"Do you know the Tuco clan of the town of Chichwee?" he said.
The youth nodded. "But not for a long time. My father's father is of that clan."
His father's father, thought Roberto. Cocunae is no relation to the Tucos then, because they recognized relatives only through their mother's side of the family. Too bad; if he were a relative, that would have been easier. However, being a member of the clan of his father's father was not without some bargaining influence.
"Most were taken by the sickness," said Roberto. "Tuco is my clan. My wife was a Daymah."
The young Indian nodded. "That is my people."
Roberto smiled. This was good. "I know how you can get a metal ax from the Spanish," he said, knowing that a Spanish ax was a valuable resource for the Indians. "Not only can you get a metal ax from them, but you can also send them away from this place."
"How?" Cocunae asked.
"The chiefs are planning a surprise attack on the Spaniards when they come to this village. You see the women and children already leaving." Roberto gestured across the village. "If the war riors attack, Spaniards will kill many warriors with their metal axes and swords and the metal-reeds-that-shoot-fire-from-longdistances. Then they will hunt down the women and children and make them slaves. You, too. They will make you a slave, or kill you. Their weapons are too strong, but the chiefs do not understand this. It is better that the Spanish go away and leave everyone in peace."
Cocunae listened patiently. The Indians were very patient people who both spoke at great length and listened well. If one was to communicate with them, one must do the same. Cocunae had not asked him what this had to do with him or how this knowledge would get him an ax. He assumed that Roberto would get around to it. He would only ask if Roberto failed to make it clear when he finished. Roberto knew all of this, so he spoke clearly and laid out all the nuances and alternatives of the situation.
"So," continued Roberto, "you must ask to talk to Captain Pardo. Talk only to him. That is important. First, you must tell him that you have information that you will sell for an ax. That is the Spanish way and that is what he expects from someone who bargains with him. When he says yes, then you must tell him to avoid this place so they won't be attacked. If Pardo should ask you if you swear allegiance to the king and His Holiness, simply say yes. That is part of the Spanish ceremony. Then he will give you the ax."
Roberto stopped speaking and waited for Cocunae to respond. Roberto did not hurry him or ask if he understood or try to further plead his case. He simply waited.
"I will go," Cocunae said finally. When these Indians made up their minds, they were brief.
Esteban Calderon pondered his cousins' story and their carefully drawn map as he lay on his cot at Fort San Marco, waiting for Pardo. He dug in his sack for the papers, carefully unrolled them, and reread the story and reexamined the map. He put his finger on the mark for Fort San Marco, where he was now, and traced the route to the X. It was not that far. When he was strong, he would take Diego and a couple of men and go to the cave. The Indians in this place were more friendly. He would be safe. Yes, he thought. He would go home a rich man.
Fort San Marco was a twenty-meter by twenty-meter enclosure made from tree trunks anchored into the ground. The Indians built two houses inside the fort-one for the soldiers and one for the officers. The houses were also built with walls of upright tree trunks woven with limbs and twigs and covered over with a thatch roof.
The Indians helping build the fort marveled to one another how the Spanish couldn't seem to do anything for themselves. The Indians had to build them houses and store up food for them. They speculated on what housed the Spanish where they came from, deciding they must have slaves who did everything for them. The irony that this fort they were helping build was designed to keep them and their kind under the control of the Spanish chief, whoever he was, was not lost on the Indians. What the Indians did not understand was how the Spanish planned to hold possession of the fort with only a few men after the main garrison left.
Esteban lay in a small open front cell of a room inside the structure that was to house the officers. He was reasonably comfortable. His mouth was healed to a point that it was not quite so painful. He lay, making plans, thinking what reason he could give Pardo for another foray out into the wilderness. A mine, he thought. A mine for the Crown. He would tell Pardo he had heard a story that was sufficiently credible that he felt compelled to check it out. Yes, that would work. He would tell him that his cousins had heard of this mine also when they had traveled with de Soto.
Diamonds aere much better, he thought. Much better. Gold is heavy. He would have had a very difficult time taking gold home without anyone knowing. But diamonds, there are many ways to hide diamonds.
"Diego tells me the Indians were very hostile," Juan Pardo said to Calderon. He sat down on the end of the cot to talk to Calderon.
"As you can see, he speaks true," said Calderon, as clearly as his damaged mouth and tongue would allow.
Pardo shook his head. "De Soto reported they were barbaric. I have found them more cooperative, but . . . " He gestured, leaving the thought unspoken, but hinting that perhaps he, more than either de Soto or Calderon, was suited to the task of dealing with the Indians.
"I fear I have not your skill," said Calderon, willing to put Pardo in a good mood if it helped his cause.
"Sometimes skill is lost on heathens," said Pardo magnanimously. He stroked his beard. "I am glad to have you back, Esteban, but I am disturbed by the desertion of so many good Spanish soldiers. I can't fathom why they would leave in the night-and with a horse. I have visions of an army riding aimlessly through these dark forests. What could they be thinking?"
