LC 02 - Questionable Remains

by Beverly Connor

  "Something has happened."

  "No, not really. Just the boyfriend of the prime suspect came to see me. I talked to him in the coffee shop. He just kind of gave me the creeps is all."

  "Why do you do this?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I just like the Lamberts and wanted to help them. I plan to talk to the guy who identified the skeletons, then give everything I have to the Lamberts and to the police."

  "I would stick to that plan. Well, Little-Rabbit-who-digsup-my-ancestors, I'll say goodnight. Keep your door locked. Do you have a pencil?"

  "What? Yes."

  "Write down my phone number. If you need anything, give me a call."

  She wrote down the number John West gave her, thanked him again, and rang off. With the phone back on its cradle and the room silent, Lindsay felt very alone. Every footfall past her door made her edgy. She double-checked the lock on the door, then went to take a shower.

  This is silly, she thought as she soaped herself. The bullet may have come from somewhere else. It may have fallen out of something else he put in his truck, or someone may have shot at him and he just didn't see the bullet hole. Then she thought about the rumors that had begun about her, the things that had happened at her house. A thought struck her like a bullet and she stood letting the warm water wash over her. All the things that had happened were events that should make her want to go home-the attack on her reputation, the calls and visits to her home. Someone wanted to scare her into going home. If she didn't, what then? Would they escalate to something more dangerous? Was that what the bullet was, an escalation? What about poor dead Gil Harris? Where did he fit into this? Tomorrow she would call Agent McKinley and talk him into telling her what he had found at the crime scene.

  Lindsay awoke to the ringing of the telephone. She looked at the clock-almost 1:30 in the morning. "Hello," she said.

  "Lindsay, sweetheart. Is everything all right over there?" It was a voice filled with concern.

  "Derrick? Yes, fine. Is everything okay with you?" She was wide awake now.

  "Yes. I got an interesting call from someone who calls you Rabbit and thought you could use some comfort from someone close," he said.

  "John West called you?" she said.

  "Yes. He had quite a time finding my number. He was sufficiently worried about you that he went to Brian's site at midnight to get it," said Derrick.

  "He told you about the bullet he found in his truck?" she asked.

  "Yes, and that you had a visitor who frightened you. Lindsay, I'm really worried about this."

  "I know, I'm sorry. I'm worried enough now that, after I tell the orthopedist who identified the bones that he comingled them, I'm leaving this alone. I've been shot before, and I didn't like it. I've done all I can do here anyway."

  "I'm glad to hear it. Do you want me to come over?"

  "No. It's too far for you to drive tonight. I'll be fine. I'm sorry you're worried. It's not certain that the tire was shot, anyway."

  "Just don't do any more investigating. You have a lot of people who care about what happens to you."

  "John is just trying to get on my good side so I'll stop digging up his ancestors," she said.

  "I'm glad he was concerned enough to track us both down. I don't like thinking about you alone in a motel room," he said.

  "I'm fine. They have good locks on the door."

  "I love you, Lindsay. Take care of yourself."

  "I am. I love you, too."

  "Call if you need me."

  It took her a while to get back to sleep. She stared into the darkened room, dimly illuminated by the night-light in the bathroom. Her eyes focused on the lamp sitting on the left side of the dresser. It had been on the other side. She remembered thinking that it was in a bad place because it would interfere with opening the television cabinet to the right of the dresser. She hadn't moved it because she hadn't wanted to watch the TV. The maid? No. She remembered that it was there after the visit from the maid. But someone had moved the lamp. Why? To open the TV cabinet. Why? To search it. When? When she was out of the room. Lindsay thought about that. Thought about when she was out of her room and when she saw the lamp. It had to be when she was having dinner with Jennifer Darnell. But it could have been before that. She was in and out often. Lindsay got out of bed and checked to be sure she had locked her door and got back into bed. It was a while before she finally fell asleep wondering who had moved the lamp in her room.

