Dangerous Thing

by Josh Lanyon

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Every now and then I looked out of my book and caught a glimpse of Jake outside the window hammering the broken shutter into place, taking his aggressions out in home improvement. I was surprised he didn’t just spit the nails into the wood like Popeye the Sailor Man. As he worked he whistled grimly around the nails clamped between his lips. When he finished with the shutter he set about repairing the fractured rose trellis.

  Snips and snails and puppy dog tails.

  I read on till about five. By that time Jake was in the shower, where I could hear him swearing over the erratic water pressure and fluctuating temperatures. (Ah, the sounds of domestic bliss.)

  I confess I was discouraged. By now Grace Latham would surely have found a torn scrap of an incriminating note or a bloody footprint or something. Detective work is not only easier in books; it’s more fun.

  And that’s when I found my first clue. There in smudgy print was the name of the mine owned by Abraham Royale: the Red Rover.

  I tossed the book aside.

  In the front room I poured a couple of whiskies from a twenty-year-old bottle Jake had located in the back of the liquor cabinet. I downed mine staring out the front window, watching the wind rake the winter grass like an unseen hand through the fur of a sleeping animal.

  Jake appeared in the doorway combing back his damp hair. The sun had deepened the color in his face. The bronze corduroy shirt made his eyes looked almost gold.

  “You’d better wait a few minutes,” he told me. “There’s no hot water.”

  I handed him his drink. He swallowed and sighed appreciatively.

  “Get a lot done?” he questioned.

  “Enough.”

  “Listen, just in case, if anybody at this dinner party mentions what happened here today, don’t start in about believing the dead man in the barn was not the guy you found the night you arrived.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do me a favor and keep your mouth shut.”

  “Since you ask so nicely how can I refuse?”

  He gave me that smile that was more of a grimace and said, “Please.”

  “Hey, the magic word.” I clicked my glass against his and tossed back my drink on the way to the bathroom.

  There was no hot water for my shower so I made it fast. Even so the bandage on the top of my head got soaked and fell off. I examined it, tossed it in the trash and hoped the tonsured look became me. At least it wasn’t permanent. Yet. I inherited my mother’s baby-fine dark hair, and plenty of it. As a matter of fact I needed a haircut even worse than I needed a shave. I was having a go at my forelock with a pair of nail scissors when Jake showed up in the doorway.

  “You want another drink?” he inquired.

  “No.”

  He observed me snipping away and said, “The better to see you with?”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “The kid. O’Reilly.”

  My hand jerked and I nearly put my eye out. “You’re kidding, right?”

  But Jake had already disappeared. From the other room I heard him blowing his nose like the war trumpet of a bull moose.

  I pulled on a semi-clean pair of Levi’s and dug a blue denim workshirt out of the bottom of my Gladstone, telling myself that the blue matched my eyes and the wrinkles matched the lines around them.

  * * * * *

  It was sunset by the time we reached Spaniard’s Hollow. Against a fiery sky the black tents stood like paper cut-outs illuminated from within by kerosene lamps glowing cozily like nineteenth-century lithophanes. We parked by the lake with the other vehicles. The sound of voices drifted across the clearing.

  The nutty professors were all present and accounted for with the exception of Dr. Livingston who had been unable to make it back to camp in time for the festivities. Dr. Shoup did the honors, giving us the grand tour of the site.

  Though the get-together had been Shoup’s suggestion, his demeanor had thawed only slightly since our last encounter.

  “The term ‘archeology’ refers to the systematic and methodical recovery of the material evidence of man’s past life and culture. It is a science,” he informed us as he led the way into a tent crowded with cardboard filing boxes and several long tables piled with miscellaneous artifacts: broken bottles turned purple with age, arrowheads, a rusted belt buckle.

  Shoup paused, apparently waiting for comments. When we didn’t argue he continued, “Our understanding of the past gives us the knowledge to shape the future.”

  I watched Jake size up Dr. Shoup, from the toe of his spit-polished boots to the crown of his khaki safari hat. I recognized the sardonic curve to Jake’s mouth and looked forward to his commentary on the drive home.

  “How many people do you have on staff?” he asked politely enough.

  Dr. Shoup said, “There are eight of us. On the weekends, our volunteers pitch in. In the summer it will be different. The university sponsors an adult field school program.”

  “University?” The cop, always wanting the facts straight.

  “Tuolumne Junior College,” I supplied.

  Dr. Shoup checked long enough to show us the improbably named proton magnetometer, explaining that the data collected by magnetometer surveys would be processed by the college computers, which would then produce a variety of detailed maps, profiles and three-dimensional views.

