Anne watched how each person dealt with the story David had told.
Maybe she hadn't wimped out, after all. Maybe her way was just as valid as any other for dealing with an unbearable situation.
Blake had wanted to leave the rock crystal jaguar in plain sight so that he could watch it constantly. Because neither she nor David knew exactly how the transfer worked, they'd argued against that as potentially dangerous. Instead, Blake had pulled his car in front of the porch steps, in full view of the window in the kitchen door. After David lightly dusted the ancient pipe, Blake had locked all of the car's doors. He'd also gone with Wayne and David to check the locks on all the doors and windows on the ground floor of the house.
Now he paced, and all too often he walked to the back door and looked out as though he half expected to find the door ripped from his Jimmy.
Although he tried not to be too obvious, David watched Anne.
Margaret faced the time by digging into Anne's pantry and freezer and putting together a meal.
Anne spent the time knitting herself back together. Thread by thread, by thread.
The only one who seemed unbothered by the wait was Wayne, and Anne suspected he had learned places inside himself where he could go and no one would ever know.
When Frances telephoned, everyone in the room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. They'd been on hold, waiting for something. Now they knew what.
Blake wouldn't leave. Wayne drove into town to lead her back to the house. And Margaret began setting the meal on the table.
They heard the cars climbing the drive, and each moved in an action determined by God alone knew who. It reminded Anne of a funeral gathering, each person going through the motions of a normal life when everything normal had been shattered by death.
Wayne opened the door and ushered Frances in. She stopped just inside the door and looked around the kitchen as she shed her coat. "Wow," she said. "This is going to be great. Is it as huge as it looks in the dark?" But when Wayne took her coat from her, she turned and noticed Blake and her smile faded. "Sheriff? Is there a problem?"
"No." Anne handed her a cup of coffee. "Blake's here because we asked him, and I hope as a friend."
"We're all friends," Margaret said from her place at the stove.
And they were. More than that. Anne's eyes sought out David. Some much more than that. He held the chair for Frances, a courtly gesture he seemed to have picked up from Wayne, or maybe not. Maybe it had already been ingrained in him. How truly strange, Anne thought. A week before she had known only two of these people, and those two in a professional capacity.
Now they would forever be a part of her life.
Even when they left her.
Damn! She had to get out of this morbid mood. Not everybody was destined to leave her. Why did she keep coming back to that thought? No. No, no, no. Before it had been David, only David, she'd known would go. Now it was all of them. Ridiculous. In all the emotional knitting she'd been doing, she must have dropped a stitch.
"Did you have any problems getting here?" David asked.
"No more than any other person who's been spoiled by flatland river bottoms," she said.
Blake still prowled. Now he glanced at Frances. "Ms. Collins?"
She turned questioningly towards him.
"Could you recognize the artifacts that David and Anne brought to the park today?"
"Well, yes. Of course. They were unique in design. Have they been recovered?"
Margaret closed the oven door with a determined thump. "Oh, go on and check, Blake Foresman. No one's going to want dinner until this is resolved anyway."
Blake turned toward Anne. "Do you suppose . . ."
"I don't know," she told him.
David went with him. Frances looked puzzled but resisted asking any questions. At least for the moment. Anne was sure the woman would have plenty of them later.
When the men returned Anne knew from Blake's ashen face that the jaguar had disappeared from his truck.
David moved to her side. Blake stopped inside the door and just stood there. Anne remembered all too well those first moments when she and David knew that the warrior's grave goods returned to him. She remembered the suspicion that David, and even she, had felt before believing the unbelievable.
"Go," she told David. "Take him upstairs and get it over with."
Now more than ever the gathering took on a funeral air. She hadn't been able to go to Anthony's funeral; she'd still been in the hospital. But she remembered her grandmother's, with all the family coming home. Singly or in groups, all of them had gone to the funeral home to view the body—the shell—that had been her grandmother. Anne had slipped away by herself to say goodbye to her grandmother. She hadn't wanted to share what little time she had to say good-bye to her with others. As strange as it seemed, she felt the same way now.
