The pictures turned out better than he’d expected.
Three or four Stan oughta be able to use. Along with the ones from last night they tell a little story that’ll be tough to deny. In case Marjorie’s lawyers try some bullshit tack like that she was abducted or otherwise forced into the relationship.
Charlie had tailed Joe Bob and Marjorie from the rifle range on into Big Spring, still daylight when he watched them check into the motel. He hoped that if they had sex right away, they’d still have something left for this evening. He found a camera store a few blocks east where he had to come up with an extra five bucks to convince the owner to develop and print the roll before closing up. Then Charlie treated himself to an early, celebratory steak dinner and a pair of Martinis. When he returned an hour later for the negatives and contact sheets he bought several rolls of film, grousing that it was only 100 ASA, that he’d be shooting in low light. The owner, who reminded Charlie of a central-casting preacher, remarked that he didn’t get a lot of call for the faster stuff, offered that he could push it in the developing. Then he surveyed Charlie with a stern eye. “Bedroom stuff?”
“That a problem?
“Doesn’t hafta be.”
Charlie waited for the rest of it.
The owner’s prim expression didn’t change. “Like if I can print a set for myself.”
Like he bothered to ask.
Charlie lowered his window partway, disposed of the Camel, slouched in his seat, head against the door. It was promising to be a long night. A moment, then a faint light-change caused him to come alert. A vehicle, slowing as it approached the motel. Because of the headlight glare he couldn’t make it out till it pulled into the motel parking area. A sedan. Not the red pickup. Charlie started to lean back, stopped, rubbed the back of his neck, decided he’d better not risk dozing off. He reached for the Pentax on the seat beside him, stuffed a couple of extra rolls of film into his jacket pocket, started to climb out. And paused for a count, his fingers on the doorhandle. Then he leaned across, reached under the glove-box, unclipped his .38 police special, ascertained that it was loaded and stuffed it into his belt.
ELEVEN
Present Time
Tuesday
“Skhul? Qafzeh?”
Rudy nodded solemnly at Packard. “Like that, yeah. What we were both thinking but didn’t wanta say.” He dipped a cold French-fry into the ketchup. “Like it or not, man, you are on the threshold. I mean it’s crazy. Everything checks. Tested, re-tested. We’re talking late archaic.”
Packard’s references were to sites in Israel, near Nazareth, in caves on Mount Carmel, and close by the Sea of Galilee where Neanderthal-type remains had been found. Since the 1980s they were generally accepted to be among the earliest examples of distinctly modern man. Nothing remotely similar had ever been found this side of the Atlantic.
Rudy continued, “Felix was on my ass all day. He fought every goddam reading. Possible impurities, gauge glitches, current-spikes, anything he could think of till finally he didn’t have a choice but to get on board. And very fucking nervous about it.”
“That and the heat we’re going to take about Meg and Scott. Who can blame him? He commits to this, he’s really putting himself out there – again.”
“‘Himself.’ There’s your key word.”
Packard looked off in the direction of the pool tables. The manager was covering them for the night. Still unable to focus much beyond the bloody events at Armadillo Ridge, he looked back at Rudy. “I get a headache even trying to imagine how the hell those people got to Utah.”
“Maybe it’s time to trot out the old ‘aliens from outer space’ hypothesis.”
It was almost 10 PM when Packard rolled in from Moab, punchy but needing to talk. Rudy had waited for him at Carlisle’s, shooting some eight-ball, nursing a margarita and appreciating the pretty coeds who frequented the off-campus hangout. The place was quieter than usual, a somber undercurrent among the few students who hadn’t already departed. Several paused at Packard and Rudy’s booth to say they were sorry about Meg, asking after Scott, offering sympathy for how Packard must be feeling.
Law student Gary Maxwell, devastated by Meg’s death, joined them briefly. Until a few weeks ago he and Meg had been lovers. Meg remained closemouthed about their breakup, other than an admission that it was less than amicable. Gary volunteered to Rudy and Packard that the fault had been his, acknowledged that earlier in the day, in the presence of local Police Chief Barbara Litton, he’d done a lengthy phone interview with V.J. Toland. Chief Litton verified to V.J. that witnesses indeed placed Gary in Borrego Junction for the past 48 hours.