  “Maximal information, minimal ground disturbance?” I suggested.

  “Quite.”

  Jake met my eyes and arched his brows.

  “We are professionals, Mr. English. We do not rape and pillage the countryside as you imply.”

  Jake said, “Huh?”

  “Have you found the Red Rover mine yet?” I inquired.

  Dr. Shoup’s eyes narrowed. “Er — no. Not yet.”

  “How can that be?”

  He bridled at this. “To begin with, we don’t have the exact location.”

  “It’s a giant hole in the ground, right? Maybe boarded up? How hard could that be to find? Besides, mines had to be registered or staked, right?”

  “We know the general area, but not the exact location. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Shoup explained that in order to reconstruct the site a horizontal grid had been laid over the entire area. The object was to recover all items within the grid and place them in their related stratigraphic sections. He showed us grids, maps, a basic wall profile and the daily excavation notes.

  “Everything is completely regulation.”

  Strictly regimental. I resisted the impulse to salute. “I’ll take your word for it,” I said.

  “This mine worth a lot of money?” Jake asked.

  “Certainly not. The mine played out long before the end of the gold rush. The Red Rover is strictly of historical and cultural significance.” Shoup proceeded to explain why.

  Kevin joined us as Jake’s eyes were beginning to glaze. He looked good in khaki shorts and a rolled-sleeve denim shirt — like a big Boy Scout. He and Jake briefly acknowledged each other, then Kevin grinned at me and held up the crescent-bladed shovel he carried.

  “Number one tool of the archeologist,” he said undervoiced, with a nod at Shoup’s back. “Equally useful for digging artifacts or shoveling through the bullshit.”

  * * * * *

  Dinner in the main tent consisted of hot cornbread and hotter chili made of franks and beans. The flickering Coleman lanterns threw a cozy light over the faces gathered around the long table, several of whom I recognized from my first visit. It was warm in the tent, smelling of propane and damp earth. Jake and I were greeted like old friends as we squeezed in at the table. Clearly we were being courted.

  “Coffee or box wine?” Bernice offered gaily.

  Jake opted for the coffee and I had a plastic cup of boxed rosé.

  “So what do you think of our operation?” Dr. Marquez, on my left, inquired. His melancholy dark eyes met mine as though waiting to hear the worst.

  “It seems like you have a very
professional operation here.” Even while I chafed over the thought of test pits, I couldn’t help but respond to the energy and camaraderie around us.

  “Dr. Shoup has a great deal of field experience. He’s … on loan, you could say, from UC Berkeley.”

  “I thought Dr. Livingston was in charge here?”

  “That’s true.”

  “When does Livingston get back?”

  He drained his coffee cup. “Late tonight or tomorrow.”

  “Is this what you do fulltime?” I queried.

  Marquez smiled that mournful smile. “I’m an instructor at the JC. Geography and zoology as well as anthropology.” He sighed. “Diversity means job security these days. Or the closest thing to it.”

  On my other side Jake was shoveling through his meal like a Forty-niner. He responded to Amy’s overtures between mouthfuls. She related the amusing tale of how she had nearly blown my head off, and Jake nearly choked laughing.

  About midway through dinner Melissa Smith, my childhood nemesis, showed up. We all scooted down, clearing space at the table. She wedged in between Kevin and Dr. Marquez and hailed-fellow-well-met me.

  “I didn’t realize you were a member of this expedition,” I said.

  Her look informed me that there were many things I didn’t know. “I’m working on my Ph.D. in anthropology.” She shook her hair back from her face and accepted a plate from Bernice.

  Kevin said, “I hear you had some excitement at your place today.”

  “What’s that?” Dr. Shoup turned his pale gaze our way.

  “We found a dead body in the barn,” Jake said. “Probably a vagrant.”

  “Yuck!” said Amy. “What was he doing in your barn?”

  “How should anyone know what a vagrant might be doing?” Shoup barked like a bad-tempered Schnauzer. “Any more bright questions?”

  Amy colored the shade of her red thermal undershirt.

  Kevin refilled my plastic cup with more box wine. I smiled thanks. Kevin smiled welcome. Jake kicked my ankle.

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry.”

  Well, we were scrunched together pretty compactly at the long table.

  Bernice said, “But aren’t you the one who found a dead body last Thursday?”

  “Adrien,” Jake clarified. “Adrien’s the one who finds the dead bodies.”

  “Yeah, well so far I haven’t generated any.”