Did the others?
"Will you come with us?" David asked her.
"No." She glanced at the woman sitting quietly, if not completely patiently, at the table. "Frances, would you like to see the burial?"
Frances clutched her hands together in front of her on the table. "I don't know. I find I'm having a surprising amount of trouble with this." She laughed shakily. "It's a hell of a note for a woman who has worked most of her life trying to get an advanced degree in archaeology, but since you showed me those photos earlier, he's become a person to me, not just a study, and I'm having a real hard time with the fact that someone, thief or scientist, it doesn't really matter to me right now, ripped him out of his grave."
"I know," Anne told her. "But maybe that's a good reason for you to see him."
"Besides," Blake said, still a little subdued, "I'd like you to confirm something for me."
Frances went upstairs with the men.
"Are you all right?" Margaret asked when the two of them were alone in the kitchen.
"I'm getting there," Anne told her. And she truly believed she was.
The others were all quiet when they returned to the kitchen. Frances smiled uncertainly at Anne. "I'm still not comfortable with the questions I've had to ask myself today, Anne Locke, but I will forever thank you for sharing that treasure with me."
Blake lapsed into silence, only occasionally rousing himself to mutter the three syllable hell that was the one sure sign he was disturbed.
Wayne walked over to Margaret and without warning hugged her tight to his chest. "I love you, woman. I don't think I've told you that in a long time. Too long."
Margaret's eyes filled. No tears fell, but her voice quivered slightly. "I know that, Wayne Samuels. I've always known that."
And David—David who, more than she, had been able to come and go from the room without seeming to be affected by the man who lay there—David seemed strangely subdued.
Of course Frances identified the items that she had seen at the park. Of course the crystal jaguar had returned from Blake's locked truck.
And of course, with the close of the meal they ate simply because they had to, and because Margaret put it on the table in front of them, the questions began. Tentatively. Touching first on what was real, normal, and known, before moving into speculation. Crazy Marian. Joe and his greed. Ralph and his greed. Frances's grandfather's part in the commercial digs. The deaths of diggers and dealers. The disappearance of Lucy and Walter. The three brutal deaths that had taken place in the last four days.
Anne listened, not sharing, allowing David to speak for them. Thinking of the man upstairs. Thinking about the world he must have known. Thinking about the world that had dragged him back.
Thinking about David, as he glanced up sharply at something that was said. As he frowned later at something else. As he reached for her hand and held it against his thigh, massaging her fingers almost unconsciously as one portion of his fertile mind worked on some problem while another engaged in the conversation now flowing around the table.
Did he know he touched her as though she had been a part of his life forever?
During the meal and discussion, Blake had regained his voice and his vocabulary. "So what we're saying is, if we don't protect that not-so-small fortune Anne found, the cats are going to do it for us?"
Anne shuddered at his choice of words.
"That about sums it up, Blake," David told him.
"Well, hell." The sheriff in Blake took over. "Let's see who knows about this. Marian Hansom. Now she's a wild card in any deck. Who knows what she's liable to say or to whom? Joe Hansom, who apparently wants it bad enough to spend a fortune on care for a grandmother he must know is using him, bad enough to risk his political campaign and future as a free man to break into this house at least once already. Stephen Carlton, who might not know who you two are now but probably has the resources to find out." He did a quick head count. "The six of us. Anybody else? Nellie? The little girl?"
David shook his head. "No. I don't think so. Wayne?"
"Not from us. She came in with Maggie after the clinic closed and except for the little bit of time she was in the kitchen earlier, she's shut herself up in that front bedroom, sleeping."
"That's another thing," Blake said. "Somebody want to tell me what happened to her?"
"Not now, Blake," Margaret said. "I think she should, and Anne thinks she should, but Nellie is scared to death to get you involved—"
"Well, hell, that's reason enough—"
"And as soon as I can convince her of that, I will call you," Margaret promised.
"The problem is, what to do with a monetary and scientific fortune," Wayne said. "A deadly fortune."
