Bolt

by Siena West

  She rounded up Cole, Mel, and Tim, apologizing for interrupting their shower time, and sent them down to the pasture. When she returned, the enticing scent of roasting chicken filled the living room. The Hopi must be built of stone to ignore it.

  “We’re ready,” Elena announced to the group. She watched with skepticism as the old men unfolded themselves from the sofa and chairs. “Should we drive? It’s not far, but—”

  Masayesva interrupted. “Our elders have spent their entire lives walking to their farms and orchards. They’ll be fine.”

  Despite that assurance, it was a long, slow walk. The eldest used a cane and stepped with care on the muddy dirt track steaming in the sun. It was littered with pebbles and cow pies, and Elena feared someone would slip and get hurt. This summer, she had lost her optimism about life. This summer, she expected the worst.

  At the pasture, the staff had uncovered several excavated units, and in one, Tim was removing the dirt and plastic covering the bones so the elders could see.

  Elena introduced Cole, Tim, and Mel and started by explaining how they found the bone bed by accident. They monitored the backhoe digging a water line, she said, and expected nothing archaeological in the area. Monitoring was a precaution.

  “Then, when we discovered the feature, we began first with the part near the cistern. We didn’t want the feature damaged when Mr. Taylor dug up the cistern. The feature seemed to be a large pit structure, something akin to what archaeologists call a great kiva. We didn’t expect to find human remains. As you know, we do not excavate burials here at the field school.”

  The elders murmured among themselves.

  Tim began his spiel next. He rumpled his bright hair as he explained what they found in the first unit they dug—the clean fill, the charcoal and other signs of burning, the stones. And then, at the bottom, the jumbled scatter of human remains.

  “Come closer,” he invited the elders. “You’ll get a better look.”

  Two younger men and Masayesva came forward to stand at the rim of the excavation unit, peering down at the uncovered bones. The rest hung back, talking among themselves.

  “You found the bones like this?” Lester asked. “Disturbed and burned?”

  “Yes,” Elena answered. “We determined that the remains were human and not from an articulated burial. Then we counted the bones by type. This would be broad categories like rib or leg bone, if we could identify them, and whether they represented the right or left side if we could determine that. That would help us figure out the number of individuals. We didn’t do any farther excavation or dig around the bones—just brushed them off. When we finished, we covered the bones to protect them.

  “Because we wanted to find out more about the feature, we excavated more units in different parts. Each time, we found the same thing. Identical fill deposits and bones at the bottom.”

  Masayesva surveyed the excavation units standing open. “You’re saying they are all the same as this one?”

  “That’s right. We think human remains fill this entire feature. And to be honest, I have no idea what that means. Would you like to look at other units?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Are any artifacts buried with the bones?” Masayesva asked.

  “None. We haven’t even seen any pot sherds in the fill.”

  “And it’s circular?” He was looking at the bright pink flagging tape they had pegged to the perimeter of the feature.

  “Yes. But it doesn’t show the typical characteristics of an architectural feature,” Elena said. “No evidence of walls, such as post holes or wall stones, no floor, no floor features.”

  “What do you plan to do next?” asked a man standing at the edge of the excavation unit, hands in his jeans pockets.

  “When we remove the human remains—if you allow us to excavate them—we’ll dig a little farther down to see what is below them. Then we’ll backfill the units, except for those near the cistern. The ranch owner will remove the cistern and finish the trenching for the irrigation system.

  “What happens to the human remains depends on the committee’s wishes. We’ll follow whatever protocols you establish.”

  Masayesva turned to the elders. “Do you have questions?” The men shook their heads.

  On the walk back to the ranch, the elders talked the entire way in the soft tones and long vowels of the Hopi language. They asked questions of Masayesva that he also answered in Hopi. They found the camp just finishing dinner.

  “Won’t you stay and have dinner with us?” Elena asked. “At least have coffee and dessert before you go.”

