Bolt

by Siena West

  He stumbled about the unfamiliar place as he gathered his clothes, hoping he hadn’t forgotten a sock or something. Elena woke while he was dressing. He knelt at the side of the bed, kissing her cheek.

  “Can you tell me how to find my room in the ranch house?” he whispered. “I know you don’t want me here when the camp wakes up.”

  She reached up to pull his head down for a soft, lingering kiss.

  “No, my staff wouldn’t approve. Go in the door at the ramada—do you remember where that is? You’ll see the staircase to the second story. Your room’s the second on the right. There’s a bathroom across the hall you can use.”

  He grinned at her. “In the morning. When there’s water.”

  “When there’s water,” she agreed. But then her voice dropped.

  “The night was miraculous, Sandy. I’ll never forget it.”

  “Why are you talking like this is the first and last time we’ll be together? You’ll remember many more nights, María Elena Vargas. I intend to make this a habit. If you’ll have me.”

  Her answer was another sweet kiss. As he crept from the cabin and started across the road, a mockingbird in a nearby pine woke and trilled sleepily, the liquid sound filling the still, predawn air.

  Elena was right. A field school was one hell of a romantic environment.

  Chapter 16

  Harsh Words

  The old man and his nephew were having an argument—a real bang-up, hell of an argument. He assaulted the younger man with words his nephew had never heard from him. Red faced, the old man bellowed.

  “Kid, you fucked up. Nobody wants shit like this. The hell you thought you were doing?”

  The young man knew he had screwed up. That big old grinding stone he’d taken was whole and would look nice on somebody’s front porch, but it was nothing special. He’d snatched a couple of smaller stones to go with it.

  “This was the only stuff I saw. Took me hours to dig it up and cart it off. Scared the whole time somebody would find me diggin’ there, about pissed my pants.” The kid dug around that stone box to see if anything else was there. And he’d dug up the pots, too. The kid stuffed everything into a gunny sack and dragged it to his car. he drove away after nightfall, terrified they’d catch him.

  “This is shit!” his uncle fumed. “These pots is in pieces. And they ain’t even painted.” Furious, the old man swept the piles of pot sherds and dirt off the kitchen table where his nephew had showed off his finds. The sherds rained on the floor, breaking into still more pieces when they hit the tile.

  The young man hung his head. “I’m sorry.” The artifacts had looked good in the daylight, and the pots stood upright and seemed to be whole. “The pots just fell apart when I took ‘em out of the ground.”

  Nothing would mollify the old man. “Find the burials, you little idiot! That’s where the good stuff is—the painted pots and turquoise. You gotta do a better job than this, son. Else I’ll have to tell your mama about the meth. It would just about kill her. You’re the light of her life.”

  Tears leaked from the kid’s eyes. “Them archaeologists ain’t diggin’ burials. Ain’t seen any.” The kid mumbled another apology and turned to leave.

  “Kid, you can find ‘em,” his uncle called. “Dig below the room floors and in the outside areas and you’ll find ‘em.”

  What his uncle proposed terrified the kid. It had been hard enough digging up the grinding stones, and he wouldn’t have the time or strength to dig where his uncle said he could find burials. He’d get caught. They’d kill him.

  “Find those burials, and maybe I’ll forget about the meth.” The old man bent over, his anger spent, and scooped up the sherds and threw them into the kitchen trash.

  The kid took the grinding stones he had stolen. He didn’t know what to do with them, but his uncle didn’t want them. When he left, he felt a little better, but his troubles weren’t over; they were just beginning.

  May, a.d. 1376, East-Central Arizona

  Blood Spring

  In the flats south of the pueblo, a spring that was the source of the village’s drinking water gurgled. Fed from the high water table, it had never failed in all the years the village was occupied. The women went there at dawn with their jars, telling stories and laughing.

