More Bitter Than Death

by Dana Cameron

  “Did I? I guess so. Still a good way to put the aches of fieldwork behind you.” He poured two drinks and took a good swig of his own. “Not so much of that these days, eh, Em? All paperwork and bureaucracy and meetings.” He glanced at me. “How about you?”

  “No, I still get out into the field pretty regularly. Got more work than is good for me, sometimes.”

  “Well, good for you. I always knew you would be the one who’d keep the faith.”

  The way he was talking to me was more like some kind of interview or something. There was a level of patronizing, avuncular pride that I found particularly annoying, like he’d always known how brilliant I was. And maybe he had, but he’d also thrown it away without a second thought.

  I decided to poke him, see what was going on. “Yeah. Making some changes soon, though, I guess.”

  He stiffened, ever so slightly, a microscopic hesitation before he recovered. “Oh, yeah? Time to start a family?”

  “Hell, Duncan. Like that’s the only sort of change that I could possibly be contemplating.” He’d put ice in my drink too, but I’d gotten in the habit of drinking it neat ages ago. I fished out the cubes on my way into the bathroom and threw them into the sink.

  He shrugged. “No? I always thought you would, one day. You’d make a great mother.”

  Again with the patronizing crap. It was bordering on proprietary nostalgia this time, and that sickened me. “Who knows? But what I’m talking about is professional—”

  “I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you on getting tenure, by the way,” he broke in quickly. “Good job, that. Good thing, too, the job market being what it is. It’s really tight out there.”

  “Yeah, thanks, it was a massive relief to get that over with,” I said. I understood one thing: He wanted something, was definitely trying to pull the conversation around to broach that. I was equally determined to keep it going my way, at least for a few more minutes. “But I’ve been thinking about branching out a bit.”

  Again, he stiffened, as though getting ready to start a fight. “You’re not thinking of leaving Caldwell?”

  I saw that there was real fear in his eyes. “Not at all. I’m looking into studying what I can do in forensics.”

  He actually laughed, he was so relieved. “Good God, Emma. Why on earth?”

  “Just seems like the next natural step.”

  He took a big drink. “Well, I suppose there is a kind of boom in that right now, what with all the television interest in the scientific aspect of criminal investigation or whatever. Lots of dramas specializing in it, not to mention all the documentaries, regular series on the science channels and what all. Could be a lucrative sideline, I guess. I don’t know whether it would be the best thing for you, in terms of career advancement, though. It might be a little late for you to start breaking into the scientific subdisciplines. You’re much better off in this tidy little niche you’ve created for yourself.”

  “What little niche is that?” I said. I could feel my jaw tightening.

  “You know, you practically dominate the early contact stuff in the Northeast. And the feminist stuff too, for other periods. You’re becoming the go-to girl for a lot, and I think you might be better off staying where you’re established. Consolidating your position, if you like.”

  “I don’t think of it that way,” I said.

  “No? Not building off Oscar’s foundation? Not building your own little Fielding empire?”

  I frowned. “Really not. My interests have always been varied, and now I’m in a position to follow through on more of them, is all. And if I’ve been working in the field for longer than most people our age, that’s not calculation or empire-building, or anything else. It’s interest, passion, a vocation. You’re bound to rack up some pubs, some data, some information after twenty years or so.”

  “Suit yourself. But I think this forensics thing is probably more of a fad. You’re better off staying out of it.”

  I felt myself stiffen and felt an attack of Yankee-grade iciness coming on. What Brian called my “arctic front.” “I wasn’t asking for your advice, Duncan. I was telling you of my plans. And it has nothing to do with fads or advancement. It’s what I can do with my skills. How I can put them to good use.”

  He was looking around the room. “Whatever, Em. Why would you want to, though? Doesn’t quite seem your suit.”

  “My suit might have changed since you knew me last, don’t you think?”

  “I think people stay fundamentally the same,” he said.

