.jpg)
‘Now I dig.’ He takes a small spade and pushes it into the sandy bedding, shovelling out the dirt and casting it aside into a small, tidy mound.
Dig? How far down? We could be here for months. ‘Can I help?’
‘Yes,’ he grunts.
‘How?’
‘Shut up.’
I chuck him a disgruntled look and resign myself to doing exactly that while Becker digs for what seems like forever. The mound of dirt is getting higher, and the rain is getting harder, pounding the piazza beyond the porch. My hope is dying with each shovel of dirt Becker tosses to the side, yet I won’t be the one to ask at what point he gives up. Jesus, he’s been looking for this damn sculpture for years. Something tells me that he won’t give up until he reaches Australia. He’s already had four slabs up. There are dozens more.
I study him quietly, seeing clearly that he’s getting more and more frustrated with each plunge of the shovel into the ground, sweat pouring from his perfect brow. ‘Damn it,’ he spits, throwing the shovel into the pit aggressively. It bounces off something, creating a loud clatter, and we both audibly gasp. I look at Becker, and Becker looks at me.
‘A stone?’ I ask, not wanting to let my hopes get too high.
‘It’s a big fucking stone.’ He drops to his stomach and plunges both hands into the hole, stretching, starting to move the dirt with his hands. I wait with bated breath, beginning to shake with a mixture of apprehension and excitement as I crane my neck to see into the pit.
‘Is that a rag?’ I ask, seeing a piece of cloth poking up in the corner.
Becker moves his hands towards it and starts shifting the dirt from around the area. Glancing up at me, he grins. ‘Could be a dead body.’
‘Don’t.’ I shiver, wondering how many bones there could be beneath this ancient church. ‘Pull it,’ I tell him, my impatience and uneasiness growing.
‘Don’t you think I’m trying? It’s wrapped around something.’ His head goes into the hole, grunts coming thick and fast. ‘Something hard.’
‘The sculpture?’
‘I don’t know. Fucking hell,’ he breathes, heaving upward on a strained growl, fighting with whatever he’s found. All of a sudden, Becker is on his knees, and then he’s flying back, whatever he’s fighting with dislodging. He falls to his arse, a bundle of tatty material landing on his lap.
I scramble to my feet and rush to him. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Super.’ He starts to push the heavy bundle from his thighs, and it lands on the slabs with a thud. He winces. ‘Shit.’
I laugh, probably inappropriately. I’m putting it down to nerves. ‘Could you imagine after years of searching and you go and break it?’
Tired eyes climb my body to my face, and I force an awkward smile. ‘No, I can’t,’ he mutters, getting to his knees and starting to unravel the material. I hold my breath. Is this it? Is it the long-lost sculpture? All the time and pain, and this moment could be the difference between our lives moving forward, Becker at peace, or our lives stuck in limbo, Becker constantly wondering and searching. I’m not stupid. He might have promised me that if this turns out to be a dead end he’ll let it go, but I don’t trust his promise. He’ll never let this go.
I start to pray to all the Greek gods.
Becker’s crowding the heap, his shoulders high, indicating his own held breath as he carefully peels back the material with tentative hands. ‘Well would you look at that,’ he whispers, sitting back and revealing what he’s found.
‘Oh my God.’ I slowly move in closer, mesmerised by what I’m faced with. Dirt is tarnishing the surface, embedded in the crevices of the face, but there’s no denying what we’re looking at. I turn my stunned stare onto Becker’s profile, and he slowly turns his onto mine. And we just stare at each other, neither of us able to talk, leaving an eerie quiet lingering, the rain a distant thump in the background. This is it. It’s over. His search is finally over.
Becker reaches for my hand and takes it, standing and pulling me to my feet. And we stand over our discovery, staring down at it for a long, long time, absorbing it, taking it in, coming to terms with this colossal moment. I smile, feeling years’ worth of wonder and anxiety literally draining out of the man holding my hand. It’s palpable.
‘It looks nothing like the fake you crafted,’ I say mindlessly as I stare at the sculpture. Yes, it’s ugly like the fake Becker forged, but definitely not evil-looking.
‘I know.’
‘So what now?’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Becker admits, still just staring. ‘All these years, and now I have it, and I don’t even know how I’m feeling.’