  The youngest women had heard many times the tale of the serpent living in the depths of the pool around the bubbling spring. Be careful, their mothers had admonished. Keep your skirts close and your legs together. NEVER wade in the pool, because the serpent was a powerful spirit who could make a girl pregnant with just a touch. Had they not seen the results of his mischief—young girls, never married, who carried their big bellies openly around the village? When questioned, they would say only, I met the serpent in the spring.

  On this late-spring morning, wispy curls of mist lingered as the water-seekers arrived. Distracted and chattering, the first in line bent down to the water. Then her screams split the quiet air. The others rushed to the pool’s edge where the woman’s jar lay on its side in the reeds where she had dropped it in her fright.

  The water was dark as blood spilled from a vein, and pink froth foamed at the pool edges. No dragonflies darted and flitted about, no tadpoles or fairy shrimp wriggled in the water. There was no throaty singing of frogs. Instead, there was only the coppery smell of blood rising from the pool.

  Suspicious, a woman touched a finger to the water’s surface and then sniffed the red residue. She was about to touch her finger to her lips when another grabbed her arm.

  “NO!” she ordered. “The water is poisoned!”

  * * *

  Talk underlain by notes of fear filled the village. What will we do without fresh water? the women cried. We cannot cook food, we cannot brew herbs to heal our loved ones’ ailments. What will the men take with them on hunting trips or to the fields?

  The village government gathered at the house of Gray Dawn’s father, Green Spring, who was the Soyal Chief. Officers of the other important ceremonials, the society priests, and doctors joined the Village Chief, War Chief, and the Crier. Their accumulated wisdom would discover a path out of the horror and restore order to the village.

  A fire flickered in the hearth, and Small Deer, Green Spring’s wife, offered the guests piki bread and a stew of sprouted beans. The men sat with their backs against the house walls. When they finished eating, the Village Chief, who was named Sun Rising, rose to speak. A tall man, he stooped under the low roof beams.

  “You have heard the story of the poisoned spring that our women discovered this morning. It is a terrible thing that has fallen upon us. Who will speak first?”

  The War Chief stood. “I have lived in this village since I was a small child. My parents, who wished to join their relatives, brought me here with my brothers and sisters. Although I served as War Chief for many years, I have never known of such a thing happening. It is beyond understanding.”

  Several men spoke in turn, each rising so his voice could be heard.

  “It is an unnatural thing,” the Crier said, his voice hard. “What kind of rain—had any rain fallen in the night—would fill the spring with blood? No animals poisoned the water by drinking from it. The plants growing at the water’s edge do not drip blood from their leaves. Something else was at work—something evil.”

  A priest spoke next. “We kept the spring holy, planting prayer sticks in the mud. We painted our bodies and masks with the sacred mud. Nevertheless, a vile thing changed this holy place in a dreadful way.”

  Gray Dawn had joined the people outside his father’s house, listening to the discussion inside. As was his wont in these uneasy days, he searched the faces in the crowd for signs. One of his aunties appeared to be too merry for such a grim gathering. He wondered at that.

  Red Bear, the powerful doctor who had cured Snow Falling of witchcraft sickness, was next to speak. His voice carried to the listeners outside.

  “My knowledge does not exte
nd to such malignant works as this. However, I know sorcery poisoned the spring. It is the center of our daily lives and a sacred place. The serpent living in the spring brings fertility to our women and life to our crops. Now he must be dead, lying at the bottom of the pool. The bloody water killed him.

  “Who else but witches would want the serpent to die and the women cry for babies that do not come? Only great wickedness would wish the crops to wilt from lack of rain and the children’s bellies to hurt with hunger.”

  Murmurs of assent filled the house and spread to the crowd outside. “What did he say?” asked a stone-deaf grandmother.

  The Village Chief called on several other men, each of whom spoke a few words reinforcing what Red Bear had said. When all the men had spoken their piece, the chief addressed Red Bear.

  “Then only one question remains. How do we cure the spring, bring the serpent back to life, and restore order to the village?”

  Red Bear dropped his head to his chest. When he looked up again to meet the Village Chief’s eyes, he dropped his voice.

