Текст книги "The Doomsday Key"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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John Creed hurried into the bathroom. He wore a lab coat with the Viatus logo on the pocket. He must have been trying on his disguise. "Sir, your phone. It's buzzing."

Painter held out a hand and took the cell. He read the Caller ID and frowned. It was General Metcalf's number. Why was he calling? Painter had avoided briefing Washington on what had happened until he knew more. To have the operation closed down before it even started would not sit well with anyone.

Especially Painter.

He flipped the phone open and answered. "General Metcalf?"

"Director Crowe. I suspect you're still settling in over there, so I'll be brief. I just received a call from Senator Gorman. He was very agitated."

Painter struggled to understand. He'd done nothing to provoke the senator.

"Gorman received a cryptic call half an hour ago. Someone claiming to have information on the attack in Africa. The caller said he knew of a survivor to the attack."

"A survivor?" Painter could not hide his own surprise.

"The caller wants to meet at the bar of the senator's hotel. To give further details. He'll only meet with Gorman alone."

"I don't think that's wise."

"Neither do we. That's why you're going to be at that bar. The senator knows that a DoD investigator is already in Oslo. He personally requested you be there. You're to maintain a low profile, to intervene only if necessary."

"When's the meet?" Painter asked.

"Tonight at midnight."

Of course, it would be.

Painter finished the call and tossed the phone back to Creed.

"What?" Monk asked.

Painter explained, which only deepened Monk's frown.

Creed spoke a fear they all shared. "It might be a trap. Meant to draw you out into the open again."

"We should call off the operation at Viatus," Monk suggested. "Go with you as backup."

Painter considered that option. Monk had been out of the field for some time, and Creed had barely gotten his feet wet. It would be risky to send them over to the research facility by themselves. Painter studied Monk, weighing the variables.

Monk guessed the intent of his attention. "We can still do this, sir, if that's what you're thinking. The kid might be green, but we'll get it done."

Painter heard the certainty in the man's voice. With a sigh, he stopped overanalyzing the situation. He wasn't at his desk in Washington anymore. This was fieldwork. He had to trust his gut. And his gut was telling him that events were rapidly escalating out of control.

Delay was not an option.

"We stick to the schedule," he said forcefully, brooking no argument. "We need access to that server. From today's attack, it's clear someone is getting both bolder and more agitated. A bad combination. We can't let them lock us out. So we'll just have to split up tonight."

Creed looked concerned, but not for himself. "Sir, what if you're attacked again?"

"Don't worry. They had their one free shot at me." Painter reached the sink and picked up the WASP dagger that he'd confiscated from the assassin in the park. "Tonight, I'll be the one doing the hunting."

6:01 P.M.

Bundled in a fox-fur-lined coat and hood, Krista strode down the central path of Frogner Park in the west-end borough of Oslo. She had an apartment that overlooked the snowy park, but she could not stand to wait indoors any longer. She carried her phone with her.

The sun had set, and the temperature had plummeted.

She had the park to herself.

She continued along the path through the sculpture garden. Her warm breath frosted the air. She needed to keep moving, but tension kept her stiff.

Spread around her were more than two hundred sculptures created by Gustav Vigeland, a Norwegian national treasure. Most of the sculptures involved nude stone figures frozen in various combinations and twisted poses. Presently the sculptures were covered with snow, as if wrapped in tattered white cloaks.

Ahead rose the towering central sculpture. It sat on the highest point of the park and was lit up for the night. It was named the Monolith. It always reminded Krista of something out of Dante's Inferno, especially at night. Maybe that's why she was drawn to it now.

The sculpture was a circular tower four stories high carved out of a single block of granite. Its entire surface was a writhing mass of human figures, tangled, twisted, entwined, a dark orgy in stone. It was supposed to represent the eternal cycle of mankind, but to her, it looked like a mass grave.

She stared up at it, knowing what was coming.

What we are about to unleash...

She shuddered inside her coat and clasped her fur-lined hood tighter to her throat. It was not remorse that kept her trembling, but the sheer enormity of what was unfolding. It was already under way, had been for over a decade, but in the next days, there would be no turning back. The world was about to change, and she had played a primary role in it all.

But she had not acted alone.

