by Mike Baron
The alien leader came forward to greet them, astonished by Skorpio's size. Skorpio towered over the little man who had black kinky hair and a full beard, sweat pouring down his face in the intense heat. He wore a metal breastplate over a leather cuirass and Skorpio knew he was crazy. His soldiers had stripped in the heat and wore only shirts, leggings and boots. They all stared at Skorpio in astonishment. They had never seen an Indian so large.
Skorpio's men stared back. They'd never seen men so white and hairy, or the monstrous deer-like creatures they rode. Each warrior had the same thought. What if we rode those beasts as well? To see the horse was to covet the horse. The unspoken flashed among them like the sun's word: we must steal these creatures.
The white devil bade Skorpio and his men sit in a circle while he passed around water in hollowed gourds but the Azuma refused the water and fetched their own from the spring after carefully tasting it. The invaders stank. With the Navajo interpreting the invader identified himself as deGama and asked why the Azuma had killed his man.
Skorpio brushed the question aside. "Why have you come?"
DeGama claimed that he brought a new religion that would uplift and transform the Azuma and that he was also interested in gold. He gave Skorpio a knife. It was the first steel the chief had ever seen and he was in awe. Imagine what the Azuma could accomplish with weapons like this--or even the thundersticks. Some of his runners had seen the thundersticks in action while following the white devils. Two of them were with Skorpio that day.
DeGama stood, took off his sword, and bade Skorpio accompany him and the Navajo interpreter and leave all others behind. Skorpio, deGama and the Navajo walked around the spring to the far side and hunkered behind a juniper bush. DeGama extended sympathies on the death of Skorpio's beloved wife Xahnea. Skorpio masked his amazement but quickly realized deGama could have gained this information from any number of rival tribes. It was not exactly a secret.
DeGama stunned Skorpio with what he said next, "I will bring her back to you, but you must come alone and you must bring gold."
Naguna said the invaders were liars. It was a trap. But such was Skorpio's love for Xahnea that he convinced himself the invaders spoke the truth. Had they not done as they had said? Had they not slain dozens if not hundreds of the People? Did not their thunder sticks bring down a man with a single bark? And if they were the future as Naguna had warned what was the point of resistance? If they killed him his spirit would join Xahnea's in the place of pinons.
Skorpio agreed to the meeting. For four days he fasted, praying to the four sacred colors, four sacred plants and four sacred mountains. On the appointed day he went to the oasis. From the distance a woman beckoned to him. She might have been Xahnea. There was only one way to find out. As he approached she ran away and the Spaniards emerged from hiding. They had learned concealment from the Navajo. The invaders seized him but not before he killed two with his bare hands. They tied him to a wagon wheel, carried him into the desert, gouged out his eys, castrated him and left him to die in the sun.
***
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
"A Day Split in Two"
The agony of that long-ago day merged with the agony encircling Beadles' neck. He fought through the pain and opened his eyes. Skorpio stared at him through merciless yellow slits. Its grip tightened. Its corpse's mouth spread in a ghastly grin. Beadles felt death gather like the surf and prepare to rush him. Skorpio spun him as helplessly as a rabbit so that the sun seared directly into his eyes. Sunlight weighed on him like a coat of iron, crushing the breath from him. It transformed his skin to a tenuous red membrane as if it might split at any second and his insides would gush forth like garbage from a split plastic bag.
He tried to close his eyes. The giant chuckled, a sound like a gargling drain, and shook him violently, enjoying his agony. Beadles disassociated and looked down. Only this time he saw not himself but Skorpio, bound to the wheel, eye sockets seeping, hands writhing in agony. The fingers were human. His crotch a bloody swamp.
The monsters segmented talons slowly crushed Beadles' neck. He hovered over the mesa death creeping in like morning fog. His vision dimmed. He saw the creature's grin. A shadow fell across them, an unexpected coolness. The giant's eyes grew wide and looked up like baby birds opening their beaks to catch food. The temperature dropped.
The thing staggered. It released Beadles who fell to the hard earth. A line of darkness marched across the butte. Beadles rolled over on his back and looked up.
