by Siena West
“I guess Cole’s attempted murder is secondary,” Elena muttered.
“Not at all,” Jorgensen reassured her. “Don’t get your Latin temper up. The sheriff will investigate the shooting, and we will, too. But we should keep in mind it may have been an accident. We don’t have the details.”
“Forgive my frankness, but that’s bullshit, Sandy. The shooter aimed right at them.”
“I agree with you, but let’s wait until the evidence is in.”
Elena scoffed. From what the deputies had said, there was no evidence.
Cole healed fast, although he milked his injury to get maximum sympathy from Maggie and the women in camp. Elena found the daily routine exasperating. Her thoughts chased each other like the puffy clouds that skittered across the morning skies. There was much to worry about—the shooter in the canyon, the theft of artifacts, her inability to track down the thief. And the pot hunters ravaging the ruins around the field school and shooting at her people, for God’s sake. And most of all, the bone bed in the pasture with its cargo of crazy, jumbled human dead.
On the morning when the LiDAR crew was scheduled to arrive, the director was beside herself, watching a thick bank of creamy cumulus clouds build on the northern horizon. Would it rain, forcing them to wait until it cleared? As the hours crept toward noon, she went over and over the details of her conversation with the mapping company. Had she said she would call to confirm? She couldn’t remember. Had the company said they would call if it was necessary to cancel? She couldn’t remember. At last, when she was ready to scream with anxiety, a car pulled into camp. Two young people stepped out.
Elena greeted them. “I’d just about given up on you,” she said, relief showing on her face. She hadn’t realized she’d been clenching her jaw and scrunching up her eyebrows. “I thought I got the date wrong or something.”
“Sorry we’re late, Dr. Vargas. Your directions were good, but somehow we got off track. I think we were headed to Los Angeles by way of Flagstaff. I’m Marie, and my colleague is Phil. He’ll be pushing the LiDAR buttons for you.”
They shook hands, and Elena showed them to their rooms. She wanted to get started right away but realized they’d had a long morning, too. She fidgeted throughout lunch, although she was grateful that excavation was happening at last.
* * *
The director gave the camp the afternoon off so that anyone who was interested could watch the procedures in the bone bed. They crowded around the excavation like medical students at their first autopsy. A bad, 1950s science-fiction movie could have produced the scene at the pasture—people huddled around the mysterious discovery, equipment was scattered everywhere, and the LiDAR scanner dominated the scene. The big, gray box was set on a tripod. In the movie, it would have been the ray gun.
The removal of the human remains started with the excavation unit nearest the old cistern. The water-line trench ran there, and it was where they had first identified the pit feature containing the bones. If for an unforeseen reason they couldn’t finish the excavation, at least the archaeologists could clear that area, and Norm could complete his project.
At first, tension enveloped the scene. Elena had worried for so long it was second nature. Tim and the students assisting him feared making a mistake. No one forgot they were excavating the remains of murdered and butchered people who might have been a cannibal meal. But the LiDAR operator and his companion kept up a constant stream of lighthearted chatter, and soon they all relaxed as the tense atmosphere softened.
The archaeologists had planned every step of the recording and removal of the bones in minute detail long before the LiDAR team arrived. After the archaeologists removed the dirt and plastic protecting the first excavation unit, they brushed away sediment on and around the bones. Next, Tim photographed the bottom of the unit. One of the more obsessive-compulsive students gave each exposed bone a unique catalogue number and kept the catalogue list on a laptop computer.
The LiDAR scanner recorded the spatial information, including the elevation and angle, for each bone. Next, Tim removed the recorded bone and bagged it with the catalogue number, date, and excavation unit. Susan packed each bag in a curation box and noted it on a form listing the contents. Tim also removed the fill dirt around the bones and saved it in labeled paper bags. If the Hopi changed their minds and wanted the bones repatriated, the archaeologists would return the sediment that had touched the remains along with the bones.
A watching student on Mel’s crew asked, “Why didn’t you map the bones before you took them out? We do that in the room.”
