Bolt

by Siena West

  “But Cimelli wouldn’t be aware of the gas shed,” Elena said.

  “Then there’s Otis Greenlaw. Maggie pointed out I also refused to give a site tour, and he might resent me for that. But like Cimelli, he wouldn’t know about the gas shed or where we had stored the boxes of human remains. So we’re back to square one. It’s possible the arsonist thought he was covering his tracks when he set the fire. Getting rid of any evidence he left, like DNA and fingerprints. Or he hoped the fire would spread into the annex, burn everything stored there, and we’d never notice he had taken the boxes.”

  “I doubt the guy’s that smart. With his history, Cimelli’s a definite suspect. I’ll look into it when I get back to the office, see where he’s been and what he’s been doing the past few weeks. And I’ll check out Greenlaw, too.”

  “Thanks, Sandy. We have so little to go on.”

  “Listen, when the forensic team is finished, which should be soon, you can try to set things straight.” Elena sighed with relief. No one wanted burned, blackened wood and charcoal to remind them of the fire every day. “That’s great. The arson investigator cleared us, too.” She had told Jorgensen about Conway, his conviction the fire was arson, and his curious questioning of Norm and herself.

  “It was almost like he suspected someone had set the fire for the insurance. That’s funny, because Norm never mentioned insurance. He was too concerned about us.”

  “Norm’s a good person,” Jorgensen said.

  “We’ll figure this out, Elena.” Sure, he chided himself. Like I’ve figured out who the pot hunter is.

  During their conversation, Jorgensen had been watching Elena, looking for any signs of stress, burns, or bruises and trying to conceal his fear he would find them. As usual, she showed no signs she had been in a life-threatening situation. The fire had singed her glossy, smooth hair, and the ends frizzed around her face, making her look like a hippy with a halo. That appeared to be the extent of the damage.

  “We’ll find this guy,” he reassured her again. “If the arsonist is your pot hunter, he’s a major suspect in all the ARPA violations you’ve seen. It’s possible he’s associated with the cartel. There’s only one way to find out—catch him.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said. “If I get my hands on him—” She didn’t finish the sentence. It wasn’t necessary. Jorgensen had a good idea what she would do to the unfortunate bastard.

  The agent left soon, dreading the long drive back to Phoenix. They said goodbye in the parking lot. He tweaked the ends of her frizzy hair.

  “I don’t suppose it will do any good to tell you to stay out of trouble.”

  Elena’s smile was radiant. “Por supuesto no. Of course not, Sandy.”

  He kissed her. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  * * *

  Norm and Elena chatted in the kitchen over dinner preparations. Norm had so much dumped on him with the fire and its aftermath, she wanted to help. He was making spaghetti, browning the ground beef while she chopped up onions, mushrooms, and green peppers. “We need to make some changes,” he said. That was ominous.

  “Like what?” A worry line wrinkled her forehead.

  “We’ve got to secure the gas shed. I can’t enclose it—the fumes would be too dangerous in a closed space. So I’ll have to figure out a way to lock the spigots on the drums. Get something like a locking gas cap.”

  Elena felt weak with relief. Maybe he wouldn’t kick them out after all.

  “I’m not gonna risk having another fire. And sad to say, we must lock up the house, too. At ten p.m. sharp—everybody’s got to have their shower by then or stay dirty. When I get the annex wall and door repaired, I’ll lock that door at ten, too. The kids will need to get used to locking up if they leave the house at night.”

  Elena nodded. “That’s smart, Norm. We should have done it some time ago.” They were in the countryside, with no traffic, no neighbors, and no roads. It had never occurred to either that they needed to secure the gas shed, the house, and other buildings on the ranch. The obvious dangers were natural ones—bears, rattlesnakes, cougars, and brush fires.

  “And what about the generator? If anybody sabotaged that, we’d be in real trouble.”

  “Gonna put a lock on that, too.” Norm opened a huge can of tomato sauce while Elena dumped the chopped vegetables in the stockpot. “If I discover anything else that needs securing, I’ll let you know. Gosh, I wish I didn’t have to do all this, Doc.”

