bone.
Chapter 5
New York City—Tuesday, 2:00 a.m.
Four months after her aunt’s unexpected death from a heart attack, Rachel Palmer learned that a woman who lived in her building was assaulted on the stoop as she fished in her bag for her keys. Much to her chagrin, Rachel couldn’t shake how uncomfortable she felt in the brownstone after that: always looking over her shoulder when she opened the front door, rushing up the stairs, quickly throwing the bolt behind her and never sleeping through the night. When she mentioned that she was going to start looking for another place, her uncle Alex suggested she temporarily move into his palatial duplex at Sixty-Fifth and Lexington.
Even though he never said it or showed it, she knew he was lonely—Alex and her aunt Nancy had been inseparable the way certain childless couples can be—and even though he was only sixty-two-years old, Rachel sensed it was going to be a long time before he sought the companionship of another woman.
Rachel’s father had abandoned her mother when she was a child, and Alex had stepped in, becoming much more to her than an uncle. Now she was glad to keep him company and enjoy the inviolability the building’s doorman plus her uncle’s round-the-clock security system gave her.
Without realizing it, Rachel got used to the companionship, and in the past two days since Alex had left for a week-long business trip to London and Milan, she’d had trouble getting to sleep. Having given up for the night, she was in bed with the lights on, simultaneously watching an old movie on television, sipping a glass of white wine and reading the next morning’s news on her laptop.
Tomb Belongs to Vestal Virgin
By Charlie Billings
Rome, Italy
It was confirmed yesterday that the recent excavation outside of the city gates is believed to be the burial site of one of ancient Rome’s last Vestal Virgins.
“We were fairly certain that the tomb dated back to the late fourth century, specifically from 390 to 392 A.D. The pottery and other artifacts we’ve found further bears this out. Barring any more surprises, we believe the woman buried here was a Vestal,” said Gabriella Chase, professor of archeology at Yale University, a specialist in ancient religions and languages, who, along with Professor Aldo Rudolfo from the University of Rome La Sapienz, has been working at sites in this area for three years.
“What makes this particular excavation especially exciting is that the woman buried here may be one of the last six Vestals,” Chase said. “After more than a thousand years, the cult of the Vestals came to an end in 391 A.D., coincident with the rise of Christianity under the reign of Emperor Theodosius.”
The noise emanating from the television disappeared. The lights in the bedroom dimmed. Rachel tried to keep reading, tried to stay in bed, feel the sheets under her hands, pillows at her back, but deep inside of her, her heart fluttered, raced; the promise of understanding gave her a physical thrill. A whole world that she didn’t know anything about presented itself like an uncut diamond. All she needed to do was step forward and explore it.
Entering, she was bedazzled by a scene that glittered in hyper-realistic sunshine. Warmth surrounded her and held her, cosseting her like a summer wind. Comforted and excited at the same time. The radiance was inside her now, and she felt light, so light she was flying, moving faster and faster and at the same time aware of each sensation as if it was happening in very slow motion.
The sun burned her cheeks. The smell of the heat filled her nostrils. Her body hummed as if she were an instrument someone played. She heard music, but it didn’t have anything to do with tones or keys or chords or melody. It was pure rhythm. Her heart changed its beat to keep pace. Her breathing altered to the new timing.
Then it was cold. Shivering, she peered through a glass door, through a crack in the curtains, spying on two men, both hunched over a desk.
“This is what I came to Rome for. What I gave up hope I’d ever find,” said the one she knew well, though she couldn’t remember his name.
Then she saw the magic colored stones and their reflections. Flashes of blue and green lights filled her with a desperate pleasure. It was a drug. She wanted to stand there and try to understand how they melded into each other, creating a hundred new shades: a rainbow of emerald melting into peacock blue melting into cobalt melting into sea green melting into sage melting into teal, into red, burgundy and crimson.
“This is important, a real find.” The man’s voice was hard like the edges of the stones and she felt little cuts on her skin where his words touched her. She didn’t care if she bled. She wanted to be part of this moment and this pain and this excitement. It surpassed anything that had ever happened to her before.
And then it was over.
Dizzy, Rachel put her head back and stared up at the ceiling. Her skin was burning hot. How long had the episode lasted? A half hour?
She picked up her wine. No, the glass was still cold.
Only minutes?
Except it seemed so real, so much more real than any daydream she’d had before. It wasn’t just an image stuck in her head. She thought she’d been sucked through time and space and had been somewhere else for a moment, not seeing the scene played out but being part of it.
Leaving her bedroom, she walked down the sweeping staircase and headed toward the kitchen. She needed something stronger than wine. She wished her uncle was home so she could tell him what had happened; it was the kind of thing he’d be fascinated by. No, nothing had happened. She must have been tired, after all, fallen asleep without knowing it, dreamed the villa and the man and the colors.
After pouring a brandy, she took a few sips, the fiery liquid stinging her eyes and burning the back of her throat, and then, instead of going back to her bedroom, she went into her uncle’s den and sat down at his desk. She felt safer there, surrounded by all his books. That was when she noticed, tucked into his desk blotter so that it was hardly noticeable, a corner of newsprint.
She pulled it out.
Tomb Possibly Dates Back 1600 Years.
Rachel shivered as she read the dateline. This story had been filed two weeks ago, in Rome, by that same reporter. No, there was nothing portentous about Alex tearing out this article. He was a collector. Tombs yielded ancient artifacts. The house was filled with objets d’art. She was overreacting. It was just a coincidence.
Wasn’t it?
What else could it be?
Chapter 6
Rome, Italy—Tuesday, 7:45 a.m.
Josh felt a sharp, searing, twisting pain in his middle. Taking his breath away. Stunning him with its intensity. He broke out in a second cold sweat. The pain worsened. He needed to get out of the tunnel; his panic was making it almost impossible for him to breathe. If he hyperventilated now he might suffocate, and the professor was too old and too slow to get to him in time. He needed to get out now.
But he couldn’t turn around. The space was too narrow. How was that possible? He’d gotten here, hadn’t he?
He sat back on his haunches and reached out both of his hands, feeling for the walls on either side. His fingers hit dirt almost immediately. The tunnel must have narrowed as it continued without him being aware of it.
The reality of the darkness descended on him. He was fully conscious and present. The smell of the dank air nauseated him and he was suddenly, inexplicably sure he was going to die in this tunnel. Now. Any minute. In this small, narrow space that was not big enough for a man to turn around in.
A small rock came loose and pinged him on the shoulder. What if his presence caused an avalanche of stone, and he became trapped in this passageway to hell? His chest tightened and his breathing became increasingly labored. He tried a series