  Masayesva spoke for them, again politely declining. “We brought our own food,” he explained. The elders walked toward the Suburban, obviously finished with the business they had driven from Hopi to complete.

  “I hope we’ve given you all the information you need,” Elena said. “How much time will you take to reach a decision? I ask because we’ve finished the excavations, and our field season always seems too short to get everything done.”

  During the long pause that followed, Masayesva shifted from foot to foot and kept his eyes on the ground. A long moment passed before he responded.

  “We have already decided, Dr. Vargas. Our elders believe the thing in the pasture is an abomination, an affront to our way of life. The buried bones are those of depraved people. The elders want nothing to do with the human remains. We recommend that you do no further work. By uncovering the bones and releasing the spirits, you have already done great damage. You should bury the remains again and along with them the malignancy.”

  “But—” Elena stammered in astonishment. “What about excavation, analysis, repatriation?”

  “You may excavate the remains and study them if you wish. We will place no restrictions on you. But we are warning, you will endanger yourselves. We do not want the bones repatriated. You may curate them at the State museum or rebury them here.”

  Elena was so stunned she lost her words. She had never heard of such a thing in her entire professional career, especially from the Hopi, who most times were eager to steer things in the proper direction.

  “How—how did you come to this conclusion?” Elena stumbled over the words in confusion. “The elders scarcely looked at the remains!”

  Masayesva fixed her with his stern, unfriendly stare. “The elders knew before we came here. A prophecy foretold this. Today’s visit was only to confirm it.” Hopi history had invoked prophecy so many times. It explained the flight from Palatkwapi in the face of disorder and chaos, the Oraibi split, and the destruction of Awat’ovi. The circular feature with its cargo of human remains seemed insignificant compared to those important events, and she didn’t know what to think.

  Before Elena could stammer a reply, Masayesva thanked her for showing them the excavations and the remains. “We’ll be on our way now.”

  “You will put what you have told me—permission to excavate and analyze and no requirement for repatriation—into a letter for the State museum?” Elena asked.

  “Yes,” Masayesva said. “When we return to Hopi. It will be in the mail soon.”

  Masayesva packed the elders into the Suburban and headed away. When the vehicle disappeared into the twilight, it was as if the Hopi had never been at the ranch. They left behind a vacuum seeming to suck out Elena’s soul. She realized the elders would never have sat with them to eat. The archaeologists had released something depraved from the ground with their stupid, unthinking white actions. It swirled around and through the camp, tainting the water and food. No wonder they were in a hurry to leave.

  The Hopi had known what they would find at the bone bed before they left the mesas. The katsinam had told them, and they had listened.

  * * *

  Elena stood in the yard long after the Hopi left, watching the light shift from blue to gray and leach color from the day. What do I do now? Two warring selves split her thoughts. The scientific side wanted to analyze
the remains in the worst way. The Hopi had given the archaeologists free rein to do anything they wanted. If Kathi Thomas did the analysis, it might be possible to discover why the people in the bone bed died and why their bones were destroyed so thoroughly. The Hopi hadn’t even ruled out destructive analysis, which was otherwise anathema. Perhaps she would write a grant proposal and pull together the money for isotopic analyses. It might even be possible to undertake DNA analysis.

  Elena could write a scientific paper that would knock the socks off the academic community. The museum would curate the bones and pack away the dread and sickness along with them. It was an opportunity too good and too rare to resist. But what if something dreadful was swirling in the underground darkness, ready to do mischief or worse? Her senses, refined by years of Catholic upbringing and her own second sight, told Elena that something horrible lay belowground in the pasture. She wondered if they should continue the excavation, much less analyze the bones. Unfortunate events had plagued the field school since the remains were unearthed, from looting to broken bones. Is it possible, she wondered, the Hopi’s dire warnings are right?

  She might regret the decision.