Her phone, still clutched in her pocket, vibrated. She took a deep breath and exhaled a stream of white mist. She had failed today. What would be her punishment? Her eyes scanned the dark parklands around her. Were they already closing in on her? Death did not frighten her. What terrified her was being taken out of the game now, at this last moment. In her haste and desire, she had acted rashly. She should have contacted her superiors before attempting to take down the Sigma operative on her own.

She lifted the phone and tucked it into her hood.

"Yes?" she answered.

Alone in the park, she did not have to worry about anyone eavesdropping. The satellite phone was also encrypted. She readied herself for whatever would come.

Still, she was not prepared for the voice on the line. All warmth drained out of her. She might as well have been naked in the cold park.

"He lives," the voice said flatly. "You should have known better."

With her breath trapped in her chest, she could not speak. She had only heard this voice once before in her life. It had been after her recruitment, after a brutal initiation, when she'd carried out an assassination, killing an entire family, including a newborn baby. The Venezuelan politician had been supporting an investigation into a French pharmaceutical company, an investigation that needed to be stopped. She had also taken a bullet through her leg from the man's security team, but she still escaped without leaving a trace behind. Not even a drop of her own blood.

During her recovery, she had received a call, congratulating her.

From the man on the phone now.

It was said he was one of the Guild leaders, those who were only referred to as "Echelon."

She finally found her voice. "Sir, I take full responsibility for the failure."

"And I imagine you've learned from this mistake." The tone remained flat. She could not tell if the speaker was angry or not.

"Yes, sir."

"From here, leave the matter to us. Steps are being taken. But a new threat has arisen, more immediate than Sigma sniffing at our door. Something you'd best handle on the ground there."

"Sir?"

"Someone knows there was a survivor of the Mali massacre. They are meeting with Senator Gorman tonight."

Krista's fingers tightened on her phone. How could that be? She'd been so careful. Her mind raced through the last few days. She'd kept herself well hidden. Anger warmed through her terror.

"That meeting must not happen," the speaker warned and told her the details of the midnight rendezvous.

"And the senator?"

"Expendable. If word reaches him before you can shut this down, take him out. No evidence must be left behind."

She knew it wasn't necessary to acknowledge that.

"As to the operation in England," the man continued, "all is in place there?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know how important it is that we find the key to the Doomsday Book."

She did. She stared up at the Monolith's writhing tower of bodies. The key could either save them or damn them.

"Do you trust your contact over there?" he asked.

"Of course not. Trust is never necessary. Only power and control."

For once, a hint of amusement tinged his words. "You were taught well." The phone connection ended. But not before a last few cryptic words. "Echelon has its eyes on you."

Krista remained standing before the Monolith. With the phone still at her ear, she shuddered again-with relief, with terror, but mostly with one certainty.

She must not fail.

Chapter 14

October 12, 4:16 P.M.

Lake District, England

Gray eyed his transportation doubtfully.

His transportation stared back at him, equally unsure, stamping a hoof for emphasis.

"The Fell Pony," Dr. Wallace Boyle said as he worked among the assembled horseflesh. "You'll not find a heartier pony on God's green earth. Perfect for mountain trekking. Sure-footed and strong as an ox."

"You call these guys ponies?" Kowalski asked.

Gray understood his partner's consternation. The dusty-black stallion being saddled for Gray had to stand over fourteen hands, almost five feet tall at the withers. It chuffed into the cold air and scraped a hoof into the half-frozen mud.

"Ack, be still already, Pip," a ranch hand said as he gave the saddle cinch another tug.

The group had left Hawkshead by car an hour ago. Wallace had guided them to this horse farm deep in the mountains. Apparently the only way to reach the excavation site from here was either on foot or by horseback. Wallace had called ahead and arranged for their four-legged transportation.

"The Fell Pony has a long tradition in the region," he continued as their mounts were tacked. "The wild Picts used them against the Romans. Viking farmers used them as plow horses. And the Normans who came later made pack animals out of them to haul lead and coal."

Wallace rubbed the neck of his brown gelding and climbed up into his saddle. His terrier, Rufus, trotted through the assembled horses and lifted his leg on a fence post. The dog's initial distrust of Seichan seemed to have settled into a wary truce. He gave her a wide berth as she slipped a toe through a stirrup and leaped smoothly atop a sturdy-looking bay mare.