  I found myself losing my temper with his comfortable arrogance, but decided I would find out what he wanted and then kick him out. No point in making things worse when I was trying to make them better, especially now that I was pretty sure that he couldn’t have been the one to attack me. “Well, then maybe there was some germ of this in me earlier on, and it’s just coming out now.”

  He shrugged and poured himself another drink, ignoring my raised eyebrow. “Well, I’m thinking of making changes too.”

  “What, are you pregnant?”

  “Very funny. No, I’m thinking that I’ve gone just as far as I can go with the stuff here in New Hampshire. I’m looking into the Connecticut job.”

  At last. “Really.” So that was what was behind all of this.

  “Really. I think it might be fun to shake things up a little.”

  Get your hands on some of that new funding, I thought to myself. Get a piece of a high-profile department. Another upgrade. No wonder he was worried; he was thinking that I might be going for it myself, perhaps, with the leverage my recent promotion had brought me.

  Funny, I didn’t have all these thoughts when I was talking to Brad, but then, I was convinced he was in it for the work and not the exposure. But was either reason more or less the right one?

  “I think the competition won’t be much of a problem,” he continued. “I was just hoping that I might get a letter of recommendation from you.”

  It came out, just as smooth as that, and suddenly I understood just how naïve I really was. He had less interest in mending fences with me for its own sake, for the sake of maturity, than he wanted my support. How typical. How traditional, if you like, of him. I almost laughed.

  “Do you mind?” I said, holding out my glass. He rushed to top up my untouched drink, and for a moment, I hated myself. It was just the same sort of manipulative shit Duncan would have pulled himself. So I put an end to it quickly.

  “Sorry, Duncan. You asked too late.”

  “Why?” I was surprised that he seemed more curious than hostile or resentful. “Because of…because of what happened between us?”

  “No. That’s done. It’s because I’ve already been asked to write a letter. I wouldn’t feel comfortable, it wouldn’t be ethical to do a second.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He drank, unconcerned. “Who’s it for?”

  “I don’t know if that’s any of your business. I don’t know if it matters. But good luck anyway.”

  “Well, certainly you can change your mind.”

  The utter audacity of it made me blink, and I almost couldn’t believe that he said it, almost went into denial that anyone would be so presumptuous. That’s why he wasn’t more upset; he didn’t believe I would refuse him.

  “I certainly could. I choose not to.”

  He sighed, annoyed. “I have to say, I’m disappointed in you, Em. I expected more imagination from you.”

  “You’re not the first person to tell me that,” I conceded, thinking about the site at Penitence Point. I had braced myself, fully expecting to be crushed by his words. He was always good with words, and I’d gotten used to feeling their effect. I even kept myself in the habit, by remembering that effect over the years, and that was my own fault.

  But once again, there was nothing, just the lost-tooth feeling. I probed it a little deeper and nodded and smiled.

  I could tell Duncan was surprised by that, because even though his face was totally blank, he still had
the habit of running his finger along the beard at the bottom of his chin when he didn’t know what to think. Old habits do die hard.

  “You can’t be serious. I mean, the job description was practically written with me in mind—”

  “Then you probably don’t need my help as much as you think. A point of curiosity, Duncan: Did you ask Garrison to write you a letter? He was your dissertation director, after all, and Connecticut was his first significant position.”

  Duncan’s expression was unreadable. “Emma, Garrison’s dead.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. “I know, but—”

  “And besides,” he continued, “you’ll look silly backing someone else.”

  “Possibly. Probably. I can live with it. I think you’d better go now. I handed my glass back to him.”

  He stood up. “I’m very sorry about this, Emma. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am.”

  “I’m sorry too. Good night.”

  I shut the door behind him, reset my alarm system. I think he was waiting out there by the time I was done, but I didn’t bother looking. It didn’t matter.

  I was probably already more than half asleep by the time I crawled under the covers, just aware enough to enjoy the dry crisp rasp of the sheets against my feet, and I slept as soon as I laid my head down.