‘Relieved?’ I prompt, because that’s how I’m feeling. So damn relieved.
‘Maybe.’ He looks up to the ceiling, as do I. ‘I’ve got it, Dad.’ he says quietly, squeezing my hand. ‘I found it for you and Mum.’
My eyes sting from quick-building tears, and I move into Becker’s side, hugging his arm. ‘He’ll be so proud of you.’
Becker looks down at me, a little vacant. ‘I wish I could see his face,’ he admits. ‘I wish I could give it to him.’
‘He’ll be watching.’ I smile and reach up to kiss his cheek. ‘Wherever he is, he’ll be watching.’ I discreetly brush away the tear that escapes my right eye. But amid my sadness, I’m so happy I followed him to Rome so I could share this with him. And now, I know he’s glad I’m here.
Bang!
We both jump from our moment, and before I can grasp what that noise was or what’s going on, I’m shoved violently aside, and I lose my grip of Becker’s arm. The ground grows closer to my face, my eyes closing and my hands coming up to break my fall. I hit the deck hard, but I still hear the sound of Becker crashing to the concrete too, followed by a crack of lightning.
‘Fuck.’ His yell is breathy, strained, and I spin around, ignoring the searing pain that’s cutting through my shoulder. A rumble of thunder practically makes the ground shake, and another flash of lightning illuminates the sky and shines light on the horrid scene before me.
Becker’s on his back, grappling with some hands around his neck. ‘No!’ I scream, seeing Brent holding him down by a thick metal chain across his throat.
‘Stay away, Eleanor,’ Becker coughs over his urgent words, his legs kicking out as he gasps for air and fights Brent’s hold.
Oh my God, he’s going to kill him! I’m up from the floor like lightning, not prepared to leave him when he’s pinned down, helpless. I throw myself on Brent’s back, ripping at his hair, clawing like a madwoman, anything to hamper him.
‘Eleanor!’ Becker yells, just as an elbow comes up and cracks me clean on the cheekbone. Stars jump into my vision, my head instantly spinning. My poor body receives another punishing clout, the air knocked from my lungs. But I force myself up again, adrenalin taking over.
Brent’s momentary release of the chain to crack me one gives Becker the break he needs, and he moves fast, flipping his body over and getting Brent under him. He grabs the nearby hammer and raises it in the air. ‘You twisted fuck!’ he bellows, holding Brent down by the neck with one hand and brandishing the hammer with his other. ‘You sick, crazy fucker. For a fucking sculpture? You’d kill for a fucking sculpture?’
‘You’re the one waving the fucking hammer in my face, Hunt.’
Becker throws the hammer aside, draws back his fist, and throws it into Brent’s face on a roar. I wince at the chilling sound of a nose breaking. ‘It fucking ends here!’ Another accurate punch lands on Brent’s nose, and this time blood splatters everywhere. Becker looks like the crazy one. He’s lost his rag, and he doesn’t look like he’ll find it anytime soon. It gets to the point that I can’t distinguish between the lightning bolts and the connections of Becker’s fist to Brent’s face.
Becker’s arms pull back once more, and I jump up, running to him, unable t
o bear any more. ‘Becker, stop.’ I grab his arm to halt it sailing forward into Brent’s face again. My Becker is many things, but I won’t let him add murderer to his list. ‘Enough!’
His body heaves and rolls, while Brent looks up at him with big, fearful eyes. He comprehends Becker’s rage. He’s pushed him over the edge, the one he’s been balancing on for so many years. ‘Okay,’ Brent says, watching Becker cautiously. ‘It finishes here. Enough damage has been done.’
‘Your father killed my parents, Wilson. There’s nothing I can do to get payback. Not even killing you would make me feel better.’
Brent breathes in deeply, fixing Becker with sure eyes. ‘My father wasn’t a murderer, Hunt. You know that. They were accidents.’
‘And your father was involved!’ Becker lifts Brent and smashes him down on the concrete. ‘Your family will never take anything from me again, do you understand? It’s done!’
‘Done,’ Brent agrees, obviously panicked. ‘It’s done.’
‘You don’t get the sculpture,’ Becker tells him on a snarl.
‘You win,’ Brent relents.
