down and saw traces of sand beneath my shoes.
“I didn’t know what the hell to do. I put the fear of God in him, smacked him on the ass, and let him go. Couple weeks later, we had a cat die on us, got hit by a car. Your dad was fond of this animal. Used to sleep with it sometimes. Went by some stupid name like Pookie. Or Scoobie. Something like that. Hey!” I jumped as he yelled back over his shoulder. In the distance I saw Harnett take notice. “What was the name of that cat? The one who got run over?”
Harnett’s response was immediate and morose. “Fred.”
Lionel shrugged. “Anyhow, we buried the animal in the backyard. Next morning the carcass was sitting on top of its grave. Understand that the reconstruction was flawed, but for someone without a day of proper instruction it was astounding. When Ken told me he didn’t do it, I knew it had to be that shrimp who punched like Joe Louis. I knew it was risky. I knew that. But the boy had raw talent like I’d never seen.”
I eased him over a patch of loose gravel. “It’s hard to believe they ever got along.”
“They were all each other had. Don’t be mistaken, there was plenty of one-upmanship. Ken could set him off with the wrong word about any number of topics. Baby had a complex about his lineage; thought he belonged in high society and it was just bad luck that he’d gotten kicked to the curb. He wouldn’t dress for the work; he liked to look like some kind of silver-screen playboy. He wanted constant credit, constant. But my stars, could that boy move dirt.”
Suddenly the trees were behind us.
“Ah, here we are,” he said.
A red gash dove through the purples and blues that feathered the sky. After a moment I looked down at the steep slope at our feet. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. At the bottom was a cemetery.
“Ever seen the ocean?” Lionel asked.
I shook my head.
He smiled at me. “We’ll get closer,” he whispered. “Let’s wait for your dad.”
When Harnett joined us, he wasn’t happy. “What’s this?” he asked. “I don’t see why we’re here.”
“Look at how the light hits the water,” Lionel mused.
I had not been aware the ocean was already in view. “Where?”
Lionel pointed. “Through the trees there. See the motion? How the rays shoot out in all directions? Ken, what does that remind you of?”
“Harpakhrad,” Harnett said. He glanced at me.
“It’s a perfect example, really,” Lionel said, “of the differences between my two pupils. I acquired Harpakhrad for Baby while I was in Egypt. Her stem was made of lotus, mulberry, sycamore, and something called the doom palm, braided together while the branches were still growing and then petrified—the stem alone must have taken fifteen years to fashion. The blade was beveled iron and gold; the handle was encrusted with jewels and topped with a palladium scarab. It was the most marvelous thing I’d ever seen.”
“How’d you afford it?” I asked.
Lionel’s dismissive shrug recalled the demurring of the other Diggers. “I was in Egypt. There are tombs in the Valley of the Kings that remain unknown to most.”
Images from history class crowded my mind: priceless statues, bejeweled thrones, golden death masks, chests and sarcophagi of infinite value.
Lionel cleared his throat. “Story for another time. The point being that there was never any question whose instrument it would become. Most Diggers, they don’t care if they find their instrument in a dump. The pedigree shouldn’t matter—when you have the proper instrument in your hand, you know it. Baby, though, I knew he would force Harpakhrad to become his own. He would bend her to his will. And when he dug at dusk the light would hit the scarab and the legs of the beetle would scatter the sun, just like this. I’m sure it still does.”
“I doubt it,” Harnett said. “Boggs would’ve sold it years ago. Probably for thirty bucks and a hot meal.”
Lionel squinted into the sky. “She’s out there somewhere. I know she is. I would like to see her again. Just once more.”
Harnett ran a hand through his hair and gestured back at the trail. “It’s late.”
Lionel turned to him. “You have to let Grinder go. Look at your hands. They’re curled like she’s right here.”
Harnett looked at his fingers as if they were strange objects. “They’re old,” he mused softly, turning them over. “They can’t learn to hold