After that, over burgers, fries and several cups of coffee – in a rush of words that required very little prompting from Rudy – Packard described his day, from the phone call notifying him of the tragedy to his fingerprinting by the Moab Sheriff’s department, to his emotional state – winding it up with an afterthought-account of last night’s disagreement with Leslie.
To which Rudy’s response was, “Tell me somethin’, amigo, you ever ask yourself how come in that department you’re so totally into pain?”
“Tell me about the sixteenth man...”
“Seriously, pal---”
“Rudy, c’mon. Anything?”
Rudy grinned ruefully. “You have lost your mind.”
Which helped Packard decide that mentioning the possibility of a connection with Meg’s murder just then might not be productive.
Rudy sighed. “Like we expected, nothing conclusive from the bone samples. I mean if they’d been burned or something would make it easier. But between them and the hair strands we could pull some DNA. Thing is, what would we compare it to?”
“Okay, then what about the metal shavings?”
“That gets pretty interesting...” Rudy began digging in his pockets. “Guy I knew from Cambridge works at the FBI lab in DC. I ran some x-ray refractions and faxed him the trace element residue analyses. He calls me back five minutes later. Turns out bullets with that composition---”
“.30 caliber, for M1 or M2 carbines.”
“Yeah...” Rudy sounded a bit surprised that Packard had anticipated him. “...They were...” Rudy located a crumpled scrap of paper, flattened it on the table, moved his glasses from the top of his head to halfway down his nose, read: “...they were manufactured from June, ’58 through October, ’61 by the Lyman Firearms Company in Racine, Wisconsin. So for whatever it’s worth, the bones’ owner expired sometime after June, 1958.” Rudy leaned forward. “Now can we talk about your future? Our future?”
“Tomorrow. I’ve gotta get some sleep.”
“Lucky you. I hafta head for the lab and run the final dendro reports for Felix.”
Packard stood up, reached for the check.
Rudy grabbed it first. “Uh-uh. The about-to-become-world-famous Dr. Matthew Packard shouldn’t have to buy his own cheeseburger. At least not tonight.” He rose, looked at Packard soberly. “Matty, I wasn’t kidding about Felix. I guarantee he’s gonna have at least three reasonable theories laid out by tomorrow – if he hasn’t got ’em already – all of ‘em his spin and not yours.”
“So?”
“So do your homework. He decides to go public with this, I don’t want you comin’ off like a putz with a shovel.”
“Thanks. But no way he’s going to announce anything that quickly – not with what happened to Meg and Scott. Felix has more taste than that.”
Rudy grinned. “Man, you are sleep-deprived. Or on something, or both. At least I hope that’s all it is.”
The electronic voice intoned, “Tuesday, eight-fourteen AM.”
It was followed by Leslie’s: “Hi. Listen, about last night, I understand.”
Electronic voice: “Tuesday, nine-oh-four AM.”
Then, Leslie again: “Matt – omygod – I just spoke to Daddy. He told me about Meg. It’s so awful. I tried your cellular but you must have it turned off. Call me.”
“Tuesday,
eleven-twenty-one AM.”
“Matthew, Felix. Two things. The regents are very upset about the Brady matter. About your leaving her there. I’ve spoken strenuously on your behalf, but you should prepare yourself for some flak. Though on the other hand I suspect our little discovery will deflect most of it. Oh - and I’ve scheduled a press conference. Nine-thirty tomorrow morning. 104, Krassner...”
Jesus. ‘The Brady matter?’ – ‘our little discovery?’ – and oh – it just happens he’s scheduled a press conference? Rudy had that one nailed.
Goldman’s voice continued: “...And Matthew, just so we’re clear, as I’m sure I told you, it was not my decision to shut down the dig. I fought them tooth and nail. As you well know, I have been behind you on this – all the way.”
Packard shook his head wearily.
Six of the next nine messages were from various news organizations, among them CNN, Reuters, Der Spiegel, all requesting information about the ancient remains, several also mentioning the sixteenth skeleton. Two were from universities. Though he knew it wouldn’t take long, Packard hadn’t quite anticipated the quickness with which Fran Jeeter’s story in the little Moab newspaper would spread worldwide.
