by Rachel Grant
Josh: I can take you.
Maddie: No. Is Chase available?
The three dots appeared and disappeared. A full minute passed. Finally, he replied.
Josh: He is.
Maddie: Great. Please give me his number so we can make arrangements.
A moment later, she received a text from an unknown number.
Chase: Hi Maddie. Nice to finally meet you. Sort of. Good job playing hardball with Josh. He’s an idiot.
She laughed.
Maddie: I like you already.
Chase: I’m really quite charming. Don’t let my reputation scare you.
She stared at the words, cupping the phone. This was his acknowledgment that she likely knew some of his history.
Maddie: I only know the public version. And I know Trina trusts you with her life.
Chase sent a thumbs-up emoji, and added: Trina is good people.
Maddie: One of my very favorites.
Chase: So what do you need?
It only took a few minutes to arrange their late afternoon excursion, then Maddie was able to return to her notes, which were spread all over the hotel room bed.
She’d printed copies of the Nielsen papers and the Kocher papers. Now she sorted them by date, merging the collections together like a deck of cards. She didn’t have any letters to Otto and Sally from the Nielsens—she highly suspected the Kochers had burned the correspondence because it was incriminating.
Thankfully, the Nielsens hadn’t been so careful. They had Kocher’s letters and their own journal entries that described the digs. It appeared Clifford Nielsen the first was in it for the glory of the find. His personal notes indicated he was interested in the objects they found, but over time, he’d begun to read reports from archaeological excavations in Greece and Egypt and wondered why Otto didn’t document his finds like other archaeologists.
She guessed he’d expressed this in a letter to Otto, because Kocher sent a reply that stated Greek and Egyptian society were worthy of studying due to their written languages and technology. Indigenous Americans were accorded no such respect from him.
It made her stomach ache to think of the racism her profession had been built on. Many in archaeology and anthropology still used their studies to justify racism.
She studied the stack of documents she had yet to read and braced herself. It was time to dig deeper into the founder of the Nielsen empire. Maybe she’d find whatever it was that C-IV was so afraid of.
An hour into reading photographs of really bad handwriting, she sat up straight and rolled her aching shoulders, causing joints to crack. Nielsen’s thoughts and writings showed a deeper interest in scientific method, and in one journal entry, he stated clearly that with a little more due diligence on Kocher’s part, they could prove that white people had been in the Americas since 4004 BC, when the world—according to one group of Christian theologians—began.
Nielsen was clearly a religious man, but he also had to know about geology—after all, he owned a steel company that was mining iron ore from several places around Portland—but he didn’t reconcile the two. For starters, he disagreed with the estimated age of the fossils in the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument. Of course, it hadn’t been a national monument then, but researchers had been studying the fossils in the area as early as the eighteen nineties.
Nielsen, it appeared, believed the Painted Hills were a mark from God. The vibrant colors were unnatural—except, of course, geologists knew the colors were the ultimate in natural, but Nielsen didn’t truck with that—and a sign that the area was blessed. A homeland for the Aryan people who were meant to occupy the space.
And there it was. He encouraged Kocher’s digging because it “removed the stain.” Maddie closed her eyes against the horrible words on the page, then took a deep breath and forced herself to keep reading. Nielsen wanted both living and dead indigenous people removed from the Painted Hills so the whites could claim it, as was their right, having been chosen by a Christian god.
This had to be what Nielsen was afraid she’d find. And yeah, it would be a problem, even more than having a Nazi history.
Nielsen was gung-ho for active eradication of Native Americans. In addition, he’d used the purchase of checkerboarded lands to seize what he could of tribal property, pushing indigenous people onto smaller and smaller reservations.
After that, he’d gone on to fight the state’s purchase of parcels in the Painted Hills for establishment of a state park in the thirties. He’d wanted the land for himself.
She sat back on her heels. What did this evidence mean, beyond that Nielsen was a raging bigot? The land had been stolen from the tribes a hundred years ago, and the theft had been government sanctioned.
Nothing here could overturn the old land grants and sales. Tribes had tried. For decades. At worst, this was a public relations headache for C-IV, but that was all.
She glanced at her watch. She had several hours before she needed to meet Chase in the lobby to head to the Kocher Mansion. The hotel was walking distance to Nielsen Tower. Had C-IV banned her from the archives? She wanted to see the property records from the twenties and thirties. How much land had Nielsen managed to acquire in the Painted Hills region?
The archives were open by appointment only on Fridays. She called the appointment number, and, after navigating an irritating phone tree, she finally got a human on the phone. “I think one of our archivists is digitizing files today and will pass on your request. I’ll call you back with a response in twenty to thirty minutes.”
She expected the receptionist would run the request by Nielsen himself and hoped the time difference with Japan quashed that from happening. And maybe it did, because thirty minutes later, she had an appointment with the archivist at one fifteen.
She swept her hair up in a messy bun and donned a professional pantsuit, sadly giving up the yoga pants that were her favorite work attire. She could face pushback. The more professional she looked, the better.
