Someone without experience.
Payne knew he was out of his element. So he passed his duties to his board of directors and focused all of his time and energy on charity work. His first charity? It wasn’t actually a charity. It was more of an investment. He gave David Jones, who had retired from the military at the same time, enough start-up capital to open his own business. It had always been Jones’s dream to run a detective agency, and Payne had the means to help. So he figured, why not? After his grandfather died, Payne knew the only family he had left was Jones.
Of course, since Payne was white and Jones was black, they looked nothing alike.
Anyway, the first year Payne was happy. He raised money for the Mario Lemieux Cancer Fund and other Pittsburgh charities while Jones scoured the city for clients. Occasionally Payne gave Jones a hand on the juicy cases, but for the most part they did their own thing.
By year two, Payne started getting antsy. He loved helping good causes, but he needed more out of life than hosting golf tournaments and mingling at black-tie affairs. He missed the excitement of the MANIACs. The adrenaline rush he got when he risked his life. The thrill of getting his hands dirty. He couldn’t get those things in the business world, not when the worst injury he could receive was a paper cut. So Payne compensated by helping Jones all the time. The two of them partnered again. Making a difference in the world. Albeit on a much smaller scale than before. They used to rescue hostages. They used to overthrow governments. Now they were tracking cheating husbands and looking for lost pets. It was a huge letdown for both men.
So they did what they could in their spare time, searching for artificial excitement wherever they could find it. Anything to get the buzz they used to feel. To help them keep their edge. To help them feel alive. Swimming with the sharks in Australia. Race car driving in Brazil. Skydiving in South Africa. Deep-sea explorations in Florida.
And lastly, running with the bulls in Spain. That’s what had brought them to Pamplona.
Unfortunately, it’s the event that led to their current predicament. Abandoned in jail. Alone.
They had come to Spain for adrenaline. They had found incarceration instead.
8
Maria had no proof, but she knew that Boyd was keeping something from her. Typical man, she thought. They never trusted women with the important stuff.
‘Come on,’ she begged, ‘what does the sign say?’
Boyd laughed as he walked away from the stone plaque. ‘You mean you don’t know? Tsk, tsk, tsk. I could’ve sworn that Latin was one of your academic requirements.’
‘Yeah, but that didn’t look like regular Latin to me.’
‘Perhaps because it wasn’t. That sign was written in one of the earlier forms of the language, one that hasn’t been used as a primary language in nearly two millennia.’
‘See! That’s why I… Wait! Does that mean that this floor was built by ancient Rome?’
Boyd nodded. ‘It appears that way. I doubt they would have used antiquated language on one of their markers, not in a tomb of this magnitude.’ He pointed to a large archway that loomed down the narrow corridor. ‘We’ll know for sure in a moment.’
Made out of off-white masonry, the main components of the arch were exquisitely carved, each illustrating a different moment of Jesus Christ’s crucifixion. The two lowest blocks, the springers, showed Jesus being nailed to the cross and being lifted above the ground by a team of Roman soldiers. The next series of stones, the voussoirs, depicted Christ as he hung from the cross, his life and stamina slowly slipping away. The crowns, the two stones that sat off-center from the top of the arch, revealed the events right before Jesus’s death. First, when he was given a sip of wine vinegar from the end of a hyssop stalk – while flowers bloomed underneath him, possibly as a sign of rebirth – and the instant his head drooped to his chest in death.
Strangely, the keystone, the most important block of the archway, differed from the others. Instead of depicting Christ’s resurrection or his ascension to the right hand of God, the middle stone of the arch was sculpted into the lifelike bust of a man. A laughing man. The intricate details of his face revealed his amusement in a number of obvious ways: the sweeping curve of his lips, the lighthearted twinkle in his eyes, and the arrogant protrusion of his jaw. For some reason, he was laughing at a most inappropriate time.
Maria raised the camera and filmed the arch. ‘What is this place?’
‘The plaque said it was a document vault. But after seeing this artwork, there’s a good chance that its purpose has changed over the years, perhaps to something more religious.’ Boyd placed his hands on the archway and traced the contours of the lower stones. Finally, he said, ‘Tell me, my dear, who killed Jesus Christ?’