The other message was brief, from Amy Whiteside, Meg Brady’s roommate. Amy sounded distraught, said she needed to talk to Dr. Packard, seemed flustered that she’d reached his machine.
Packard owed Amy a call anyway, made a mental note to get back to her in the morning. His phone rang. He picked up. “Hello?”
It was Rudy. “You heard about Felix’s press conference? At the risk of redundancy, pal – watch out for him. I’m tellin’ you, you’re safer trusting a Hill Country bunny-rabbit with your last head of lettuce.”
“I hear you.”
“Sleep well. And another mazeltov. You got yourself a life-changer, Mattyboy. Major.” He clicked off.
Packard idly squared the stack of archaeology journals, bills and other unexamined mail that had accumulated since Friday, ruminated about Felix’s message. He turned off the lamp, headed for the bathroom. As he passed the first doorway, he glanced into the darkness of his study-cum-studio. Something made him stop, back up and look again. He reached inside, hit the wall switch.
Odd. Was it the drawing-table, with the unfinished drawings pushpinned one above the other – not quite positioned as he’d left them? Or the odd arm-position of the flexible lamp clamped to the top edge? Or maybe the slight tilt of his prized, framed Calvin and Hobbes original on the wall behind it?
Shit.
Packard looked back at the pile of mail and realized that was why he’d reflexively straightened it – someone had gone through it – someone who had no right to be there. A burglar? He quickly climbed the stairs to his bedroom, crossed to the chest of drawers, yanked open the top one. Apparently undisturbed. He reached under the socks on the right side, withdrew the rubberbanded packet of cash. His fuckit money. He counted it. All fifteen hundred. And his extra credit cards.
Somebody had carefully, expertly searched his condominium. Someone who wasn’t a thief. He involuntarily glanced over his shoulder. Then:
Leslie. Of course.
But why?
That’s when he made the crazy connection. Which he instantly rejected. Or tried to.
Except – except... So – that could mean the sonofabitch was in this apartment. Going through my stuff – the same hands that killed Meg Brady?
Or am I nuts?
The sound of the doorbell jolted him. He gathered himself, headed down to the foyer, wondering who would be calling at this hour. Leslie? Trying to smooth things?
Packard was about to open the door when his confidence that it was Leslie gave way to wariness. “Yes...? Who is it?”
The voice on the other side was feminine, youngish, and oddly deliberate, as if a lot depended on what she was saying. “Dr. Packard, you don’t know me, but — um - I have to talk to you. My name is Kate Norris.”
Packard opened the door a few inches. She was tall, fresh, outdoorsy, wearing jeans, hiking boots, one of those multi-pocketed vests. And tired. Behind her at the curb was a mud-spattered several-years-old Bronco. Packard snapped a glance to the right and left, then opened the door wider: “Yes...?”
She offered her hand, words tumbling now as if they’d been saved up and, having gotten her foot in the door, she had to make the sale. “Hi listen sorry to come by so late I know how bummed you must be about your assistant I just got into town I’ve been on the road since this morning I saw on the web about your discovery and---”
“Jesus. Hey. Whoa.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, but this’ll have to wait till tomorrow.” He started to close the door. “There’s a press conference at---”
“Press? What – you think I’m a reporter?”
“You’re not?”
“Dr. Packard, that skeleton you found the one with the bullet in his shoulder?” She took a breath. “I think he’s my grandfather.”
* * * * * *
One hundred twenty-three miles west, most of Moab was asleep, the town quiet except for the occasional eighteen-wheeler changing gears out on Main Street, enroute to or from the Interstate, and a sporadic coyote-howl echoing across the mountain surround. The Grand County Courthouse was dark except for its corridors and the Sheriff’s office on the first floor, where two deputies played gin rummy to while away the long shift.
From the southwest corner of Center Street and 100 East where the man sat in his rented blue Taurus, he could see the main entrance as well as the basement-level area where the Sheriff’s vehicles parked. Twelve minutes earlier the sole all-night Cruiser had departed after what was apparently a leisurely piss-and-coffee-stop. The man had been watching the building for nearly three hours.
