LC 02 - Questionable Remains

by Beverly Connor

  Agent McKinley questioned the crew members individually and separately about Gil Harris. Did he have any enemies? Was he suicidal? Had they seen anyone suspicious? Did anyone have any arguments with him? Who saw him last? All the answers were either "no," or "I don't know." Gil Harris was a normal archaeology student from the University of North Carolina who was interested in caves. He was well liked, enthusiastic about the site, and led what everyone believed to be a normal life. Lindsay, as it turned out, was the last person to have talked to him.

  McKinley interviewed her last. They stood by his motorcycle while the crew gradually drifted to their archaeology tasks, mostly to keep their minds off the death of a fellow worker.

  "What did the two of you talk about?" McKinley asked her, and Lindsay laid out the entire conversation before him.

  "So, do you think there is any connection between Gil Harris and this Ken Darnell fellow?"

  "I don't know. It would be a strange coincidence."

  "Do you believe in coincidence?" he asked.

  "Yes. Life's full of them," Lindsay answered.

  Agent McKinley smiled again. "You're right, but it is interesting."

  "I've gone over in my mind every nuance of his expressions as I talked to him, and there was just nothing about him that was suspicious."

  "I see. Well, if you remember anything, give me a call." He gave her his card. "You're going to look into this Ken Darnell business for the Lamberts?"

  "Yes. I don't expect to find anything. It seems to be a straightforward accident."

  "Sounds like it, but if you find anything that connects with this, let me know."

  "I will."

  It was well into the afternoon before the crime scene people came out of the woods carrying Gil Harris in a body bag on a stretcher. The crew stopped what they were doing and stood silently as they carried the body past them and headed down the trail. Lindsay, Jane, Alan, and Jim exchanged glances. They had been through this before.

  "Bad business, this," Agent McKinley said, looking around at the archaeologists. "Mainly my work with the Park Service has been to help the rangers look for poachers, looters, and grave robbers. I left Los Angeles for a quieter life." He shook his head. "Well, thank you, Dr. Chamberlain, for your help."

  "You're welcome. I don't suppose you'll tell me if you found anything on the cliff or at the scene?" she asked.

  "I'm afraid the information flows only one way: from you to me. However, if you find out anything about the other thing, maybe then we can share."

  "Look, the crew here need to be safe. If there's some maniac in the woods . . ." Lindsay hesitated, keeping her voice low so that none of the crew would hear. "Is there someone you could send?"

  "At the very least, I'll have them checked on once a day. I'll try to spare someone more often. In the meantime, tell them not to go anywhere alone and to travel in twos and threes."

  Lindsay nodded. Dan McKinley disappeared down the trail on his motorbike. The crew resumed their work. Jane and Alan came over to Lindsay.

  "Was he murdered?" whispered Alan.

  "I don't know," answered Lindsay. "Maybe. Agent McKinley said not to let anyone go anywhere alone. He'll have someone check in with you here every day."

  "Who would do such a thing?" asked Jane.

  Lindsay shook her head. She did not tell them about Ken Darnell. She really didn't believe that there was a connection.

  Esteban Calderon would have a permanent lisp. Because of the lost molars, his cheeks were sunken. When the wounds to his face healed, he would have conspicuous scars on both his cheeks. His face, not a handsome one to begin with, had taken on a cadaverous look as the swelling went down. Already, behind his back, his men called him Calavera-death skull. These realities, added to the fact that he was not any richer than when he arrived, made Calderon a perpetually irritable man.

  His cousins had told him another story from their travels with de Soto's expeditions. Another story of treasure, which he had dismissed as too fantastic but which now seemed more believable. His problem now was how to convince his men to continue along on his quest. Maybe he wouldn't need them. This quest was different. The treasure was smaller-it would not make him fabulously wealthy like de Soto-but it would do. He would travel northeast and catch up with Pardo. That would satisfy his men, then he could make plans of his own. He would need only a few men. Diego would be one. He could count on faithful Diego. Yes, that would be better.