  Roberto's scheme worked. Pardo changed his plans and began his journey back to Santa Elena. Piaquay took the news well that the Spanish were not coming to Chilhaxul. If they were running away, then perhaps they would go home. That was all he wanted from them. But he did not surrender his plan of revenge on Calderon. The news that Calderon was planning an expedition of his own filled Piaquay with satisfaction. The news was brought to him by Cocunae, who did not mind pleasing both sides if harmony could be preserved and his own interests were maintained, and who also had learned early that information is as much a tradable commodity as deerskins.

  Cocunae told Piaquay the story of the Uktena. Piaquay knew it, of course, or rather, a variation of the story, but he listened patiently while the young trader unfolded his narration.

  "So Calderon goes to find the cave where the Crest of the Uktena is kept?" said Piaquay when Cocunae had finished. Cocunae nodded.

  "Then I will follow," said Piaquay.

  Sancho was a good mapmaker. Still, it was harder to find a small location such as an entrance to a cave than it might seem at first. Calderon was tired. So were the few men he took with him. Pardo had denied him horses. Calderon cursed him. It was not his fault so many of his men deserted him and took the horses. They were cowards.

  The mountains were cooler now-too cold at night. The trees grew so close together it was hard to travel through the forest. Calderon and his men thought they saw Indians at every step they took, but it was always a bird taking off from a limb or a deer running in the woods or a rabbit.

  "Tell me again," asked Diego, "how Sancho was able to draw the map when lie had never actually gone to the cave?"

  "You doubt my cousin's map, mi amigo?" said Calderon.

  "I don't doubt his skills. I am just curious," replied Diego.

  "He explained it to me. He visited a village just beyond the ridge we are on now. It was there that they heard the story. He got the teller to take him near the place where the cave is, but he would go no farther. They are superstitious, you see."

  "Yes, I see, but how-" Diego was impatient.

  "The teller of the tale told him exactly where it is. Most everyone in the village knows. But they will not go there. We find the village, and we find the cave."

  Diego was still skeptical. "Caves can be very large. How will we find the way?"

  Esteban smiled. With his damaged face, his smile had a decidedly evil twist. "It will be marked." He said no more.

  But Diego continued to question. He did not relish entering a village on foot with only Esteban and a few men and no way to send for reinforcements. "How friendly are the Indians there? Did he say?"

  "Friendly. He said they are friendly. They think us Spanish to be gods," replied Esteban.

  They came out of the woods into a clearing that was once a cornfield, from the looks of it, but it was overgrown with weeds and pine seedlings. Beyond the field was what was left of the village. The houses looked as though they had long since fallen in. Calderon and his men walked through the deserted Indian town. Only the sounds of birds could be heard. Here and there lay a broken pot. A torn, vermin-eaten basket blew across their path. The inhabitants were gone and had been for a very long time.

  Calderon was disappointed, though he said nothing. He was counting on getting someone from the village to take him to the cave. Now he would simply have to locate it himself with his map, he thought as he sucked in his breath and mentally strengthened his resolve. He always had to depend on himself. Everyone around him was unreliable. This was nothing new.<
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  "We'll stop here and eat. It's a good place to make a camp before we proceed. There are no savages here to bother us."

  They found a fallen structure with its walls still standing and firmly set into the ground and cleared out a place to sit and built a fire. They took off their heavy armor and ate a meal of roasted corn and dried deer meat. It tasted good in the cool air.

  "This isn't so bad," said Diego. "Nobody here to bother us, good food, a place to sleep." The others agreed. It wasn't so bad.

  Piaquay, Roberto, Tesca, Nayahti, two braves, Quanche and Minque, and Kinua, the young warrior apprentice, stood looking at the place where Calderon had camped. The Spaniard and his men had given them a clear trail to follow. Even though they had several days' head start, Piaquay had gained on them every day.

  "They will come back to this camp," said Roberto. "We could wait for them."

  "No," said Piaquay, "we will follow."

  After much shifting and meandering the trail ended at the mouth of a cave that was concealed under a profusion of vines and ferns. The clumsy passage of Calderon and his men was evident.

  "This cave is taboo," said Tesca. "We will be bewitched if we go in here. "

  "This may not be the cave of the Uktena," said Piaquay. "I will go. The rest of you, stay and wait for me."