He scanned his mirrors for evidence of pedestrian and/or automobile traffic. Satisfied that there were neither, he exited the Taurus, closed the door quietly. Quickly, silently, he crossed Center Street diagonally, then moved along the west side of the Courthouse, staying as close to it as he could, below the windows of the Sheriff’s office. When he reached the parking area, he quickly moved past the steps leading up to the first-floor rear entrance. Beyond them, adjacent to a trash-dumpster, was a steel door. The man froze, listened for footsteps, then gripped the edge of the door with the fingers of both hands, and pulled. The door opened easily and silently, thanks to the tape he’d placed across the latch-hole – and the oil he’d applied to the hinges – late that afternoon. The man removed the tape, pocketed it, and carefully let the door close.
Twenty feet ahead the semi-darkened corridor branched to the right. The man made the turn, paused at the first doorway. It was labeled George Quinn, Medical Examiner. A couple of deft moves with his lock-pick, and he was inside. The room was windowless, cramped, lined with shelves and cabinets, lit only by the small, shaded lamp on Quinn’s obsessively orderly desk. Adjacent to the desk was an examining-table. On it was a skeleton. The man moved to it, removed an envelope and a small flashlight from his inside pocket. He switched on the light, held it in his teeth, took several small gray cards from the envelope, each framing a rectangle of acetate. Leaning close, his light illuminated the skull’s dentures, catching an occasional glint from old, mostly-dull silver fillings. The man patiently compared them to the dental x-rays.
* * * * * *
Kate shoved a pair of snapshots at Packard, gestured at them: “But – but you found him I mean can’t you tell anything like could it be him god I’ve wondered about it since I was a kid and besides there’s---”
“Okay, okay.” Packard held up a calming, silencing hand, calculating that courtesy would probably get her out of there and him to sleep more quickly than rudeness.
The trouble was, she caught it. “Look, Dr. Packard, I don’t expect you to accept any of this on faith, at least not entirely – but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t patronize me.”
Packard chewed on that for a moment. “Okay. Go on...”
“I promise to talk slower, and I won’t take up a lot of your time.”
He held the two old, cracked snapshots under the overhead light of his entry foyer. They were apparently circa the ’50’s or ’60’s, judging from her grandfather’s short, trim haircut and narrow necktie. He was dark-haired, had a squarish face, about 30 years old, with a slight paunch on what might have once been an athletic frame. About the right build. Kate identified the mousy, carefully groomed blonde woman at his side as her grandmother. Behind them was a modest one-story home, probably a post-WWII tract house. Hazy mountains were visible in the background.
“Do you have anything else? Dental records, x-rays, that sort of thing?”
“No I really don’t know that much about him my---” She slowed down. “...my mother, she was a teenager then...” Her speech accelerated again. “...and I guess he was youknow away from home a lot and---”
“Whoa.” Despite his skepticism, Packard was taken with Kate’s energy, her determination.
“Sorry.” She ran both hands through her hair, sighed, then: “This – well when I spotted it – the news item – it just about blew me away. I mean I can understand how someone in your business, those old bones you found must be a whole lot more important to you...”
Packard opted to let that one pass.
“...Anyway, my grandmother, I never knew her, either. My mom said she died not too long after he disappeared. My grandfather...” She reached into her backpack, produced a creased, aging postcard. “My mom, she said this was the last anybody ever heard from him.”
Packard took the postcard. The sepia photograph on its front was that of a smiling, balding man in his forties, wearing khakis and owlish eyeglasses. He might have been an insurance salesman, but he wasn’t. The caption identified him as “Charles Steen, Moab’s Uranium King.”
Steen’s name was still prominent in the Moab area. He had been one of a number of prospectors who year after year roamed the riverbanks and canyon creeks, searching for the Big One. Penniless like most of them, Steen lived in a tarpaper shack with his wife and four young sons. But on July 6, 1952, his tenacity paid off. He hit the richest uranium strike in U.S. history, starting a rush that put sleepy little Moab on the map. Overnight he was worth more than $100 million, large sums of which he contributed to the town. High on a cliff above Moab, with a splendid view of the mountains and desert, he built a large, luxurious, modern tri-level house, and then spent lavishly traveling the world. Eventually Steen and his family departed Moab, and the house became a gourmet restaurant at which Packard had enjoyed a number of memorable meals.
The Sixteenth Man Page 10