  The second side sympathized with the Hopi’s concerns. As an anthropologist, Elena knew decades of oppressing the Hopi’s native religion drove the practices underground, enveloping their beliefs and rites in a thick veil of secrecy. She also knew the Hopi viewed many anthropologists and archaeologists with disdain, even disgust, for revealing religious rites that should have remained secret. Elena wanted to do the right thing.

  She would have to make up something to explain the Hopi’s astonishing failure to offer guidelines for treatment, something she was certain had never happened. What the Hopi said would remain secret. There was no need to frighten anyone because she was frightened enough herself.

  If she decided to remove the remains, excavating them would be a problem. The field school was unprepared for something as complicated as the bone bed. They needed specialized equipment and trained people. Worse still, the season seemed to move too fast. As it had today, rain would cut their work days short. Soon it would be time to pack up and go home until next summer.

  What on earth am I going to do?

  Mentally shaking herself back into action, she went into the kitchen, hoping to find that some appetizing roast chicken was left from dinner.

  Chapter 19

  Phoenix

  After the Hopi’s visit, Elena put aside her worries about the bone bed for the time being. There was no shortage of things about which to worry. The most troublesome among them was the question of who had vandalized Mel’s room. It was past time to investigate the personal vehicles in camp. With the photographs Elena had sent to Jorgensen, the FBI had deciphered the tire size from the tread pattern. Now it was a simple matter of matching the tire size to the vehicles in camp.

  When everyone left for work, the director prowled around camp like a thief herself. One by one, she checked the vehicles parked near the cabins and tents, hoping no one would see her ducking and stooping and find out what she was doing.

  It took more time than she would have thought. Students, staff, and cowboys had vehicles. She didn’t bother with the big trucks, knowing the thief’s tires were too small to fit them. Elena even checked Cole’s truck and Tim’s little hatchback, knowing it would hurt them if they found out. By the time she had finished, Elena was hot, dusty, and discouraged. Am I wrong about the thief? she wondered.

  That left only the laborers. It was appalling to think one of the Apache workers might be a pot hunter. The Apache crew was dependable and seemed uninterested in anything except doing a good enough job to receive a paycheck every two weeks—certainly not in archaeology. Elena remembered Kevin Bradfield’s conviction that Apache people would never steal artifacts, but her own misgivings about his naïveté told her that anything was possible.

  With her heart leaping in her throat like a spotted trout, Elena crept down to the Apache camp.

  Only one laborer had a vehicle, and he drove everybody home on Friday and back on Sunday night. The little pickup was at least 10 years old and battered by time and the rez roads. Elena knelt beside it and inspected the sidewall.

  Oh, no, she whispered. It can’t be. But there was no doubt. The raised letters and numbers on the tire sidewall matched the ones Jorgensen had sent her. It was if someone had punched her in the gut.

  Distraught, she stumbled back to camp. It was only much, much later that she realized she had forgotten one other person in camp who had a vehicle.

  * * *

  In midafternoon, Elena’s cell phone trilled. The magic worked, and Sander Jorgensen’s voice was crystal clear.

  “For once, I’ve got good news. I don’t suppose you’ve talked to Mr. Reidhead?” The agent continued without waiting for an answer.

  “Listen to this. A young Apache man tried to sell Reidhead several prehistoric artifacts. From the description, they might be the ones stolen from your dig. How would you like to take a trip to the valley and identify them for us?”

  Elena shivered, despite the hot day. She would be with Jorgensen. Once again, she felt hollowed out, as if her insides had turned.

  “There’s something else you can help us with, and it isn’t good news. Three days ago, the Whiteriver police stopped a vehicle because the plate came up stolen. Most cops on the rez ride with a drug dog now, and the dog alerted on the car. There was marijuana and cocaine stuffed into the seats—they were hollowed out to hold the drugs—along with weapons and something else.”

  “I’m spellbound. What else?”

  “Prehistoric painted pottery, shell ornaments, and what looks like a shell pendant with little bits of turquoise all over it.”

  Santa María. “Looter’s work, no doubt.”