  "No, brother, bewitched or no, I will go with you. The others can stand guard."

  Nayahti gathered reeds and tied them together. In his travels he had experience in caves and knew how to make torches. "You will need many of these," he said. "When you use half of them, you must come back, whether or not you have found the enemy." He put the torches in the deerskin sack in which he carried food. "Piaquay," he continued, "mark your trail. It is easy to become lost in caves. If you do not come out by the time you should be out of torches, I will come and follow your marks."

  Piaquay smiled at his friend. Traders are always practical, he thought. When Piaquay listened to Nayahti speak, it reminded him of his father's brother, also a trader, who told him many times, "Keep your medicine bag, but sharpen your arrows."

  "Be watchful," Piaquay told the others.

  "I will go with you," said Roberto. Piaquay looked into his eyes. He had known Roberto would ask this. Revenge against Calderon burned in him, too. "You can trust me," Roberto continued. "I won't betray you. Only Calderon."

  "Very well. Come. But it will be hard. Caves are the trails to the underworld. They are always hard."

  Lindsay awoke abruptly at 6:00 A.m. Her eyes went immediately to the lamp, as though it might have moved in the night. She got out of bed and turned on all the lights and began looking through her things to see if anything was missing. Nothing. Nor did she find anything else moved. Perhaps she just imagined-no, she had not, she knew that. She opened the cabinet and looked at the television. It sat there like a blind cyclops, oblivious to anyone who might be staring at it. Nothing seemed amiss. She closed the doors.

  What then? She was not missing money. She never trav eled with jewelry. Her gaze fell on the envelopes with the photographs. It had to be them. They had been in the motel safe. If they had not, would they be gone? Her mind went to Craig Gillett and Jennifer Darnell. Could it have been him? Was that why Jennifer had been so cooperative, keeping Lindsay busy while her boyfriend searched her room?

  Lindsay stood, contemplating the possibilities, when the phone rang. It was Derrick, checking on her. She decided to wait to tell him about someone being in her room. After all, she reasoned, she wasn't completely sure there had been anyone. It might have been the maid. That was the problem with everything about this case-the uncertainty. Were the cavers murdered or not? Did someone shoot at her or not? Was someone in her room or not? One thing was certain, however: Gil Harris was dead. And he knew at least one of the people who died in the cave. She hung up after assuring Derrick that, following her talk with Dr. Olin Ballinger, she would be off this case.

  She looked at the photographs again. She saw nothing that she hadn't seen before. She got out the ones the Lamberts had given her, separating out the ones of the bodies where they were found in the cave. She scrutinized them with her hand lens. She could see nothing unusual, but the bodies were under rocks and were clothed. She looked at Ken Darnell, the only skeleton whose skull had rolled away from his body. He had been lying on his back, and when his head came loose from the neck, it rolled away, a common occurrence in skeletons. Then she saw itit was staring her in the face. She looked at the neck, then the hands. Unlike the other two skeletons, Ken's hands were mostly disarticulated and there was hardly any skin left on the skull. The three bodies either had not decomposed in the same place or had decomposed at different rates. Why hadn't Dr. Ballinger mentioned that? Surely he'd noticed it. He must have.

  Lindsay put the photographs back in the envelopes and got dressed in jeans and a shirt. She was sure she wouldn't be able to see Dr. Ballinger until after 9:00 at the earliest. She took the envelopes to the motel clerk and put them in the safe, then went to have breakfast. She planned on a leisurely breakfast to make up for all the nervous energy she had used up being frightened last night, then to return to her motel room, dress up in her suit, and go camp out on Ballinger's doorstep. Perhaps she should see the sheriff first. She would decide that over coffee.

  Lindsay walked into the coffee shop and sat in a booth near the window. When the waitress came, she ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice. She took a newspaper from the counter to read while she waited. She didn't wait long. In about ten minutes the waitress brought her order and a fresh cup of coffee. Lindsay lingered over each bite and sipped the coffee as she read the comics. She finished and looked at her watch. It was only 8:30. She paid her bill and left the coffee shop.