"Yep. That about says it," David admitted. He turned to Frances. "Tell me, now that you've seen it, now that you've heard what can happen, do you think there's a snowball's chance that any museum would honor a requirement not to separate the burial?"
"I want to say yes," Frances said slowly. "But there's been so much competition over the years, so much rivalry, and so many items that have simply disappeared, that I'm afraid I can't."
"Marian doesn't want Joe to get his hands on it before she dies," Blake offered. "There's always a possibility she'd keep her mouth shut about its location. Could we maybe build a vault around it and just leave it here? At least until you folks found someone you could trust to turn it over to?"
"I'll go along with whatever Anne decides," Wayne said, "but Blake, do you really think that would be a wise course of action?"
"Hell, no, I don't think it's wise. I want it out of my county. I just don't know how to get it gone without risking more lives."
"Annie." David lifted her hand from his thigh. She missed the warmth and nearness until he clasped it in both of his. "Even though I agree with Blake on this, I'll go along with whatever you want done. But we have to hear from you. What do you want to do?"
She looked around the table at the small coterie of caring people gathered there. What did she want? She wanted the impossible. She wanted him at peace. "I just want to put him back."
She saw sympathy in their eyes. And compassion. And regret for what couldn't be.
Frances propped her elbows on the table and clasped her hands under her chin. And looked at Anne. Really looked at her. And opened her mouth on a silent word. And lifted her head. "Well, why not?"
"What?" That was the last thing Anne had expected anyone to say.
Apparently it was the last thing any of them expected anyone to say. Her question was only one of five.
Frances held up her hands, asking for silence. "Wait a minute. Let me think. Oh, God, let me think." She caught her hands to her mouth and rocked back and forth in silence for what seemed like forever as Anne waited, scarcely daring to breathe. Could they do this? Could they restore him to the grave that had been stolen from him?
"Okay." Frances pulled her hands from her mouth and stopped her rocking. "Craig Mound is sterile soil. What that means is that it was dug out and dynamited by the pothunters, and sliced away in thin vertical layers by the W.P.A. and the university, until there was nothing left on the original location. Nothing. Down to a depth low enough that the excavators were sure was below the level of any possible archaeological find. Then the dirt was sifted and sieved until the tiniest fragments were found and removed and catalogued. And then the soil was replaced and shaped to the measurements and specifications and photographs that were available at the time.
"There's no reason for anyone ever to dig in that mound again. Except . . ."
Anne realized she had been holding her breath. She released it, but she didn't release her grip on David's hand. "Except for what, Frances?"
"Except for a rumor that crops up every few years about constructing a viewing chamber in Craig. But you know how state government works. And since the oil bust, finances are really tight. We can't even get authorization for more excavation—Brown hasn't been completed, Copple barely started, the Plaza only sampled—so the chances of something like a viewing chamber are almost nonexistent. Almost, I have to say. But if we're careful, we can put him away from where any possible chamber should be located."
Now they all looked at Anne. Whatever she wanted to do. The decision was hers. David endured the pressure of her fingers on his, even gave hers a slight squeeze of encouragement.
Yes. This seemed right. She leaned against David's shoulder and let the rightness wash over her. "Yes," she said. "Yes. Let's do it."
"When?" David asked.
"The park's closed tomorrow," Frances said.
"The sooner the better," Blake added.
Margaret glanced at Anne. "Then the clinic is closed tomorrow, too. I'll need a few minutes in the morning to reschedule the appointments."
As quickly as that, it was decided.
Wayne and Margaret opted to stay there the rest of the night rather than wake up Nellie and Lilly and move them for what could be no more than a few hours.
Anne invited Frances to stay, but she insisted she had to get back to her grandparents, and that she needed the time in the morning at the park before they arrived. Agreeing on when and telling them where they should meet the following day, she said good night. "Just hope the blasted tractor won't decide that tomorrow is a good day for it to go on strike," she said on her way out the door, and Anne knew she was only half joking. "It does that with disgusting regularity."
Blake left with Frances, promising to escort her safely at least to the county line.
