David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

Hurry! Craig's plane would be in the air by now! He expected her at the Marriott hotel near Washington National Airport in less than ninety minutes!

I won't be able to stay here much longer!

But I can't just leave .

I've got to know!

At once she exhaled, hearing muffled footsteps on a staircase at the front of the house.

The next thing, she heard murmured voices. The footsteps shuffled along a corridor, approaching the kitchen.

Tess bolted to her feet as Professor Harding escorted his wife into view.

But at the sight of the woman, Tess felt her stomach turn cold.

No!

So much time! I've wasted so much…!

Priscilla Harding looked even more infirm than her husband. She was tiny, thin, and stoop-shouldered. Her wispy white hair was mussed from her nap, her face wrinkled, pale, and slack. Like her husband, she needed a cane. They clung to each other.

'Professor,' Tess said, trying not to insult their dignity by revealing her alarm. 'If only you'd told me. I'd have been more than happy to go upstairs with you and help bring your wife downstairs.'

'No need.' The old man smiled. 'Priscilla and I have managed to get along without help for several years. You wouldn't want to spoil us, would you? However, I appreciate your consideration.'

'Here, let me…' Tess hurried around the table, gently gripped Priscilla Harding, and helped her to sit.

'Good,' the professor said, breathing with difficulty. 'Our little exercise is over. How do you feel, Priscilla?'

The woman didn't answer.

Tess was alarmed by the lack of vitality in her eyes.

My God, she isn't alert enough to…

She can't possibly answer my questions!

Professor Harding seemed to read Tess's mind. 'Don't worry. My wife's merely groggy from her nap. It takes Priscilla a while to regain her energy. But she'll be fine as soon as…'

The old man opened the refrigerator's gleaming door and took out a syringe. After swabbing his wife's arm with rubbing alcohol, he injected her with what Tess assumed was insulin, given the professor's earlier remarks about his wife's diabetes.

'There,' the professor said.

He returned to the refrigerator and removed a plate of fruit, cheese, and meat that was covered with plastic-wrap.

'I hope you're hungry, my dear.' He set the plate on the table, took off the plastic-wrap, then shifted unsteadily toward a counter to slice some French bread. 'I suggest you start with those sections of orange. You need to maintain your - '

'Blood sugar?' Priscilla Harding's voice was thick-tongued, surprisingly deep. 'I'm sick of…'

'Yes. That's right. You're sick. But in a few moments, after you've had something to eat, you'll feel much better. By the way, that navel orange is excellent. I recommend you try it.'

With a weary glance toward her husband, Priscilla Harding obeyed, her arthritis-gnarled fingers raising a slice of the orange to her mouth. As she chewed methodically, she shifted her gaze, puzzled now, toward Tess.

Again Professor Harding seemed to read thoughts. 'Forgive my rudeness, dear. This attractive young woman is a former student of mine, but of course her beauty can never compare to yours.'

'You bullshitter.'

'My dear. Tsk, tsk. And in front of company.'

Priscilla Harding scrunched her wrinkled eyes in amusement.

'Her name is Tess Drake,' the professor said, 'and she has a favor to ask. She needs to make use of your scholarly abilities.'

Priscilla Harding's eyes rose, much less vapid. 'My scholarly…?'

'Yes, it's a bit of a mystery we hope you can solve,' the professor said. 'I tried to assist my former student, but I'm afraid her questions are beyond me. They're not at all related to my field of expertise.'

Her eyes gaining brightness, Priscilla ate another section of orange.

'The sliced beef is very good. Try it,' the professor said.

'What kind of favor?" Priscilla asked and continued eating, her eyes even more alert. 'What sort of questions?'

'She'd like you to examine a photograph. The photograph shows… or so I believe… a modern reproduction of an ancient bas-relief statue. A rather brutal one, I should add. So prepare yourself. But when you feel your strength coming back, if you'd…'

'Richard, the older you get, the more you avoid the point. A photograph? A modern replica of an ancient sculpture? Sounds fascinating. By all means, I'll be happy to look at it.'

Tess felt tense from the pressure of speeding time. 'Mrs Harding, thank you.'

'Please, there's no need to be formal. I'm Priscilla.' She munched on a piece of bread, wiped her hands on a napkin, and reached toward Tess. 'The photograph?'

Tess took it from her purse and slid it across the table.

Mrs Harding pulled glasses from a pocket in her dress and put them on, peering down at the photograph.

She kept chewing the bread.

Stopped chewing.

And swallowed hard. Her jaws assumed a grim expression.

She didn't speak for several moments.

What is it ? Tess thought.

Hurry!

Priscilla nodded grimly. 'I've seen something like this, a very similar image, several times before.'

Muscles rigid, Tess leaned forward. 'But why do you look so troubled? The knife, the blood, the serpent, the dog. I know they're repulsive but…'

'And the scorpion. Don't forget the scorpion,' Priscilla said. 'Attacking the testicles of the dying bull. And don't forget the flame bearers, flanking the victim, one torch pointing upward, the other down.' The old woman shook her wrinkled face. 'And the raven.'

'I thought it was an owl.'

'My God, no. An owl? Don't be absurd. It's a raven.'

'But what do they mean?' Tess feared her control was about to collapse.

Priscilla trembled. Ignoring Tess, she directed her attention toward her husband. 'Richard, do you remember our summer in Spain in seventy three?'

'Of course,' the professor said with fondness. 'Our twenty-fifth anniversary.'

'Now don't get maudlin on me, Richard. The nature of that occasion – however much I enjoyed it – is irrelevant. What is , what's important, is that while you stayed in Madrid and haunted the Prado museum…"

'Yes, Velazquez, Goya, and…'

'But not Picasso. I don't believe Picasso's Guernica was exhibited then.'

'Please,' Tess leaned farther forward, her voice urgent. 'The statue.'

'I'd seen the Prado many times,' Priscilla said. 'And I'm a classicist, not an art historian. So I sent Richard on his merry way while I went on my own way. After all, I like to believe I'm a liberated woman.'

'You are, dear. How often you've proven that.' The professor shrugged with good nature and nibbled on some cheese.

'So I went to ancient Spanish sites whose artifacts intrigued me.' Priscilla's eyes became misted with favorite memories. 'Merida. Pamplona.'

' Pamplona ? Isn't that where Hemingway…?'

'With apologies, Tess, pretend you're in my husband's classroom. Be polite, and don't interrupt.'

'I'm sorry, Mrs…'

'And don't make polite noises. I told you I'm not "Mrs". Not when you're my guest.' Priscilla concentrated. 'How I loved those… In ruins outside each village, I found etchings, engravings, and in a small museum outside Pamplona, I found a statue, like this . Weathered. Broken. Not clean, with perfect engravings. Not distinct in its outline. But it was the same as this photograph. And later, in my fascinating travels, while I waited for Richard to exhaust his compulsion for Velazquez and Goya… Apparently I'm like Richard. I'm so old I fail to get to the point.'

'But what did you find?' Tess tried not to raise her voice.

'More statues.' Priscilla shrugged. 'Further engravings.'