Beautiful Sacrifice

description.”
    Lina didn’t like it, but said nothing. Hunter was hardly the first person to notice her determined respectability in all things archaeological.
    They climbed out of the Jeep and headed toward the pool area. Like everything else about the estate, the pool was oversize, made of hand-set tiles, and surrounded by greenery more suitable to Hawaii than Padre. Tropical flowers made the air dense with perfume.
    “Mr. Crutchfeldt has never heard of too much of a good thing,” Hunter said in a low voice. “Including the man himself.”
    A huge human lump of white and tan lay on a mahogany chaise along the turquoise pool. He wore white cotton shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, also cotton. The buttons had been undone over his stomach, revealing a swath of tanned and hirsute flesh.
    “Carpet doesn’t match the drapes,” Hunter muttered.
    Lina looked from the body bristling with gray hair to the very dark hair on Crutchfeldt’s head. His Panama hat was perched rakishly in a style more suited to Indiana Jones than Indy’s father. Crutchfeldt was a thoroughly senior citizen chasing a youth he was never going to catch.
    “Good morning,” Crutchfeldt said, rising and buttoning his shirt. He had the voice of a man who liked to talk, supple and able to go for hours without needing a break. “Lina, it’s so good to finally meet you in the flesh. Your mother talks often about your expertise.” His big hands engulfed hers. “And who is your…friend?”
    Lina introduced “Harold Kerrigan” while trying to get her hands back without being insulting about it. Despite the heat of the day, Crutchfeldt’s hands were cool, almost clammy. She wondered if he had some kind of circulatory problem. It could explain why he spent so much time in the sun.
    “It’s good of you to interrupt your day to show us your collection,” Lina said, tucking her hands in the pockets of her cargo shorts.
    “Oh, my pleasure, dear. It’s always nice to share conversation with someone who can appreciate the, ah, peculiarities of my little hobby.” Crutchfeldt’s smile was as oversize as he was.
    Hunter smiled back amiably. He’d met Crutchfeldt’s type before, big and overbearing, teeth like an all-white concert piano’s keyboard. Some of those men had been vain and stupid. Crutchfeldt might be vain, but he wasn’t stupid. His blue eyes watched the world with sharp, predatory intelligence.
    Maybe this won’t be a complete waste of time after all, Hunter thought.
    “I’m guessing that you both would prefer to chat inside, yes? One man’s paradise is another’s overheated hell. Follow me, if you please.”
    Crutchfeldt didn’t wait for their agreement. He led them at a brisk pace up a wide, paved walkway toward large double doors hanging open to the sun and heat.
    The entryway was dry and cool, illuminated only by indirect sunlight and a row of small windows just beneath the line of the ceiling. Pottery was arrayed on pedestals along either side of the gallery-size hallway.
    Lina didn’t need the discreet brass plates to know that the artifacts were pre-Columbian, Maya, mostly of highland origin, and worthy of a wing in anyone’s museum. The intricacy and balance of the blackware vases were riveting. Each one told a story of a king’s rise and fall, glyphs highlighted in red pigment leading from one to another to yet another, whispering of a past beyond her reach. But not beyond her yearning.
    Lina kept falling farther and farther behind as Crutchfeldt led the way down the hall. The quality of the artifacts fascinated her. The thought of sunlight from the open doors and high windows accidentally touching them made her wince inside.
    Why is Crutchfeldt displaying these pieces so recklessly? Not even a velvet rope or a UV-glass case to shield them.
    And yet, the very lack of pomp and boundaries made the artifacts all the more remarkable. They existed as they had been created to be, nothing between the eye and the object.
    Reluctantly Lina admitted that such a method of display was brilliant, even if it made her academic soul flinch.
    “Something to eat or drink?” Crutchfeldt asked, watching Lina.
    The expression on his clean-shaved face was that of a cat being stroked. Though Lina hadn’t said a word, she obviously was entranced by the hallway artifacts.
    “No, thank you,” she said without looking away from the glyphs detailing the triumph of Sky Macaw over Jaguar Lily Pad. The vase was staggering, with just