Authors: Merry Jones
Oh great. Jake was going to argue with her about the professor’s will? Get into details of the lawsuit? Harper didn’t want to hear about it, had no part in the dispute. She just wanted to take a look at the mask in the box she’d opened. ‘Look, I’m just here to document—’
‘Even so. You ought to know what you’re getting into. The will that leaves the collection to the university is, excuse the expression, a piece of shit. My father didn’t have a clue what he was doing when he wrote it. For the last few years, his mind was gone. He was senile.’
‘But I thought he made the donation decades ago.’ Back in the eighties, before the first research assistant had been killed.
Jake exhaled a smoke ring, shook his head. ‘No.’
‘But wasn’t there a research assistant—?’
‘Yes, Carla. Pretty Carla.’ He picked a shred of tobacco off his tongue. ‘I was in my first year of college, fantasizing about asking her out. I was too shy, of course. Still, all of us tried to catch her eye. Angus, Caleb—’
Caleb?
‘He’s the oldest. Married, lives in Oregon.’ Jake smiled, shook his head. ‘But Carla stole my heart.’ He stopped, cleared his throat. ‘Sorry. Poor choice of expression. But all of us were smitten. Even Angus’ friend, Digger. And Digger wasn’t easily impressed.’
Why was Jake telling her all this?
‘You know, they never found out who did it. And now, Zina’s dead, too.’ He looked at Harper too steadily. For too long. As if testing her reaction.
Harper met his eyes. Stared back. Wondered how well he’d known Zina. Obviously, well enough to call her by her first name.
Finally, Jake looked away. ‘My father was still teaching back then; Carla was one of his research assistants, and he assigned her to inventory everything. For insurance purposes, I guess. But his will? No. He wrote that a few months before he died, when he had dementia. Otherwise, he’d never have given everything away.’
Harper chewed her lip, not sure what to say. She eyed the open box, trying to glimpse a bit of copper. Wished he would leave.
But Jake didn’t leave. He stood there, tall, gangly. Middle-aged skin loose under his jaw. Spewing smoke into dust-filled air. ‘It’s obvious how confused he was – you can see for yourself. Father was always meticulous. He kept neat, careful records, labeled everything.’ Jake let out a harsh, ragged cough. ‘But the last few years, as his mind went, he took relics out, repacked them someplace else but didn’t write down or remember where. Then he’d search for them. I’d come by to check on him and find an artifact worth fifty thousand in the laundry basket – or worse, in the washing machine. Some never turned up. You’ll see how it is. Clutter and chaos. The collection – hell, the whole house – is a portrait of Dad’s confusion.’
Oh dear. How sad for Professor Langston. Harper imagined him digging through the myriad of packages, searching for a priceless artifact he’d placed beside his frozen peas. ‘Poor guy.’ She meant it.
‘We took care of him, my brothers and I. We kept him from harm. Then he died, and guess what? He left us nothing. Just this pathetic old house that needs more repair than it’s worth. But the collection worth millions – the relics he spent his life gathering? That, he left to the university. To strangers.’ Jake shook his head. He took a final long deep puff of his cigarette, crushed it against a wooden crate, leaving an ash mark. Stuck the stub into his pocket. ‘Father wasn’t in his right mind. He got manipulated, plain and simple.’
Maybe it was true. Harper had no idea. Either way, it wasn’t her issue. The open box beside her gaped, teasing, inviting her to look inside. But she felt awkward with Jake standing over her, claiming the contents rightfully belonged to him. She cleared her throat, leaned against a stack of crates, crossed her arms. Smiled. Hoped he’d move along.
Jake didn’t budge, didn’t say anything. Seemed comfortable right where he was, took out another Camel, lit up in silence.
Damn.
Harper fidgeted, ran her fingers through her hair.
Jake blew smoke rings.
‘You live here?’ she finally gave in, broke the silence.
‘Seriously? Here?’ he scoffed. ‘No, no. I have a place down the road. My brother Angus lives on the property, though. In the guest house.’
‘I’ve met him. He accused me of trespassing.’
Jake grinned. ‘That’s Angus. He’s our guard dog. Protects our domicile. He and Digger – they love these relics. When they were young, my father took them along on digs. In fact, that’s how Digger got his nickname. His love for all things archeological. But no. Nobody should live in this old thing. The plumbing’s shot. Wiring’s fried. Roof leaks. Stairs are loose, and there are rotting boards all over the place. Walls about to collapse in on the passageways.’