"'Fraid you're going to have to excuse ol' Rufus," Wallace had explained back at the pub. "Set in his ways, he is. And I'm embarrassed to say he's a bit of a bigot. Took a bite out of a Pakistani grad student last spring."

Rachel had looked aghast.

Seichan had not reacted at all. She merely stared at the dog until its tail sank, and it retreated into its master's shadow. Afterward she joined them at the table.

Rachel, having been recognized, had come clean about their true intentions with Wallace, though she kept some details sketchy. She didn't mention the mummified finger.

The professor had listened soberly, then shrugged. "No worries, lass. Your secret is safe with me. If I can help you catch the boggins who killed Marco and sent your uncle to the hospital, then all's the better, I say."

So they had set off.

But even now, they still had a long way to go.

Gray mounted his stallion, Pip, and after a bit of a shuffle, they left the farm and headed overland. Dr. Boyle led the way atop his gelding. They followed single file up a winding trail.

Gray had not been on horseback in ages. It took him a good mile to feel comfortable, to fall into an easy rhythm with his mount. Around him, the English fells climbed higher and gathered closer. Off in the distance, the snowy crown of England's highest mountain, Scafell Pike, shone in a last blaze of fire as the sun sank away.

As they trekked, a wintry silence blanketed the highlands. All that was heard was the crunch of snow under their ponies' hooves. Gray had to admit that Wallace's estimation of their mounts was not all bluster. Pip seemed to know where to place each hoof, even through the snow. Going downhill, the stallion never lost his footing and kept a steady balance.

Another two miles, and the way opened enough for Gray to sidle his mount next to Rachel and Seichan. The two had been whispering together.

As Gray joined them, Rachel struggled to free her plastic canteen. Seichan noted her difficulty and dropped her reins. Guiding her horse with her legs, she freed a thermos and unscrewed the top.

"Hot tea," Seichan said and held a cup out to Rachel.

"Thank you." Rachel took a sip, the steam bathing her face. "Ah, that's good. It warms right through you."

"It's a special herbal blend of mine."

Rachel nodded her thanks again as she finished her tea and passed back the cup.

Ahead, Kowalski slouched in his saddle, half-asleep, his head nodding, trusting his pony to follow behind Wallace's.

They rode through a sparse forest of alder and oak, over ferny bracken in a landscape of snow-covered turf and icy trickles of streams. Gray was glad to be on horseback, not trekking on foot. Unlike Rufus, who didn't seem to mind as he trotted alongside them, hopping from hillock to hillock through the damper areas. The air grew colder as the sun sank away.

"How much farther, do you think?" Rachel asked. She kept her voice hushed. The cold silence of the place had that effect.

Gray shook his head. Wallace had refused to give any more detail than "far up in the wilds of the fell." Still, Gray didn't worry about finding their way back. Before he set off, he had activated a handheld GPS unit in his pocket. It monitored their trail, leaving little digital bread crumbs to follow.

Rachel huddled deeper into her heavy jacket. Her breath puffed into the cold air. "Maybe we should have waited until morning."

Seichan spoke hollowly. "No. If there are any answers out here, the quicker we find them and move on, the better."

Gray agreed, but right now a roaring fire sounded pretty damn good. Still, he noted a strained set to Seichan's lips. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead of her.

Dropping back, Gray used the moment to truly observe the two women. They were studies in contrasts. Rachel rode easily, swaying in a relaxed but ready manner, adapting to her new environment. She spent much of the time looking around her, taking it all in. Whereas Seichan rode as if into battle. She was plainly a skilled rider, but he noted how she corrected even the slightest misstep by her pony. As if everything had to bend to her will. Like Rachel, she also took in her surroundings, but her gaze darted about, pinched with calculation.

Yet despite their differences, the two women bore some striking similarities. Each was strong-willed, confident, challenging. And at times, they could take his breath away with a single glance.

Gray forced his attention away as he realized there was one other trait both women shared. He had no future with either one of them. He had closed that chapter with Rachel long ago, and it was a book best never opened with Seichan.

Lost in private thoughts, the group continued silently through the mountains. Over the next hour, the trek became a blur of rocky escarpments, snowy cliffs, and patches of black forest. At last they crested a rise and a deep valley appeared ahead. The way down was staggeringly steep.

Wallace drew them to a halt. "Almost there," he said.

Under a crisp starry sky, they'd had little difficulty riding in the dark, but below lay true night. A dark wood filled the valley.

