murmured.
“Why don’t you go sit in my truck? Here are the keys.”
She looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “No, I’m all right. I just came to tell you I didn’t find anything to the left of the other plot. I’m going back toward the trees.” She wiped her eyes with her multicolored gloved fingers. “I’ll be fine.”
Nick stood up. “Sophie, now that you’ve told us this, I remember seeing pictures in an old history book. This is a medieval custom, isn’t it? Placing an effigy on the grave?”
She nodded but she was still very pale. “Yes. Earliest known carvings date as far back as 1100 and were common practice through the Renaissance.”
“Guys.” Jen was kneeling on the edge of the grave. “We’ve got bigger problems than this guy’s sword.” She came to her feet, dusting soil from her coveralls.
Vito and Nick looked down into the grave, but Johannsen stayed back. Vito couldn’t say he blamed her. What he saw made him want to turn his face away, but he didn’t. Jen had uncovered the victim down to his groin and there was a huge hole in his abdomen. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered.
“What?” Johannsen asked from five feet away.
Jen sighed. “This man had his intestines removed.”
“Disemboweled,” Johannsen said. “A torture used throughout history, but definitely used in medieval times.”
“Torture,” Nick murmured. “Holy shit, Vito. What kind of sicko would do this?”
Vito’s gaze swept the field. “And how many more did he put here?”
New York City, Sunday, January 14, 5:00 P.M.
The pop of a champagne cork brought the noise level to a low roar. From the back of the room, Derek Harrington watched Jager Van Zandt hold the fizzing bottle away from his expensive suit amid the cheers of a host of young, eager faces.
“We used to be happy with a six-pack as long as it was cold.”
Derek glanced up at Tony England, his smile rueful. “Ah, the good old days.”
But Tony wasn’t smiling. “I miss those days, Derek. I miss your old basement and working all night and . . . T-shirts and jeans. When it was just you and me and Jager.”
“I know. Now we’re growing so fast . . . I don’t know half these kids.” More than that, he missed his friend. Fame and pursuit of the dollar had changed Jager Van Zandt into a man Derek wasn’t sure he knew anymore. “I suppose success does have a price.”
Tony was quiet for a moment. “Derek, is it true we’re going IPO?”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
Tony frowned. “Rumors? You’re the damn vice president, Derek. Shouldn’t you have a little better information than
rumors
?”
Derek should, but he didn’t. He was saved a reply by Jager, who’d climbed on a chair and held his champagne flute high. “Gentlemen. And ladies. We’re here to celebrate. I know you all are tired at the end of a long convention, but it’s over and we did well. Every bit of our production of
Behind Enemy Lines
is committed. We have orders for every video game we can crank out the door. We’re sold out, yet again!”
The young people cheered, but Derek stayed silent.
“He sold out, all right,” Tony muttered.
“Tony,” Derek murmured. “Not here. Not the place or time.”
“When will be the place and time, Derek?” Tony demanded. “When we’re both Jager’s yes-men? Or am I the only one that has to worry about
becoming
a yes-man?” Shaking his head, Tony made his way through the crowded room and out the door.
Tony had always been dramatic, Derek knew. Passion often came hand in hand with artistic genius. Derek wasn’t sure he had passion anymore. Or genius. Or art.
“Of course you’ll all see a nice hefty reward for all those sales in your bonus checks,” Jager was saying and there were more cheers. “But for now, a sweet reward.” Two waiters rolled in a long rectangular table. On it sat a cake that was easily six feet wide and three feet long and had been decorated with the oRo logo—a golden
“Why don’t you go sit in my truck? Here are the keys.”
She looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “No, I’m all right. I just came to tell you I didn’t find anything to the left of the other plot. I’m going back toward the trees.” She wiped her eyes with her multicolored gloved fingers. “I’ll be fine.”
Nick stood up. “Sophie, now that you’ve told us this, I remember seeing pictures in an old history book. This is a medieval custom, isn’t it? Placing an effigy on the grave?”
She nodded but she was still very pale. “Yes. Earliest known carvings date as far back as 1100 and were common practice through the Renaissance.”
“Guys.” Jen was kneeling on the edge of the grave. “We’ve got bigger problems than this guy’s sword.” She came to her feet, dusting soil from her coveralls.
Vito and Nick looked down into the grave, but Johannsen stayed back. Vito couldn’t say he blamed her. What he saw made him want to turn his face away, but he didn’t. Jen had uncovered the victim down to his groin and there was a huge hole in his abdomen. “Sonofabitch,” he muttered.
“What?” Johannsen asked from five feet away.
Jen sighed. “This man had his intestines removed.”
“Disemboweled,” Johannsen said. “A torture used throughout history, but definitely used in medieval times.”
“Torture,” Nick murmured. “Holy shit, Vito. What kind of sicko would do this?”
Vito’s gaze swept the field. “And how many more did he put here?”
New York City, Sunday, January 14, 5:00 P.M.
The pop of a champagne cork brought the noise level to a low roar. From the back of the room, Derek Harrington watched Jager Van Zandt hold the fizzing bottle away from his expensive suit amid the cheers of a host of young, eager faces.
“We used to be happy with a six-pack as long as it was cold.”
Derek glanced up at Tony England, his smile rueful. “Ah, the good old days.”
But Tony wasn’t smiling. “I miss those days, Derek. I miss your old basement and working all night and . . . T-shirts and jeans. When it was just you and me and Jager.”
“I know. Now we’re growing so fast . . . I don’t know half these kids.” More than that, he missed his friend. Fame and pursuit of the dollar had changed Jager Van Zandt into a man Derek wasn’t sure he knew anymore. “I suppose success does have a price.”
Tony was quiet for a moment. “Derek, is it true we’re going IPO?”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
Tony frowned. “Rumors? You’re the damn vice president, Derek. Shouldn’t you have a little better information than
rumors
?”
Derek should, but he didn’t. He was saved a reply by Jager, who’d climbed on a chair and held his champagne flute high. “Gentlemen. And ladies. We’re here to celebrate. I know you all are tired at the end of a long convention, but it’s over and we did well. Every bit of our production of
Behind Enemy Lines
is committed. We have orders for every video game we can crank out the door. We’re sold out, yet again!”
The young people cheered, but Derek stayed silent.
“He sold out, all right,” Tony muttered.
“Tony,” Derek murmured. “Not here. Not the place or time.”
“When will be the place and time, Derek?” Tony demanded. “When we’re both Jager’s yes-men? Or am I the only one that has to worry about
becoming
a yes-man?” Shaking his head, Tony made his way through the crowded room and out the door.
Tony had always been dramatic, Derek knew. Passion often came hand in hand with artistic genius. Derek wasn’t sure he had passion anymore. Or genius. Or art.
“Of course you’ll all see a nice hefty reward for all those sales in your bonus checks,” Jager was saying and there were more cheers. “But for now, a sweet reward.” Two waiters rolled in a long rectangular table. On it sat a cake that was easily six feet wide and three feet long and had been decorated with the oRo logo—a golden
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