  I didn’t dream at all that night.

  Chapter 16

  IT WAS THE PAIN THAT WOKE ME SUNDAY MORNING. The radio alarm was playing, my watch alarm was beeping doggedly, and I still wouldn’t have heard any of it if I hadn’t rolled over onto my left hand. A sharp pain jarred me awake, and I sat up suddenly, swearing. I hadn’t fallen on a run; I hadn’t wrenched it doing fieldwork—

  I’d been attacked.

  The memories came rushing back to me, and I realized just how good it had been to be asleep, undreaming, unremembering.

  I flexed my wrist, testing it, and the pain came again, just as sharply as it had before. Nothing broken, as far as I could tell, and it would be fine in just a few days. I should have put the ice on it last night, but it wasn’t bothering me then. I hadn’t noticed it through the adrenaline and endorphins.

  Not so different from how I often felt after a tough bout with Nolan. Even then, I realized, I had wraps and boxing gloves, and so did he. This was for real, and truth be told, I’d done okay.

  I hauled myself out of bed, and stretched; my ankle hurt, and I realized that I must have aggravated the earlier wrench when I slid on the carpet last night. Apart from that, and my hand, I didn’t feel too bad. My cheek was tender, but I’d blocked a much worse blow, and the ice and sleep had done most of the work of bringing the lump down. The other little scratch was already healing, nothing more to remind me of what had happened. I applied a little concealer, and looked almost normal.

  I showered, stretched out, and dressed—now in my dried dress pants and my still-damp boots, as my ankle wasn’t up to heels—then hustled downstairs. It wasn’t until I was actually in the elevator that I understood that I was ridiculously cheerful for the hour and my battered state. I finally identified the sense of accomplishment that buoyed me along.

  Not many people were up yet, being as late as it was in the course of the conference, and I myself wouldn’t have been up except for my hand. And I also needed coffee above and beyond what was in that smelly little sachet in the room that had so ineffectually darkened the hot water.

  There was Scott, sitting in the lobby with his coffee. I got some from the urn, and he nodded coolly when I sat down with him. He looked like he’d never been to bed at all. He looked worse than he should have, and I thought about the message I’d taken from his wife, and wondered just how much of this he hid on a regular basis, and how okay he really was. Denial could be a good thing, once you were over a rough patch in your life, but not if it kept you from really dealing with what happened.

  “I’ve got to talk with you, Em,” he said gruffly. “It’s important.”

  “Okay. Shoot.” Please, I thought, don’t let this be what I think it is. Please don’t let this be about—

  He stared at the carpet, just a minute, then looked me straight in the eye. “It’s about Duncan.”

  “What is it?” Crap, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it…

  “You’ve got to leave him alone. One way or the other.”

  I felt my mouth drop open with the surprise. “What!”

  “Em, I know…I’ve heard…that you probably have reason not to be…Duncan’s best friend. But you’ve got to let the past stay dead. You’ve got to leave him alone.”

  “Leave him alone? Scott, I guess you didn’t get the memo, but Duncan’s already spoken to me about everything! He’s trying the suck-up approach, so now I think it would be a good idea for you to back off playing the heavy. And a little advice from a friend? Let him clean up after himself. He’s not worth you taking his part.”

  “I didn’t know you could be like this,” Scott said. I’d never seen him really angry before, and it changed his whole face into something unrecognizable. It was dreamlike, the way that someone you know, you think you know, metamorphoses into someone you’ve never seen before. I’d never seen Scott use his size to intimidate me before. “I didn’t know you could be so vindictive,” he said. “So ugly.”

  “Whoa, hold on here! Just what is it you think I’m being ugly about?”

  He gave me a look of such pure impatience and disgust that I was more convinced than ever that I was dreaming. I pinched the skin on the back of my hand, felt the sharp pain of fingernails.

  He took a deep breath, he couldn’t get enough oxygen. He opened his mouth to try, then failed, tried again. “It’s about the Haslett farm material,” he finally said.

