Excavation

Henry had disagreed, but had remained silent. He knew the answer lay elsewhere. He remembered how he had been pondering the code on the crucifix when the transformation had occurred. It was not the proximity to the cross that had changed Substance Z, but the proximity to Henry. Something had happened, but Henry was not ready to voice any wild speculations aloud-at least not yet. It was not his way, not until he had more information. One of the first lessons he taught his students-proceed with knowledge, not speculation. To Henry, the only thing certain about Substance Z was that it should not be dabbled with lightly. But the other two scientists were deaf to his rumblings of caution.

His right hand fingered the Dominican crucifix resting in the pocket of his sports jacket. Friar Francisco de Almagro knew something, something he had wanted to tell the outside world, his final testament. Henry suspected that the answers to the mysteries of Substance Z would not be found in nuclear labs or research facilities, but instead, in the crude scratches on the back of the friar’s cross. Yet, before Henry dared to voice his own opinions or conduct his own experiments, he first planned to decipher this ancient code. And Henry knew exactly where to start. Tomorrow he would again consult the archbishop. Perhaps some old records might mention a code among the Dominican friars.

“Here we are,” Joan announced. She jingled her keys from a pocket and went to open the door. Grabbing the knob, the door gave way under her touch. “That’s odd. It’s unlocked. Maybe I forgot-”

She began to push the door open when Henry suddenly stopped her. “No!” He grabbed the pathologist by the elbow. Remembering that Joan had locked the door earlier, he yanked her away from the open doorway, tripping over a janitor’s bucket behind him. He barely kept his balance.

“Henry!” she yelled in shock.

Dale scowled at him as if the archaeologist had gone mad. “What are you doing?”

Henry did not have time to explain. Danger signals reverberated up and down his spine. “Run!”

But it was too late.

Behind Dale’s shoulder, a dark figure appeared in the doorway to Joan’s office. “Don’t move,” the trespasser ordered coldly.

Startled, Dale swung around, his face draining of color. He backed several quick steps in the opposite direction from Henry and Joan.

The man moved forward into the hall. He wore a charcoal suit over a black shirt and tie; his skin was coppery with Spanish features, ebony hair, dark eyes. But what drew most of Henry’s attention was the large pistol, outfitted with a thick silencer, in his right fist. He brandished it back and forth, covering both sides of the hallway. “Which of you has the gold crucifix? Relinquish it and you’ll live.”

Dale quickly pointed to Henry.

The assailant swung the barrel in his direction. “Professor Conklin, do not make me shoot you.”

At that moment, the metallurgist’s courage ran out. With the gunman’s back turned, Dale made a run for it. His expensive shoes betrayed him, hard heels striking loudly on the waxed linoleum. The gunman did not even turn. He simply pointed his pistol back and fired; the shot was muffled by the silencer-but its effect was not. The force of the bullet knocked Dale off his feet. He went flying headfirst to the floor, skidding several feet before stopping, leaving a trail of blood across the white tiles. He tried to push up once, then collapsed back down, a dark pool spreading under him.

“Now, Professor Conklin,” the burglar said, holding out his free hand. “The cross, please.”

Before Henry could respond, a second dark-suited man stepped from Joan’s office. He glanced at the fallen metallurgist, then back to the shooter. He spoke rapidly in Spanish, but Henry understood. “Carlos, I’ve destroyed all the paperwork and files.”

The leader, Carlos, glanced to the other man. He lowered the pistol slightly. “And the computer?”

“The hard drive has been wiped and purged.”

Carlos nodded.

Henry used the momentary distraction of the newcomer to slip the Dominican crucifix from his jacket pocket and flip it into the toppled janitor’s bucket. Only Joan noticed. Her eyes were huge with fear.

Raising the pistol, Carlos turned to Henry. “I’m losing patience, Professor. The cross, please.”

Henry stepped forward, placing himself between the shooter and Joan. He held out the beaker with the crude cross. He hoped the shape and the color would fool these thieves. He refused to lose the ancient relic.

The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He took the beaker and held it before him. Even distracted, the pistol never wavered from where it pointed, straight at Henry’s heart.

The shooter’s accomplice stood at the man’s shoulders. “Is it…?”

Carlos ignored the man, still staring at the mock-up of the original crucifix. Whispered words of a Spanish prayer flowed from his lips, a benediction. Then the cross in the beaker changed, melting before the man’s gaze into a perfectly symmetrical pyramid.

Henry gasped.