Passageways? ‘It’s true about those?’ Harper remembered the story about the film star – that actress who’d disappeared in them.
‘Quite true.’ Jake grinned. ‘This house has false walls, hidden doors, secret passages. Vaults. Trapdoors. Tunnels.’ His grin didn’t fade as he winked. ‘Be careful where you step and what you touch.’
Harper told herself she should leave, come back another time when Jake wasn’t around. But no. She had a legitimate job to do, shouldn’t let him interfere with it. She needed to check out the work Zina had done, see her notes and how she’d left things. Besides, she wasn’t willing to leave without seeing even one single relic.
‘Well, I’d better get started here. Get some stuff done,’ she reached for the box.
‘Like I said, knock yourself out.’ Jake remained where he was, leaning against the doorframe, watching her.
Harper felt his stare as she turned away and reached for a handful of packing material. ‘I won’t stay long. I just need to get myself oriented.’
He was quiet.
She set the material on the top of a crate, took out another handful. Looked into the box, still didn’t see the mask.
‘Well, remember what I said: be careful. Watch your step.’ Jake’s voice sounded different, kind of thin.
‘Thanks,’ Harper turned to say goodbye, but Jake wasn’t there. She went to the door, into the hall, over to the stairway. Didn’t see him anywhere. Gooseflesh rose on her arms. She hadn’t seen him leave; Jake was simply gone.
Probably she’d been so engrossed in finding the mask that she hadn’t heard him go. But finally, he was gone and she could explore the collection. She went back to the box, dug in with her hands, feeling for a mask.
Finding nothing.
She pulled out clumps of packing material, let it drop to the floor, until the box was empty.
Nothing.
Oh God. Jake must have been right. The professor must have tampered with his collection, moving pieces around, relocating them, misplacing them. The mask could be in the microwave. In a shoebox. Under a cushion. Who knew? What a nightmare. Not only was the collection larger than she’d imagined; it was also completely disorganized. She gazed around at the boxes and crates, realizing how much had to be done. It could take months or even years to sort things out.
Sighing, Harper headed down the hall, back to the room with the computer. Maybe Zina had left useful notes. Booting up, she looked around. The room was pristine, dust-free. The shelves held cleaning chemicals, disposable smocks and gloves. And a row of notebooks. Harper took one at random, opened it. Saw the name on the inside of the cover: Carla Prentiss.
Oh dear. The handwriting, the book belonged to the first research assistant. She turned the pages, scanning lists of crate numbers and itemizations of content. Harper couldn’t believe the relics listed – objects thousands of years old, representing the craftsmanship and symbols of Pre-Columbian cultures, most in perfect and near-perfect condition. Vessels. Bowls. Masks. Figurines. Oddly, several pages of the logbook indicated that a few items were missing. Maybe the professor hadn’t been as competent and organized as Jake thought. Maybe he’d been misplacing relics even back in the eighties.
Harper replaced the notebook, sat at the computer. Found Zina’s records. They were scant; she’d only been working a short time. Probably had spent most of her energy getting organized, setting up the computer file, arranging the crates. Like Carla, Zina had approached the artifacts box by box, labeling each with a code number. Like Carla, she’d itemized their contents as she’d proceeded, comparing actual content to that listed on the lids or sides of the boxes. And, like Carla, she’d found disparities.
Relics listed on the boxes were not always found inside. Missing from Crate A-1 was a ten-inch high Mayan gold figure of a turtle with the Maize god, AD 900–1200, valued at $70,000. From Crate A-3, a Honduran vessel, mosaic marble, eight and a half inches tall, a thousand to fifteen hundred years old, value $55,000. Harper read on. Saw that out of seven crates and twenty-four items Zina had catalogued, four items were missing.
Strange. But probably not a big deal, Harper decided. Over the years, the professor had probably removed some of the items – might have put some on display, sold some or donated them to museums. Her job was to make a record of what was there, not to explain what had been done with what wasn’t. She’d simply follow Zina’s technique, code each crate, open one at a time, record the contents. Indicate any discrepancies.
