He showered and found some clean clothes. He ate. He tried to sleep. Tried not to think. Built surfaces and shapes in his head with double and triple integrals, saddles and spheroids, ran n-1 algorithms with sequences of prime numbers, anything. Crowbar returned after nightfall, more than an hour late. His mouth was set in a scowl. He gathered the icons, wrapped them in the towels and put them into the black bag. ‘Let’s go, seun,’ was all he said. ‘Get this done.’ The museum wasn’t far, a short drive through the old city. The traffic was bad, the narrow roads choked with ambulances and police cars. Clay sank low in his seat and tilted his chin to his chest. Crowbar was silent at the wheel. By the time they arrived, the museum was closed for the day. Crowbar parked around back, a property line of big cypress trees swaying evening shadows across the buildings.