At one o’clock on the dot, she was in the lobby, walking past the fountain with copper flowers where Josh had kissed her and she’d met C-IV the first time. Had that really been ten days ago?
And yet, given all that had happened since then, had it really only been ten days ago?
The lobby was as busy today as it had been then, a hive of activity even on a sunny summer Friday. She crossed the large ornate space, heading to the information desk to sign in.
A blonde woman in a blue blazer stood behind the counter. Nielsen Steel owned the high-rise, but they rented several of the lower floors to other businesses. Blazered lobby staff worked for the building management, a subsidiary of Nielsen Steel that was a large property management company in their own right.
Nielsen was deep in the real estate business—between properties they purchased a hundred years ago for mining, right down to redevelopment of old smelting factories into posh rental space for trendy restaurants with artsy loft living space above. They were all part of the Nielsen family and the reason the steel empire had lasted so long.
Moss doesn’t grow on stainless steel. But then, the Nielsens always seemed to know when to diversify.
She should probably go to the real estate office next, but she’d start with the archives because she wanted to know how much of the checkerboard C-I had managed to acquire in his quest to establish an Aryan homeland eighty-five years ago. Land he’d asked his friend and fellow Aryan Otto Kocher to remove all human remains from.
How many of the skeletons in the vaults had come from the horrific “clearing” of land Nielsen owned or planned to purchase?
She reached the desk and gave her name, just as a door to offices behind the wide reception desk opened, and there was Josh.
Dammit. Why hadn’t it occurred to her that Josh would be here? He must be inspecting the building specs and systems as C-IV had mentioned Saturday night.
Josh looked just as surprised to see her, but said nothing and let the blonde do the talking. “ID,
please,” the woman said. Maddie knew the drill. No one was given an elevator pass for floors ten and above without signing in and leaving a copy of their ID.
Josh stood back, arms crossed, apparently there to observe procedure. That had to be a boring job. After all, this was an office building, not a bank. But job security was job security, and he was doing this for Ava.
Maddie signed in on the computer touch screen, the process swift given that her name and ID were already in the system and her appointment had been validated. Her gaze landed on the address, which she hadn’t bothered to update when she was here ten days ago. She hadn’t yet changed her address with the Department of Motor Vehicles, so it hadn’t been necessary.
Today, her address was accurate, listing her rental house. Who had updated it, and why? How closely was Cliff Nielsen watching her?
“It says here, Ms. Foster, that you’re required to leave your phone and any external cameras or scanners at the front desk.”
Damn. Nielsen must’ve left instructions—or he had been reached in Japan.
“I can’t leave my phone. How can I trust it’ll be here when I get back?”
“We have a safe. Under the desk, just for this type of thing. In some offices, we have proprietary technology that could be observed by visitors.”
She sighed. “Fine.”
“Is this a common request for the archives?” Josh asked.
The woman’s smooth brow furrowed. “I couldn’t say.”
That was a nonanswer if ever there was one.
“I’ll escort Ms. Foster to the twenty-first floor.”
“That’s not standard procedure,” the woman said.
“Maybe it should be.” There was an edge to Josh’s voice.
Maddie wondered if this woman would have to answer to him if he landed the security contract for the building. Probably.
“Fine,” she said, clearly not happy with the break in protocol, but not foolish enough to argue with a potential boss.
Maddie handed over her phone, and it was duly logged in to the system. A minute later, she and Josh were alone in the elevator together.
“You look beautiful today,” he said softly.
She flushed. She hadn’t expected him to say anything personal. He was at work, and so was she. This wasn’t the time or place. “Thank you,” she said.
He said nothing more, and they settled into silence. At last, the elevator doors slid open, and he led her down a short corridor and turned the corner. When they reached the middle of the long corridor, he stopped and said, “We’re in the middle of a camera dead zone. No surveillance of this ten-foot segment of hall.” He then slipped something into her hand.
Flat, and rectangular. A glance confirmed it was his smartphone.
“You can take pictures without unlocking it, but the code is 3-4-7-1 if you need it.”
It kind of shocked her he was trusting her with his code, but she imagined he was making a point with that. She slipped the phone into her purse, hiding it in the liner pocket where she kept sanitary napkins. “Won’t someone notice you don’t have your phone?”
He touched his headset. “This is a Raptor headset. It works as a phone and a radio, and it’s what Chase and I have been using all day. They won’t know. Find me before you leave to return the phone.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I just want to look at old property records.”
“Why?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Will you? Will you talk to me tonight?”
She cocked her head. “At this point, that really depends on you.”
He nodded and gave her a half smile. Like he had some kind of plan brewing.
She felt a strange flutter of hope, but resumed walking as if the man didn’t have the power to crush her heart.
She noted the security camera mounted to the ceiling as they stepped within its range. She’d have to find the cameras in the archives and be careful taking pictures. She wouldn’t bother with the camera unless she found something important. She didn’t want to trigger alarm bells unnecessarily.
The archivist behind the desk was a man Maddie hadn’t met before. But then, Maddie had never visited on a Friday afternoon.
