by Siena West
A judge of the Coconino County Superior Court had issued a search warrant for Greenlaw’s property. She was convinced by the preponderance of the evidence. It included the hat and smoking materials Maggie and Cole had brought back from Bluestone Pueblo, the fact that Greenlaw was the owner of the hat, and the circumstantial evidence of pot hunting. The clincher was the likelihood they would find stolen artifacts in Greenlaw’s house.
Jorgensen motioned his agents to the back door. The sheriff pounded on the front door as two deputies covered him.
“Open up! County sheriff’s Department! We have a warrant to search your house.”
Frank Rodriguez radioed Jorgensen. “Back door’s locked,” he said. “Looks like nobody’s home.”
“We’re going in. Stay there in case we flush Greenlaw out.”
There was no answer, so the sheriff kicked in the front door. “FBI!” Jorgensen shouted. The men fanned out through the house, clearing it room by room. There was no noise, no movement.
“Shit, he’s in the wind,” the sheriff said when they assembled in the living room.
Rodriguez pushed through the back door and into the room Elena had seen. It led into the kitchen, where open doors showed the cabinets were almost empty. “Greenlaw must have packed up the food,” Rodriguez said as he opened the refrigerator.
“Puta madre,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Guy really wasn’t a great housekeeper, was he?” Soured milk and a package of moldy, green bologna created the smell. The fridge held nothing else but a half-empty bottle of catsup and another of worcestershire sauce.
“Frank, take Sam with you and check the barn. Greenlaw could be hiding there.”
The rest of them donned nitrile gloves and explored the house. Jorgensen took the home office, a room crowded with stacks of papers and file folders, everything covered in dust. He pulled out drawers in the ancient roll-top desk, noting it held a few rounds of ammunition for a hand gun and shotgun. Greenlaw must have taken the guns and most of the ammunition with him. One drawer held folders labeled financial, bank, and insurance. He stacked them for someone to go through later.
The office lacked a computer. Either Greenlaw had taken it with him, or he didn’t own one. But better than a computer were the surprises in the middle drawer of the desk. The first was an old-fashioned ledger book with a marbleized, green-linen cover. Lines of crabbed handwriting filled its pages.
“Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.” Rodriguez had materialized behind Jorgensen and was looking over his shoulder. “That must be Greenlaw’s pot-hunting journal.”
“Looks like it,” Jorgensen said, flipping through the pages. “Dates, ruins he looted, artifacts he stole, names of the clients he sold them to. A fucking treasure trove of data.”
The second surprise was a number of undoubtedly prehistoric artifacts. Jorgensen sorted through two small ceramic bowls, one painted and one corrugated; a plastic medicine container holding hundreds of tiny stone beads and another with many pieces of turquoise. A handful of finely flaked projectile points, some made of obsidian, completed the pot hunter’s loot.
“I bet these artifacts came from the site where the kids from the field school found Greenlaw’s hat,” Jorgensen said. “We’ll see if Greenlaw recorded them in his journal. He didn’t have time to sell them.”
Rodriguez whistled and then grinned. “¡Hijo de puta! We got him.”
A broad smile spread across Jorgensen’s face. “Indeed, we do. We might even lift prints from the artifacts, although with the other evidence, we don’t need them.” They fist-bumped, and then Jorgensen asked what they found in the barn.
“A lot of hungry animals—it appears no one has fed them in a while. No sign of Greenlaw anywhere.”
Jorgensen grunted. They moved into Greenlaw’s bedroom, where the fastidious Rodriguez again wrinkled his nose at the filthy sheets and the unwashed-old-man odor. It looked like a tornado had hit the room—Greenlaw had pulled clothes out of the closet and dresser drawers, and shoes and boots lay jumbled on the floor. They found a similar mess in the adjacent bathroom. Jorgensen opened the medicine cabinet to find a popular antidepressant and a medication often prescribed for schizophrenia. From the dates on the nearly full pill containers, it was clear Greenlaw wasn’t taking his medications.