  As she walked across the lobby past the schefflera plant and past the door to the parking garage, the door burst open and two men jerked a hood over her head, held her mouth, dragged her out the door, and shoved her into a vehicle. Lindsay kicked, tried to scream, but couldn't. She tried to bite the hand that held her mouth, but couldn't. The air under the hood was suffocating, and the fabric tasted awful. It wasn't until she heard the car door close that one of the men cursed. She thought she recognized his voice, but he was yelling. Lindsay continued fighting, then felt something hard, like a rod or a gun, push against her head.

  "Now stop fighting, or I'll blow your brains out here and now," a voice whispered.

  Lindsay stopped kicking. "Who are you?"

  "It'll be easier on everyone if you don't know," he said.

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Just take you to someone who wants to talk to you, so calm down. We'll take you there, you'll have your talk, we'll bring you back. You won't have seen our faces, so we can let you go. It's as simple as that, so just relax."

  Lindsay did, but in order to think. She didn't believe him. Everything she had ever heard about attackers said they lie; they want you to cooperate so they will tell you anything. But she didn't know what to do. Think. They didn't have her tied. Why? It would be easier for them to tie her, so they must have a reason not to have done it. No rope? If they had gotten a sack to put over her head, they could have gotten a rope. No ligature marks? There would be bruises. But maybe bruises that could not be accounted for in an accident?

  She was in a van. She deduced that from the sound of a sliding door closing and the fact that there seemed to be a lot of room. A van. Who owns a van? Archaeology students? Damn, anyone can own a van. She didn't remember anyone involved in the investigation who owned one. Any of them could; certainly Jennifer Darnell could. She owned a store. It would have a van.

  But she was thinking about the wrong things. Knowing who it was wouldn't help her get away, and getting away was her first priority. She couldn't count on anyone having seen her abduction. She thought about snatching her hood off and making a run for the door, the driver, or a window. Window-there probably were no windows in the back of the van. Truthfully, she was afraid of getting shot. She
had been shot before by a kidnapper, and she didn't want it to happen again. Damn, shouldn't there be a limit to the number of times a person can get kidnapped in a lifetime?

  "What do they want to talk to me about?" she asked.

  The question seemed to surprise her captor. She thought she felt him jump. He was not accustomed to this. Was that good or bad? Maybe that meant it would be harder for them to be cold blooded.

  "You'll find out. Just keep quiet."

  They turned off the road, and the highway noises were gone. There were a lot of turns, but this was a mountainous area, and almost any road off the main highway was winding. But that was good. She knew wooded areas. If she could get away from them, she knew how to find her way out of almost any woods. Lindsay tried to think of things in her favor, things that would make her more optimistic. Then she wondered if maybe she should have made a run for it when they were in traffic. Now they were in a less populated area, and she heard fewer and fewer cars.

  "Don't think about making a break for it," the man whispered, as through he had been reading her mind. "You must be thinking about it. I would be. But don't. We don't want to shoot you, but we will."

  They don't want to shoot me because they don't want a bullet hole in me, she thought. She would wait until she was outside to pull the hood off her head and make a run for it. Yes, that is what she could do. Lindsay was a good runner and she knew woodcraft. She felt better with a plan. A line from Tremors, one of her favorite movies, ran through her head: "Running's not a plan. Running's what you do when a plan fails." She almost laughed. She was getting giddy. Was it the lack of oxygen or the natural progression of the psychology of her circumstances? Sorry, Earl, she thought, running's the only plan I got.

  The van stopped. She felt the gun at the back of her head. She heard the driver's door open, then the side door slid open and someone climbed in. She was grabbed by both arms and hauled out of the van. The ground she walked on was soft, like a wooded area. She felt brush against her legs and heard the soft crunch of forest litter. She was trying to decide when to make her move, but both men held her tight. Maybe someone did just want to talk to her. No! she thought sternly to herself. Don't believe the lie. She kicked the leg of the captor whom she thought had the gun. He yelled and let go of her arm. She struggled with the other one. He wrapped his arms around her, pinning both her arms against her.