  “Me, too. But like they say, better late than never, or safe than sorry, or whatever. Tell me if we can help you. When you’re finished, we’ll give the kids a little lecture about the new protocol. If you’ve finished everything before we leave. Not too much time left.

  “Because our summer’s almost over, we should think about a party to celebrate the end of the season. I want to have the party sooner than the last night, because the whole camp needs something to lift their spirits.” She grinned at him. “You, too. This hasn’t been easy for you.”

  “That’s for sure.” Norm grumbled as he stirred the sauce into the vegetables.

  “You’ve done great steak dinners for us in the past. But this summer, I’d like to cook. We’ll have a fiesta!”

  Norm smiled back at her. “Mexican food?”

  “Pero, por supuesto. I’ll use recipes from my parents’ restaurant.” It was settled, then. Despite everything that had happened, Elena looked forward to a fiesta.

  Chapter 30

  Greenlaw’s Hat

  When Maggie’s last day of horseback survey in the canyon country approached, Elena was beside herself. Since the fire, her already considerable anxiety over the safety of the camp had increased to an almost unbearable level. Jorgensen would say it was post-traumatic stress. The pueblo excavations would soon be finished, and the crews spent most of their time cleaning and sorting artifacts. Much to Norm’s chagrin, they moved the sorting operation into the dining room, where the stack of boxes to be returned to Tucson grew with each passing day.

  The fire had no lingering effects. Norm had conscripted the Apache laborers and the cowhands to rip out what remained of the lab. They filled several pickup loads with debris and trucked it to a clearing in a pasture. Only a blackened rectangle of concrete showed where the lab had been. They’d replaced the artifact bags and other paper goods that had burned. Because they kept notebooks and dig notes in Sue’s room or with the other staff, those were unharmed.

  But the stolen human remains—that was another kind of loss. Elena spent hours in fruitless worry. It was almost a relief to have Maggie’s trip to worry about instead. At least that was a concrete, palpable thing.

  “You’ll be exposing yourselves to danger again,” Elena had said. “Have you forgotten what happened last time?”

  Maggie had scoffed. For her, the summer had been an extravagant, exhilarating mix of archaeology and romance, with a bit of danger thrown in for spice. She was not about to waste her last day in the field with Cole.

  “I haven’t forgotten, Tía. If I did, Cole would remind me about all the sacrifices he makes for love, including taking a bullet for me. How many grad students can say that?” She had screamed with laughter. “And really, Tía—what are the odds of something like that happening again?”

  No matter what logical arguments Elena used, Maggie was insistent. The redhead was almost as stubborn as the director.

  Elena could do nothing but fuss over them as they saddled the horses and loaded the equipment. “Do you have enough water?” Elena said. “Got your lunches? Any maps you need? Do you—”

  “Stop it, Tía,” Maggie broke in, laughing. “Cole’s a big boy, and he’s proved he can take care of himself. Me too, even if I am a dumpy little girl.” She planted a kiss on Elena’s cheek before swinging up into the saddle.

  * * *

  Maggie planned to explore an unnamed arroyo that branched off Muleshoe Canyon, a place within riding distance of the ranch
. The topographic map showed a second, smaller arroyo that would lead them back to the ranch. Cole had surveyed the flat ridges on the east side of the arroyo earlier in the summer. He’d seen no signs of Apache occupation, and according to the topo map, the arroyo walls were not high or steep. Maggie was smart, but map reading was not her forte. Because he didn’t want to crush her enthusiasm, he kept quiet.

  The arroyo was enchanting. Cottonwoods and sycamores bordered a trickle of water, and here and there, a cluster of white-faced cattle chewed, lazy in the shade. Summer wildflowers bloomed red and purple, and the broad, white blooms of thistle poppy waved in the breeze. It was a hot day; the birds were quiet, having finished their noisy morning work. The unmistakable odor of cow manure hung in the air, overlain with scents of water and fresh vegetation.

  They walked the horses side by side, enjoying the lazy morning and leisurely pace. The arroyo proved to be a shallow gouge with no canyon walls hiding overhangs or rock shelters. They hadn’t ridden far when Maggie gave up the search.

  “There’s nothing here,” she said, drawing the reins. “Nothing Apache, anyway.”