The moon had eclipsed the sun. For an exquisite nanosecond all was peace.
The moon moved on. Blazing sunlight took the stage. With a rasp of defiance Skorpio drew himself to his full height and turned with fury toward Beadles.
A silver point emerged from the giant's sternum. He looked down stupidly. The point withdrew, whirled through the air and severed the giant's head from its body. The head smacked the rock and rolled inexorably toward Beadles who lay gasping, unable to move, watching in dread.
It bumped to a stop against his feet. Gasping, Summer stood where the giant lay holding the Spanish sword. She walked toward Beadles. She dropped the sword and ran toward Beadles. She knelt and took his head.
"Are you all right?"
Beadles gasped and bathed in her glow. He tried to say something but could barely breath. She placed a finger against his lips, unlooped the canteen, unscrewed the lid, held his head up and tilted. Beadles drank thirstily although it hurt to swallow. He tentatively touched his neck and felt raw welts.
After awhile he said, "I thought you…"
Again she touched his lips. "I did. But then I came back."
Beadles reached for water. He sat up and took the canteen himself.
"All my life I've made the worst choices in men," Summer said. "One loser after another. But you. I could tell from the way you presented yourself you were for real."
Beadles tried to laugh and began coughing. Summer pounded him on the back.
"Don't do that!" she said when he stopped. "I meant what I said. You hardly talk about yourself, y'know? You're not boastful of your achievements or insecure. I believe you were framed. And I know you're not perfect."
Beadles smiled through the intense pain encircling his throat which felt hoarse and raw. But not from the stingers, from trying to breath. Skorpio's flashback was imprinted on his brain. He had difficulty separating what happened and what he'd seen from reality. He couldn't believe it had happened.
"Did you…" he croaked.
Summer's forehead crumpled in concern. "Don't."
"Did you…get any pictures?"
She shook her head sadly realizing the immensity of the lost opportunity.
He craned his neck, straining to see.
Summer helped him to his feet. The sword lay on the rock. There was no sign of the ghost. They staggered under the cottonwoods as the sun continued its journey to the west. She found the first aid kit, applied ointment and bandages to the five punctures in his neck. He ached all over. Even his hair ached.
Faint insect buzzing. It grew louder. It was a plane. Beadles and Summer got to their feet and came out from under the trees looking up. It was a one-engine plane headed their way from the southwest. Beadles and Summer waved their arms, screaming and jumping up and down. The plane came closer. Beadles wished he'd saved some of the gas although it was hot and bright out.
The plane came closer. It descended to within a couple hundred feet of the summit and dipped its wings.
***
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
"Saved"
The helo arrived three hours later. It was a Llama from Page Municipal Airport. It flew them to Kayenta where police debriefed them about Vince. The State Police dispatched a ground team to investigate. The police took Beadles and Summer to Agranda Hospital in Kayenta to be treated for exposure and observation.
They tried to hook Beadles up to an IV but he would have none of it. A freelancer monitoring police frequencies connected Beadles with the
Creighton scandal and tried to get into his room. A deputy sheriff kept him out.
At seven p.m. a huge squarish man with a beard in a plain gray suit and a Stetson entered Beadles' room and handed Beadles his card. "Sir, I'm State Criminal Investigator Wallace Ford. Can you tell us what happened? The last information we received from Sheriff Conway was that you were one of the patrons at the Last Chance when he took Mr. Sealy into custody?"
Beadles sucked on the straw in a big plastic glass. "I guess," he said in a hoarse voice.
"You told one of the flight crew that Vince had followed you out there?"
Beadles nodded.
"Tuesday some ranchers spotted a concentration of turkey buzzards off County Road XX. They found Sheriff Conway's body."
Ford pulled a small recorder from inside his jacket and laid it on the bed table. "I'm going to record this if you don't mind."
Beadles nodded. "Go ahead."
