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now. Perhaps Gordon Reese is catching me at the right time; maybe there’s something in the wintry air that is making me antsy; or maybe I’m at some watershed moment in a long and undefined grieving process. Whatever it is, I’m here.
    “That really depends on what you have to tell me, Gordon.”
    The expression on the billionaire’s face indicates he appreciates my answer. He lapses into a thoughtful silence, his gaze back on the dancing flames, and I wait for him to speak. He brought me here for a reason, and he will tell me in his time.
    “I trust you know your Old Testament,” Gordon says.
    I nod. “As well as most people do, I’d guess.”
    “A good deal more than most, I’d venture,” he says, and a laugh shakes his thin frame. “It’s practically an archaeological streetlamp. I wouldn’t be surprised if half of all archaeologists, past and present, owe a good portion of their initial interest in the field to their childhood hearings of Old Testament tales.”
    I have to join him in his mirth because, in my case, his guess is spot-on. There’s a decent chance that if I hadn’t spent time during my formative years at the knees of my parents, listening to stories about ancient peoples and places, I might not have taken an interest in the study of civilizations arisen, fallen, and in some cases, passed from collective memory.
    “I see I’ve come close to the truth?” Gordon asks.
    I nod and give him his due. “It may have had some influence on my education, yes.”
    He grunts an acknowledgment and then shakes his head. “It amazes me how such a seminal work can be so neglected once one enters into serious study. It’s quite odd, really.”
    I do not respond, principally because it seems such a childish thing to say coming from such a bright man. It’s the equivalent of suggesting that a person earning his doctorate in English Literature should spend time studying children’s books. While these books might have instilled in the doctoral candidate a love of reading, their usefulness has long been spent.
    “I can tell by your expression that you do not agree with me?” There is no indictment in the question, but I sense a hint of sadness.
    I let a few ticks pass in silence while I consider the question. I have no wish to offend this man, yet I have a feeling he would not be fooled by insincerity. I watch the flames dance over logs half consumed by their ravenous tendrils.
    “The Bible does not teach a person the fundamentals of archaeology,” I say. “While there are some interesting stories in there—some even corroborated by other documents and excavations—you can’t use the book as some sort of treasure map.”
    “That is certainly true, Jack. However, the treasures are there, if one knows where to look.”
    We’re getting to the crux of it now. I can feel the reason behind the meeting looming just outside the edge of the conversation. I do not answer. It is his story to unravel, his request to make.
    “Second Kings,” Gordon says. “Chapter thirteen, verses twenty and twenty-one.”
    Of course, I’m silent. I could no more quote the contents of those verses than I could recite pi to the thousandth place.
    Gordon looks once again at the fire, and when he speaks he’s quoting the biblical passage. “ ‘Elisha died and was buried. Now Moabite raiders used to enter the country every spring. Once while some Israelites were burying a man, suddenly they saw a band of raiders; so they threw the man’s body into Elisha’s tomb. When the body touched Elisha’s bones, the man came to life and stood up on his feet.’ ”
    From deep within my childhood experiences, I pull a memory that corresponds to what Gordon has just recited, although I remember hearing the passage in Old English. It sounds different spoken in contemporary language.
    “Do you know, Jack, that there’s no other mention of this event after these two verses? Imagine that: a dead man is tossed onto the bones of a