"1 don't know, my captain. I only know that many disappeared, deserted from camp during the night. We searched for Indians, thinking they were following us, picking us off one at a time, but we saw no evidence. No. I fear many of my men went mad."
"Curious," replied Pardo.
"It is my belief they will show up at Santa Elena with excuses or entreaties for forgiveness."
"I hope you are right."
"My captain," began Calderon. "I heard a story from a young Indian. It is one I have heard before from my cousins, Sancho and Ruiz, who traveled with de Soto." Calderon related the story he concocted, adding evidence of his invention as he went along. At the end, he made his request. "I will need only a few men. My old friend, Diego, and a couple of others. We will travel avoiding the towns. I believe I can find this mine for His Holiness and His Majesty."
"How far from here do you think it is?"
"A day and a half," answered Calderon.
"Do you think you are sufficiently recovered for such an undertaking?"
"I am recovered enough. I can finish healing at Santa Elena when our task out here is done."
Pardo consented. "Find this mine and catch up with us. Tomorrow we are traveling to a town called Chilhaxul. It is large, and they have an abundance of food, I'm told. Meet us there."
Lindsay put the safety lock on her door and opened it to the width of the bar. "I'm surprised to see you here," she said to Craig Gillett.
"Can I come in? I'd like to talk with you," he said, curling his fingers around the door.
"I'll meet you in the coffee shop downstairs," Lindsay told him.
"What I have to say is private," he said.
"Then choose one of the tables in the rear. I'll be down in ten minutes."
"Look, Dr. Chamberlain, I haven't come here to hurt you."
"I'm glad to hear it. I'll meet you in the coffee shop in ten minutes."
He removed his hand and stepped back. "Very well. I'll see you down there."
Lindsay closed the door, put on her shoes, and ran a comb through her hair, wondering what he wanted and what it was about him that put her off.
He was waiting in the coffee shop in a rear corner booth. Lindsay sat down opposite him. A steaming cup of coffee already sat in front of her.
"I took the liberty of ordering you a cup of coffee," he said.
"I'm sorry, I've had my limit of caffeine today. But thanks for the thought."
"Aren't we just a little paranoid today?" he said.
"Mr. Gillett, I think you're taking things a little too personally. When I travel, I have certain rules I always follow. One is never letting men I don't know into my room. And I always restrict my coffee drinking. It is you who being a little paranoid." She pushed the coffee away from her.
He smiled tightly. "Perhaps you're right."
"What did you want to talk to me about?" she asked.
"Jennifer has been through a lot. She hasn't been able to get much peace from everything that has been going on in her life."
"And?"
"And I want you to stop this stupid investigation."
"There would seem to be little left to investigate. And as for Mrs. Darnell, I only spoke with her briefly over dinner, so she hasn't had to deal with me very much."
"Now that's naive. She has to worry about what you are trying to do."
"I'm simply trying to find the truth. That should be a comfort, not a worry," said Lindsay.
The waitress came to take their orders. "Just coffee," said Gillett in a clipped tone that made the waitress take her leave. "The Lamberts and you seem to think Jennifer has not been touched by all these accusations. The authorities have asked her the same questions, had the same suspicions. She is not an insensitive woman. It has been very trying for her. It has to end sometime."
"Are you Jennifer's financial adviser?" asked Lindsay.
"What?" He seemed puzzled by the change of subject.
"She said she had a professional advising her about things like insurance. Is that you?" Lindsay asked again. Lindsay, looking into the face of this man with his charming white-toothed smile, thought that he would also have a motive to get rid of Ken Darnell, and he would be more capable of the task than Jennifer. They could be in it together, or she could be completely ignorant of his involvement. If there was an "it" to have been involved in. So far, she hadn't found any evidence that what happened to Ken was anything other than an accident.
"I have advised her on occasion," he said carefully.
"What is your business, exactly?" asked Lindsay.
"I buy sporting goods for teams."
"Teams?"
"I didn't come to be interrogated," he said, eyes narrowing.
"No. You came to interrogate me. However, since Jennifer was so cooperative, I thought perhaps you would be also."
"I am a liaison between foreign teams-baseball, soccerand companies that sell equipment. I met Jennifer and Ken through a mutual friend of her late husband."
"I see. What did you think of Ken?" Lindsay asked.
"He was all right. Reckless-too reckless, as it turned out," he answered.
"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?" asked Lindsay.
"No. I don't believe anyone wanted to or did. It was a tragic accident. These murder rumors are simply fueled by other people. I'm sure it's been hard on the Lamberts since Mrs. Lambert's brother disappeared. They want to blame someone. That's natural. Blaine Hillard's family is just plain greedy. Look, I only came here to ask you to drop this. There's nothing to find. It was an accident. If the authorities found nothing, why do you think you can?"
Lindsay said nothing. There was nothing she could say that wouldn't sound arrogant.
On the way back to her room, Lindsay got the envelopes from the motel safe. In her room she undressed, put on her robe, and stretched out on the bed with the photographs. She looked first at the ones of Blaine Hillard. There were pictures of the front and back of his skull, as well as his full skeleton laid out anatomically. On the whole, not bad, but she wished she had more. She wished she had the bones.