Saving the file, she shut down the computer and turned to the stacks of boxes, noting the labels: A-1, A-2, A-3. Zina had made it to A-7. For a moment, Harper felt her presence, imagined her working there alone at dusk. Saw a bat flap out from the rafters, heard the wind scream through the walls, watched the lights flicker and go out. She could understand how Zina’s imagination had taken off, how she’d panicked. Even now, in daylight, the massive house was eerily quiet. Stacks of boxes cast ominous shadows and concealed dark corners, and the air seemed bathed in a haze. Harper shook her head, refusing to acknowledge the chilly draft on her shoulders. Reminding herself that she ought to get going. She had to get home. Had only a few minutes to peek at relics.
But where should she begin? Actually, she’d already opened a box. The one without the mask. Maybe she’d just go back there and look through that stack. Or she could just stay here and continue with the crates Zina hadn’t looked at yet. That made more sense.
Harper took a lever and jimmied it under the lid of an unlabeled large pine crate. She pushed down, loosening the lid a bit. Moved the lever along, shoving it into the gap, pushing on it, repeating the process until one side of the lid had lifted up. Then she started on the opposite side, inserting, pushing, reinserting, pushing, until, finally, the lid came off.
Underneath, on the inside of the lid, was a list of contents. Harper didn’t bother to read it; her hands were already sifting through shredded fabric and papers, feeling for smaller packages. Closing around a carved Styrofoam container. Lifting it, carefully. Unwrapping the tape. Removing the Styrofoam. Gasping.
Staring.
She was just over a foot long. Clay with a dark patina. Probably Proto-Classic. Harper cradled her in her hands, admiring her. Picturing the artist as he formed her, never imagining his work would endure, connecting him to people over two thousand years later. Harper checked the list inside the lid of the crate; yes, the piece was Proto-Classic, created between 100 BC and 450 AD. And its estimated worth was – oh dear – $70,000.
Harper’s hands trembled as she laid the figurine on the black fabric, photographing it from different angles. Then, replacing it in its Styrofoam bed, she wrapped fresh tape around it and set it back into the crate. She really should go. Soon. After she looked at just one more piece.
Again, she reached into the packing, retrieved an item. Unraveled the tape, opened the Styrofoam casement. This time, she found a late-Classic jaguar – a guardian effigy, made between 550 and 950 AD. In perfect condition, multicolored, two feet high. It had a thick collar, claws, bared fangs. And stood on its rear haunches, its front legs flexed. The lid listed its value at $65,000.
Harper’s hand fished in the crate, pulled out another package. Unwrapped it. Discovered a Chimu silver beaker, shaped like a human figure in a loincloth and headband. Made between 1100 and 1400 AD. Worth $8,000.
She couldn’t stop. Photographed and logged them and moved on to the next crate. Used the lever to open it. Pulled out a golden Teotihuacán mask, made around 450 AD, worth around $85,000. A Mayan polychrome vessel, decorated with detailed images of humans and animals, made around 600 AD. Valued at $70,000.
Harper was agog. Completely absorbed. She stopped replacing the relics, arranged them instead on the worktable, surrounding herself with the artistry of lost cultures. Lost times. She examined one then another, then returned to the first, admiring the craftsmanship, the combination of utility and symbolism in each piece. The pristine quality of the pieces, their thousands of years of undamaged existence. Rapt, she pictured the people who’d owned them. Their belief in the power of animals – jaguars, turtles, owls, deer, bats. And men mystical enough to take those forms. She picked up the jaguar, felt the inspired awe of the artist worked into the sculpture’s smooth sinews.
It wasn’t until the room darkened that she realized she’d lost track of time. Harper stood and looked out a window, saw the sun disappearing behind the tree line. What? How could the sun be setting already? What time was it? Disoriented, she looked for a clock. Saw none. Where was her bag with her phone? Damn. She’d left it in the other room when she’d been talking to Jake, needed to go get it and leave. But no – she couldn’t just leave, not with all those relics lying exposed on the table; she had to put them away. Where was the light switch? She scanned the walls, found one. Flipped it, but no light came on. She looked up, saw a blackened blown-out bulb hanging from the ceiling between the rafters. Damn. Carefully, Harper worked in fading light to pack up the array of precious masks, vessels and figurines. She squinted through increasing dimness to fit them into their snug individual packing, and set them into their proper crates. How had she gotten so engrossed in the collection that she’d forgotten the time? Lord – Hank must be worried. Must wonder where she was.