“He’s running,” Jorgensen said. “Wonder who tipped him off? And he must have been really in a hurry if he didn’t tell a neighbor to feed his stock.”
Last, they went into the living room. The deputies were going through the piles of junk stacked everywhere, looking for anything potentially important.
“Look at this,” one of them said. A dead, still-decorated Christmas tree stood in front of the window, its brown branches nearly naked. It was a sad testament to Greenlaw, his illness, and his crimes.
Jorgensen noticed a stack of cardboard boxes in a corner. As he leaned over to read the labels, he saw they were computer-generated and listed the date, contents, and the site number.
“Fuck me. It’s the human bones,” he said. “The ones stolen from the field school.” He grinned at Rodriguez. “I can’t wait to see Elena’s face when I tell her about this.”
The forensics team took over, taking photographs and gathering the file folders, medication vials, Greenlaw’s journal, ammunition, the artifacts, the boxes of bones, and other evidence. “We’ll put away a bad character who’s been pot hunting on federal property and breaking laws,” Jorgensen said. He had shared the Lightning Bolt project with the sheriff. This would be the first time they could link a perpetrator to tangible evidence of pot hunting. Even if Greenlaw wasn’t tied to the cartel—as far as they knew—it would be a coup.
“If we can find him,” the sheriff said.
“We will. I’ll have Agent Rodriguez liaise with you and the Apache cops, too. Greenlaw may be hiding on the rez.”
It was midnight before the team was finished, and everything was packed for transport. Despite the late hour, Jorgensen and Rodriguez experienced the high brought by concluding a case successfully and anticipating the slam-dunk of the prosecution to come.
There was only one problem. There could be no prosecution unless they found Greenlaw.
* * *
The next day, the hammer came down on Caleb. The Show Low police and the County sheriff, again armed with a warrant, raided Caleb’s falling-down shack outside town. Following their noses, they found a small meth lab and Caleb, who had been smoking his product. The cops dragged Caleb away, jigging and jittering, and the crime-scene investigators arrived to document the meth lab and its contents. The cops would interview him back at the police station. Caleb’s official career in jail was about to begin.
Chapter 35
Relief
After Elena completed the banishing spell, a sense of relief settled over the camp. The relief might have been real, and it might have emanated from Elena. It had seemed a silly thing to do, killing Cimelli’s curse bundle and performing the spell. But she felt elated, nevertheless, as if the act had lifted the proverbial weight from her shoulders. The feeling of relief was in good time, because the last week at the field school would be tough, and they needed something to buoy their spirits. In addition to finishing and documenting the digs, students were tasked with completing their written assignments and lab work, backfilling the pueblo excavations, and packing their possessions. The staff was charged with supervising the backfilling, closing down the buildings that Norm wouldn’t use over the winter, packing up the artifacts and samples, and loading the trucks. There was a lot to do and little time to do it.
Norm had measured the rectangle of old concrete that marked the remains of the lab, pacing the area, calculating, and making notes. On Sunday afternoon, Elena found him in the kitchen, drawing up a rough sketch.
“Take a look, Doc. Here’s what I’m thinking. I want to redo the floor first.” Cracked, patched, and uneven, it needed repair. “Might have to pour a new foundation because I’m not sure if we c
an fix the old one. I’d like to enclose the room, at least part, and plumb it. Put in sinks with sand traps, too. And lots of shelves and cabinets, some of them locking, in the enclosed part. Make it a real storage and processing area.”
Elena swallowed her amazement. She had convinced herself that Norm would decide the field school was more trouble than it was worth and send them packing. But instead, he had noted the problems with the existing facilities and wanted to fix them for the archaeologists. It was amazing.
“That’s terrific, Norm. But how will you pay for it all?”
“Insurance money will cover most.”
“The university has no money—you can always count on that—but I’ll write a grant proposal and see what I can do to help you.”
“It’s a deal,” Norm said.
Elena was among the busiest in camp. The problem of next season’s research remained. She was unsure if she could continue to dig at the Taylor Ranch, knowing what lay buried in the pasture and the horrors the human remains unleashed. We need a new place to excavate next summer. Cole had found a couple of likely sites on survey, one not too far from camp. She needed to look at them to see if they would fill their needs for training and research. Information about the site she chose would be included when they renewed their permit with the Forest Service.
