Bolt

by Siena West

  Gray Dawn felt his body lifted off the ground by the force of the wind. It sucked at his body, trying to make him a part of the whirling storm in the sky. He grabbed tufts of grass and weeds to stay on the ground. Unknown objects slammed into his unprotected shoulders, back, and legs. Debris and sand rained on his body. He knew he would be marked with purple and black bruises. The noise terrified him. It was like the howling and shrieking of monsters. When he thought he could bear the fear and pain no longer, the wind died as abruptly as it began, and the storm was gone. Sunlight returned, and it was if the whirlwind had never been.

  Gray Dawn rose with difficulty, shaking the dirt from his hair and wiping it from his face. Bits of grass, pine needles, and leaves stuck to his kilt. His arms, back, and legs were so crisscrossed with bleeding cuts they were scarcely recognizable as flesh. He would carry the scars forever.

  The older men had not reached shelter before the storm struck. His father-in-law lay motionless on the ground. Because of his stillness, Gray Dawn feared the storm had killed the old man. Standing Reeds, his uncle-in-law, knelt beside his fallen brother. Branches and other debris littered the ground around them.

  Gray Dawn walked to the older men, limping a little. They had fared no better than he. Sun on Water struggled to sit. Something flying through the air had gouged a deep groove into the man’s scalp, and blood covered his face and neck and stained the woven band that kept back his hair. Standing Reeds helped Sun on Water to his feet. Swollen and scraped raw, his uncle-in-law’s knees began to purple into huge bruises. He must have fallen in his rush to get away from the storm.

  The hurts to their bodies were nothing compared to the damage to the plants. Uprooted corn, squash, and cotton plants lay in a tangled mess. Buds and blossoms were torn from the few plants still standing and littered the ground. The storm blew away topsoil the men had loosened by weeding around the stalks.

  “The field will not bear a crop this season,” Standing Reeds said. “It is too late to plant again.” They were fortunate to have other fields in other places, although it was possible those also were damaged. Who knew how far the whirlwind had spread across the land? Gray Dawn was nauseous, the taste of sweet corn turned to ashes in his mouth.

  Gray Dawn collected their tools. He left the water jars, which had broken and were leaking onto the ground. They were useless now, like the field.

  Sun on Water muttered, gesturing at the limp, flattened plants and denuded field. Standing Reeds’ eyes were hard, his face lined with pain. “He says what struck us and destroyed our field was not a whirlwind, Nephew. Not a storm created by the Wind Spirit, Yaponcha. This was the work of a sorcerer.”

  Chapter 14

  Combat Mentality

  The director was furious. She made light of the vandalism and loss of the artifacts for the sake of the staff and students, but the incident raised her Latin temper to boiling point. Pot hunting was bad enough when it damaged anonymous ruins on Forest land; when it touched close to home, it was horrifying. Her anger almost made Elena forget about the butchered people who lay in the bone bed.

  After the theft, Mel’s crew cleaned up the looted room and then continued to excavate, soon exposing a hearth, more ceramic vessels, and several more grinding stones.

  “What if the thief comes back?” Mel asked when the director visited her dig. “There’s lots more stuff now, and painted pots, too.” Worry knitted her brows together, and new lines creased her sun-browned face.

  “We’ll have to make new rules,” Elena said. “I suggest you map, point provenience, and photograph each artifact as soon as it’s exposed and remove it. Raid Norm’s tool shed for nails and pound a tag with the field number into the ground for each artifact. At the end of the day, give the artifacts to Sue. We’ll ask her to lock them in her room.”

  Mel groaned. Under normal circumstances, they would expose the entire floor before documenting and removing the artifacts. “That will slow us down,” she said.

  “You’ll make up any time you lose now because you’ll have less to do later. We can replace the artifacts for final photographs—that’s why we use tags. Better than losing more stuff, don’t you think? It’s also an opportunity to teach the students about flexibility in the field,” Elena pointed out. “Chances are, they’ll encounter a similar problem someday. So, that’s the rule: never, ever leave artifacts in place overnight.”