“LiDAR can generate maps that are much more accurate than anything we can draw,” Elena explained. “That’s what these machines do.”
In this way, they removed the bones on the bottom of the unit. They would repeat the recording and removal process if they found more bones below the uppermost layer until they had removed everything. It was a lengthy and tedious process, and the observers became bored and drifted away.
The procedure speeded up as they became familiar with the process. The archaeologists finished the first excavation unit as the light slanted toward sunset and filled three boxes with bags of bone. Elena breathed deeply for the first time since they had begun. It seemed as if she had been holding her breath throughout the afternoon. Barring rain, issues with the LiDAR scanner or the computers, and other problems, they would finish the recording and removal of the remains in all units. She wanted to skip and giggle like a child. Instead, she invited her guests to pack their equipment for the day and join her and the staff for cocktail hour on the porch.
* * *
Later that night, her guests well-fed, showered, and tucked away in the ranch house, Elena sat on the porch watching lightning play in the sky far away. Lightning is a colorful phenomenon, she thought, much more so than the cold blue-white of photographs. It took on the colors of the sky and land, the clouds and atmosphere. Tonight, bright orange flashes lit the distant clouds. She wondered if the tangerine strikes crashed down near Jorgensen’s home. Elena didn’t know where he lived, and she reminded herself to ask him the next time they were together.
Elena’s thoughts drifted to the bone bed. What happened to the people buried there, people so battered and broken they were scarcely recognizable as human? The horror and fear whenever she came near the bone bed told her it must have been something terrible. She thought back to Dr. Thomas’s lecture and the three models explaining dismemberment and what archaeologists called inconsiderate burial. Those fleeting images of flames, bloody knives, dismemberment, and mayhem she saw—if they emanated from the bone bed, they might represent war, cannibalism, or the execution of witches.
Elena was certain it was sorcery. She believed the bones belonged to punished, dismembered, and buried witches. Those who had buried them intended that the witches’ spirits would never rise again from below the stones piled on their burned bones.
But what if the witches were cannibals? Dr. Thomas had said witches often consumed human remains in their horrific rituals. Wouldn’t that sin—the worst thing one human could do to another—compound the other evil the witches had done? No wonder the Hopi were frightened.
We are born with the dead, and when we die, they are born again. The wheel of life turns with the seasons, as the planet turns in its orbit around the sun. Time stretches from yesterday to tomorrow in an unbroken circle, melding together the planes of now and then. When the wheel halts, some lives come into the world of form and substance, and others are swept up into the realm of dreams and spirits. The secrets and lies, the accomplishments and deeds of past lives cycle around to touch others as the wheel turns once more. So it was six centuries ago, so it is today, and so it will be tomorrow. The beginning is the end, and the end is the beginning.
Chapter 26
Otis Greenlaw’s Ranch
The archaeologists had finished the excavations in the bone bed, and the LiDAR scanner and operators had left. The mappers
would crunch the numbers at their office, generate maps, and send the data to Elena on CDs. The work had generated more than 20 boxes of bone fragments. It had taken time to figure out where to put them, given that boxes and milk crates packed the lab and Sue’s room to the gills. At last, Elena and Sue settled on the annex. The enclosed room connected the lab to the ranch house and served as a laundry room and home for Norm’s huge chest freezer, but shelves for storage lined the walls. The shelves offered enough space for the boxes. Because Norm locked the annex at night, the human remains were safe. None of Elena’s special senses told her anything different.
Elena was relieved that she no longer had to deal with the horrid feature in the pasture, but other worries continued to gnaw at her peace of mind. The camp felt claustrophobic. The director could not stop thinking about the day she and Jorgensen had visited Cholla House and had seen the pot holes gaping raw in the talus slope. Greenlaw parked his rig at Canyon Day that evening, and its undercarriage choked with mud. Her own feelings told her something wasn’t right about Otis Greenlaw. Perhaps she could investigate a little on her own. When she had visited the digs and given instructions for the day, she headed for Show Low.
