by Siena West
“These stones don’t have distinguishing attributes, except for any wear patterns, and even the rocks they’re made of can look similar. The only clue that this may have been from our dig is the dirt. An archaeologist would have washed it. If it had lain on the surface for any time, the rain would have cleaned off the dirt.” She picked up a crumb of dirt that had fallen on the table and inspected it. “It’s the right color, right texture.”
The second, larger mano was rectangular. “You used this one with a trough or slab metate. You’d hold it like this, with two hands”—she demonstrated as she talked—“and drag it back and forth over the corn in the metate. These tools are less likely to have multiple uses than a hand stone. The women would use it mostly for grinding corn.” Again, Elena picked up a crumb of dirt, smashing it between thumb and index finger. She touched a fingertip to her tongue. “It’s the same dirt. No doubt about it.”
Seeing the incredulous looks on the men’s faces, she laughed. “I’m not nuts, gentlemen. Dirt always covers archaeologists. The wind blows it into our eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouths. Lick your lips, and you’re licking dirt. We know the smell and taste of our dirt.”
The metate was a small basin type, rectangular with a shallow depression in the center. The artifact thief had been lucky; a big trough metate would be impossible to carry any distance. “The smaller hand stone might have been used with this metate,” Elena said. She placed the small stone in the depression inside the metate, and sure enough, the stones fitted. “See?”
“Did the stolen metate look like this one?” Jorgensen asked.
“To be frank, I’m not sure. I didn’t see it before it was stolen. On the room floor was a mealing bin with a metate inside. The metate left an impression when the thief lifted it out. I’m sure the looter found the manos when he dug around the mealing bin.”
“You’re positive these are the artifacts stolen from your dig?”
“As sure as I can be, yes.” The director shook her head. “If I’d known I would have to identify the grinding stones, I would have paid more attention.
“Does this mean Goodwin Peaches stole our artifacts?” It would be another nail in the coffin of her good will and respect for the Apache after what she had seen that morning.
“We questioned Mr. Peaches for a good while,” Rodriguez answered, “and his story never changed. He said he found the artifacts near his home. He was walking along the road and saw them in the ditch. Mr. Peaches brought them to Mr. Reidhead, trying to sell them for cash. The young man denied that he dug up the artifacts or knew who had. And he was unaware of your dig.”
If true, that would be a great relief to Elena.
“So—we have no evidence to link Mr. Peaches to the theft at the ranch,” Jorgensen said. “Now, let’s get to the other artifacts.”
Somebody attentive had packed the pots in bubble wrap. Rodriguez unwrapped them and set them on the table. Elena sucked in her breath. There were four beautiful bowls, none of them very large, and a little pitcher with an animal head on the handle.
“These are burial pots,” she said. One by one, she picked them up, handling them with care, and examined each pot.
“Can you classify them?” Jorgensen asked. He had learned something about ancient ceramics from Elena.
She adopted a formal tone as if she were lecturing in class. “Archaeologists label the largest bowl, with the black and white designs on red, as Pinedale Polychrome. The two smaller ones are Pinto Polychrome. As you can see, the designs are similar, but the colors and paints are different. This littlest bowl is Cibicue Painted Corrugated.” It had a corrugated exterior painted with broad stripes of reddish purple paint forming a geometric pattern. Fine, white lines bordered the red-painted pattern. Like the pot Tinker Reidhead had shown Elena, the interior was polished to a deep, shiny black. “The pitcher is Pinedale Back-on-white.”
“How do you know they’re burial pots?” Rodriguez asked.
“By their size and types, Agent Rodriguez. We find these ceramic types in burials as mortuary offerings. The ancient Native Americans made Cibicue Polychrome specifically for that purpose. For cooking and storage, the Indians needed larger bowls and jars that weren’t painted. You wouldn’t cook over a fire with a painted pot. Big unpainted pots weren’t used as burial offerings although little ones might be.”
Rodriguez placed the shell and stone ornaments on the table. “What about these?”