  Mel’s scowl did not change.

  * * *

  Since the looting incident, Elena wondered how the thief carried away the artifacts on foot, but it was possible he wasn’t on foot. Perhaps the thief had parked a vehicle somewhere away from camp, walked to the ruin and looted it, and drove away after dark on one of the two seldom-used back roads. That would explain why no one had heard a vehicle. If he had driven, there might be tracks. She decided to see what she could find.

  Elena drove to the fork where the back roads into the ranch separated. She chose the northernmost road first. No one had driven it in months, perhaps years. Winter storms left the road with deep ruts, and no vehicle had driven over it since the ruts dried. Elena drove until she reached the fence that divided Norm’s property from National Forest land. To keep hunters off the ranch, Norm always locked the gate across the road. It was secure, the padlock rusted in place. Well, that’s a bust, Elena thought.

  Clouds built over the rim at lunchtime, and now, the cloud bank rose near and so dark as to be almost purple. Thunder rumbled as lightning flickered like a snake’s tongue testing the air. She would have to hurry to stay ahead of the inevitable.

  The southernmost road was in better shape than the northern road, and it looked like vehicles had driven it recently. Elena drove as fast as she dared and still keep an eye out for tracks. Before long, tracks appeared where dust lay thick on the hard, clay roadbed.

  She stopped to inspect the tracks. A narrow tire with smooth tread had left the tracks, suggesting a sedan or small truck. The big, heavy-duty trucks the ranchers drove, such as Norm’s powerful long bed, were often four-wheel-drive vehicles with big wheels and tires with monster tread. Elena used her cell phone to snap several close-ups of the tread pattern and continued.

  The director drove on the verge to avoid disturbing the tracks, but soon the wind picked up and blew the dust across the road. Although it started to rain, she was determined to reach the perimeter fence. The tracks showed the thief drove in that direction, and she wanted to see the gate. She encountered the fence after about a half mile, but the road continued alongside it. Because on the other side of the fence ran a deep, eroded arroyo. It would carry a lot of water after a rain. But from the way the country sloped, it was likely that the arroyo would widen and narrow, offering a place to cross.

  The raindrops transformed into sheets of water. Soon, the road was a mess of sticky mud. Say goodbye to the tracks, Elena, glad she had taken photographs.

  After about another mile, the arroyo widened into a gentle swale. Sure enough, the road turned east across the wash toward a gated fence marking Forest land. Elena stopped and was dumbfounded to see the looter had cut the padlocked chain holding the gate shut and tossed it on the ground.

  But the thief had been considerate. He had closed the barbed-wire-and-pole ranch gate and wrapped the original wire loop around the gatepost. It had kept Norm’s cattle from crossing over onto Forest land. However, the pounding rain erased any footprints the looter left.

  Elena turned the truck around and retraced her route back to the ranch, the vehicle slipping in the mud. She had found answers to a few questions, but her investigation raised others. The thief knew about the back roads into the ranch and that the padlocked chain required a bolt cutter. The looter stopped long enough in his flight from the ranch to secure the gate, suggesting it was someone familiar with the rules of ranch life. It all pointed to a person in their camp.

  * * *

  As she returned, Elena drove into the heart of the storm. It looked like it was directly ov
er the ranch house. Norm’s miserable cattle huddled in pastures turned into flat sheets of water. The truck tires dug deep into the mud, and before long, even the four-wheel-drive failed. The truck mired in the sucking, red mud, and although she tried rocking it back and forth to dislodge the wheels, it was hopeless. Elena got out and headed for the ranch in a cloud of Spanish invective. It was dangerous to be in the open in a lightning storm. With her head down, trying to keep as low to the ground as possible, she almost missed seeing the lightning bolt that struck the water tank.

  A white-hot stream of electricity zigzagged from the roiling clouds to the tank. Set on the highest hillock on the ranch so gravity would send the water flowing downhill, the metal tank was an irresistible target.

  The crash of thunder that followed the strike left her temporarily deaf. When Elena stumbled into camp, coated from top to toe with red mud, she heard well enough. Norm stood on the porch cursing in a steady stream so wild and inventive it almost made her blush.