Anne showed Margaret and Wayne to an upstairs room and found linens for them, but when she offered to help make the bed, Margaret shooed her away. "Go on," she said. "You have to be dead on your feet."
And she was. Almost. Until she was ready for bed. Until David and Wayne were making one last check around the outside of the house. Until she accepted that there was something she had to do.
Removing the panel had become almost easy over the last few days. Now Anne slipped it aside and entered the room. She considered not even turning on the light, but she wanted to see him one last time. She pulled the cord, flooding the room with light from the bare bulb, and looked around the shabby chamber where a once powerful ruler had lain hidden for half a century. As tombs went, it wasn't much.
She knelt at his feet and lifted the small cedar box containing the miniatures. Nothing growled at her when she picked it up. Why? Because she realized how special it must have been to him and to the woman pictured? She didn't open it. She didn't need to; the images were engraved on her memory. Instead, she touched it reverently and placed it where she had first seen it, where it had returned after Blake had tossed it down. Near that fragile, vulnerable left foot.
She felt tears on her cheeks and let them fall freely.
"Are we doing the right thing?" she asked.
But of course he didn't answer. He would never again answer anyone.
"Annie. Oh, Annie." She heard a wealth of anguish in David's voice as he dropped his hands to her shoulders and pulled her back against his thighs.
"I'm just saying good-bye," she told him. "I need to do that."
He didn't argue with her. Perhaps he had his own need to say good-bye, perhaps he only felt he had to guard her. He kept his hands on her shoulders, standing over her, until something within her told her it was time to let go. She looked up at him, and he helped her to her feet. Only then did he touch her in any other way. He lifted his hands to her face and traced the path of her tears. "He's dead, Annie. He's been dead for a long, long time."
"Yes," she said. "I know." And she knew something else. The reason for the anguish in David's voice and in his eyes as he looked down at her. This man loved her. Whether he admitted it or not.
"I learned something today," she told him.
She knew why he touched her face, because she felt the same need to touch him, to affirm that he was real, that he was here, with her. She lifted her hands and traced his cheekbones, the fading bruise, the fine line of his nose, his cleanly sculpted lips. She saw the pulse beating in his temple and touched her fingers to it, feeling its echoing beat in her own heart.
"You may not want to hear this," she warned, "but I don't think I can fail to tell you."
He tensed beneath her touch, but she wouldn't let him pull away from her. Sighing, she leaned forward, feeling the beat of his heart beneath her cheek, feeling the strength of muscle beneath her arms as she held him to her.
"I learned I love you, David Huerra. Whether you stay in Allegro or return to Dallas, whether you want me for a lifetime or only for a month, I love you."
She heard what sounded suspiciously like a groan before he tightened his arms around her, pulling her impossibly close. "Oh, God, Annie, I was going out of my mind thinking about you in here grieving for your warrior—"
"I was, David," she told him. "I believe there's a part of me that always will, and please don't ask me to explain that because I don't think I can. But there's another part of me, the part that lives and feels and wants and dreams, that is so glad you came into my life."
"Annie—" His breath whispered on her cheek before he turned with her, reaching one-handed for the light cord. "Let's get out of here."
Loving was a celebration, Anne realized when they returned to their room and David took her in his arms. A celebration of living, of the spirits of each of the lovers. Or was there no separation of spirit? Because David's touch, his caress, his need, blended so completely with her touch, her caress, her need, that she was no longer sure where Anne stopped and David began. If Annie stopped and David began.
Morning dawned gray and cold, probably little, if any, above freezing. David eased into the morning warily, watching his breath condense in the frigid, unheated room.
Annie had burrowed under the covers and lay as close to him as she could get without crawling inside of him. He could just see the top of her head beneath the edge of the blankets, but he could feel her warmth along the length of him, the soft cushion of her breast against his side, her leg wrapped over his, her foot seeking his calf for warmth. He could feel the beat of the pulse in her arm where it rested across his ribs and feel the puff of her slow, steady breath against his throat.
Annie loved him. Anne Locke loved him, David Huerra, beat-up, washed-up cop.
What the hell was he supposed to do about that?