But that wasn't all.

Against that black canvas, a few ruddy glows dotted the forest, like tiny campfires. They would've been easy to miss during the day.

"What are those glows down there?" Gray asked.

"Peat fires," Wallace said, blowing into his gloved palms to warm the ice from his beard. "A goodly part of the fells is covered in peat. Mostly blanket mires."

"And that would be what in English?" Kowalski asked.

Wallace explained, but Gray was familiar enough with peat. It was an accumulation of decayed vegetable matter: trees, leaves, mosses, fungi. Piles of it formed in damp areas. Deposits were common in places where glaciers had retreated and carved out a mountainous landscape, like here in the Lake District.

Wallace pointed down into the valley. "Below is a forest growing out of one of the deepest peat bogs in the region. It stretches thousands of acres from here. Most of the peat deposits in the region only go down ten feet or so. The valley here has spots that are ten times as deep. It's a very old bog."

"And the fires?" Rachel asked.

"Aye, that's one good thing about peat," Wallace said. "It burns. Peat has been harvested as a fuel source for as long as man has been around. For cooking, for heating. I suspect such natural fires as those below are what gave ancient man the idea to start burning the bloody muck to begin with."

"How long have these valley fires been burning?" Gray asked.

Wallace shrugged. "No saying. They were smoldering when I first came here three years ago. Creeping slowly underground, they're all but impossible to smother. They just burn and burn, fed by a bottomless well of fuel. Some peat fires have been known to burn for centuries."

"Are they dangerous?" Rachel asked.

"Aye, lassie. You have to be careful where you step. Ground may look solid, even covered in snow, but a few feet below could be a fiery hell. Flaming pockets of peat and rivers of fire."

Wallace tapped his mount with his heels and began his descent into the valley. "But no worries. I know the safe paths. Don't go straying off on your own. Stick to my heels."

No one argued. Even Rufus moved closer to his master's side. Gray pulled out his GPS unit, making sure it was still tracking their route. On the small screen was a topographical map. A line of small red dots traced their trail back out of the fells. Satisfied, Gray returned the device to his coat pocket.

He noted Seichan staring at him. She glanced away, a bit quickly, when caught.

Wallace led them down a switchbacking path into the valley. Loose scree and crumbling turf made for a treacherous descent, but Wallace proved true to his word. He got them safely to the valley floor.

"Keep to the trail from here," Wallace warned and set off.

"What trail?" Kowalski mumbled.

Gray understood his partner's confusion. Ahead lay a flat stretch of snowy open ground. The only features were a few mounds of heather and a handful of lichen-covered boulders that looked like huddled stone giants. To the far left, a rosy glow shone from a patch of black turf outlined by green sphagnum moss. Smoke smudged upward against the snowy backdrop. The cold air smelled like a burned ham.

Wallace took a deep breath. "Reminds me of home," he said gustily as he exhaled, his brogue thickening. "Nothing like the scent of burning peat to accompany a nice dram of Scotch whiskey."

"Really?" Kowalski perked up, his nose in the air.

Wallace led them in a winding route among the tall boulders. Despite his warnings, he seemed little concerned. Most of the fires were at the edges of the valley. A few were even up in the higher hills. Gray knew that such hot spots were usually started by wildfires that burned down into the subsurface, then smoldered there for years. The edges of the peat deposits were the most vulnerable to such penetration.

Beyond the open stretch, the wall of dark forest opened. Snow-laden boughs reflected the starlight, but below the bower, the way was pitch-black. Wallace had prepared for that. Leaning down, he clicked on a lantern tied to his saddle. As in a cave, the single lamp had a long reach.

They headed into the forest, still keeping to single file. The air grew less smoky. The forest was a mix of myrtle, birch, and pine, along with massive oaks that looked centuries old. Their trunks were gnarled, their branches still encrusted with dry brown leaves. Acorns littered the snowy ground, which accounted for the number of squirrels that chattered and fled from their path.

Gray saw something larger scurry off, low to the ground.

Rufus made an aborted lunge toward it, but Wallace yelled, "Leave it be! That badger will skin your nose straight off your face."

Kowalski eyed the dark forest with open suspicion. "What about bears? Do you have any in England?"

"Of course," Wallace said.

Kowalski stepped his pony closer to the man with the shotgun.