  “Do you want to go back?” Cole asked.

  “We’re out here, so we shouldn’t waste the whole day. Can you think of anything?”

  Cole thought while the horses put their heads down and cropped grass. “How about this?” he said at length. “There’s a small pueblo ruin up ahead that we found on survey. We called it Bluestone Pueblo because we saw a lot of turquoise on the surface. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again. Let’s check it out and have lunch there.”

  Maggie knew the Apache had sometimes camped near prehistoric ruins. If they found an Apache camp at the ruin, the day wouldn’t be a total waste.

  “Fine by me,” she said.

  Cole’s grin was sly. “Maybe we could do something else, too.”

  “Sightseeing?” Maggie said, mischief in her voice. She pulled up the reins and kicked her horse, and it broke into an awkward trot, spraying grass-stained spit from the bit.

  The pueblo lay on a low rise above the arroyo, with a good view of the creek bed below and the higher ground to the east. The horses took the hill at a lope, their hindquarters working and bunching. On top, Maggie and Cole dismounted, looped the reins over a juniper branch, and explored the ruin. Stones from fallen walls clinked with a hollow clatter under their boots, and heat radiated from the rocks and bare earth. The baking-hot afternoon was silent.

  Standing, coursed masonry and fallen stones marked the outlines of rooms. “It’s odd that this site hasn’t been pot hunted,” Cole observed as they strolled around the ruin. “It’s pretty well hidden.” Out-of-the way, concealed ruins were easy pickings for pot hunters who could do their dirty work unobserved.

  They visited the rooms and a small plaza in the center of the site. Cole played tour guide, pointing out this and that to Maggie, including the bits and pieces of turquoise that shone bright blue in the sunlight.

  “This site is cool, Cole,” Maggie said. “If I was a prehistoric archaeologist, I’d love to excavate here.”

  Cole poked her. “You’re old, Maggie, but you’re not prehistoric.”

  “Dickhead.”

  Last, they walked to the edge of the ruin where the rooms gave way to a trash area. Pot sherds crunched underfoot, and bits of flaked stone glittered.

  “Okay, I’ve had enough,” Maggie said as they crossed to a copse of junipers and young piñons. “There’s no sign of Apache occupation here. I’m hot, I’m hungry, and I’m done.”

  She sank in the shade with relief, pulling off her hat and letting her coppery curls tumble down to her shoulders. The duff was soft and springy, and it was bliss to let the faint breeze cool her face and dry her damp shirt. Cole went off to fetch lunch from the saddlebags.

  There was no hurry to get back home, and the afternoon stretched before them in hours of golden time. They ate lunch with leisure and then, drowsy with the heat, settled into the soft duff. Cole cleared away sharp cones and sticks and stretched.

  “God, I’m tired of riding that damn horse,” he said. “It’s luxury just to stretch.”

  “Today’s our last day. You’ll never have to do it again.”

  “Yeah, until your next hare-brained scheme. Don’t you have another summer of work?”

  “Only if I haven’t collected enough data, and if my grant money holds out. I won’t know until I’ve worked through my notes back home.” Maggie sniffed herself. She was wondering if the smell of horse sweat would ever leave her hair, skin, and clothes when Cole began to stroke her thigh.

  “Stop it, you pervert,” she laughed, slapping his hand away. “Not out here, in the broad daylight, where someone could see us.”

  “There’s nobody here but cows. You have no sense of adventure,” he complained. Passion thwarted, he fell asleep. Soon, faint snores marred the quiet. With nothing better to do, Maggie stared at the ruin, trying to count rooms and thinking about a nap herself. She had a good view of a part of the pueblo where they hadn’t explored. The redhead thought she saw a mound of red-brown dirt and something pale beneath a juniper several meters away. Maggie wondered why they hadn’t noticed it earlier.

  She nudged Cole with her foot. “Wake up. I think you were wrong about this ruin not being vandalized.” He struggled to sit up, befuddled from the brief nap.

  “Look over there, beyond the trees,” Maggie instructed.

  He looked where she was pointing. “Shit, you’re right.”

