Excavation

Henry stood behind her as she recorded the writing. “You’ve grown into a woman of many talents, Dr. Joan Engel.”

Joan hid her blush as she concentrated on her task, copying the marks carefully. She worked quickly and efficiently, not needing to look up as she jotted what she saw. After years of making notes while studying a patient’s sample under a microscope, she had grown skilled at writing blind.

In five minutes, a copy lay on the table beside her. Row after row of symbols lined the yellow paper. She straightened from her crouch, stretching a kink from her neck.

“Hold still,” Henry said behind her. He slid a hand along her shoulder and gently lifted the cascade of hair from the back of her neck. His knuckles brushed her skin.

She suppressed a shiver. “Henry…?”

“Don’t move.” His fingers reached to knead the muscles of her strained upper shoulders. At first, his skin was cool against her own, but as he worked, heat built under his strong fingers, warming her sore muscles.

“I see you’ve not lost your touch.” She leaned into his fingers, remembering another time, another place. “So if I tell you to stop, ignore me,” she said, feigning a nonchalance that the huskiness of her voice betrayed.

“It’s the least I can do after all your help.” His own words were heavier than usual.

A sharp rap on the laboratory door interrupted the moment.

Henry’s hands froze, then pulled back.

Joan shifted from her chair, her shoulders and neck still warm from his touch. She glanced at her watch. “It must be Dr. Kirkpatrick. He’s right on time.”

Henry cursed the metallurgist’s impeccable timing. He rubbed his palms together, trying to wipe away the memory of Joan’s skin. Get ahold of yourself, man. You’re acting like a smitten teenager.

He watched Joan walk away. One of her hands reached to touch her neck gently. Then she brushed her hair back into place, a midnight flow against her white smock. Mysteries or not, right now all he wished for was a few more moments alone with her.

Joan crossed to the door, opened it, and greeted the visitor. “Dale, thanks for coming over.”

Dale Kirkpatrick, the metallurgy expert from George Washington University, stood a good head taller than Henry, but he was waspishly thin with an elongated face that seldom smiled. He tried to do so now with disastrous results, like a coroner greeting the bereaved. “Anything for a colleague.”

Henry sensed the red-haired man had shared more with Joan than just a professional relationship. The pair’s eyes met one another awkwardly, and the welcoming handshake was a touch longer than custom dictated. Henry instantly disliked him. The man wore an expensive silk suit and shoes polished to a glowing sheen. His heels tapped loudly as he was invited into the room. In his left hand, he carried a large equipment case.

Henry cleared his throat.

Joan swung around. “Dale, let me introduce you to Professor Henry Conklin.”

Kirkpatrick held out his hand. “The archaeologist.” It was a statement not a question, but Henry scented a trace of dismissal in his voice.

They shook hands, briefly and curtly.

“I appreciate your help in this matter,” Henry said. “It’s posed quite a mystery. We can’t make heads or tails of this amalgam or whatever it is.”

“Yes… well, let me just take a look.” The man’s attitude was again polite, but a touch haughty, as if his mere presence would bring light to darkness.

“It’s over here,” Joan said, guiding him to the worktable.

Once presented with the enigma, Kirkpatrick cocked his head, studying the strange substance in silence. Joan began to speak, but the specialist held up a finger, quieting her. Henry had an irrational urge to break that finger. “It’s not gold,” he finally declared.

“We sort of figured that out,” Henry said sourly.

The man glanced back at him, one eyebrow held high. “Undoubtedly, or I wouldn’t have been called in, now would I?” He turned back to the beaker and reached for the glass rod still embedded in the material. He fiddled with it. “Semisolid at room temperature,” he mumbled. “Have you ascertained a true melting point for the substance?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, that’s easy enough to do.” He told Joan what he would need. Soon they were gathered around a ceramic bowl warming over the low purple flame of a Bunsen burner. A sample of the metal filled the bottom half of the bowl with a thermometer embedded in it.

The metallurgist spoke as the material slowly heated under the hazards hood. “If it’s an amalgam of different elements, the constituent metals should separate out for us as it melts.”

“It’s already melted,” Henry said with a nod toward the bowl.

Dale swung his attention back, frowning. “That’s impossible. It’s only been warming for a few seconds. Even gold doesn’t melt at such a low temp.”

But Henry’s observation proved true. Using tongs, Dale jostled the bowl. The substance now appeared as loose as cream, only golden in color. He looked up to Joan. “What’s the temperature?”