  Roberto Lacayo had never before been on a war party. He had not been allowed when he lived with his adopted tribe. This excursion with Piaquay was his first. He had, however, been on one hunting party and found this similar. On both, he observed that the Indians kept their bows strung most of the time, ready to use. They were fast with their bows. Roberto had seen an Indian get off as many as five arrows in the time it took a crossbowman to load and shoot one bolt.

  Roberto had no weapon. Even if they had given him a bow, he couldn't have used it. That was one of the things he marveled at the most. The Indians were so strong. They could pull a bowstring back to their ear; Roberto could pull it only slightly, not enough to send an arrow anywhere.

  The Indians were relentless and completely fearless in battle. If battles could be won on courage and strength alone, they would have won most of the engagements with de Soto. But battles are won by superior weapons and strategy, and the Indians had neither against the Spanish. Conquistadores on horseback with steel swords were simply too powerful. If Piaquay would listen, Roberto could tell him how to defeat Calderon when they met, but he knew Piaquay would not listen to him. Roberto would have to take his own revenge.

  The war party trailed Calderon and his men. Roberto was amazed that they had found his trail so easily after so many weeks. But Roberto knew that Calderon was probably ignorant of how many hunting parties saw his passing, of how the animals fled when the noisy Spaniards made their way through the forest, of how much destruction of foliage was left in the wake of their passing, or how they really only had to follow horse droppings.

  They traveled swiftly. Roberto was tired; he wished they would stop and rest. The Indians were quiet when they traveled, another wonder for Roberto. They continually cuffed him on the shoulder for making noise. And every time he stepped on a stick and broke it, they made him carry the thing until the end of the day. After a while Roberto learned not to step on twigs.

  When they stopped to camp, a young novice warrior prepared meals for Piaquay and the other braves. Roberto had to prepare his own food. He didn't mind. He was used to taking care of himself. He watched his captors closely, trying to learn their woodcraft, but frankly, there was much of their behavior he didn't understand-like why they never sat on the ground, but on logs or rocks, and never leaned against anything, whether sitting or standing. Maybe it has something to do with not being able to be tracked, he thought. Even though he didn't understand the reasons, he imitated their behavior. Roberto wanted to escape. He wanted revenge against Calderon as much as the Indians did, but he did not want to throw in his lot completely with Piaquay. Roberto knew Piaquay's villagers hated him and blamed him for the deaths of their families, as they hated and blamed all Spaniards. They would kill him if that damn crystal Piaquay consulted every morning told them to. Also, Roberto only wanted revenge against Calderon, not against all of his countrymen.

  They stopped finally and quickly prepared camp. Piaquay usually lit afire with coals from his village that he carried in a small clay pot in a wooden pack on his back. In this pack Piaquay also carried his crystal and other spiritual things. When they made camp, as usual he constructed a pedestal of rocks on which the wooden pack rested when he was not carrying it. But this time Piaquay did not build afire.

  Neither Piaquay nor the others had made any effort to teach Roberto their language. What he knew of it lie had picked up on his own, but he understood that the reason they stopped now was that they had caught up with Calderon.

  Piaquay took the crystal from his bundle. It w
as a large, long, clear, six-sided crystal with doe skin wrapped around the end that he held. Piaquay sat on a log and looked into the crystal and sang a chant to himself.

  "They are going to leave soon," he told his brother. "I will go to their camp. You stay with the others."

  Roberto approached Piaquay. "Quiero venir," lie said. "I want to see the bastard."

  "No," said Piaquay. "You make too much noise."

  Roberto knew that arguing would be useless. He watched Piaquay go silently through the woods, quickly disappearing in the thick growth.

  Piaquay peered at his enemy from the cover of the forest. They were making preparations to break camp. Roberto told him that they would probably try to find the Spaniard Pardo. Roberto called this Calderon his enemy, too. That was good, but Piaquay still didn't trust Roberto completely. It was hard to change from a bear to a wolf. Piaquay would follow the Spaniards. Like a ghost, he would curse their travels until they met up with Pardo. An idea was forming in Piaquay's mind. He knew the Spaniard Pardo would be going to Chilhaxul if Roberto was right. When Calderon met up with this Pardo, Piaquay would take the short way to the land of the Chilhaxuls.