  “I am embarrassed, Sun Rising,” he confessed. “Because I do not understand how the sorcerers accomplished this appalling magic, I do not know how to heal the spring. We must do what we can with our medicines and prayer sticks.

  “This is not the first time sorcerers attacked our village. There has been witchcraft sickness, a whirlwind that destroyed clan crops, and a young, healthy woman who died in childbirth. The sorcerers have stolen the peaceful way of life the Creator taught us. Now the chaos and disorder that sorcery brings and on which it thrives fills our village. We must take on a bigger task than restoring the spring to balance. We must find a way to drive the witches away—forever.”

  Chapter 17

  Lost and Found

  The young Apache man stumbled into Tinker Reidhead’s trading post in the afternoon. He was in his late teens or early twenties and wore beat-up basketball sneakers and a stained tee shirt emblazoned with a picture of an obscure metal-rock band. The odor of alcohol clung to him just as the scent of tobacco permeated Tinker’s clothes. The kid thunked down a burlap feed sack on the counter. “You buyin’?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Depends what you’ve got.”

  The kid produced a smaller cloth bag containing a couple dozen beaded key chains and barrettes. Tinker inspected the key chains. They were well made, with dangling, rolled metal tinklers on leather strips. Whoever made the beaded barrettes had done a good job, too. “I’ll take these. Who made them?”

  “My sister. She made these, too.” The never-ending bag yielded more jewelry, this time of turquoise and silver. The work wasn’t bad, but the turquoise was treated, and the thin, lightweight silver bracelets wouldn’t sell. “Can’t take these, sorry. Got anything else?”

  The kid reached into the burlap bag and set two manos covered with dirt on the counter. “Got the big grinding stone that goes with these in my car, if you want it.” The artifacts appeared to be prehistoric, and Tinker knew about of the theft from the field school. An idea was forming.

  “Go get it,” Tinker ordered.

  The kid wrestled the metate inside and dropped it on the polished wood floor with a careless thump. It, too, had dirt particles clinging to it.

  “Where’d you get these stones?” Tinker asked. The kid wouldn’t look Tinker in the eye, but that was characteristic of the Apache people. It wasn’t polite to stare into someone’s eyes, and it didn’t imply guilt.

  “I found ‘em near my house. In Cibecue,” the kid said.

  This was getting interesting, Tinker thought. “Okay, I’ll give you $50 for the beaded stuff and another $25 for the grinding stones. I can’t pay you more. Rich folks who buy artifacts don’t want this kind of thing. Be hard to sell.”

  Tinker prodded and pushed, but the kid refused to give up any further information. He wouldn’t even tell Tinker his name. At last, he stuffed the money into his pocket and fled the trading post, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

  Tinker watched as the kid’s car rolled away in a haze of blue smoke. He’d just broken the law by buying prehistoric artifacts. But the FBI would be interested, no doubt. They would forgive him. Within minutes, he was on the phone, telling his story.

  * * *

  Frank Rodriguez from the Lakeside Resident Agency showed up not long before Reidhead was ready to close up for the day. Although Rodriguez had served the warrant allowing the FBI to search Tinker’s office, the men had made their peace when Reidhead proved clean.

  “So you bought prehistoric artifacts from a young Apache man, and they might be the ones stolen from the field school,” Rodriguez said.

  “Yup. I know it’s against the law to buy artifacts, but I was sure you’d want to see these.” Tinker showed the agent the three grinding stones and related what he’d learned from the Apache kid, which was precious little.

  “Any gang colors or tattoos on him?” Rodriguez asked.

  “None I could see. He looked like your average rez kid. Kinda scruffy, basketball shoes, bad haircut. He’d been drinking, too. Smelled it on him.”

  At their last Lightning Bolt team meeting, Jorgensen had discussed what appeared to be systematic vandalism on the Forest and reservation. When Reidhead called him, Rodriguez had hoped that the young Apache man could lead him to the pot hunters who’d been prowling the area all summer. He appreciated as well as anyone on the team they were tracking a far bigger operation, with tentacles from the Sinaloans stretching into northern Arizona. But any connection to local looters could be helpful even if they weren’t linked to the cartel.