Worst of all, she would need to notify the State museum about the theft of the human remains, a chore she had not yet found the courage to tackle. And the fiesta! Couldn’t forget that.
The director also believed it would be prudent to hire a Native American medicine man, perhaps Apache or Navajo, to perform a cleansing ceremony. They should try to cleanse the poor butchered people in the pasture, but Elena thought she should be included in the ceremony, too. The wickedness from the bone bed may have affected her more than she realized. She added the ceremony to her to-do list.
Elena was sitting on her porch with Maggie, Cole, and a few students, enjoying the lazy afternoon. Tomorrow was soon enough to get busy, and this would be the last time to relax before the bust-ass week. It was a surprise when Sander Jorgensen appeared, driving the black Tahoe slowly through camp. Elena had taught him well.
“Sandy! What are you doing here?” Elena greeted him.
“I have some good news for you. But first, I need a drink.” He cadged a cup of ice and poured bourbon—once again, liberated from his jacket pocket. “Thirsty work, driving up from Phoenix.”
Jorgensen drew out the moment, grinning wickedly at Elena over the rim of his cup.
“Come on, Sandy! What is it?”
“Okay, if you insist. We raided Greenlaw’s ranch the other day,” Jorgensen said. “The Show Low police and the County sheriff also raided Caleb’s place. They printed Caleb when they arrested him. His prints matched the ones our techs recovered from the lab.” The forensic team had lifted prints from the wall where Caleb painted the red, insulting words. They were good prints, complete and distinct. “The stupid fool didn’t even have the sense to wear gloves. There’s no doubt that Caleb stole the boxes of human remains, set the fire, and wrote that nasty message on the wall.”
Elena laughed at his grumbling. “You are losing your political correctness, querido. But please get to the point.”
“Apparently, Caleb brought the boxes of bones to Greenlaw’s house after he stole them. Greenlaw pitched a fit—he didn’t want them and had no idea what to do with them. So he stacked them in the living room, where we found them. They’re now safe, locked up in evidence.”
“¡Tienes que estar bromeando! You’re kidding!” Unexpectedly, Elena burst into tears. She hugged Jorgensen, somehow avoiding spilling his bourbon.
“It will be a while before you can pick them up, because they’re evidence,” Jorgensen said.
Gracias a Dios, I didn’t have the nerve to contact the State museum and tell them about the theft of the bones, Elena thought, wiping away tears. Maybe her reputation would survive.
“I’m a little lost here,” Elena said, recovering her composure. “How do Caleb and Greenlaw know each other?”
“Caleb is Greenlaw’s nephew.”
“¡Que cabron! Hijo de puta. Bastardo!” She spat out the curses as if they tasted bad. Then she calmed down.
“I knew the Woolfords come from a long-time pot-hunting family,” Elena said. “That’s why I was reluctant to hire Caleb at first. But he’s Greenlaw’s nephew? Jésús, María, y todos los santos.”
“Don’t be a Debbie Downer,” Maggie said, laughing. “It’s over now. Caleb’s gonna spend years in jail—we need to celebrate! Come on, Tía, make a pitcher of margaritas.” If Maggie had learned anything during this magical summer, it was that everyone hated the margaritas she made.
Elena obliged, and while she poured and mixed, Jorgensen explained what else they had learned. “We found a bunch of artifacts in Greenlaw’s desk. They’re probably from the site where you found his hat. He didn’t have time to sell them because now he’s vanished. He may have taken a horse and is hiding out somewhere. His house was an incredible mess, like he packed up in a hurry, and a horse trailer is missing. Somebody must have warned him we were on to him after these guys here found his hat at the ruin.” He smiled at Cole and Maggie.
“We’ll find him. Because the other terrific thing we found in his house is his pot-hunting journal. It’s almost as good as a computer file. The man is toast. He can expect jail time and a huge fine.”