  Agent McKinley's word was good. He or a ranger checked in on the archaeology crew every day. On Lindsay's last day he introduced Cal Barnett, a retired policeman and history buff, who was delighted to become a member of the crew.

  "I appreciate this," said Jane.

  "It's just a precaution," said McKinley. "I don't expect any trouble."

  "But just the same," said Alan, "we'll feel safer."

  "You leaving, Dr. Chamberlain?" he asked, looking at the backpack sitting at her feet.

  "Yes, I'm moving on to another site."

  "Keep in touch," he said, and Jane raised her eyebrows at Lindsay.

  "I will," she said. McKinley left on his motorbike.

  Alan's test for Lyme disease came back positive, and he was on a regimen of tetracycline. It sapped his energy, so he said good-bye to Lindsay at the site and didn't try the fourmile hike down to the parking area and back.

  "Take care," he said, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  "You, too. Get plenty of rest."

  Jane and Jim walked with her to the Land Rover. When they reached the vehicles, Lindsay put her backpack in the backseat and turned to Jane.

  "Do you think we could have a dig next time where no one gets killed?" said Jim. "I'm having a hard time explaining to my folks that archaeology is a safe and wholesome occupation." They laughed.

  "You guys take care," she said. She climbed into her Rover and drove off, watching them in her rearview mirror as they waved good-bye to her. Jim had his arm around Jane's shoulders. Lindsay had thought that Jane was dating Alan. She smiled at the sight of them, glad for a reason to smile, to offset the sense of dread that was beginning to gnaw at her stomach. Her vacation was not turning out the way she had planned.

  Lindsay drove to Chattanooga and stopped at a motel. She could have driven on, but she was tired and was not sure she would continue her vacation as planned. The death of Gil Harris bothered her. Coincidences happen every day, true, but-but, that was it, that "but, what if," that kept gnawing at her.

  Lindsay showered first, washing the residue of more than a week's digging and inadequate sponge baths down the drain. With a towel around her body and another around her head, she sat on the bed and called Derrick.

  "Lindsay," he said, when he heard her voice, "I just heard about what happened at the site. How are you?"

  "Fine. I'm a little worried about the crew at Jane's site. The Park Service did arrange for a retired policeman to stay with them."

  "A policeman? The news said it was an accident."

  "It may have been. But there's a chance he was murdered."

  "What? Do they know who or why?"

  "No." Lindsay told him about the Lamberts' request that she look into the death of Grace Lambert's brother. Then she told him about the conversation she had with Gil Harris before he died. "I don't know if they are connected. But I want to find out. I thought I'd come to your site a few days later than I originally planned, after I make a visit to the authorities in Ellis County, Tennessee, where Ken Darnell was found dead, and also pay a visit to Ken Darnell's wife."

  The silence on the other end of the phone was more deafening than if Derrick were yelling at her.

  "Derrick?" she said after several moments.

  "What do you want me to say?" His voice was calm and even.

  "That you understand."

  "I can't do that. I don't."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, I've been looking forward to seeing you. I thought you wanted to see me, too."

  "I do."

  "Lindsay, you're not a detective. People bring you bones, you identify them and give them a report. Better yet, stop the forensic thing and just be a plain ordinary archaeologist."

  Lindsay smiled to herself. "Some people want me to stop doing that, too."

  "Who?" Derrick asked. Lindsay explained about John West and his family. "Poor baby." Derrick's voice was softer. "Getting it from all sides, aren't you-and having a death at the site. I shouldn't argue with you over the phone. I'm sorry."

  "You're right. I'll come see you first."

  "No. This business will only be on your mind. Just be careful."

  Lindsay's eyes started to tear over. She didn't know why, perhaps just a delayed reaction from the events of the recent past. "Derrick, I miss you," she said, hoping he could not hear the tears in her voice.