  “What about it?”

  “Leave him alone about it,” Scott said. “It was a long time ago, Emma, it…it doesn’t really matter anymore. Not really. Can’t you just let it be?”

  “Scott, spell it out for me: What you are talking about?”

  His face was a study in disgust, betrayal, and maybe, a little doubt. “You’re telling me that you weren’t…threatening him about the Josiah Miller report?”

  I’d been on the right track, I realized. “Me threaten Duncan? You’re confused, Scott, you’ve got the wrong girl.”

  “You didn’t ask him about Josiah Miller and the Haslett farm site the other day? Out of the blue?”

  “What? No! I mean, yes, I asked him about Josiah Miller, something that I heard in a paper. It reminded me of something, I thought he could tell me what. It was only later that I figured out he’d actually seen this supposedly recently discovered report.”

  “And so you were taunting him with it,” he said doggedly.

  “Damn it, Scott, I don’t taunt people. You know me, you know that.”

  I wasn’t sure that he believed me yet, but at least now he looked uncertain, which was an improvement over what I’d seen on his face before.

  “There must be some mistake,” he finally muttered.

  “Damn straight, there is. Now why don’t you tell me exactly what was going on there?”

  “I…don’t think that would be a good idea.” He was backing off, retreating physically as well.

  “You don’t get to do that! You don’t get to make all sorts of wild-assed accusations to me, and then tell me to buzz off.”

  “Emma, it’s not my…it’s up to Duncan. It’s not my business to tell.”

  “But it’s your business to say all sorts of hateful things to me? I thought we were friends. Goddamn.”

  “We are, but Duncan and I…” He groped for the distinction. “He was there during some hard times, Em. I owe him a lot. You should ask him, if you want to know.”

  I stood up, frightening myself with how angry I was now. “How about this? How about I ask everyone but Duncan if they know what this is all about. I bet I’ll get some answers that way, one way or another. I’ll contact Kevin Leary, and find out from him.” Scott was willing to do something hard, awful for Du
ncan, to throw away our friendship, and then just toss that fact aside? And he thought I’d take it?

  He sighed deeply, and wouldn’t look at me. When he began to speak, it was in a monotone, as if the story was coming from somewhere else far away. I sat down again.

  “You know the Haslett farm is the site on which Duncan based a lot of his dissertation data. Lately, some other folks—Kevin Leary’s team—have been reexamining the site, going back to compare it with other work that’s been going on in New York. They found a copy of a report by Josiah Miller, who’d done some work on the Haslett site long ago. He actually did a pretty good job, even by our standards, though he died before he was able to bring the work to its full completion. Although he wanted to, he never published the data; it was his first time trying archaeology, and he was doing it on his own. He and a man he hired from the village nearby. They didn’t publicize it, because they were concerned about the site being looted.”

  “Go on.” I had the horrid feeling I knew exactly where this was going.

  “Duncan found one set of the notes. He talked to the owner of the house of the property now, and there they were, up in the attic. He took them. He used them.”

  “He used them as his own,” I said.

  “It’s not like that. I mean, it is, but it isn’t. They didn’t dig in the same areas. Duncan, well, he used them, in his dissertation, yes, and he didn’t cite them. But he didn’t falsify the data, he just sort of…think Cliff’s Notes. His conclusions were extrapolations of…”

  “Of what Josiah Miller had written.”

  Scott ignored me. “And when you mentioned it to him, and that other work is being done now, he just thought—”

  “He thought I was threatening him.” I took it to the worst extent. “He thought I was blackmailing him.”

  Scott looked relieved: I hadn’t made him say it. “Well, what does it look like to you?”

  “Hey, don’t try to make this my fault! I was asking an honest question, it was his guilty conscience that made it into something else.” I looked at Scott, and to my horror, I could feel my eyes filling. “And you believed him. You…you’re acting as his intermediary.”