Charlie knew that nobody believed that his conversion to Christ was the real thing, but so what? There would always be unbelievers and naysayers. Jesus himself had to deal with Doubting Thomas. But he’d driven here, all the way to Nome, because Voynovich was the only person he could think of who could give him a decent appraisal of the emerald cross—and tell him what the damn writing said on the other side.
Voynovich studied the cross under his loupe one more time. “I can’t be completely sure until I take them out,” he said, “but these stones could just be glass.”
“They’re emeralds,” Charlie said, “so don’t give me any of your bullshit.” Just because he was a man of God now, it didn’t mean he’d become a sucker. “And the cross is silver.”
“Yeah, I’ll give you that much.”
It was only four in the afternoon, but it was dark out, and in deference to the delicacy of their negotiations, Voynovich had lowered the front blinds of the pawnshop and flipped the sign to CLOSED. The place hadn’t changed much over the years—the same old moose head hung on the wall, the dusty cabinets displayed a seemingly unchanged array of Inuit scrimshaw, old mining tools, and “rare” coins in sealed plastic sleeves. The fluorescent lights still sputtered and fizzed.
“It’s definitely an old piece,” Voynovich conceded.
“How old?”
“Best guess? Judging from the condition, at least a hundred years. Of course, if I knew more about how and where you found it—it’s why I asked—I’d probably be able to tell you a whole lot more.” He shrugged his shoulders under his baggy corduroy shirt and shook a fresh cigarette out of the packet lying on the counter.
“How about the writing on the back?” Charlie asked, shifting in his wheelchair. He was still sore from his long drive from Port Orlov. “What’s it say?”
Voynovich turned it over and tried peering at it through the bottom of his gold bifocals, then gave up. “Gotta get the magnifying glass out of the back,” he said, sliding off the stool, and heading for the rear of the shop. A trail of smoke wafted into the air behind him.
The trouble with dealing with crooks, Charlie reflected, was that they never stopped being crooks. Not emeralds? What a load. Voynovich was probably hoping to buy the thing outright from him for a couple of hundred bucks, act like he was doing Charlie a favor the whole time, then turn around and sell it for thousands through his own guys down in Tacoma. Well, Charlie hadn’t come all this way for a couple hundred bucks, and he sure didn’t want to have to tell Rebekah that that was all he got. While she was supposed to be the subservient wife—that’s what the Bible decreed—she had a tongue on her that could cut like a knife.
Right now, she was out shopping with her sister. The town of Nome was small—only around ten thousand people lived in the area—but compared to Port Orlov, it was the big city. The streets were lined with bars and bingo parlors and tourist traps selling native handicrafts and souvenirs. Most of the buildings were two stories high, made of weathered wood and brick, and clung close to the wet streets, lending the place the feel of an Old West mining camp.
Voynovich lumbered back to his stool, parked his cigarette on the foil ashtray, and held the magnifying glass over the back of the cross. “My Russian’s not what it used to be,” he said, “and some of this is pretty far gone. From all the dents and scorch marks, it looks like some moron used the thing for target practice.”
“Just tell me what the hell it says.”
The pawnbroker leaned over to inspect it more closely. “It looks like it says, ‘To my … little one. No one can break the chains of holy love that bind us. Your loving father, Grigori.’ ”
Voynovich studied it for another few seconds, then sat back.
“That’s it?” Charlie asked.
“That’s it.”
Charlie didn’t know what exactly he’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. A gift from a doting dad? Nothing there sounded like a clue to some vast buried treasure trove.
“If you want me to hang on to it and see what else I can find out, no problem,” Voynovich said, a little too readily for Charlie’s comfort. “I’ve got a big data base for Russian stuff and a few people I could talk to.”
“No.”
“Fine,” Voynovich said. “Then if you just want to sell it, we can go ahead and do that, instead. It’s probably worth more in one piece, but we can see what they think down in Tacoma. Maybe breaking it up is the way to go … especially if those are emeralds.” He started to pick the cross up off the counter, but Charlie reached up and grabbed his wrist—he hated how the damn wheelchair kept him lower than most people—and stopped him.
“I’m hanging on to it,” he said, and Voynovich looked confused.
“I thought you wanted to make some money.”
“And I will.” He wrapped the cross back up in the soft old rag he’d brought it in, then stuffed it into the inside pocket of his coat.
“If you want some kind of an advance,” the pawnbroker said, his eyes avidly following the cross into Charlie’s pocket, “I could do that. What do you say to two hundred bucks now and—”
But Charlie was already pushing his wheelchair away from the counter.