  Next to the mound of dirt that Maggie had seen, deep pot holes paralleled the walls of a room. Cole cursed with eloquence. “I can’t believe it—one of the few untouched sites we’ve found, and somebody’s spoiled it already.” The mounded dirt was soft and fresh. “No rain on the backdirt, meaning it’s new,” Cole said. “It hasn’t rained in what—a couple of days? The potting happened between the time we found the site on survey and today. Fuck.”

  The pale spot resolved into a cowboy hat. It was a Stetson felted-beaver-fur hat, the pale gray color called silverbelly. 10-X Shasta Premier, the label read—a well-used, $375 hat that was stained brown with sweat. After the Navajo fashion, its owner had added a silver hat pin. It was odd—why would someone abandon an expensive hat?

  Next to the hat lay the makings for hand-rolled cigarettes—a pack of rolling papers, matches, and a pouch of cut tobacco. It appeared the pot hunter had rested in the shade and then left in a hurry. Perhaps he was frightened away when he heard them riding to the site. They certainly hadn’t bothered to stay quiet.

  “Oh crap,” Maggie whispered. The lazy, golden afternoon, last of her days in the saddle with Cole, had turned ugly, despite the deep peace of the summer afternoon enveloping them. She took a long, unsteady breath, her heart pounding in her chest.

  “Cole, I know who the pot hunter is—I know who that hat belongs to. And we’re riding his goddam horses.”

  Chapter 31

  Caught

  As she looked out the window of her office, it surprised Elena that the cavalry had returned much earlier than usual. It was also a relief that Cole and Maggie appeared to be hale and hearty. Given her anxiety about the day’s ride, the early return might have signaled something dire. Cole and Maggie tied up the horses and rushed into the house and upstairs, Cole carrying a saddlebag.

  Elena’s relief faded at their hurry. “What on earth is the matter?” the director asked when they burst into her office. “Are we under attack? Is there another forest fire?”

  Cole and Maggie began talking at the same time.

  “Whoa, niños. One at a time, uno a la vez, por favor.”

  “We found out who’s been pot hunting!” Maggie said. Cole and Maggie giggled and danced around like little kids. They had ridden at a fast clip to get back to the ranch, too excited to let the horses plod.

  “Better tell me, then. Despacio, despacio.”

  Cole and Maggie explained what they had found at Bluestone Pueblo
, interrupting each other often in their eagerness to spit out the tale. They told her about the fresh pot holes, the hat, the cigarette papers, and the tobacco.

  “How do you know it was Greenlaw?”

  “The Pinedale bird,” Maggie said. “Remember, Greenlaw showed us the hat pin the day he brought the horses to camp? He told us a friend had made the pin for him. His truck and trailer had the same logo.

  “You can’t confuse the Pinedale bird with anything else, it’s so unique,” Cole interrupted.

  “The hat we found today had a silver pin with that design,” Maggie said. “It was his hat, no doubt about it.

  “Don’t forget Greenlaw smoked hand-rolled cigarettes that day, too,” she continued. “The old man left his tobacco and papers next to his hat at the site. Like something interrupted him, and he had to run.”

  “I hope a bear was after his fat ass,” Cole said. “But more probably, he heard us riding up the hill to the site. He just escaped us catching him.”

  The pieces of the puzzle were fitting together for Elena. “Greenlaw has fallen onto hard times,” she said. “That must be his motive for stealing artifacts.” She had told them about the sad condition of Greenlaw’s ranch and the dead cattle near the barn. “Pot raiding is a way to get extra cash.”

  “And remember, Greenlaw told us he’d taken out a second mortgage on his ranch,” Maggie said.

  “I don’t think I told you about this, but when Sandy and I visited Cholla House, we found fresh pot holes. When we stopped for gas at Canyon Day, I saw Greenlaw’s truck, trailer, and horse. Mud covered his rig, and we got caught in a storm, too.

  “Greenlaw was at Cholla House that day, I’m sure, pot hunting in the cliff ruin and leaving the holes we recorded. Jorgensen and I may have just missed him.”

  “Do you suppose he rode into Bluestone Pueblo, too?” Cole said.

  “I don’t see why not,” Elena said. “As far as I can recall, there’s no roads near the site.”