Most of the bones of Blaine Hillard were still articulated, as Lindsay would have expected. The skull still had a scalp of hair, not a full mass but fine wisps. Thin pieces of dry parchment skin were stretched over bone here and there. She took a hand lens from her purse and began a slow, careful examination of the bones in the photographs. The first thing she observed was that Blaine had his right ninth rib on backward, or rather, upside down. She smiled to herself. The skeleton of Blaine Hillard had two left ribs that were supposed to occupy the ninth position. One had been placed upside down to make it a right rib. The bones were commingled. This seemed to be a pretty obvious error. She wondered why it wasn't caught. Perhaps because the person identifying the bones was only interested in identity, since cause of death seemed fairly straightforward, or perhaps because the examiner was not a forensic specialist.
Starting at the first rib, she began examining them one by one. After finding one out-of-place bone, she couldn't be confident now that others weren't, so if she found anything, she might not know which person it belonged to.
Lindsay found nothing on the ribs except rows of parallel grooves, indicating the bones had been gnawed by rodents. She was mildly disappointed. Ribs are a good place to find evidence of knife and gunshot wounds. She examined the long bones and joints. Blaine Hillard's surgeon appeared competent. The repaired knee joint looked good.
After looking at everything she could on the bones that were visible, she turned her attention to the skull. The back of the head was crushed and most of the skin was gone on the lower part of the skull. Probably the falling debris from the cave-in had crushed the cranium, but she examined it closely several times with the lens. Abruptly, she stopped at an injury in the right upper part of the occipital. Just jutting out from a crushed portion of the skull was a depression fracture that looked to be hook-shaped. It could be part of the injury from the rock fall, or not. It was hard to see in the photograph. But it looked suspiciously like the depression that the end of a crowbar or a similar weapon would make.
Lindsay stared at the picture for several minutes, trying to find more clues around the site of the wound. She jumped when the telephone rang.
"Hello," she said into the phone.
"Lindsay Chamberlain?"
The voice was familiar. "Yes, this is Lindsay," she said.
"This is John West. I tried your car phone, then your house, then Susan Gitten. She gave me your motel number."
"I'm sorry you had to call so many places. What can I do for you?"
"Nothing. I need to tell you what I found in the back of my truck. I would have called sooner, but it didn't occur to me. Because of the land settlement, we have enemies we didn't have before, and I thought it was one of them. But I couldn't figure out how it got in the bed of my truck without making a hole anywhere. It was as if it had dropped from the air. Then I remembered your tire, the one I tossed into my truck, and I realized what it must be."
"What did you find?" she asked.
"A bullet. I believe someone shot your tire, Lindsay Chamberlain."
Chapter 11
LINDSAY DIDN'T SAY anything for a moment. She gripped the receiver and nervously glanced at the door to make sure she had locked it. "A bullet?" she whispered.
"I don't know that it came from your tire, but I don't know where else it could have come from. I went along the highway where you had the flat and looked for bullet casings or some other evidence. I found nothing."
"Who would have shot at me?"
"Who are your enemies?" He paused, then added, "Besides me. I don't kill my enemies; I take them to court. Or lecture them to death." Lindsay smiled. "Emily tells me you have had trouble with a man you convicted with your testimony?"
"Yes," Lindsay said, "that could be. His family is very angry. But-" She hesitated, then decided to confide in him, mostly because she was alone and he was on the other end of the phone. "At the next site I went to after I left you-a conquistador camp," she added, so he would know it was not an Indian site-"one of the crew was murdered."
He was silent a moment. "Hmmm. A coincidence?"
"I don't know." Lindsay told him about the Lamberts, about the skele
ton in their field, about the cavers who were killed, and about what the Lamberts asked her to do.
"So, Rabbit, your curiosity's got you stuck to a tar-man." He chuckled. Lindsay knew he was not referring to the Joel Chandler Harris story, but to Indian lore from whence the story originated. "Sounds like you need greedy wolf to get you out," he said.
"Do you know one who'll take my place?"
"I know one who might cut you loose and let you walk away," he said.
He sounds like Derrick, thought Lindsay. "I have only one more person to talk to, then I'll be finished."
"I hope that's not prophetic."
"I didn't mean it exactly like that." She laughed. "Besides, if it is Denny Ferguson or his family, my walking away from this won't help."
"I talked to the FBI about the bullet," he said.
"FBI?" she asked.
"You were in the national forest when you had your accident. The FBI has jurisdiction. I don't know what they will do, but they know about it."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. You're a high-maintenance kind of girl. Your boyfriend must have his hands full."
Lindsay didn't know if he was trying to make her mad, make her defend herself, or just take her mind off her fear. Perhaps all of the above. "He probably believes he does."
"Are you alone now at your motel?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Has anything happened while you have been in Cave City?" he asked.
Lindsay hesitated. Craig Gillett's coming to visit her would hardly be considered in the category of something that happened, but it felt like it, the way he looked at her with his dark eyes, the way he wanted to come into her room. There was something frightening about him. She hesitated a little too long and John spoke again.
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