Chapter 4.

Jim parked in the clearing, then he and Rick raced up to the picnic spot. Everything was as it had been left: the blanket on the ground, the ice cooler, the half-empty wine bottle.

Jim froze. "Dam. I forgot the spade." He turned and started back down the path.

"What? You brought a spade? You never mentioned anything about digging," Rick shouted after him.

When Jim returned, Rick was sitting on the cooler, beer in hand, stuffing crisps into his mouth.

"Nothing worse than warm beer," he said. He took another slug.

Jim grabbed the blanket and threw it aside. The flattened grass outlined the dig site.

"What are you digging for?" Rick asked.

"I’m not sure," Jim snapped, already anticipating further questioning, and hoping to nip them in the bud.

"Then why bother? Let’s grab the stuff and head back."

"Just give me fifteen minutes. You can sit and watch."

"I'm good for watching," Rick said happily, relieved that he would not have to break a sweat. "But I want a half share."

The ground was damp and heavy, unforgiving to an out-of-shape youth. After twenty minutes of frantic effort, Jim had cut a shallow hole, about two feet on each side. Surprised at finding nothing and already fatigued, he held the spade up to Rick. Rick stared at it, yawned, and folded his arms. He was not up for digging.

"Let’s head," he suggested, looking at his watch. "What the hell do you expect to find?"

Jim knew no explanation would be satisfactory and therefore offered none. He was not even sure himself why he was so intent on digging. The whole thing was starting to look like a bad idea, especially with Cara's plea against going back echoing in his head.

"You're just going to sit there?" Jim muttered.

"That's the way it looks."

"You really are a useless bastard."

Rick smiled. "I don’t disagree."

"Ten more minutes, and I’m done. You okay with that?"

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Rick nodded.

Jim started over with renewed vigor, knowing that the clock was now ticking and his day’s work would be soon done. He reduced the dig to a narrow vertical shaft. After twenty minutes, his enthusiasm waned, and he decided to call it a day. With a final angry thrust, he drove the spade down the shaft. It sliced through the damp earth at the bottom and hit something with a low thud.

* * *

Jolted out of his daydream, Derek Crogan slammed his tractor into neutral and turned the engine off. Like someone waking from a deep sleep, he focused his thoughts, seeking to determine a reason for his arousal. Had he sensed something, or was his mind playing tricks? He quickly opted for the latter, thus avoiding a line of investigation he was unwilling to entertain. He started the tractor and went back to work.

* * *

"Found something," Jim shouted.

Suddenly interested, Rick offered to help. After a little more digging, they recovered two small wooden boxes, each about the size of a box of cigarettes. When shaken, something powdery moved inside. Rick was not impressed and said so. Jim was marginally satisfied that his intuition had garnered at least some result.

They each took a box and scraped the earth off. Neither box appeared to have a lid or any way to open it. Each seemed to be made from a solid block of wood.

* * *

A spray of earth shot skyward from the rear tractor tires, fighting for traction in the damp soil. "Come on!" Derek Crogan shouted as he slammed his clenched fist into the steering wheel. "Come on!"

* * *

"Could be antiques," Jim suggested. "They may be worth something."

"Maybe." Rick did not sound convinced. He put the box to his cheek. "It feels warm."

Jim thought back to the previous evening; the explosive heat, then the cold. He put out his hand. "Can I see it?"

Rick did not reply. He was trying to open the box and quickly becoming irritated at his inability to do so. He pushed and pulled on all sides. Jim watched in amusement. Finally, Rick placed the box on a rock that had been unearthed during the excavation. He grabbed the spade and raised it in both hands about his head.

"What are you doing?" Jim shouted. "You'll destroy—”

Rick swung the spade with the precision of a medieval executioner. It crashed down, striking the rock but missing the box.

"Okay, let’s try again." He raised the spade and brought it down—another close miss. Jim laughed; the scene oddly comical yet mildly disturbing.

"Now, can I see it before you destroy it?" Jim said.

Rick slowly lifted his gaze and looked at Jim. "It’s too late. The bitch can’t stop me now."

Jim was lost for words; the clown had gone psycho. "The bitch?" he mumbled. "What do you mean?"

Rick stared back, his face slowly easing into uncertainty.

"I’m sorry," he said in a calmer tone. "Don't know why I said that!”

He bent down and picked up the box. "See, it's not damaged."

Jim smiled. "I think it’s best you avoid morning beer. Let’s collect the stuff and head; this place gives me the creeps."

As they gathered up the gear, they discussed Jim's plans for the evening. Cara was hopefully back in play, and Jim promised a complete account the following day.

* * *

Although the fuse had been lit, Derek Crogan kept to the speed limit, fighting the temptation to speed. He needed time to gather his thoughts, formulate a plan, and, above all, to pray.

For more than three decades, he had lived with the ever-present possibility of this moment. Though he was fearful, he had accepted his mission with no hint of uncertainty. A pledge, made sixteen hundred years before to a pope of Rome, would be fulfilled. The Black Ash would be secured. The future of mankind depended on it.