  “Bingo. So—are you interested?”

  “You bet,” she said, having forgotten for the moment what she had found that morning. “If there’s any chance to nail a pot hunter or two, I’m with the program.” Any chance to be with that man as well. Jorgensen stirred her blood like fizzy wine.

  So at dinner that night, Elena informed the staff they would be in charge while she was gone. Maggie gave her a sly look. “Are you taking Mel with you? She knows those artifacts better than anyone.”

  “Nope. Don’t forget, I’m supposed to be the FBI’s archaeological consultant.”

  Maggie’s grin was wicked, but she said nothing more.

  * * *

  The Superstition Freeway that led from Apache Junction into the core of Phoenix was one of the most crowded in the state. Commuters who lived in the one and worked in the other clogged the road morning, noon, and night. As she crawled along with the other cars stacked up in the lunch-time crush and searing heat, Elena remembered that its traffic was one reason she hated the city.

  She consulted with the map application on the phone for a way to get to the north side of Phoenix. But it proved to be easy to negotiate the swarm of freeways that encircled the city and its suburbs. The director passed a bank that displayed the time and temperature—a paltry 105 degrees. Reason number two to dislike Phoenix.

  At the FBI office, Jorgensen met Elena and escorted her through security and showed her the restrooms. He led her down a short corridor to a reception room. “We’ll meet here in a few minutes.”

  Elena she had dressed in the best clothing she had. It was just a step removed from the field attire she had been wearing all summer, if rather more clean. Contrasted with Jorgensen, who wore a tie and a suit jacket against the powerful air conditioning, she saw herself much like a turnip in a wheat field. The awkwardness was most unlike her.

  When she had tidied up, she was more like herself. The clean, bright room lacked the lingering odors of stale coffee and sweat that permeated the windowless interrogation rooms. Comfortable chairs sat around a polished-wood table, and a bar offered coffee and held a small fridge with snacks and cold bottled water.

&
nbsp; Agent Rodriguez arrived with two boxes on an office cart. His rapid, home-style Spanish as they acquainted themselves put her even more at ease. Through the south-facing window, she saw the brown haze of smog hanging over the city, a pall in the desert air. It was reason number three to hate Phoenix. The city was in the top five American cities with terrible air pollution.

  “We’ve kept the artifacts in the evidence room,” Rodriguez explained. “Not the typical stuff we seize, believe me.”

  Elena laughed. “I bet. Not as dangerous as guns and drugs, however.” They took seats at the table.

  “This isn’t a formal deposition, Elena, but I’d like to record our conversation, if you don’t mind,” Jorgensen said. “It’s easier than taking notes, and it gives us a record.” The agent placed the recorder on the table and stated the date, his badge number, and the people present. “If you’re ready, let’s get started. Let’s begin with the objects that might be from your site.”

  For the record, Rodriguez explained how Tinker Reidhead had acquired the artifacts and why he contacted the FBI. Rodriguez described the young Apache man to Elena.

  “Any chance you know him?” Jorgensen asked. “His name is Goodwin Peaches.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t. Peaches is a common name on the reservation. They’re a big extended family.”

  “Mr. Reidhead got the plate number, and we tracked down Mr. Peaches’s residence.” Rodriguez smiled. “Even though the vehicle hasn’t been registered in a decade.”

  Rodriguez slit open the boxes, which were sealed with tape. He jotted down his name and date on a white slip glued to each box and removed the metate from one and the manos from another. He placed them on the polished conference table. He wore blue nitrile gloves and passed a pair to Elena.

  The smaller of the two manos was nondescript, a small, flat, oval stone. Thinking she owed the FBI a mini-lecture, Elena described their purpose. “We’d call this a hand stone. You would use this one with a basin metate—the kind that has a shallow depression, not a big trough—with one hand in a circular motion. Tools like this have multiple uses—like a hammer, if you wanted one at the moment, or use it to shape something else.