“Another reason to celebrate!” As if Maggie needed a reason. Elena passed the margarita cups to everyone. “Salud!” she said as they raised their cups. “You guys—Maggie, Cole, and the FBI—did a pretty good job. A pot hunter caught, an artifact thief jailed, and stolen goods returned. And best of all, not a shot fired.”
Jorgensen was pleased, too. Greenlaw had nothing to do with the cartel, as far as they knew, but they had apprehended at least one pot hunter.
“Frankly, all the credit goes to Maggie and Cole,” he said. “We just took it on after you found Greenlaw’s hat.”
The pair high-fived, grinning like maniacs.
“I assume this means we will receive a special commendation?” Maggie said, laughing.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Jorgensen was laughing, too.
“I wish I could stay and celebrate with you, but I’ve got to drive back to Phoenix tonight. I plan to beg Norm for coffee so I can stay awake.”
The group dissolved into general hilarity, talking about commendations and gold stars, but Elena was thinking about darker things. She remembered her feeling of betrayal after the fire and the theft. Stealing the boxes of human remains was a personal act of vengeance.
They did not recognize it yet, but she was right.
Chapter 36
Harbinger
The last week of the field season opened under a lowering, leaden sky. Only a few pale streaks lightened the ominous gray. Elena woke while it was still dark, troubled by dreams—dreams peopled with ghostly images moving without sound in a pale landscape. The new sensation of brittleness had settled into her bones, as if eroded from the season of tension, they could shatter and splinter of their own accord. She had been so relaxed, even happy, after the successful banishing and the revelations about Greenlaw, Caleb, and the stolen human remains. This was a different turn of emotion. The troubled sleep left her exhausted rather than refreshed. The unfamiliar sensations dogged her into rising and facing the day ahead.
Elena dressed as the night slipped away, and the ragged cloud edges turned the color of watery blood. At the wash basin on the porch, she ran a comb through her hair, brushed her teeth, and splashed water on her face. Unnatural silence wrapped the dawn because the usual chaotic bird chorus was quiet. The hollow, echoing stillness of the windless air was claustrophobic.
With the rising sun, the light turned a curious green. At sea, such light signaled a coming storm, and on land, it could herald a tornado. She shivered; what on earth is wrong with me? Elena pushed away
the idea that something terrible awaited her today.
The director should have known she was experiencing the familiar sensations of prescience. But she ignored her feelings, and that would bring trouble.
* * *
As Elena walked to the kitchen, her spirits rose. Nothing like the smell of pancakes and bacon to banish bad dreams. Norm’s hot, strong cowboy coffee helped clear away the remnants of the restless night. By the time the archaeologists were ready for work, she was almost herself. Most of the clouds had drifted toward the west where they hung over the canyon that marked the plateau edge. The green light had shifted to gold, and blue sky overhead suggested it might be a clear day despite the cloudy dawn.
Elena sat with her third cup of coffee, chewing without thought on a strip of bacon. She jotted down notes as ideas came to her. In the morning, she would help Mel replace the artifacts removed from the room for safety, take final photographs, and map everything. That afternoon, she and Cole planned to visit a site thought to be a likely candidate for next summer’s work.
On top of everything that had to be done, there was the problem of Otis Greenlaw’s horses. Because Greenlaw had disappeared, and the cops hadn’t located him yet, it seemed clear he wouldn’t be coming back for the horses. She and Maggie didn’t know what to do with them. There was no time to ride, and the animals stood all day in their stalls, shaking off flies and munching hay.
It was time to face the music—afrontar las consecuencias. With a great sigh, she drained her coffee cup. Hora de ir a trabajar, María Elena. She went to find Norm. Elena had tasked him with handling the shopping for the party, and she approached him with a long list. Norm was using the opportunity to go to the big-box store in town and check out the possibilities for securing the gas drums and the generator.
Somehow, everything would get done.
* * *
The morning grew blistering hot as the sun moved toward noon, and the humidity rose. Billowy cumulus rose like mounded snow in the eastern sky, signaling that a storm was brewing. At lunch, Cole sat down next to Elena.