"We have plenty of bears in our zoos," Wallace continued with a smile. "But none in the wild since the Middle Ages."

Kowalski scowled at the man for scaring him, but he didn't move away.

They continued through the old forest for another half hour. Traveling in the dark, Gray became thoroughly lost. The dense forest hid any landmarks.

Finally, the trees fell away and another field opened. Starlight bathed a wide shallow hollow almost an acre in size. Grasses and bracken poked from the fresh snow that covered the hollow, along with stumps of trees that had been felled to open the area.

It was otherwise unmarked-but it was not empty.

To one side stood two dark tent-cabins. Heavy fabric stretched on steel frames. Beside them, squares of excavated peat were piled into tiny pyramids, ready to burn as heat for the cabins. But no one was here. During the winter months the site was abandoned due to the threat of heavy snow.

Still, it wasn't the dark campsite that drew everyone's attention. Gray stared into the center of the hollow. The excavation site was marked off with yellow survey strings that crisscrossed the area in a large grid. As if trapped in this string web, giant stones rose from the ground in a crude ring. Each one towered twice Gray's height. Atop one pair of stones lay a massive slab, forming a crude doorway into the circle.

Gray remembered Wallace's description of the Neolithic sites that dotted the region. Apparently he had found a new one, one lost for ages in this bog forest.

"Looks like a little Stonehenge," Kowalski said.

Wallace slid from his saddle and took his pony's lead in hand. "Only this site is older than Stonehenge. Much older."

They all dismounted. A rough sheltered paddock stood near the cabins, where they walked their ponies and set about unloading saddles and rubbing down their mounts. Kowalski fetched water from a nearby stream.

Wallace explained about the discovery, how clues found in the Domesday Book had led him here, to a place marked in Latin as "wasted." "I found no trace of the town itself. It must have been razed to the ground. But while hunting, I came upon this stone circle. It was half-buried in peat. An untrained eye could easily have mistaken it for ordinary boulders, especially as they were covered in lichen and moss. But the rocks were a type of bluestone not native to the fells."

His excitement grew as he talked. With the ponies settled, Wallace led them over to the stone ring. He carried his lantern. Gray also removed a flashlight from his saddlebag. As a group, they climbed over the survey strings and crunched through the ankle-deep snow. The stone ring sat in a square of excavated soil. Over the years, teams of archaeologists had been slowly digging the rocks free of the layers of peat.

"The stones were half-buried when I first stumbled here. Their monstrous weight sank them into the muck over the passing millennia."

"Millennia?" Rachel asked. "How old is the place?"

"I've dated it to two thousand years older than Stonehenge. That corresponds to the time of the first settlers to occupy the British Isles. To give you some perspective, that's a thousand years before the Great Pyramids were built."

As they reached the dark ring, Gray flashed his light toward the nearest stone. Cleared of moss and lichen, there was no doubt it was man-made. Crude petroglyphs had been etched into the side facing Gray. The carvings covered the entire exposed surface-but it was all the same motif.

"Spirals," Gray mumbled, drawing Rachel's attention.

She joined him, as did Wallace.

"A very common pagan symbol," the professor said. "Representing the soul's journey. This example is almost an exact replica of stone markings found at Newgrange, a pre-Celtic tomb complex in Ireland. Newgrange was dated to around 3200 B.C., about the same age as this ring, suggesting they were likely built by the same tribe of people."

"The Druids?" Kowalski asked.

Wallace scowled. "Och, where did you learn your history, young man? Druids were Celtic tribal priests. They didn't come onto the stage for another three thousand years." He waved an arm to encompass the Neolithic stone ring. "This is the handiwork of the earliest tribe to settle the British Isles, a people who were here long before the Celts and Druids."

Kowalski merely shrugged, taking no offense at this slight to his knowledge.

Wallace sighed. "But I guess I understand how most people make that mistake. The Celts revered this lost people, believed them to be gods, even incorporated that culture into their own. They worshiped at these old sites, folded them into their mythology, believing the ancient stones to be the home of their gods. In fact, what's considered to be high Celtic art today is based on these old pagan carvings. Ultimately, everything traces back to here." Wallace pointed to the towering henge stones. "But the bigger question remains, who were these ancient ring-builders?"

