Beautiful Sacrifice

is an inspiration.”
    “Yes, indeed,” Crutchfeldt said. “She understands that there are some collectors who value ownership more than legal hairsplitting in the name of artifacts that belong to a culture and time that predated today’s nations and absurd notions of ‘owning’ antiquity.”
    With a sound that could have meant anything, Lina moved farther into the room. Crutchfeldt followed her like a yapping shadow. Hunter was two steps behind both of them, alert to any change in Lina’s demeanor in the face of the abundant, priceless artifacts. But she went through the room with the polite ruthlessness of someone who knew exactly what was in front of her and was looking for something else.
    When Hunter finally became certain that none of the missing artifacts were in view, he decided to throw some reality into all the scholarly conversation and self-congratulation.
    “If there were certain pieces that you’d heard rumors about,” Hunter asked, “where would you go looking for them?”
    Crutchfeldt gave him a measuring look. “What kind of artifacts?”
    “Late Terminal Classic. Yucatec,” Hunter said with a trace of impatience, and an accent that could only be described as worldly. “The real deal. Unique and bloody valuable.”
    Crutchfeldt blinked and looked at Lina.
    She looked back at him.
    “Hmmm,” Crutchfeldt said. “Sometimes a collector simply wants a piece that will bind all the other pieces together. Take this mask.” He pointed to a clay mask beautifully inlaid with stone and shell. “This is a contemporary piece, bought and sold as such. Celia found it for me because she knew that I required just such a piece.”
    Lina didn’t bother to hide her surprise. “She didn’t mention that she was handling modern art.”
    “If she knows one of her very good customers is looking for a specific artifact and hasn’t yet found it on the market, she will sometimes find a modern version made to very exacting standards,” Crutchfeldt said. “The process requires proper tools, proper materials, and very skilled artisans.”
    A sense of relief crept through Lina. She had noticed several artifacts in Crutchfeldt’s gallery whose condition was simply too good to be believed. Part of her had feared that her mother had been involved in fraud.
    “You’re not alone in filling holes in your collection,” Lina said. “Even in the later days of the Maya empire—and I use the term loosely, for it was less an empire than a culture that changed through time—there were artisans who were specifically commissioned to replicate items hearkening back to thekings of old. Perhaps it was a way to invoke the gods of a more powerful time, before the culture began to unravel.”
    “Fake is fake,” Hunter said.
    “Even fakes tell us about the culture they came from,” Lina said. “Yet I understand your point. Authentic artifacts are always preferable.”
    “So who would you go to for something authentic to add to your collection?” Hunter asked the older man. “Something you’ve heard rumors of but have never seen.”
    “Well,” Crutchfeldt said, “Celia Reyes Balam, of course.”
    “What if she didn’t have it?” Hunter said. “Where would you go next?”
    “If she doesn’t have it,” Crutchfeldt said, “no one does.”
    “What if it came up the chain from grave robbers?” Hunter asked casually.
    Lina made a startled sound. “Then it would be illegal.”
    “Yeah,” he said, without looking away from Crutchfeldt. “So who would be likely to have it and how would you get in touch with them?”
    “That’s—” Lina began.
    “I’m curious,” Hunter said, not looking at her. “If you aren’t, go sit by the pool or something.”
    She didn’t hide her irritation. “Mr. Crutchfeldt might not like the implications of your questions.”
    “You insulted?” Hunter asked Crutchfeldt.
    “I’m a collector,” the other man said easily. “In order to pursue the avenues you are implying, I’d have to want the item very, very badly. I don’t have many such items, but…”
    Hunter and Lina followed Crutchfeldt’s glance to a nearby alcove where a teardrop light illuminated half of what appeared to be a stone knife. It was chipped, dull and unremarkable, broken into three pieces. Yet on closer inspection, the sheer craftsmanshipglowed through the haze of time and damage. On one of the blade segments there was a small marking. Hunter looked at it curiously, sensing that he’d seen