  Rodriguez was cognizant that finding someone with no identifying marks or gang connections who lived in Cibecue, one of the most isolated places on the rez, would be difficult.

  By now, Tinker was grinning. “Don’t be so gloomy, Agent Rodriguez. I wrote down the license number of the kid’s beater. Stolen or not, you should be able to track it down.”

  Tinker spat a brown stream into the crock he kept hidden under the counter. His grin was wicked.

  “Did I just make your day?”

  Chapter 18

  Malevolent Spirits

  After July 4, Elena found herself torn between her responsibilities and thoughts of Sander Jorgensen. His image would arise at odd moments, interrupting her thoughts and punching holes in restful nights. This attraction and the distraction it created had happened to her only once. A few uneventful interludes with fellow graduate students and an affair with a faculty member dissipated with no hard feelings. Even her lovers’ names had faded. There had been one real love, when she was a brash, young graduate student, and she still regretted breaking up with him. Time and space separated them; she saw him sometimes at conferences. So many years later, he was a sweet demon who still haunted her dreams.

  Although she would never forget her first real love, Elena was beginning to feel the same way about Jorgensen. It was unsettling, like falling into a deep, blue sea without knowing how to swim, and she hated feeling she was no longer in control.

  She fidgeted and worried about the bone bed. There was no word from the Hopi. The malignant dead lay silent below their blanket of plastic and soil. But the katsinam, the ancestral spirits who help the Hopi, must have heard her pleas.

  The clouds built after lunch as usual, and the trees shook and shuddered in the wind that heralded rain. The crews rushed to cover up the excavations and salvage tools and notebooks before the rain poured on them. Damp and muddy, they watched from the lab as the road in front of the ranch house turned into a little river pushing along pine needles, cones, and oak leaves.

  But as always in the summer, the storm was short-lived—the intense storms the Navajo called the male rain never lasted long. Backlit against the emerging sun, every leaf, twig, cone, and needle sparkled with raindrops. The blackjack pines were dark against the receding clouds, and the vanilla smell of the yellow-belly ponderosas rose from wet bark. Soon, the river in the road r
eceded, leaving puddles and pools in its wake.

  When the rain began, Elena had retreated to her cabin, snuggled under a quilt her grandmother made. She was looking over the schedule for upcoming lectures and visitors and trying to stay awake when an unfamiliar white Suburban drove past and parked. It bore the logo of the Hopi Cultural Preservation Office.

  Dios mio y todos los santos, she muttered. By the time she made herself presentable, the mud-spattered Suburban had disgorged a handful of Native American men—most of them elderly, one middle-aged. She knew this must be the Hopi Cultural Preservation Committee chairman, Lester Masayesva, and several tribal elders. They must have elected to visit in person rather than send a formal consultation letter. This could not be good news.

  She met the men at their vehicle and introduced herself. She had met Mr. Masayesva before at an archaeological project meeting. He introduced the other elders. Elena invited them to sit in Norm’s living room and offered coffee, water, and cookies. The elders, who were lean, lined old men in flannel shirts and jeans, declined with politeness. Masayesva, well known for his gruff, brusque personality, got right down to business.

  “The museum notified us you found unusual human remains, Dr. Vargas. Our elders wished to see for themselves.”

  “You’ve taken a good deal of trouble, Mr. Masayesva. It takes hours to get here from Hopi.” The men must have started well before dawn. “Did you run into the storm?”

  “No, we were lucky. But it will be a long drive home and after dark. We’d like to see what you found as soon as possible.” Coffee and small talk would not divert this stoic group from their purpose.

  “I’ll get the staff member who’s been supervising the work, Tim Overton, and other staff to help uncover the excavations. We finished working there a while ago. Then I’ll come to show you the way. If you’ll wait here? I’ll be back soon.”