The interior of the chapel would have been a welcome spot in the summer—a cool place of stone and shadow—but this winter’s day, with rain slashing against the window, it was dreary and depressing. It seemed designed to be intentionally dark, with only three windows, all of them stained-glass pieces at the front of the church. There was no electricity; we had to make do with the guttering light of paraffin candles.
Trey and I were the only occupants at the moment. Richard’s crew had been sent home for the day, leaving Richard behind to assist the sheriff’s deputies, who were treating the area like a crime scene, not an archaeological artifact recovery. Not that there was much difference in my book—both prioritized procedure, preservation, and hasty meticulousness—but I was sure there would be quibbles.
Trey paced in front of the windows, his footsteps echoing, leather against slate. He’d converted one end of the front bench into a makeshift office, covering it in papers bearing his meticulous notes in the margins, his research into resilient security systems. He’d tried to explain. He’d talked of tolerance fluctuations via design parameters, redundancy and diversity, reactive versus proactive control. Now he was trying to have a conversation with his boss, but the connection was spotty, and he kept repeating himself.
His voice held a twinge of frustration. “No, I did not find the body, Tai did.”
“It wasn’t a body,” I said, “it was a skull.”
Trey ignored my protests. He moved back and forth in front of the stained glass. The windows faced east, and during most mornings, the first light of day would have illuminated the reds and golds and blues, firing them into life. But this morning left them as dull and washed out as the rain itself.
The centerpiece was a cross—not a crucifix, that was too gory and idolatrous for sensible Baptist tastes. White lilies and red roses entwined in profusion around the border, a rising sun piercing the horizon behind it. The other panels told a familiar New Testament story, the Parable of the Prodigal Son, writ large in two scenes—the first, the prideful richly dressed son setting out on his own, leaving his wounded father and stoic dutiful brother behind. The second, the same son’s weeping return to his father’s welcoming embrace. The dutiful son was missing in the second image. Probably off grumbling and pouting, I decided, as older know-it-all siblings were wont to do. Only the father, welcoming the boy with open arms, forgiving him, preparing the feast. I couldn’t help but wonder what that kind of love felt like, that kind of acceptance…
I shook my head clear. This wasn’t my personal saga. This was another family’s story, and I could not trespass.
The colors of all three were clear and clean, in stark contrast to the drippy cramped chapel, with its creaky benches and moist cloistered air. I ran a finger along the glass—it was smooth, covered by only a light layer of dust. And then I understood. The windows were new, unlike the rest of the chapel. Not original, a reproduction. I peered at the writing underneath, an inscription in Latin that was a separate window in its own right, making four overall. I didn’t know Latin, but I did catch a familiar Domini in the phrasing. I got a pen and scribbled the sentence down on the back of my hand.
Trey remained engrossed in his phone conversation. “They did call in an archaeological team, but until the authorities release the scene…No, I don’t know. I won’t know until we’ve completed our interviews. We’re waiting on the detective.” He checked his watch. “At least four hours, that’s my best guess. Because it’s a crime scene now, and…Marisa? Are you still there?”
I sympathized with his frustration. Already behind schedule, he was trapped in the Kennesaw boondocks until he was officially interviewed—yet again—about a suspicious incident involving me—yet again.
Trey shook his head. “Because it’s clearly not a historical interment. Because the skull was…” He lowered the phone. “Tai, what was the word?”
“Grotty.”
“Not your word, their word.”
“Putrescent.”
“Putrescent,” Trey repeated. “Which means it’s now a suspicious death investigation. Because we’re witnesses. No, not like that. Nonetheless.”
He listened while Marisa continued her diatribe. She was a woman like a Valkyrie, with platinum hair and an imposing figure that reminded me of the prow of a ship, and she had Agendas. But Trey was patient, I had to give him that. Outside I heard the grind and pop of tires on gravel. A new car arriving. I crossed my fingers that it was our highly awaited detective.
Trey resumed pacing. “I saw Mrs. Amberdecker, but haven’t spoken with her. Tai talked to her. Briefly. She was held at gunpoint, equally briefly. No, Mrs. Amberdecker had the gun on Tai. A twelve-gauge shotgun…No, I can’t say I’ve ever contemplated such.”
He slid a glance my way, and I was surprised to see a sparkle in his eyes. I smiled and held up a middle finger. For the Boss Lady, I mouthed.
He looked away quickly. “What was that? Oh. Certainly. I’ll finish up tonight. Of course. Goodbye.”
He returned his phone to his jacket pocket. With a roof over his head, he was in a better mood. In fact, he was in a damn fine mood considering.
“Marisa giving you trouble?” I said.
He shook his head. “No. She is a bit…baffled, however. She says you’re cursed. Her word. She says I should get a voodoo charm to protect myself.”
“She’s so sweet.” I sat on the bench and patted the hard wood. “Sit.”
“I’d rather—”
“Sit.”
He sat. The rain-spackled Armani was a little worse for wear, but Trey himself was cool and collected. Not a single hint of hypervigilant paranoia, powder-keg frustration, or control freak shutdown. His expression was placid, no sign of the worrywart wrinkle between his eyes.
I frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Because we’re trapped in the hinterlands, waiting on cops to quiz us. Because there have been shotguns and tornadoes and grumpy old men, and there’s no good cell phone coverage and Marisa is annoyed and—oh, yeah—there’s this skull. And you have yet to deliver a single grumpy I-told-you-so speech about any of it.”
“Why would I? You were asked to help, and you said yes. The complications arising from that decision were entirely unforeseeable.”
“So that’s what annoys you? When I get into trouble that I should have seen coming?
“It’s not about predictability, per se. It’s…” He glanced over my shoulder to the front door. “Never mind. The detective is here.”