The Dead Room. Heather Graham

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      She found the first bone. A breastbone. They both stopped and looked at each other.

      “Let’s go a little farther,” he whispered.

      She nodded. They went back to work, meticulously, slowly. Her back ached, but she scarcely noticed the discomfort. Minutes passed. Eventually they revealed the skeletal remains of a woman. Bits and pieces of fabric had also survived the ravages of time and the worms of the grave. And a cross. A simple gold cross. Very tiny, a poor woman’s treasure.

      About to get up and summon the others, Leslie realized that they were already surrounded. Silently, and one by one, about twenty people, including Professor Laymon, Robert Adair and Hank Smith, had circled carefully around their position.

      “Um, well, it’s definitely a graveyard,” Leslie said.

      “We knew there was a church here. It’s a churchyard. There will be lots of graves, and, with luck, they’ll reveal volumes of new understanding about the area,” Professor Laymon said, pleased.

      Leslie wondered if Hank Smith felt happy. He shouldn’t. This would put his project on hold for some time.

      But Hank Smith was smooth, a man who had apparently learned never to give his true emotions away. His face revealed absolutely nothing of whatever he was feeling.

      Laymon, however, looked as if he were about to have an orgasm.

      “Oh. My. God,” he breathed. He sounded like a Valley girl, Leslie thought with a smile. “All right, we’ll need to get the photographers over here…and the news crews.” He frowned. He didn’t want anyone trampling on what he now considered to be his territory, but they could always use the publicity, and, anyway, there was no way not to allow the press at least some access, especially since it was the good PR that kept the developers happy. “Sergeant Adair, will you post a guard, please? And when we bring her up, I want her in situ…the dirt around her and beneath her.”

      Laymon definitely looked as if he belonged in a laboratory somewhere—or filming a mad scientist movie—Leslie thought. He was in a smudged white lab coat, his glasses were sitting halfway down his nose, and his hair was dusty and sticking out at odd angles. She smiled. The man certainly got into his work.

      Hank Smith reached down to help her up the little incline from where she’d been digging. She hesitated, worrying about leaving Mary’s mother alone.

      “Leslie, come on up. I promise, you’ll get to oversee as soon as the photographers are done,” Laymon said.