It never occurred to her she should apprise Jorgensen of her plans.
* * *
In Show Low, Elena stopped at the Railroad Café, her favorite place for lunch. The classic diner sported chrome stools at the counter and red-vinyl booths with old-fashioned juke boxes. Fifty cents slipped in the slot would buy gospel Elvis or a nasal country-western tune.
Over the seasons at the field school, Elena had grown acquainted with Madge, the fifty-something waitress who seemed to be the only server at the café. Madge knew everything and everyone. If by an odd chance she didn’t have the answer to a question, she could tell you where to go or who to ask.
Elena ordered a cheeseburger and onion rings, which arrived in a woven plastic basket lined with greasy, red-checked paper. When she had plowed her way through the food, Madge brought her a piece of the homemade, calorie-dense pecan pie that was the café’s claim to fame. “Know it’s your favorite, honey. On the house.”
Madge also brought two coffees in heavy, white mugs, angling for a girls’ chat. The café was empty, and Elena knew she was in for a long gossip session.
Madge wasted no time getting down to the gossip. “The FBI’s been sniffing around here. One guy from Lakeside and some important dude from Phoenix. Heard he’s real good-lookin’. And that it’s all connected to you somehow.”
So, Maggie was right. Everyone did know what the field school was doing.
Trapped, Elena explained about her consulting work. Madge arched a dark, penciled brow. “You’re working with the FBI? Knock me over with a feather.”
“The FBI suspects a big pot-hunting ring is in the mountain country, and it may be tied to a Mexican drug cartel. They’re trying to track it down, figure out who’s connected to it, and arrest the pot hunters if they can.”
Madge whistled, and her eyes widened. “Well, that sure ain’t good.” She stirred a third spoonful of sugar into her coffee.
“What can you tell me about Otis Greenlaw?” Elena said.
“What do you want with that old man? He’s trouble.”
“One of the grad students at the field school is leasing his horses to survey in the back country. I want to make sure he knows when we need him to haul the horses back out.” She fiddled with the pie. “You know, Madge, when he trailered the horses to the ranch, Greenlaw seemed a little too interested in old ruins and ancient artifacts for a rancher.”
“Hmmf,” Madge scoffed. “One reason I say he’s trouble. There’s been rumors about ol’ Otis for years, that he might be a pot hunter. I don’t wanna go talkin’ out of school, but Otis ain’t been the same since his wife died. Poor Velma—that was a hard way to go.”
“What happened to her?”
“Poor thing got the cancer. Started in her lady parts and then spread pretty much everywhere. Didn’t weigh more than 80 pounds when she passed and bald as an egg. Chemotherapy did her no good, just made her sick.”
Madge turned as the cafe door opened, and in moseyed a trio of cowboy types. “Gotta go serve the lunch customers, dearie.” She sashayed off toward the cowboys with her coffee pot and order pad, wide, polyester-clad hips jiggling as she went.
Elena sighed, pushing the last crumbs of pie around her plate. I’ll never be able to eat anything again. As she paid her bill at the register, she asked Madge how to find Greenlaw’s ranch.
Madge raised her eyebrows again and tsked at the director. “If you really have to see the old codger—go to the country store about a half-mile east of Pinedale, right side of the road. Gas pumps are out front—you can’t miss it. They can tell you. But you take care, honey. Watch yerself around Otis. I’m not sure you can trust him.”
* * *
“Greenlaw’s place ain’t hard to find,” the woman behind the counter assured Elena. She wore sparkling rhinestone minders for her glasses that swung back and forth as she talked and gestured. “Take the main road into Pinedale and then turn right just past the bridge—that’ll be Twin Pines Road. Stay on Twin Pines about a mile and a half. The road gits real narrow and you’ll think you’re lost. Then you’ll see the driveway into his ranch cuttin’ off to the left. Nothin’ else around—it’s the only place you can turn. In about a quarter-mile, you’ll see the big gate and the fences and barns. Greenlaw lives in the big brick house.”
