Excavation

Chuckling to herself, Joan stepped to a locked stainless-steel cabinet, keyed it open and, with two hands, extracted a large beaker. “Here’s all the material we collected from the walls and floor of the radiology lab.”

She saw Henry’s eyes widen as she placed the jar before him. He leaned over a bit, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “I didn’t realize there was so much,” he said. The yellowish substance filled half of the liter-sized beaker. It shone brightly under the room’s fluorescent lights.

Joan pulled up a stool. “From the amount, I judge it must have filled the skull’s entire cranium.”

Henry picked the beaker up. Joan noticed that he quickly grabbed it with his other hand. The stuff was heavier than it appeared. He tilted the jar, but the unknown substance refused to flow. Replacing the beaker on the table, he commented, “It looks solid.”

Joan shook her head. “It’s not.” She grabbed a glass rod and thrust it into the material. It sank but not without some effort, like pushing through soft clay. Joan released the rod, and it remained standing straight in the jar. “Malleable, but not solid.”

Henry tried to move the glass rod. “Hmm…definitely not gold. But the hue and brilliance are a perfect match. Maybe you were right before, a new amalgam or something. I’ve certainly never seen anything like it.”

Joan glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Or maybe you have. Let’s compare it to the gold cross. You brought it with you, yes?”

He nodded. Twisting back to the table, Henry dialed the lock on his briefcase and snapped it open. “I figure it’s safer with me than at the hotel.” He removed the ornate Dominican cross and held it toward her.

The workmanship was incredible. The Christ figure lay stretched and stylized upon a scrolled cross; the pain of his agony sculpted in the strain of his limbs, yet his face was full of passionate grace. “Impressive,” she said.

“And solid…so I doubt it’s made of the same amalgam.” Henry placed the crucifix beside the beaker. The strange material and the cross glinted and shone equally.

“Are you sure?”

Henry met her eyes over the rim of his spectacles. He shrugged his brows. “I’ll leave the final assessment to your expert.”

She reached for the crucifix. “May I?”

“Of course, Joan.”

Her hand hesitated for a heartbeat when Henry used her name. The intimacy and surroundings brought back sudden memories of when the two were lab partners during a semester in undergraduate biology. How strange and vivid that recollection was at the moment. More than just deja vu.

Without meeting his eye, Joan took the cross from the table. The past was the past. She hefted the crucifix in her palm. It, too, weighed more than it appeared-but didn’t gold always seem that way? She held the crucifix up to the light, tilting it one way, then the other, studying it.

Henry theorized aloud while she examined the relic. “It’s definitely the work of a Spanish craftsman. Not Incan work. If the cross is confirmed to be composed of the same amalgam, then we’ll know for sure the Spanish brought the substance to the New World, rather than the other way around…”

He continued talking, but something had caught Joan’s attention. Her fingers felt small scratches on the crucifix’s back surface. She reached to a pocket and slipped out her reading glasses. Putting them on, she turned the crucifix over and squinted. It was not the artist’s signature or some piece of archaic scripture. Instead it seemed to be row after row of fine marks. They covered the entire surface of the crucifix’s back side.

“What is this?” Joan asked, interrupting Henry.

He moved closer, shoulder to shoulder with her. Joan noticed the faint scent of him, a mix of aftershave and a richer muskiness. She tried to ignore it.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Here.” With a fingernail, she pointed to the marks.

“Ah, I noticed those. I think they’re a result of the cross rubbing against the friar’s robe, slowly abrading the soft gold over the years.”

“Mmm, maybe…but they seem too symmetrical, and some of the marks are quite deep and irregular.” She turned slightly to Henry, almost nose to nose. His breath was on her cheek, his eyes staring deep into hers.

“What are you suggesting?”

She shook her head, stepping away. “I don’t know. I’d like to get a closer look.”

“How?”

Joan led him around the corner of the table where sets of microscopes were positioned. She moved to a bulky binocular unit with a large glass tray under it. “A dissection microscope. Normally I use it to study gross tissues more closely.”