“I don’t know where my mother is.”
“Was she…sick?”
The little girl nodded gravely.
“And were you sick, too?”
She nodded and looked troubled. “I think my mother died. I think I came here with my father when she died. But I can’t find her now.”
“Do you think that her grave was here…right here, where I am now?”
The girl pointed a few feet away.
“I’ll find her. When I do, Mary, they’ll take her away for a bit. But…I’ll find you, too. And I’ll make sure, in the end, that they keep you together.” She took a deep breath. “Mary…you know that you’re…”
“I’m dead. Yes, I know. I just want my mother.”
Despite herself and everything she knew, Leslie felt a terrible chill. The sun was bright. It was a beautiful day. She was glad she was surrounded by people. Real live people.
Brad was standing, dusting his hands on his khakis.
She made a face at him. “I think I’m going to move right over there. Want to give me a hand? We’ll need to dig a bit.”
“How do you know?”
“A hunch. Instinct. I don’t know. But I want to try over there.”
He looked both skeptical and annoyed, but he joined her nonetheless.
They began to work in silence. Leslie looked up, intending to smile and reassure the child again, but the little girl was gone.
She didn’t know how long she worked, she was so absorbed in what she was doing. And then, at last, she hit a fragment of wood.
“Brad.”
“What?”
“Look.” She dusted the piece and handed it to him. “Coffin?” she asked softly.
“Let’s keep going.”
A minute later he let out a hoarse cry. He’d come across a piece so big it could actually be termed a board.
“We’re on it,” Leslie murmured.
“Delicately, delicately now…just the brushes, no matter how long it takes.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. How long have we worked together?”
He didn’t even look up.
She found the first bone. A breastbone. They both stopped and looked at each other.
“Let’s go a little farther,” he whispered.
She nodded. They went back to work, meticulously, slowly. Her back ached, but she scarcely noticed the discomfort. Minutes passed. Eventually they revealed the skeletal remains of a woman. Bits and pieces of fabric had also survived the ravages of time and the worms of the grave. And a cross. A simple gold cross. Very tiny, a poor woman’s treasure.
About to get up and summon the others, Leslie realized that they were already surrounded. Silently, and one by one, about twenty people, including Professor Laymon, Robert Adair and Hank Smith, had circled carefully around their position.
“Um, well, it’s definitely a graveyard,” Leslie said.
“We knew there was a church here. It’s a churchyard. There will be lots of graves, and, with luck, they’ll reveal volumes of new understanding about the area,” Professor Laymon said, pleased.
Leslie wondered if Hank Smith felt happy. He shouldn’t. This would put his project on hold for some time.
But Hank Smith was smooth, a man who had apparently learned never to give his true emotions away. His face revealed absolutely nothing of whatever he was feeling.
Laymon, however, looked as if he were about to have an orgasm.
“Oh. My. God,” he breathed. He sounded like a Valley girl, Leslie thought with a smile. “All right, we’ll need to get the photographers over here…and the news crews.” He frowned. He didn’t want anyone trampling on what he now considered to be his territory, but they could always use the publicity, and, anyway, there was no way not to allow the press at least some access, especially since it was the good PR that kept the developers happy. “Sergeant Adair, will you post a guard, please? And when we bring her up, I want her in situ…the dirt around her and beneath her.”
Laymon definitely looked as if he belonged in a laboratory somewhere—or filming a mad scientist movie—Leslie thought. He was in a smudged white lab coat, his glasses were sitting halfway down his nose, and his hair was dusty and sticking out at odd angles. She smiled. The man certainly got into his work.
Hank Smith reached down to help her up the little incline from where she’d been digging. She hesitated, worrying about leaving Mary’s mother alone.
“Leslie, come on up. I promise, you’ll get to oversee as soon as the photographers are done,” Laymon said.
She grinned at Hank Smith and accepted his hand, then found herself apologizing. He was wearing a suit that appeared to be the most haute of designer apparel, even if it had been designed for business. He looked like a million bucks in it. “I’m going to ruin your clothing. I’m a mess.”
“You’re a beautiful mess,” he said politely, and grinned. “In fact, you can mess me up any time you like.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, unsure just how to take his words.
Brad had stepped up on his own; others were milling closer.