But their guide, having been here before, was more impatient than impressed.
“What you came to see is over here,” Nancy said, and led them to a smooth section of the stone floor. “This is the other reason we don’t let anyone down here. Can’t have them walking all over this masterpiece.”
Rather than scratching into the wall, the artist here had used a different canvas: the floor of the chasm.
Again it was a riotous panoply of prehistoric art—but in the center, wrapped around by one of the ubiquitous spirals, was a distinct crescent moon and five-pointed star. There was no mistaking it. The design was identical to the one drawn by Jordan’s grandfather.
Painter lifted a foot, ready to cross the field of art. He looked to Nancy, who tentatively nodded.
“Just be careful.”
Painter headed out. Hank followed with Kawtch, but Kowalski stayed with Nancy, making plain where his true interest lay. Reaching the piece of art, Painter knelt beside it. Hank assumed the same position on the far side of the display. They studied the work together.
Including the spiral wrapped around it, the singular piece of art had to be a full yard across. The ancient artist used both techniques that they had seen demonstrated elsewhere. The moon and star had been scraped out of the rock, but the spiral was composed of thousands of pinkie-sized drill holes.
Kawtch sniffed at the surface—at first curious, but then his hackles rose. He backed away, sneezing in apparent irritation.
Hank and Painter stared at each other. Painter leaned down first, putting his nose close to the art. Hank did the same.
“Do you smell anything?” Painter asked.
“No,” he answered, but there was still an edge of excitement in his voice.
Then Painter felt it, too—the smallest brush against his cheek, like a feathery kiss. He sat back and held his palm over the petroglyph, over the small drill holes.
“You feel that, right?” Painter asked.
“A breeze,” Hank said. “Coming up from below through the holes drilled in the spiral.”
“There must be a blowhole under here. Same as at Wupatki.”
Painter leaned over and gently brushed his hand across the surface of the art. Some of the fine rock dust billowed up as it passed over the drill holes, but that wasn’t his goal. He was clearing it for another reason.
He ran his fingertips along the edges of the petroglyph, then reached to Hank’s hand, urging the professor to do the same.
“Feel this,” Painter said, and drew one of Hank’s fingers along a seam that circled the piece of art.
Shock filled the professor’s voice. “It’s been mortared in place.”
Painter nodded. “Someone sealed this blowhole with a slab of sandstone. Like a manhole cover over a sewer.”
“But they left holes so the caverns below could still breathe.”
Painter’s eyes locked on Hank’s. “We must get down there.”
Chapter 24
May 31, 4:50 P.M.
Washington, D.C.
This day was never going to end.
In the shadow of the Washington Monument, Gray headed across the National Mall, casting a withering glare toward the sun. It seemed to refuse to set. Though the flight from Reykjavik had taken five hours, because of the time change, he’d landed back in D.C. only an hour after he’d left Iceland—and as much as he traveled, such changes still mucked up his inner clock.
Some of his irritation also came from the two hours he’d spent underground, beneath the Smithsonian Castle at Sigma command. He’d gone through a thorough debriefing, while chomping at the bit to discover the contents of Archard Fortescue’s journal.
It had to be important, and he bore the proof of that. He touched his left ear gingerly. A liquid plastic bandage, barely visible, hardened the graze from the bullet he’d taken as he wrestled the backpack from the Guild agent on the island. But injuries he had received weren’t the worst from that trip.
“Slow down!” Seichan called behind him.
She hobbled after him, limping on her right leg. Medics at Sigma had also tended to her lacerations, suturing up the deeper bite marks and pumping her full of antibiotics and a lighter dose of pain reliever, as evidenced by the slight glaze to her eyes. She’d been lucky the orcas had treated her as gently as they had, or she could have lost the leg.
Gray reduced his pace so she could catch up to him. “We could’ve caught that cab.”
“Needed to stretch my legs. The more I keep moving, the faster I’ll heal.”
Gray wasn’t so sure that was the case. He’d overheard one of the doctors warning Seichan to take it easy. But he noted the feral glint behind that medicated glaze. She hadn’t liked being cooped up underground for two hours any better than he had. It was said sharks couldn’t breathe unless they were constantly moving. He suspected the same was true of her.
Together, they crossed Madison Drive. Her left foot slipped as she stepped from the curb. He caught her around the waist to keep her from falling. She swore, balanced herself, and began to push off of him—but he pulled her back, took her hand, and placed it on his shoulder.
“Just hold on.”
She started to lift her hand away, but he frowned at her. She sighed, and her fingers tightened on his shoulder. He kept his hand on the small of her back, under her open jacket, ready if she needed more help.
By the time they crossed the street and cut between the Natural History Museum and the National Gallery of Art, her grip was digging deep into his deltoids. He slid his hand around her waist, resting it under her rib cage to support her.
“Next time, the cab . . .” she gasped out, offering him a small grin as she limped along.
At the moment Gray was selfishly glad they had walked. She leaned heavily against him. He smelled the peach scent of her hair, mixed with something richer, almost spicy from her damp skin. And down deeper, he was enough of a primitive male to appreciate this rare moment of weakness, of her need for him.
Her pressed his hand harder against her, feeling the heat of her body through her blouse, but such intimacy did not last long.
“Thank God we’re almost there,” she said, leaning away but keeping one hand on his shoulder for balance.
The National Archives Building rose ahead of them. They were to meet the curator and his assistant down in the research room. Shortly after reaching Sigma, Gray had had a photocopy of the old journal’s pages hand-delivered to them. The original was safely secured in a vault at Sigma. They weren’t taking any chances with it.