"It appeared Conway's larynx had been crushed although we're still waiting for the autopsy. Somehow Sealy got out of the handcuffs and overpowered the sheriff. We found the car in Gap this morning. He'd hidden it behind some dumpsters. Nobody could believe anyone would flee into the desert."
Ford looked expectantly at Beadles. Sp-eaking slowly because of the pain Beadles told the investigator everything that had happened since the Sheriff drove off. Ford leaned back in the steel and fabric chair and listened impassively.
"And then your plane found us," Beadles said.
Ford was still as an icebox. He stared limpidly without blinking.
At last he said, "You say Sealy was stung to death by scorpions?"
"That's what I think. I'm no expert, but there should be something of him left to autopsy. I'm sure it would show up. Am I under suspicion or something? I didn't kill him."
"We can't rule anything out until we know more. You left your last position under a cloud, didn't you?"
Beadles shrugged. He'd been expecting the question and now that it came he felt nothing. No anxiety, no anger. He was in the zone. He was on the zen. He was in a state of grace. Nothing mattered and what if it did. He knew it wouldn't last but he enjoyed it now that it was here, as much as one could enjoy in his condition.
Summer was the only thing he cared about.
"I believe I was framed. I know--everybody tells you that. I'm not here to plead my case. But I do intend to fight these false accusations and sue."
Ford consulted some notes in a spiral pad. "We have been unable to locate Mr. Preston who is wanted on federal cyber terrorism charges. Did you know he is wanted by the FBI?"
"No sir. I knew he was a crook! But he was a smart crook."
"His accomplice, Gregorio Peterson, was wanted for robbing the First National Bank of Decatur."
"Do I need a lawyer?" Beadles said.
"Not if your story checks out. The DA has no plans to charge you. But I got some problems with your story. All this shit about a ghost and a river of scorpions. Sure you weren't hallucinating?"
"No sir I am not. Let me know when you find the gold."
"Oh yes the gold," the investigator said. "That's gonna put a burr under someone's saddle. Personally, I hope you're just raving. This is enough of a mess as it is."
"Inspector, I can't emphasize enough how important it is that your men leave the site alone. It has overwhelming historical significance."
"Well we're trying to conduct an investigation but we'll do our best."
"No crimes were committed on top of that butte. It would be best if you left it to experts in anthropology and archaeology."
Ford doodled in his pad. "I hear you. That may not be possible. We're going to have to put some inspectors on top of the butte but I'll advise them to tread lightly."
Ford left. Beadles changed from his hospital gown into his own clothes, still covered with desert silt, and went across the hall where another statie was interviewing Summer. There was a state cop standing outside the stairwell. Beadles waited until the investigator finished and went into the room. Summer opened her arms and he fell into them.
"Now what?" Summer said.
Beadles shrugged. "We'll see. No one can take this away from us. I think word got out. They got a cop stationed at the stairwell. It's not to keep us in. It's to keep reporters out."
"Oh fuck," Summer said. "Are we going to be in tabloids? I promised my mom I wouldn't end up in the tabloids."
"Yeah well get set. You got your cop killing, grisly murder, ghosts, buried treasure and sex."
Summer held him tight. "Where do we go?"
"Don't worry. We've done nothing wrong. Good things are about to happen, you'll see."
He'd abandoned his laptop in the Jeep but if he could get online he could check his email. He needed to contact Panny. Beadles had suddenly become a hot property. There would be offers. It was the way things worked. He needed money to hire Panny to pursue Stephanie Byrd. He needed to contact Mel Berenson. He was going to sue the university for false termination.
There was a knock and a young nurse slipped in through the partially opened door. She carried a clipboard and wore blue slacks, a white blouse with the tails out and a name badge. Beadles stood.
"Professor Beadles?" she said. He nodded.
"I'm Melanie Hecht with The National Enquirer. Could I ask you a few questions?"