  The force of the lightning had toppled the tank from its wooden perch. It lay on its side, dented and trickling water from the drain spigot.

  * * *

  The camp was in utter chaos, and Elena couldn’t tell Norm what she found. Concerned with fixing the water tank, Norm was busy giving orders and collecting equipment. The water tank was important to the ranch. Although the house was plumbed and drew water from a well, the tank fed the barns and outlying buildings. Norm drained it, watching as the precious water spilled on the ground. Then, he hammered out the biggest dents and checked for leaks. The work wasn’t done by nightfall, so they would have to finish tomorrow.

  The next morning, over coffee in the kitchen, Elena related her tale. “So that’s how the SOB who stole your artifacts got in and out without being seen,” Norm said.

  “Looks that way. And the thief could do it again.”

  “Don’t go borrowing trouble, girl. Lightning don’t strike the same place twice. I’ll send somebody out to put on a new chain and padlock right away.”

  Elena knew what Jorgensen would say. “Keep that shotgun of yours close at hand, Norm. We’ve got a traitor in our midst.”

  After breakfast, Norm conscripted the cow hands and other strong backs in camp. Together, they used the backhoe bucket and chains to lever the tank back in place. Norm tested the pipe connections and finding them holding, changed the outlet at the pump and filled the tank. By noon, they finished the tense and dirty work, and the water system was working again.

  * * *

  Armed with the information she and the staff cobbled together and what she learned from her trek over the back roads, Elena called Sander Jorgensen. Since Cholla House, she had thought of him at odd moments. She remembered the curious sensations she experienced at the touch of his hand and the swelling of desire as they kissed in the darkness. These thoughts buoyed her against drowning in what was becoming a sea of troubles, giving her tiny breathing spaces in days filled with worry.

  The Phoenix Field Office was located on the far northern edge of the sprawling city near Deer Valley Airport. As he watched heat shimmer over the runways, Jorgensen listened to Elena’s story. She told him about the theft, the suspicious Carl Cimelli, the back-road entry into the ranch, and the cut chain and padlock. At times, he interrupted with questions. When she finished, the noonday sun had bleached the sky above the airport to the barest whisper of blue.

  “Elena, Cimelli is the only known pot hunter we’ve identified so far. Well done.” A sea of dead ends, angry ranchers and traders, and potential unlawful search and seizure lawsuits mired the Lightning Bolt investigation.

  “But I don’t think Cimelli can be your thief,” Jorgensen said. “He didn’t have enough time to get from Globe, to the ranch, and then back to Sedona.”

  “We’d already figured that out.”

  “But he might be responsible for the pot hunting at other ruins. I’ll see if he has a record.”

  “How about the photos I took of the tracks?”

  “They may help. Send me a text with them, and we’ll see.”

  Elena also told Jorgensen about the pouch Cimelli gave her, the little animals it contained, and Sue’s interpretation it was a witchcraft bundle. Learning about this made Jorgensen angry.

  “I’m worried about you, Elena. First, there’s pot hunting in your own backyard, and now a pot hunter is threatening you, albeit indirectly. It seems likely that the thief is someone close to you, maybe even living in your camp.”

  “We figured that out, too. It’s awful that a traitor is among us.”

  “Please tell me you’ll be careful,” Jorgensen said. “It’s too soon to lose my archaeological consultant. I’ve got big plans for you.” He hoped that made her smile across the miles between them.

  * * *

  That evening, Elena called everyone together to go over the safety rules. “It’s ridiculous that we should have to consider things like this, but we need to take measures to keep safe. Cole’s survey crews are carrying whistles, and Maggie and Cole will do the same when they’re out on Saturdays. This will keep you guys from coming up unexpectedly on a pot hunter or somebody worse.” Pot hunters might carry firearms, and the cartel would be armed without a doubt.

  “Mel and I have discussed how to protect the artifacts at her dig. We won’t leave anything exposed overnight.” Mel’s crew groaned, but Elena shushed them. “Can’t be helped, kids, we must do this.” She wondered as she spoke if the looter was in the room, listening like everyone else.