Josh left without a goodbye, and she smiled at the bearded man behind the counter. “Maddie Foster. Thanks for taking my appointment on such short notice.”
He smiled warmly. “I was here anyway, digitizing documents. Jennifer told me about your visit last week. I hope you found what you needed.”
“I did, but it only raised more questions.”
“The curse of research.”
“Exactly.”
He gestured to the tablet on the counter with the digital catalog. “You know the drill. Click on the years and boxes you’d like me to pull. Unfortunately, the twenties and thirties papers haven’t been digitized and the inventory is incomplete, but there are a few keywords to help you decide if it’s what you need.”
She scrolled through the listing and checked off the boxes. The system had recorded which boxes she’d searched already, making the process even easier. She sent the records request to the archivist’s tablet and said, “That should do it.”
He glanced at the list of boxes and dates. “This should only take a few minutes for me to pull. In the meantime, would you like a cup of coffee? Just made a fresh pot.”
“I thought all archives have a strict rule about no food or drink in the reading room?” She gave him an easy laugh.
He winked at her. “It’s just you and me here today, and you’re an archive pro. I trust you.” He nodded toward the full pot behind the counter. “Help yourself.”
“If only you had a shot of booze to add to it.”
“That kind of week?”
“Worse.”
“Sorry, can’t help you there, but I do have caffeine. Grab a mug from the cupboard above the coffeemaker. I only ask you use a lid. My willingness to bend the rules has caveats.”
“That’s fair.”
He disappeared into the climate-controlled storage room. She rounded the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee, then, after scanning the room for cameras, chose a table in the back corner that might be on the edge of the dome-covered camera’s range.
The coffee was too hot to drink, but she was a rule follower and left the lid on, knowing it would take that much longer to get to drinkable temperature.
While waiting, she opened her notes for a refresher on which dates and land parcel descriptions to look for. Her search today would have to be fast—no time to read the documents. She would scan each page for keywords. Before she left the hotel, she’d printed samples of Nielsen’s handwriting with the words she was looking for: Painted Hills, dig, burial, Aryan, homeland, master race. With her handwriting swatches, the keywords should jump from the page as she flipped from one document to the next.
A few minutes later, the archivist pushed a cart loaded with boxes through the room, weaving between reading room tables. He parked the cart in front of her. “This should keep you busy for a while.” He looked at her mug and added, “I forgot to tell you there’s half-and-half in the fridge.”
“No, thanks, I prefer it black.” She lifted the mug and took a careful sip. “Still too hot.” It was a little odd, how solicitous he was being with the coffee given that beverages that could stain were generally a big no in the archive world, but she wasn’t about to question it. She was glad to have a pick-me-up for what was certain to be a long, boring afternoon.
She cracked open the first box and began going through pages, having to force herself not to read but to scan for the keywords she had identified. Her coffee cooled, and she took a sip, pleased with the rich brew. She wasn’t a coffee snob, but she also wasn’t a fan of weak or overly strong coffee, and this mug hit a spot that would make Goldilocks happy.
Twenty minutes in, she was starting her second box. She had yet to pull out Josh’s phone to take any photos, but she had twelve more boxes and was familiar with
the process of useless box after useless box before hitting pay dirt. Patience was key.
She finished the coffee at the same time she finished the second box. She pushed back from the table and stood to return the box to the cart and grab the next one, but she must’ve moved too fast, because the room spun. Did she forget to eat lunch today?
No. That wasn’t it. She’d indulged in room service while she worked. So why did she feel…lightheaded?
She reached for her purse, which hung from the back of the chair, but somehow she missed it and knocked over the coffee mug. It landed on the papers, and she cursed, but nothing spilled. The lid. And she’d finished it.
Her brain was muddied.
Why didn’t her hands work?
The archivist was running toward her. Yelling because of the overturned mug? She couldn’t tell. His face blurred as he loomed over her. Was she on the floor looking up at him?
His mouth contorted. Was that a smile? He held up the mug, and finally, his words made it through to her muddled brain. “Good to the last drop.”
Oh shit. The coffee.
20
Josh gave in to temptation and decided to text Maddie. She might not see it if she had the phone hidden away, but it was worth a shot. He was doing a walk-through of the upper floors of the tower and intended to drop in on the archives when he got to twenty-one, unless she objected.
He tapped the button on the earpiece and dictated the text. He was still waiting for a response as he descended another flight of stairs to walk the next floor.
He’d told Ava he’d gone to see Maddie, and she’d flinched as if she was waiting for Josh to call her out. And he’d wanted to, but he didn’t think pushing would work when it came to his niece.
Ava would come clean. He knew it. But until she did, all he could do was pine for Maddie.
He was a damn evergreen tree, considering how he felt about her. Hell, he was even impressed with her dignity as she told him off.
It gutted him to realize just how deeply he’d hurt her by abandoning her right after she’d told him of her heartbreak with both her family and fiancé. But still, she’d stood up for herself with magnificent steel in her words and spine. Maddie knew what she was worth, and he didn’t think he’d ever known anyone who was quite so rational and clear and yet still so able to live in their emotions as Maddie did.