  He did. "Are you okay?" he said.

  "Yes. I miss talking with you."

  Derrick hesitated before he spoke. "We're talking now."

  "No, we're not. Not the way we used to."

  "Things have changed between us. We love each other."

  "Does that mean we can't be friends?" she said.

  "I thought it meant we were better friends."

  "Then trust me," she said.

  "I do, Lindsay. I do."

  "Then love me for who I am. You used to."

  "I still do. The stakes are higher. I'll deal with it," he said.

  Lindsay wanted to tell him about five-year-old Marilee. She started to, but then, she wasn't sure what that had to do with anything. Lindsay wanted to find out what happened to Marilee's uncle so that there would be no mysteries in Marilee's family and her mother could get about the job of raising her with no sad, dark, suspicious clouds hanging in the distance. She was being fanciful. At one time Derrick would have understood that.

  "Lindsay?"

  "I'm here. It has to do with a little girl I met," she blurted. "I want to do it for her. I know that sounds silly "

  "No. I understand."

  The old Derrick was back, the one who understood her without her saying anything. Lindsay wiped her eyes, and she told him about Jane's site and conquistadores camping, resting up from a battle, cooking domestic pigs, and losing their axes in the woods. When they said good-bye, she felt better.

  When Lindsay was born, her family expected that she would be another celestial body in her family's scholarly galaxy, so she had a lifetime of expectations that she would be nothing less than stellar. The pressure they applied was gentle because it did not occur to them that she would be less than what was expected, and they assumed it had not occurred to her either. However, gentle pressure over many years still had force behind it. Lindsay wondered if that was why she resisted serious relationships. She wanted no expectations of her other than that she would be herself and she would decide who that was.

  Lindsay looked at the time. It was early enough to call Susan and check on things at home. She dialed her number. A man answered.

  "Dr. Chamberlain's residence."

  Lindsay was taken aback for a moment. "This is Lindsay Chamberlain. Is Susan there?"

  "Oh, Dr. Chamberlain, this is Paul Gitten, Susan's brother."

  "Is she all right?"

  "Yes, she's fine. She moved Mandrake to her p
lace. He's fine. She told me to tell you not to worry. There's been a few reporters and some trespassers, and she just wanted to get Mandrake out of the way. You know, in case anyone left the gate open or anything like that."

  "I see." Though Lindsay was not sure she did. "It must have been serious for Susan to be worried."

  "Not serious, just several minor incidents. Judd, you remember my brother Judd?" Lindsay said she did. "He and I wanted to do a little fishing, so we're keeping an eye on the place. Susan didn't want it left alone."

  Susan was very conscientious, one reason Lindsay liked to have her look after her place. She knew how to see to things.

  "I hope this isn't an inconvenience for you and your brother."

  "No, not at all. Like I say, we wanted to do a little quiet fishing. Don't worry about anything here. Judd and I can take care of anything."

  "By trespassers, what exactly do you mean?"

  "She heard things at night, like someone creeping around the outside of the house. You know Susan. She has no imagination, so there was somebody there." Lindsay smiled to herself at Paul's description of his sister. It made her wish she had a better relationship with her own brother.

  "Did they do anything?"

  "Nothing much. Didn't get a chance. We think it was some of Denny Fergurson's relations. They're all riled over him getting convicted and having to run off. They're badmouthing you pretty bad."

  "Yes, but they've been doing that all along. Do you think it may be Denny himself?"

  "No, I imagine with a death penalty hanging over his head, so to speak, he's hightailed it out of the state. His whole family has always been no good. They look for excuses to harass people. Right now, you're it. It'll blow over. In the meantime, while you're gone, we'll take good care of your place."

  "I appreciate it, Paul. I'm sorry it's so much trouble."

  "No trouble. Judd and I never liked the Fergusons. We went to school with some of the older boys. None of them's ever been any good. Don't like reporters much either, so I guess we can take care of all of them."