  “Here’s the most important thing—never, ever leave the camp unattended. If by chance Norm and I are both away, please don’t let strangers into camp. If you go hiking after work or on the weekends, go with a buddy. Agent Jorgensen told me it would be better for three people to go together. Always tell someone where you’re going and how long you plan to be gone.”

  As she ticked off the list for them, Elena felt little prickles of fear. The archaeologists were being assaulted from two directions. On the one hand was pot hunting and the theft of artifacts from Mel’s room. On the other hand was a metaphysical storm gathering as surely as the clouds built each afternoon. Linda’s broken ankle, Cimelli’s curse, the water tank, more. Norm had said that in all his years at the ranch, he’d never seen lightning strike so close. Perhaps the malignancy lurking in the pasture lured the lightning down from the sky. Had it made the ladder break under Linda’s feet? Was it possible the evil drew thieves to the field school? That old trope of an archaeological curse—

  Elena wasn’t able to shake off the uneasiness lingering in her bones. She felt raw and tender as if she were sunburned and could not bear to be touched. She had been furious about the vandalism and theft. Now, fury was becoming fear.

  Chapter 15

  Independence Day

  Most of America celebrates the Fourth of July with hot dogs, beer, parades, and fireworks. But at the Taylor Ranch field school, it was just another work day. Although they would work in the morning, Elena let the crew take off the afternoon. To recognize the holiday, Norm planned a steak dinner grilled outdoors on the big iron grate at the fire circle. And the director made margaritas.

  Not long after lunch, Elena and Maggie were arguing on the porch over the proper way to make the delicious, fruity drink. As the self-professed tequila guru, Maggie had developed her own special mixture. No one had the nerve to tell her how awful it was.

  “Only lime juice and tequila, Tía!” Maggie insisted, waving sticky hands. “Nothing else.” The director gave the younger woman a steely stare.

  “Who has worked for years in her parents’ Mexican restaurant, in New Mexico?” Elena said. “Listen, if you serve margaritas made with only tequila and lime juice, you’re asking for drunken customers and spending way too much money on drinks.”

  “Bite me. I’m not running a restaurant here,” Maggie said ungenerously. She mixed a batch and tinkered with it. Each time she adjusted its proportions, she had a sampl
e, becoming tipsier with each taste.

  “Maggie, you are the perfect example of what I’m talking about,” Elena said. “You can’t get a DUI on horseback, can you?” she asked no one in particular. The afternoon was dead still and hot. Not even the cottonwood leaves were stirring. The old wooden buildings on the ranch were stifling.

  Elena continued mixing and lecturing. “You must cut the mixture with something, mi’ja. We do it like this at the restaurant: simple syrup, lime juice, orange liqueur, and my secret—grapefruit juice. It makes all the difference. There’s too much sugar in a purchased mixer.” The director tried a sample. “Perfect!” she declared. She added ice to the pitcher and set out cups. While they squabbled, a crowd collected on the porch. Word had spread through camp that the director was serving margaritas—not to mention that her porch was cooler than the cabins.

  At last, her mixture satisfied Maggie. “Let’s have a contest,” she announced. “Maggie vs. Tía María. Whose margaritas are the best?”

  The group became boisterous when more cups of the two margarita batches had gone around the porch. Elena’s margaritas won the contest hands-down. “Oh, eat shit and die,” Maggie said. She sank into disgruntled silence.

  “Hate to say I told you so, but I did,” Elena remarked with glee.

  In the din, she was wondering if the margaritas had been a mistake when a big, black Tahoe glided past the cabin. It was Jorgensen’s FBI vehicle, and his orange-blonde hair shone in the afternoon light. Elena felt hollow; the curious sensation left her dizzy.

  The porch sitters grew quiet as Jorgensen approached. Today, he wore jeans and a tee shirt instead of pressed chinos and a white shirt, but despite his casual clothes, he looked out of place. He was far too clean and well-groomed for a field camp.