Mrs. Rhinestones paused for breath and then started up again. “It’s just Otis and a couple ol’ boys now. He’s tryin’ to hold on to that ranch for dear life, but times ain’t good. Poor old Otis is a little off these days, you know?” Mrs. Rhinestones was the second person who had warned her that Otis was a little off.
The woman peered at Elena, her eyes lost behind the rhinestone glitter and thick lenses marked with the parallel lines of bifocals. “Are you ‘n Otis friends?” Mrs. Rhinestones asked.
“We’ve got business to discuss. Is he likely to be at home now?”
The woman shrugged, setting the rhinestones to swaying and flashing sparks. “Ranchin’ folks don’t punch a time clock, dear. But it’s gittin’ on toward late afternoon. Otis might be home.”
I hope not. Elena wanted to snoop around by herself and see what she could learn about the old man.
* * *
Following Mrs. Rhinestones’s directions, Elena found the Greenlaw place without difficulty. Twin Pines Road opened out into a broad valley cut by a cottonwood-bordered creek. A prime spot for a ranch, it had wood, water, and grass. No wonder Greenlaw was hell-bent on keeping it. She drove under a traditional ranch gate, its huge upright posts supporting a high crossbar. A line of the stylized birds Greenlaw had taken for his brand marched along the crossbar.
The driveway cut through fenced pastures where cattle and a horse or two grazed. Elena pulled into a rutted, dirt area in front of the brick house. It was big and solid but showing its age—peeling paint on the door and trim, missing roof shingles, dead bushes in the front yard. No one answered the bell at the front door or her knock.
So far, so good. Elena wasn’t sure what she had come here to find, but she didn’t want to run into Greenlaw regardless. She walked to the rear of the house. A dilapidated porch shaded assorted artifacts in various states of disrepair—a saddle in need of restitching, a heap of bicycle parts, snowshoe frames, a barbeque grill with the bottom rusted out, red geraniums blooming in an old enamel bucket. Thick grass, rich and green with the rain, grew up around stacks of old tires and a rusty wringer washer. An ancient truck on blocks appeared to be motoring driverless through a deep green sea. Beyond the truck, a swaybacked old mare gazed somnolently at Elena over the bars of a falling-down fence.
Elena pounded on the back door and stepped away from it, listening. Because she heard nothing, she peered into a window like a burglar. The back door led into what appeared to be a utility room. The smudg
ed glass revealed bundled newspapers, boxes, stacks of magazines, and a flannel-lined dog bed. A washer and dryer stood along one wall. A strong odor of dog and something else—perhaps just a seldom-cleaned house or the scent of an old man who worked with cattle, rode horses, and rarely showered—seeped around the window frame.
The director had found little at the house, other than she confirmed Greenlaw’s fall into hard times, but she needed to have a look at the barn, too. If Greenlaw was home, he—and the dog?—might be working there, but she would have to chance coming across him. Elena followed a dirt lane past the three-horse-slant trailer Greenlaw had used to haul Maggie’s horses to the Taylor Ranch. As she neared the barn, the unmistakable odor of death assaulted her nostrils.
A roaring filled her ears, and her senses were on fire. Something was terribly wrong. She forced herself to step through the open barn doors. The stench was stronger inside the barn, and nausea rose. Stalls bordered the wide breezeway, and one held the big gray gelding she had seen at Canyon Day. He seemed unfazed by the odor of death. The horse whickered when she came near him. He pushed his nose at her, snuffling his soft lips against her hands and sleeves. The sweet old animal reeked of normalcy rather than death.
Elena scratched the gelding on the forehead, hoping to ease the terror that swamped her senses. “You hungry, old boy? Sorry, I’m out of treats. If I’d known I’d see you again, I would have brought carrots.”
A corral adjoined the barn. She was loathe to walk farther, but made herself go through an open stall door. As she peered over the corral fence, she found the source of the odor. Two dead heifers and a steer lay on their sides in the summer sunlight, bloat already swelling their bellies.