Elena examined the artifacts. She had brought a hand lens to get a close view. “These bracelets are made from Glycymeris, a mollusk from the Gulf of California. The Indians punched out the center of the shell with a stone tool to form a circle, and then they polished and sometimes carved the bracelet. This pendant is a frog effigy. See the carving forming the frog’s head and legs tucked to the body? But it’s unusual to have the turquoise mosaic tesserae still attached to the shell. It’s more common for the turquoise pieces separate from the base. Wait—this object has been treated.” She handed the shell and hand lens to Jorgensen. “See the glue oozing out around the mosaic pieces? Whoever did this was trying to increase its sale price. And not doing a good job. But somebody knew their way around ancient artifacts, that’s for sure.” Jorgensen passed the shell and hand lens to Rodriguez.
“Okay, you’ve seen it all,” Jorgensen said. “What’s the bottom line?”
“There’s no doubt that these objects were looted from burials. Native Americans buried the dead with the ornaments they wore in life. We find broken shell and other jewelry in refuse deposits, but whole objects are with burials.
“Okay, gentlemen, I’ve done my part. Now tell me what you know, please.”
“This is the first indication of cartel involvement in pot hunting,” Jorgensen said. “The two Apache men in the stolen vehicle were mules, transporting drugs for distribution on the rez. They admitted the artifacts were stolen from a site, but they insisted they hadn’t looted the stuff themselves—they were only transporting the artifacts, like the drugs. For the Sinaloans.”
Elena was speechless. All her bad dreams about cartels, the Apache, and pot hunting were coming true.
“The men couldn’t tell us where the site is,” Jorgensen said—“they may not have known. No matter how hard we sweated them, they wouldn’t give up any names.”
Powers of speech returning, Elena said, “At least, I can tell you the site these came from is somewhere in the mountains. The pots may have come from the site on the Taylor Ranch. Or any other pueblo site along the Mogollon Rim.”
“The same general area that the rez covers,” Rodriguez said.
“Exactly.”
“If the Sinaloans have gotten their claws into the Apache—drugs and now looted artifacts—maybe more is to come,” Jorgensen said. “Like human trafficking. Transplant organs for sale. Worse.”
“The rez is a natural target,” Rodriguez said. “I’ve learned a lot since I was assigned to Lakeside. Many people live in poverty, and few good jobs are available. The police force is minimal for such a big area.” Elena recalled Kevin Bradfield’s matter-of-fact discussion of suicide. Under the circumstances, it would be easy to intimidate people into doing the cartel’s work.
“Where are the suspects now?” Elena asked.
“In the Coconino County jail.”
“Good. They’ll be safe, then.”
“I wish that were true,” Jorgensen said. “Even if the mules didn’t spill what they know about the cartel’s involvement, they’re in danger.”
“What do you mean?” Elena asked.
“The Sinaloans are not nice people. No one gets arrested and survives. The suspects’ families will disappear, and if the suspects remain in jail, the cartel will find a way to kill them there.”
Elena shivered. Dios mio y todos los santos.
Jorgensen ended that line of conversation, to Elena’s relief. He summarized what had transpired for the record and turned off the tape recorder. The agent
thanked Elena for her help, and they all shook hands. Agent Rodriguez repacked the boxes and headed for the elevator to take them back to the evidence room.
“Sandy, I’ve got to tell you something,” Elena said when they were alone.
Jorgensen raised his eyebrows. “Sounds serious.”
“It is.” She told him what she had found in the Apache camp. Tears filled her eyes and threatened to leak down her checks. “How could they do this? I trusted them. I’ve paid them, sheltered them, and fed them all summer.” It was a betrayal of the worst kind.
Jorgensen clasped her cold hands. His voice was soothing. “Elena, remember I told you that those tires fit hundreds of different vehicles. Don’t jump to conclusions. I bet it’s just a coincidence.”
Elena took a deep breath. “You’re right. Guess I’m just on edge and scared.”
“That’s not surprising,” Jorgensen said. “You’ve been through a lot.”