Gray sensed Wallace's excitement stoking higher. It looked like he had more to say, something that he was still holding back, ever the showman. But before he could continue, Rachel interrupted.

"You better see this."

She had circled to the far side of the stone and stood within the ring. Her arm pointed to the surface of the stone on that side.

Gray and the others stepped over the survey strings to join her. He lifted his flashlight. There was only a single symbol carved into the rock on that side. Turning, he shone his light across to the other standing stones-twelve in total, he noted. Each was marked with the same symbol.

"The quartered circle," Gray said.

Wallace nodded. "Now you know why I was so sure that the diary of that medieval scholar, Martin Borr, pointed straight here. The mark was drawn on his journal."

Gray turned in a slow circle.

What did it all mean?

Facing the first stone again, Gray contemplated its significance. Spirals on one side, a pagan cross on the other. He realized it was the same pattern as the two symbols burned into the leather satchel: a spiral on one side, a cross on the other.

Gray faced Rachel. He read the same understanding in her eyes. He also knew what she was thinking. If they wanted answers, it was high time they came clean with Dr. Wallace Boyle.

8:42 P.M.

Wallace studied the artifact. He sat at a card table in one of the tent-cabins, the lantern at his elbow. Rachel sat next to him. She warmed her hands on a cup of tea. It was the last from Seichan's thermos. She sipped it, appreciating the heat if not the slight bitterness. She would have preferred a dollop of cream with it, but the tea went a long way to chasing the last of the chill from her body.

The team had spent two hours out in the cold, taking pictures and measurements, recording everything here. But to what end?

Rachel stared across the table at Gray. As they had worked, Gray had grown more introspective. She knew him well enough to recognize when he was troubled, when he sensed he was missing something. She could read the calculations going on in his head, knew the primary question plaguing him.

What was so important about this site?

Seichan sat next to Gray. She had contributed little to the day's work, as if she were leaving it up to them to solve this puzzle. Now they all waited for the professor's assessment. A pair of bunkbeds filled the back half of the space. Kowalski lay sprawled on one of the bunks with an arm over his eyes, shielding them against the lamplight. Since his snores weren't rattling the tent fabric, he must still be awake.

"I don't know what to make of it," Wallace finally said with a shake of his head. He held the leather satchel. He'd already examined the mummified finger. "I don't know where Marco found this, nor why anyone would kill for it."

"Then let's go back to the beginning," Gray said. "Why Father Giovanni first came here. What he hoped to gain from visiting this site."

"It was the bodies," Wallace mumbled, still fingering the satchel.

Rachel sat straighter. "Bodies? What bodies?"

Wallace finally placed the satchel down and leaned back in his chair. "What you have to understand is that for ages, peat bogs were revered by the ancient Celts and their Druids. They would bury or sink objects of worship into the bogs. Such places have proved to be archaeological treasure troves. Swords, crowns, jewels, pottery, even entire chariots. But human remains were also found here."

The professor let that sink in as he stood and stepped over to a small camp stove, where he warmed his hands over a burning briquette of peat. He nodded down at the stove. "Peat was the source of life, so it had to be honored. And that honoring often came in the form of human sacrifice. The Celts would kill their victims and toss their bodies into the peat bogs to appease the gods." He turned to face the table again. "And what goes into the peat ends up being preserved for the ages."

"I don't understand," Rachel said.

Gray explained. "The acidic nature and lack of oxygen in the peat keep things from rotting."

"Aye. Pots of butter have been found in bogs, a hundred years old. And the butter is still fresh and edible."

Kowalski groaned in disgust and rolled to his side. "Remind me not to have toast at your house."

Wallace ignored him. "In the same way, those sacrificed bodies were preserved. They're known as 'bog mummies.' The most famous being Tollund Man, found in Denmark. He's so well preserved that he looks as if he fell into the bog yesterday. Intact skin, organs, hair, eyelashes. Even his fingerprints can still be discerned. Examination revealed that he'd been ritually garroted. The knotted rope was still around his neck. And we know it was the Druids who killed him, as the man's stomach was filled with mistletoe, a plant sacred to the Celtic priests."

"And you found a bog mummy here?" Gray asked.

"Two, actually. A woman and a child. We discovered them as we were excavating the stone ring. They were found in the center, curled together in death."

Seichan asked her first question. Her eyes flickered to Rachel, then away again. "Were they sacrificed?"