‘I always fucking win.’
Brent lets out an amused puff of laughter, maybe tinged with a hint of nervousness, too. ‘I’m too old for this shit.’
Relief floods me as I watch Becker’s grip peel slowly away from Brent’s neck, his exhausted body lifting equally as slowly, his eyes never leaving his nemesis. ‘I never want to look at you again, Wilson. You won’t walk away next time, I swear.’
‘The feeling’s mutual, Hunt.’ Brent struggles up, sniffing and wiping at his nose as he looks across to me. ‘He really has corrupted you, hasn’t he?’
I find my way to Becker and curl into his side, not needing to voice my reply. I know where my loyalty lies. As well as my heart. ‘Get out of here, Wilson.’ Becker mutters, turning into me and wrapping his arms around my shoulders.
‘Tell me how you switched the Ferrari at Sotheby’s.’ Brent asks, backing away from us. ‘And stole the painting? Just give me that.’
I look up at Becker as he turns his face to Brent, smiling. ‘Talent is something you’re born with, Wilson. You can’t learn it. I’m a fucking genius. You are not.’
Brent chuckles on a shake of his head. ‘You’re an egomaniac, that’s what you are.’
‘Fuck off.’ Becker returns his attention to me, scanning me inch by inch. ‘You okay?’
I nod. ‘I’m fine.’
‘It’s over, princess.’ He kisses my nose, my chin, my cheek. ‘Now it’s just about me and you.’
I smile, so damn happy, and reach up on my tippy-toes to get my chin on his shoulder, squeezing him to death. ‘We’d better fill in that hole.’
‘Nah. I like leaving something behind for people to scratch their heads over.’
I laugh lightly. He’s such a maverick. ‘I love—’ I spot Brent swooping in quickly a few paces behind, and it takes me a few delayed seconds to register what he’s doing. ‘The sculpture!’ I push Becker away, my legs taking on a mind of their own and breaking out into a sprint towards Brent, who now has the bundle tucked neatly under his arm as he turns, a wicked glint in his eyes.
No! God, no! I’m about to go maniac on Brent’s arse, willing to throw myself into the middle of the war to stop him escaping with that sculpture. Jesus, we’ll be at square one again. Becker won’t have the peace he needs. Our lives will be on hold, and my worry constant, because I know for sure that Becker won’t rest until he gets it back.
My legs must be a blur of movement. I’m running so fast, my objective simple. Tackle him to the ground. Hinder his escape. Do anything to stop him getting away with Head of a Faun.
I take the steps down to the piazza, watching my feet as I go, and just when I’m about to take off across the square in pursuit of him, my shoulder jars, nearly being yanked from the socket. ‘Ow!’ I yelp, turning my frantic, flushed face back. I find Becker with a firm grip around my wrist. He isn’t showing any signs of urgency. No panic. Nothing. In fact, he looks as calm as can be. ‘He’s got the sculpture.’ I throw my arm out and point to Brent’s back, which is getting further and further away. ‘Becker, do something.’
‘Let him take it,’ he says quietly.
I swing back to face him. ‘What?’ Has he lost his mind?
‘I don’t want it.’
‘You don’t want it?’ I parrot like an idiot. ‘What do you mean, you don’t want it?’
He shrugs, and my head swings back and forth between my crackpot fiancé and Brent, who’s halfway across the square with our sculpture. Our sculpture! ‘It’s cursed, princess.’
‘Cursed?’ I abandon Brent’s back and find Becker. He’s so calm. Accepting. ‘Becker, you’ve searched your whole life for it. And Gramps. And your dad.’
He smiles. ‘And now I’ve found it.’
‘What?’ My brain turns to mush.
Becker looks past me, his eyes shining bright, and I turn to follow his direction of sight. Brent has slowed to a stop across the square, looking at us a bit perplexed as he gets pelted by the heavy rain. He’s wondering why the hell Becker isn’t running him down. ‘What’s the deal, Hunt?’ he calls, sounding wary.
‘I won,’ Becker shouts, slipping his hands into his pockets. ‘I found it.’
Brent smiles, small and unsure, looking down at the sculpture in his arms. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Never been more serious in my life, Wilson.’ Becker confirms. ‘It’s fucking ugly, anyway.’
