The Bone Conjurer. Alex Archer
Читать онлайн книгу.
that. The skull is intact.”
“Annja, you think it came this way? Or rather, it was born this way?”
It was a silly conjecture, she realized. “Let me see.”
He handed her the skull and camera, but she only took the skull.
Poking a finger inside the hole, she traced it along a carved line and dug in her fingernail to test the depth. It was shallow and the edges were smooth. It felt natural, as if the lines had existed since the skull had, well, been born.
It was utterly ridiculous. Human skulls were not embedded with a worm’s nest of interconnecting carvings. The designs had to be manmade, and the gold supported that guess.
Still, she smoothed the pad of her finger over the designs. It was remarkable no sharp edges appeared that would give a clue the lines had been carved. Of course time would soften all knife edges and chisel marks. But even on the inside?
“Can you leave this here with me overnight?” Danzinger asked. “With patience I might be able to map the interior with the camera.”
“So you’re interested now? It’s no longer just another skull?”
“Hey, with the holiday this weekend the building is serene. It’s difficult to leave when there’s not a soul to bother me. I’ve got a few hours to spare tonight. Joleen broke our date.”
“I don’t even want to know.” She caught his sly wink. “What holiday?”
“Seriously? Annja, it’s Thanksgiving in two days.”
“Oh, right. I don’t pay much attention to the calendar.” She tapped the skull. “I’ll leave it. I’d love to see what’s going on inside this thing.”
He took the skull and nestled it carefully in the lamb’s wool. “Cool. I will call you as soon as I have something.”
She scribbled her cell phone number on a piece of paper and he tucked it in his pants pocket.
“So, Annja, if you ever need an expert on classic electric guitars for the show, you know where to find me.”
“You’ll be the first I ask. What a pair you and Kristie would make on the screen. They’d have to do up posters and send you to fan conventions to sign them.”
“You think?”
She smirked, and shook his hand. “Thanks, Professor. Call me as soon as you have something.”
ANNJA STOPPED in the lobby below her loft and chatted with Wally, the building’s superintendent, while she sipped coffee. The building’s residents were all on friendly terms. She liked the small community and felt safer for it.
The connection to people who didn’t necessarily know her well, but well enough to smile at sight of her and offer a few friendly words, was something she cherished. A girl who had grown up in an orphanage will take all the camaraderie she can get.
Climbing the fourth-floor stairs, she was glad for the residents’ rule of no elevator after-hours because the thing was creaky and loud. Who needed an elevator when the exercise felt great?
Tugging the thief’s backpack from her shoulder, she swung its empty weight by her side as she took the stairs.
A strange touch of grief suddenly shivered inside her rib cage. She hadn’t known the guy at the bridge. They’d had a few online conversations, shared some common knowledge and a fascination for old skulls. Yet he’d died standing right next to her. She had used his body as a shield to break the water during their fall.
As much as she’d encountered death in her life—and it had increased tenfold over the past few years—Annja would never become so used to it that it didn’t at least make her wonder about the life lost. It was the archaeologist in her.
If some goon were intent on killing her, and she had to take his life to save her own, the regret was minimal. But innocents caught in the line of fire? That was tough to deal with.
Had Sneak been innocent? Bart suspected he might be a thief from the description she’d given him of the tools. Yet, if he were a thief, why bring the booty to her? Wouldn’t he have his own network of experts to authenticate an artifact?
Unless he was just forming that network, and he’d neglected to mention she had been chosen as his expert archaeologist.
What nest of vipers had she stepped into by meeting the man and claiming the skull?
Whoever had killed the thief had gotten a look at her, surely, through the rifle scope. She hadn’t looked her best last night with a ski cap pulled to her ears and bundled against the cold so, hopefully, whatever look the sniper had gotten hadn’t been enough to pick her out from a crowd. With her face flashed across the TV screen on occasional Thursday nights it wasn’t easy going incognito.
She pushed open the fourth-floor stairway door. The sudden awareness that something was not right made her pause before her loft door labeled with 4A. She held her palm over the knob, not touching it.
The door wasn’t open, but she sensed a weird vibe in the air. Intuition had always been good to her.
Had someone been here while she was gone?
“Paranoia does not suit you, Annja,” she muttered, and twisted the knob.
Apparently paranoia fit this time.
Her loft had been ransacked. The messy desktop was now clear save the laptop. Books, papers, manuscripts, pens and small artifacts were spread haphazardly across the floor. One sweep of an arm had cleared them from the desk.
Curtains were pulled from the rod and heaped on the floor. So much for dusting them. Couch cushions were tossed against the wall and the couch overturned. The filming setup in the corner of her living room was trashed. The green screen coiled on the floor, and the camera sprawled on top of that.
Everything had been touched. She didn’t want to venture into the kitchen. She got a glimpse of a cracked peanut-butter jar from the doorway.
The reason Annja didn’t rush into the kitchen sat on the desk chair before her. As if waiting for her return.
Annja lowered her body into a ready crouch, but she did not summon her sword to her grip. She didn’t know who he was, but she wasn’t so quick to reveal her secrets before she learned the secrets of others.
Besides, he didn’t jump her, nor did he have a pistol aimed on any important body parts.
The man was bald, seeming tall from his seated position and his broad shoulders and dressed in a dark suit with a black tie. He looked up from his canted bow through his lashes, which made him seem more sinister than the business suit could ever manage.
Could he be the man who’d pulled her from the canal? That man had been bald.
“Annja Creed,” he said calmly. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
7
He sounded Russian. The voice was deep but the tones were even and he didn’t sound threatening.
What was she thinking? The man had destroyed her home. And she had a pretty good idea what he must have been looking for.
“You know my name. It’s only polite I learn yours.” Still in defensive mode, Annja kept the open door behind her in case a quick escape was needed.
“Serge,” he said, putting a Slavic lilt on the second syllable. “You know what I am here for, Miss Creed.”
“I have no idea. How about you tell me? That is, after you apologize for tearing my place apart. You’ve tossed valuable artifacts about as if toys.”
“Unfortunately, not the valuable artifact I seek. You slipped through my fingers last night.”
So he was the guy at the canal. That explained the bruise at the corner of his left eye. Points for the half-frozen