The Goddess Legacy

Chapter 41

Silence had descended over the approach to the temple as Spencer walked along the road by the hazy light of a waning moon, only a few vehicles underway once darkness had fallen on the stretch outside of town. He checked the safety on the pistol for the third time, a round in the chamber his insurance policy should anything go wrong, the camera safely tucked in the pocket of a dark button-up short-sleeve shirt he’d bought while killing time.

His plan was to sneak in, take photographs, and melt into the night without being seen, but that would only be viable if the guards were wandering the grounds instead of manning the entry. If necessary, he would pick the lock; he’d bought a pair of cheap metal knives and a file and fashioned a set of picks as the afternoon had faded. Depending on the type of lock, he was also adept at using an aluminum can to force the mechanism, and he’d drunk a soda and used the file to create strips of easily moldable metal for just that purpose.

The temple rose above him as he neared, and he slowed and scanned the perimeter for signs of life.

Nothing.

Spencer approached the building with cautious steps, his eyes combing the area for guards. He hoped that night duty at an obscure temple would be relegated to the lowest of the low on the police force, or even better, that the building wasn’t considered to be sufficiently at risk to justify round-the-clock surveillance. He stopped thirty yards from the hulking mass and listened for any giveaways — coughing, smoking, laughter, conversation.

Five minutes of remaining still yielded no evidence of security, so he continued to the entry, where a barred metal gate was padlocked in place. A glance at the lock told him that he’d have to use the picks, and after a final perusal of the grounds, he knelt by the lock and went to work. The flat, honed blade of one knife slid into the key slot and he wedged the other alongside it, its tip filed at a right angle to create a pick, and slowly worked the tip against the tumblers while exerting steady turning pressure on the flat blade. He felt a tumbler click into place, and another, and continued brushing the pick with focused concentration. By the time the lock snapped open with an audible snick, his forehead was running with sweat, which he wiped away before tossing the lock into the shadows at the side of the temple and slipping the picks into his back pocket. He gave the area a final once-over and, confident he was alone, swung the gate open on groaning hinges.

The interior was shrouded in darkness, and Spencer worked his way carefully around piles of debris before removing his cell phone from his back pocket and using its flash as a light. He edged along the wall of the main space and, finding no mosaic, paused to study what he could make out of the layout. He spied an adjacent chamber that appeared to be some sort of shrine room and, after killing the light so as not to attract unwanted attention, worked his way toward it.

Once in the smaller room he walked to a tarp-covered area of the wall and poked his head under it. After several seconds he pulled the tarp free, and it tumbled to the floor in a pile behind him. He stepped back, gazing up at the image crafted from hundreds of tiles.

It was the mosaic from the photograph.

Somewhat dusty, but undoubtedly the same one.

“Gotcha,” he whispered, and stepped back while he freed the camera from his pocket. In the near total blackness he couldn’t make out much more than rough shapes, but even so, it was hardly spectacular enough to justify all the fuss. Perhaps eight feet square, each tile about a square inch in size, only a few glinting with gold flake that was probably simulated.

Still, he wasn’t there for art appreciation, and his interest wasn’t due to its sophistication. He squinted through the camera lens and then tried using the display on the back, with equally dismal results. It was simply too dark, so he flicked on his cell again and, using that light and the camera screen, framed a shot and snapped a picture.

The flash lit the room and he blinked away stars and then took another photo, and another. After taking five, he thumbed through the camera menu and found the icon for photo review and brought up his first shot. On the tiny screen it was hard to make out, but the second and third looked clearer — far more so than the old black and white had been on Carson’s phone.

Spencer was considering another round of photographs when he heard a noise from the main temple, and he stopped in mid-step, ears straining to identify the sound.

A scrape.

Perhaps the wind blowing refuse around in the interior?

Whatever it was, as he stood motionless, he didn’t hear anything further. He waited half a minute, and when he was sure that he’d overreacted, he raised the camera and took another photo.

He blinked from the flash and then spun, half blind, his night vision temporarily shot. He’d heard the sound again, and this time… closer.

A flashlight beam cut through the darkness. He instinctively shielded his eyes with his hand and slid the camera into his breast pocket with the other.

“That’s far enough. Keep your mitts where I can see them, or I’ll blow your kneecaps off,” Oliver Helms said from the doorway, the dull gleam of the chrome snub-nosed revolver in his hand making it clear that he was deadly serious.