“What do you mean?” Rachel asked.
“Father Giovanni left at the end of summer. Headed to the coast, then off to Ireland, last I heard from him.” Wallace shook his head sadly and tapped his glass of beer with a fingernail in some semblance of a toast to the dead. “Marco was a brilliant chap. Truly a great loss. His research and fieldwork on the roots of Celtic Christianity could have changed the way we view history.”
“Why did he come here to begin with?” Gray asked. “To the Lake District.”
“He would’ve ended up here eventually, I suppose. Even if I hadn’t summoned him following my discovery up in the mountains.”
“Why’s that?”
“Marco’s passion—or more like his obsession—had him scouring any and all areas where paganism and Christianity overlapped.” Wallace lifted an arm to encompass the region in general. “And the history of this district is a story of that very conflict written in stones and ruins. It was the Norse who first came to this area, sailing over from Ireland to farm here in the ninth century, bringing all their traditions. Even the word fell comes from the Norse word for ‘hill.’ In fact, the village of Hawkshead was founded by a Norseman named Haukr, whose name still lives on in this place. That should give you some idea of the long history of this region.”
Wallace nodded out the window toward the church that overlooked the town. “But times change. During the twelfth century, the entire area came under the ownership of the monks of Furness Abbey, the ruins of which can be found not far from here. The monks cultivated the region, traded in wool and sheep, and ruled the superstitious villagers with an iron fist. Tensions dragged on for centuries between the ancient pagan ways and the new religion. The old rituals continued to be performed in secret, often at the prehistoric sites that litter the countryside.”
“What do you mean by prehistoric sites?” Rachel asked.
“Places dating back to the Neolithic period. Five thousand years ago.” Wallace ticked them off on his fingers. “Ancient stone circles, henges, barrows, dolmens, hill forts. While Stonehenge might be the most famous, it’s only one among several hundred such sites spread across the British Isles.”
“But what interested Father Giovanni about your specific excavation?” Gray asked, seeking to draw the professor closer to the core of their investigation.
Wallace cocked one brow. “Ah, well, that you will have to see for yourself. But I can tell you what led me to this region.”
“And what was that?”
“A single entry in an old book. An eleventh-century text nicknamed the Doomsday Book.”
Kowalski stepped to their table. He carried a tall glass of pilsner in each hand, drinking from both. He paused in midsip upon hearing Wallace’s words. “Doomsday,” he said. “Great. Like we don’t have enough problems already.”
11:05 A.M.
Seichan walked the full length of the square. In her mind, a map formed of the local area. Every detail, brick by brick, every street, alley, building, and parked car. All became fixed in her head.
She noted two men dressed in hunting gear as they left the pub. She stalked them as they ambled over to a truck in the parking lot. She made sure they drove away.
Afterward, she found a good vantage point from which to observe the Kings Arms Hotel. It was the doorway of a closed gift shop. The alcove allowed her to shelter against the occasional stiff gust and to keep out of direct sight. On her right, the shop’s window displayed a pastel-colored diorama of small ceramic animals dressed in little outfits: pigs, cows, ducks, and, of course, tiny bunnies…lots and lots of bunnies. The Lake District was the home of Beatrix Potter and her creation Peter Rabbit.
Despite her need to watch the hotel, Seichan’s attention drifted to the shop window. She remembered very little about her childhood, and what she did remember she wished she could forget. She had never known her parents and was raised in an orphanage outside of Seoul, South Korea. It had been a squalid place with few comforts. But there had been a few books, including Beatrix Potter’s, brought years ago by a Catholic missionary. Those books and others were her true childhood, a place to escape the hunger, abuse, and neglect. As a young girl, she had even made a toy bunny out of a scrap of burlap stuffed with dry rice. To keep it from being stolen, she had kept it hidden behind a loose board in the wall, but eventually a rat found it and ate out the stuffing. She had cried for a solid day, until one of the matrons beat her, reminding her that even sorrow was a luxury.
In the doorway, Seichan turned her back to the window display, shutting out those memories. Still, it wasn’t just the past that pained her. Through the window, she watched Gray converse with an older man in tweed garb. It had to be Dr. Wallace Boyle. Seichan studied Gray. His black hair was longer, lankier across his forehead. His face had also grown harder, making his cheekbones stand out. Even his ice-blue eyes had a few more crinkles at the edges—not from laughter, but from the passing of a hard couple of years.
Standing in the cold, dusted with snow, Seichan remembered his lips. In a single moment of weakness, she had kissed him. There had been no tenderness behind it, only desperation and need. Still, she had not forgotten the heat, the roughness of his stubble, the hardness of his hold on her. Yet in the end it had been meaningless to both of them.
The hand in her coat pocket touched the scar on her belly.
They had just been dancing a game of betrayal.
Like now.
A vibration in her pocket alerted her to a call.
Finally.
It was the real reason she had stayed out in the cold. She removed the phone and flipped it open.
“Speak,” she said.
“Do they still have the package?” The voice on the phone was calm and assured but crisp at the edges, with an American accent. It was her sole point of contact, a woman named Krista Magnussen.
Seichan bridled at having to take orders from anyone, but she had no choice. She had to prove herself. “Yes. The artifact is secure. They’re meeting with the contact right now.”
“Very good. We’ll make our move once they’re at the excavation site in the mountains. The team set the charges in place last night. The fresh snowfall should cover up any evidence.”
“And the objective?”
“Remains the same. To light a fire under them. In this case, literally. The archaeological site is now more of a liability than an asset. But its destruction must appear natural.”