I gawp at him like the crazy person that he is. ‘Becker?’ I question, feeling like I should slap him and knock him from his insanity.
‘You can look at it every day, Wilson, and know that it was me who found it. Becker Hunt. Best fucking treasure hunter in the world.’ He smiles cunningly. ‘Congratulations, you prick. I hope you see my face every time you admire it.’
Brent shakes his head mildly. ‘You can buy it for one hundred and fifty million,’ he calls, holding up the bundle in his hands. ‘It should about cover the Ferrari and the fake.’
Becker laughs, deep and satisfied. ‘Nah. I’d rather keep the car.’ His arm slips around my shoulders and pulls me in, his lips dropping a kiss on my wet hair. ‘And the girl.’
Brent Wilson backs away, his head shaking in wonder. ‘You crazy arsehole.’
‘Maybe,’ Becker counters, holding up my hand. ‘But that lump of stone can’t make me feel as good as she can.’
Brent laughs in disbelief. ‘Have a good life, Hunt.’ He turns and jogs away, looking back every now and then, obviously worried Becker is going to change his mind and chase him down. But my saint remains by my side, watching as what he’s searched for his entire life disappears in the hands of the person he hates most in the world. I’m dumbfounded.
‘I fucking will,’ Becker breathes, looking down at my bewildered face.
‘That’s it?’ I ask.
‘That’s it.’
‘But . . . how . . . why . . .’ I trip and stagger all over my words, scepticism rampant. ‘But I don’t want him to have it,’ I whine, feeling more disappointed than relieved that this horrid saga is all over. Then something comes to me, and I jump back, holding Becker in place with mistrusting eyes. ‘It is done, right?’ I ask. ‘Promise me this isn’t just another chapter in the story, because if you think I’m going to sit by and worry about you plotting a heist on Wilson to get it back, then you have another think coming, Hunt.’
He laughs hard, throwing his head back. ‘I’m done, princess. I promise.’
I snort my thoughts on that. ‘You’ve promised before.’
His face straightens in an instant and he takes my hand, dipping and kissing his grandmother’s ring. ‘On my parents’ honour, Eleanor. I will never see Wilson ever again. Come here, my gorgeous, corrupt little witch.’ He opens his arms and I dive into them, l
etting him carry me across the piazza. The rain hammers down, soaking us to the bone, not that Becker seems in the least bit fazed. He puts me on my feet when we reach the fountain and takes my hands.
‘So what do we do now?’ I ask.
‘Now, we dance.’ He circles my shoulders with his arms and starts turning us slowly, and I smile, bemused. He wants to dance?
Our feet shift lazily, our bodies stuck together, as we rock gently in the pouring rain. ‘Shall we go get married?’ Becker asks quietly, holding the back of my head, pushing me into his shoulder so I can’t escape his clinch.
‘Okay,’ I agree easily, turning my face into his neck and smiling against his skin, hoping he feels it.
‘Super.’ He breaks away from me and tucks me into his side, starting to walk us as casual as can be out of the square. ‘We’ll have babies, too,’ he says quietly. ‘Two or three. And maybe we should get a girlfriend for Winston.’
I peek up at my gorgeous saint, seeing a peace so strong it’s visible. He’s soft against me, not one muscle tense, and his face is serene, making him even more handsome. ‘Okay,’ I agree again, and he peeks down at me, pulling his rain-splashed glasses away from his face so I can see directly into his beautiful eyes.
‘Ready to do life with me, princess?’ He scoops me up and cradles me in his arms, and I smile, resting my head on his shoulder, as he carries me across the piazza.
‘I’m never ready for you, Hunt.’
Epilogue
Three years later
Becker
From the moment I set my eyes on Eleanor Cole, she triggered a confusing bombardment of feelings – both emotional and physical. It was a mystery to me for some time, and, honestly, it drove me to depths of insanity that I’d never experienced before. Not even during my epic quest to find Head of a Faun. I never gave fate much thought before she bowled into my life. My mind was trained on one thing. The sculpture. Two things if you include the women. I was prepared to give up both for her. Turns out I only had to give up the latter. The former, ironically, Eleanor found for me. The madness of it all makes me smile to this day, and I know it will for the rest of my life.