***
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
"The Narrative"
DISGRACED PROF FINDS LOST TRIBE, TREASURE
By Melanie Hecht exclusive to National Enquirer
Vaughan Beadles, former Distinguished Professor of Anthropology at Creighton University, Creighton, IL, claims to have discovered a heretofore undocumented Amerindian tribe, remains of a long-lost Spanish expedition, and a fortune in gold. Beadles has long maintained that the Azuma differed from other Navajo and Hopi-related Amerindian Tribes occupying the Colorado Plateau from the fifteenth to the nineteenth century. The Azuma are said to have been among the most bellicose of all tribes, making up for their lack of numbers with their ferocity and tactics. Even the Apache feared them.
Beadles was let go from Creighton four weeks ago, charged with stealing from the priceless Azuma Collection of which he was the curator. Beadles had also been charged with manslaughter in the bizarre death of a student, Rob Whitfield. Whitfield died of a scorpion sting when he was allowed to handle, against university policy, priceless Azuma artifacts. Those charges were later dropped.
Beadles has maintained his innocence regarding charges of grand larceny and vows to fight them. The University has declined to comment.
Beadles claims to have discovered the epicenter of the Azuma civilization atop a butte in the Four Corners region. He also claims to have discovered the bodies of two Creighton University students who went missing in the eighties.
Curt Mayweather and Ronnie Potts may also have been in search of the Azuma legend when they disappeared in May, 1985, outside Gap, AZ, population 217. Ronnie's father Daniel Potts, Class of '64, recently gave two million to the Creighton Dept. of Anthropology in his son's name. Mr. Potts could not be reached for comment.
The story of how Prof. Beadles tracked down the Azuma involves suicide, ghosts, strippers and the even more bizarre death of ex-con and cagefighter Vincent Sealy of Los Vegas. Sealy's remains were found next to the burnt-out husk of his Hummer at the base of the Azuma stronghold. Although autopsy reports are still pending Beadles claims Sealy died of literally hundreds of scorpion stings.
Shortly after the police jailed Beadles on manslaughter charges his wife of six years, Betty Halverson-Beadles, initiated divorce proceedings. The Beadles have a two-year-old son. Betty Halverson-Beadles could not be reached for comment.
There was an aerial photograph of the butte, an old file photo of Beadles from his Discovery special, and the centerpiece, a publicity still of Summer from her model portfolio. The Babe. The Mystery Woman. The Hooker With a Heart of Gold was out shopping in a rental car to fill the larder of the apartment Beadles had rented w
ith his advance from a publisher. The apartment was in Creighton, where the University had asked him to assume the directorship of the Anthropology Department following the abrupt resignation of Joel Liggett. Stephanie Byrd had returned from Belize on advice of her attorney and confessed that Liggett had paid her to hide the stolen pottery in Beadles' home.
Beadles tossed the tabloid on the coffee table in the sparsely furnished living room. He'd picked it up at the Stop 'N' Go that morning. The clerk didn't give him a second look. That was about to change. He was booked on The Morning Show and 60 Minutes had contacted him about doing a segment. His FB page, on which he'd posted some pictures from the canyon and the butte, had reached the limit and his message folder was filled with inquiries from agents and publishers.
Only a week had passed since their rescue from the butte and already his life had shifted into high gear. Daniel Potts agreed to pay Beadles the fifty thousand dollar reward for news of Ronnie. Beadles had a new phone. Only Summer, Berenson and Panny had his number. He referred all media requests to Berenson. The State Police had retrieved his laptop from the Jeep and forwarded it to him. He intended to transfer his files to his new laptop which he'd picked up yesterday. He'd already begun writing.
But there was a problem. A big problem. How could he write what happened without coming off as a crackpot? The police had documented the wounds to his neck but what did it prove? Like most anthropologists he regarded Erich Van Daniken as a sensationalist kook. Any student who cited Van Daniken earned an automatic D or worse. How could Beadles claim he was assaulted by a six-hundred year old seven foot ghost? He could not. It would destroy his academic credibility.
Sealy's autopsy report stated, "Subject appears to have died from massive quantitites of scorpion venom. Subject's face and body bore innumerable scorpion stings, well in excess of a hundred." If there was talk of revenge-seeking ghosts let The Enquirer carry that banner. He took out Melanie Hecht's business card and stared at it.