He took her arm and escorted her through security and the reinforced plate-glass doors once more. The blast of outside air on their faces felt like an open, preheated oven.
“I’ve booked you a room at the Quality Inn on I-17 near here,” Jorgensen said. “It’s in your name and on the company card. And I wondered if you’d have dinner with me tonight.” He flashed a smile at her. “Can’t let you go back to a lonely motel room. Besides, it will make you feel better. Get your mind off the bad stuff.”
She smiled at him, her self-possession returning. “Is this a date? Please don’t take me to any place with a dress code. I didn’t bring my cocktail dress to the field school this summer.”
Jorgensen laughed. “It’s safe to call it a date, and you’re fine just as you are. I’ll pick you up at 6:30,” he said. “We’ll drive across town to Scottsdale. North Phoenix is not known for its cuisine.”
* * *
Elena showered and made herself as presentable as possible, letting her confidence stand in for better clothing. Jorgensen drove to a quiet and candlelit Asian restaurant with an extensive menu and an excellent wine list. He ordered a bottle of Italian white.
When the wine came, Jorgensen proposed a toast. “Here’s to better times.” Elena raised her glass. “And to indicting pot hunters.”
It was wonderful to sit in the cool restaurant with a handsome companion. As Jorgensen predicted, dinner took Elena’s mind off her troubles. They ate their way through California rolls, saté with peanut sauce, Korean bibimbap, and Mongolian beef and consumed the wine. The casual talk centered on food and learning to do everyday things after being in the field for the summer. Flushing the toilet and shopping at the grocery store were among the topics.
Jorgensen proposed a road trip to eat their way through New Mexico. It was a wonderful idea.
“But you must stay away from The Shed,” Elena warned.
“What’s that?”
“A fancy restaurant in Santa Fe, right on the plaza, that’s only open for lunch, or at least used to be. I understand they take dinner reservations now. In the summer, you sometimes have to wait as much as an hour for a table. But the last time I ate there, the red chile enchilada sauce was so hot it actually hurt my mouth. I couldn’t finish my enchiladas. And I’m a native!”
“Okay, not The Shed then. But everything else! I’d like to meet your parents, too.”
Isn’t that a little too soon? Elena wondered.
By the time they finished the wine, the food, and the stories, the restaurant was near closing. It was late when they arrived at the hotel. Jorgensen stopped the car at the lobby, and she thanked him for a wonderful dinner and enjoyable evening.
“You’re coming up, aren’t you?” she asked. Her smile and husky voice turned his bones to jelly. “I brought my favorite wine along, in case I got bored here by myself. And I remembered bourbon for you.”
Wordlessly, he parked the car. They never got around to opening the wine or the bourbon.
Chapter 20
Resolution
Jorgensen showered while Elena slept. When he emerged from the bathroom, she was awake, sitting against the pillows with the sheet pulled up close against the chill of the air conditioning. He sat on the bed beside her.
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to wake you. You looked so inviting that I needed a shower or I would have gone back to bed with you. If both of us didn’t have work, I’d spend the entire day here. We never opened the wine, and we could order pizza.”
“Stop,” she said, “or I might take you up on that offer.”
Jorgensen drew her close. “Thanks so much for your help yesterday,” Jorgensen said. “We may never discover the site the artifacts were stolen from, but we know they are burial artifacts intended for sale. That’s a big help.”
He held her close and kissed her goodbye.
“Call me, Elena, any time. I’ll worry if I don’t hear from you. You seem to have a disconcerting habit of getting into trouble.”
“If you only knew.”
* * *
Elena was energetic, despite little sleep. With her body consumed with the night’s delights, her conscious mind forgot about the gruesome human remains in the pasture. The respite had allowed her unconscious to decide. The director no longer wavered between points like a needle between two magnets. She knew the right thing to do.
If the archaeologists’ actions had caused desecration and released something evil, as the Hopi believed, it would not matter if they removed the bones and analyzed them. Elena didn’t need to agonize over the choice between science and anthropology.
