the friar’s name and his call to the archbishop. “How about yourself? Anything new on your front?”

“Not much. But I’d like to sit down and go over some of my findings. The material in the skull is proving most unusual.”

Before Henry could stop himself or weigh such a decision, he pushed forth. “How about lunch today?” He cringed as the words came out. He had not meant to sound so desperate. His cheeks grew heated with his awkwardness.

A long pause. “I’m afraid I can’t do lunch.”

Henry kicked himself for being so unprofessional. Surely she saw through his words. Ever since Elizabeth had died, he had forgotten the knack of approaching a woman romantically—not that he’d ever had much of a desire to do so before now.

Joan continued, “But how about dinner? I know a nice Italian place on the river.”

Henry swallowed hard, struggling to speak. Dare he hope that she was suggesting more than just a meeting of colleagues? Perhaps a renewal of old feelings? But it had been so long. So much life had passed between their college years and now. Surely whatever tiny spark that had once flared between them had long gone to ash. Hadn’t it?

“Henry?”

“Yes… yes, that would be great.”

“You’re staying at the Sheraton, yes? I can pick you up around eight o’clock. That is, if a late dinner is okay with you?”

“Sure, that would be fine. I often eat late, so that’s no problem. And… and as a matter of fact, um…” Henry’s nervous blathering was thankfully interrupted by the beep of an incoming call. He awkwardly coughed. “I’m sorry, Joan. I’ve got another call. I’ll be right back.”

Henry lowered the receiver, took a long calming breath, then clicked over to the other line. “Yes?”

“Professor Conklin?”

Henry recognized the voice. His brow crinkled. “Archbishop Kearney?”

“Yes, I just wanted to let you know that I received your fax and took a look at it. What I saw came as quite a surprise.”

“What do you mean?”

“The emblem of the crossed swords over the crucifix. As a former European historian, it’s one I’m quite familiar with.”

Henry picked up the friar’s silver ring and held it to the light. “I thought it looked familiar myself, but I couldn’t place it.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s a fairly archaic design.”

“What is it?”

“It is the mark of the Spanish Inquisition.”

Henry’s breath caught in his throat. “What?” Images of torture chambers and flesh seared by red-hot irons flashed before his eyes. The black sect of Catholicism had long been disbanded and vilified for the centuries of deaths and tortures it had inflicted in the name of religion.

“Yes, from the ring, it seems our mummified friar was an Inquisitor.”

“My God,” Henry swore, forgetting for a moment to whom he was speaking.

An amused chuckle arose from the Archbishop. “I thought you should know, but I must be going now. I’ll forward your information to the Vatican and to Abbot Ruiz in Peru. Hopefully we’ll learn more soon.”

The archbishop hung up. Henry sat stunned, until the phone rang in his hand, startling him. “Oh, God… Joan.” Henry clicked back to the pathologist he had left on hold. “I’m sorry that took so long,” he said in a rush, “but it was Archbishop Kearney again.”

“What did he want?”

Henry related what he had learned, still shaken by the revelation.

Joan was silent for a moment. “An Inquisitor?”

“It would appear so,” Henry said, collecting himself. “One more piece to an expanding puzzle.”

She replied, “Amazing. It seems we’ll have even more to ponder over dinner tonight.”

Henry had momentarily forgotten their supper arrangements. “Yes, of course. I’ll see you tonight,” he said with genuine enthusiasm.

“It’s a date.” Joan quickly added her good-byes, then hung up.

Henry slowly returned the receiver to its cradle. He did not know what surprised him more—that the mummy was a member of the Spanish Inquisition or that he had a date.

Gil climbed the stairs of the only hotel in the jungle village of Villacuacha. The wooden planks creaked under his weight. Even in the shadowed interior of the inn, the late-morning heat could not be so easily escaped. Already a sweltering warmth wrapped itself around Gil like a heavy blanket. He swiped the dampness from his neck with the cuff of his torn sleeve and swore under his breath. The night-long flight through the jungle had left him scratched and foul-tempered. He had managed only a short nap after arranging this meeting.

“He had better not be late,” Gil grumbled as he climbed to the third landing. After fleeing the campsite of the Americans, Gil had reached a dirt track in the jungle just as the sun finally rose. Luckily, he stumbled upon a local Indian with a mule and a crooked-wheeled wagon. A handful of coins had bought him passage to the village. Once there, Gil had telephoned his contact—the man who had arranged for Gil’s infiltration onto the Americans’ team. They had agreed to a noon meeting at this hotel.