Resolved, she showered and brought breakfast from the buffet to her room. Hot, strong coffee helped to clear away the remnants of fatigue, and she focused on the problem. With a complicated field situation such as the bone bed, standard archaeological techniques of excavation and mapping wouldn’t work. They needed something sophisticated. LiDAR would be perfect.
Short for “light detection and ranging,” LiDAR was a 3-D, laser-scanning machine that mapped physical features or objects with extreme resolution. For archaeologists, it was a godsend. With the machine, they could create digital-elevation models and integrate the data into a geographic information system. It was useful for any kind of spatial analysis.
The problem was to get LiDAR mapping equipment at a reasonable cost. The director used her phone to search the Web and contacted every company in the Phoenix and Tucson areas. None of the businesses was willing to work at the reduced rate her small budget necessitated. Elena grew more discouraged with each call. At last, she located a small business in Scottsdale that served archaeological clients. She cajoled and pleaded and ended up promising things she might not deliver, but she had her laser and its operator.
Giddy with relief, she checked out of the hotel and retraced her way back to the ranch. Country spiked with saguaros and cluttered with housing developments soon became open desert, and then the road wound higher into the mountains. As the landscape slid past her window, she was even more convinced that her decision was right. Whatever they discovered during analysis of the human remains—cannibalism or not—it would help them understand the grisly events that had created the bone bed. Elena couldn’t wait to get back and give everyone the good news.
* * *
As Elena closed the gate and drove into camp, it was like coming home. The cool, piney air was refreshing after the oven-like temperature in Phoenix and devoid of the valley’s brown haze. It was late afternoon, and the camp appeared to be deserted. The survey and dig crews had escaped to the showers or dorms. In the kitchen, she found Norm spooning thick, satiny white frosting onto big sheet cakes. From the color, she judged it to be red velvet cake—light, rich, with just a hint of cocoa.
Norm had made meatloaf for dinner. Shiny, glazed loaves were resting on the warming shelf above the ovens. He finished frosting the cakes and handed the bowl to Elena.
“Here you go. You need a little fattenin’ up, girl.” Norm had set big pots of water to heat f
or the mountains of peeled potatoes that waited nearby. Elena climbed on a stool and scraped up the frosting, licking it off the spatula and her fingers like a little kid.
“Hey, there’s good news,” she said between licks. Frosting was collecting on her cheeks. “I’ve started the process to remove the bones in the pasture. Today, I persuaded a company into coming here to map the bones with LiDAR.”
“What the heck is that?”
“A machine that uses a laser to map almost anything—geological strata, rock art, or bones. It’s magic—I have no clue how it works. Anyway, when we’ve finished the mapping, we can remove the bones, and you can finally get back to work on your irrigation system.”
“It’s about time,” Norm grumbled. “Been thinking I’d never get that damn cistern out and the pipes in.” He peered at her. “Are you okay? You look kinda peaked. But more relaxed than I’ve seen you in a while.”
So it showed. Damn. I better stay away from Maggie. She’ll figure it out in a heartbeat.
“I’m fine, Norm. Just a little tired. Mashed potatoes and meatloaf will perk me up, I’m sure. Not to mention red velvet cake.” She grinned at him. “The frosting’s yummy.”
She wiped the frosting off her face, slid off the stool, and put the bowl in the sink to soak. It was cocktail hour, and she had news for the troops.
September, a.d. 1376, East-Central Arizona
Faces in the Night
Gray Dawn was visiting his grandmother, a widow who had long outlived her husbands. He was among the many grandchildren who helped her with household tasks. If she needed repairs to the walls and roof or wood gathered, he would help. When he had succeeded in hunting, he brought her a rabbit or hunk of venison. Now that harvest time was near, he would help bring in her crops. In return, she fed him well. Tonight, she prepared his favorite meal, rabbit stew with tender, sweet-corn dumplings flavored with wild spinach and onions. The old lady kept up a continuous stream of chatter as Gray Dawn ate. Mostly, it centered on one thing.