  “What’s that?” Shoup’s utensils clattered against his plate. He goggled at us.

  Beside me, Jake went very still, the only person to understand my meaning. And considering the fact that Jake had killed in order to save my life — and had nearly lost his shield over it — it was a bitchy thing to say.

  “Jake’s a cop,” I said. “He doesn’t trust anybody.”

  “A cop?” Kevin repeated.

  Was it my imagination or was there an uncomfortable silence?

  “Now that must be interesting work,” Dr. Marquez said heartily.

  “What kind of cop?” Kevin asked.

  “Detective. Homicide.” Jake’s voice was flat. He resumed eating, intent on spearing every last bean on his plastic plate.

  Another of those weird pauses. Melissa chuckled then and said, “Well, well. Maybe we should ask Jake —”

  “Smith, you know my feeling on the subject.” Dr. Shoup cut her off with force.

  As I studied the faces around us only Dr. Shoup met my eyes. I said slowly, “Is there something going on here that I should know about?”

  “There is n-not,” Dr. Shoup said with that small and revealing stammer.

  “What about the weird noises? The chanting?”

  Jake made a sound as though he had inhaled a bean.

  “The hollow is haunted, you know,” Melissa said slyly.

  “Here it comes,” Kevin said, “The legend of Big Foot.”

  “Don’t be so quick to scoff at the beliefs of others, O’Reilly,” Dr. Marquez said seriously.

  “That’s right,” Amy said. “Melissa’s people were here when yours were still scratching for potatoes in Ireland.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  Amy’s logic seemed to have confounded even her. She shrugged and popped a frank in her mouth.

  “There are trees in this hollow older than your United States have been united,” Melissa said. “Those juniper pines by the tarn are four hundred years old. The fucking insects inside them have a more complex civilization than your own.”

  “Language,” Dr. Marquez cautioned.

  “Mountains are considered strong power points,” Bernice put in, handing over a bag of peanut butter cookies. “Water is another. There’s your argument for the hollow being a portal to the spirit world.”

  “Psychic archeology!” hooted Kevin.

  “This hollow has long been held a sacred place by the indigenous peoples,” Melissa said. “The pictographs on the rocks above us tell the story of guardian spirits.”

  “Poppycock!” Dr. Shoup said. “Not another word about werewolves.”

  No one had mentioned werewolves. Jake and I exchanged a look.

  I inquired, “Did you say —?”

  Kevin met my gaze and grimaced. “Ask Melissa about ‘The Devouring.’”

  I turned to Melissa. She was still smiling but there was something in her eyes. Something black and unfathomable.

  “Do you want to hear a spooky campfire tale, Mr. English?”

  “Do Boy Scouts like to be prepared?” I ignored Dr. Shoup’s obvious displeasure.

  Melissa pushed back from the table and folded her arms comfortably, at ease in her role of storyteller. The rest of us fell silent and waited.

  “According to the legends of my people, when the land and the water and the sky had been finished to his satisfaction, Coyote-man stabbed two sticks in the earth at all the places he had chosen for The People. Half of those sticks became men, half became women. It’s a Creation legend.” She shrugged.

  “The little ones learn the story of how Lizard-man convinced Coyote-man that it would be better for The People to have fingers instead of paws, and that is why, ever since, Coyote has chased Lizard in the rocks. But there is another story. An older story.”

  As Melissa moved into the rhythm of her story, her eyes half-closed, her voice grew low. There wasn’t a sound all down the long table.

  “This is the story my grandfather told me. My grandfather was a shaman. A wise man. He knew many stories. The story he told me was that Coyote-man would not listen to Lizard-man, not at first telling, and so the first people who came to life were given claws and fangs. Claws and fangs.” Melissa held up her hands, curving them as though to show long claws. She curled her lip in a silent snarl.

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  “Perhaps Coyote-man wished these first people to look like himself. Perhaps he was mocking his brother, the Wolf. No one knows. Some say this first people came to be in the days of the great serpents whose footsteps shook the trees. Some say these beings were born into a world where mountains spouted flame, where the red lava bathed the earth in rivers of fire. Who can remember past the time of the storytellers? But it is true that these first people were so fierce that when they woke to life they sprang upon each other and began to devour each other, man and woman.”

  Sounded like your average high school. I glanced at Jake’s profile. His gaze swerved briefly my way.

  “Like wolves in winter, so did the first people feel the ravening for flesh and blood. Too late Coyote-man saw what he had done. He tried to stop it before all were devoured, but could save only five of these first ones, these First People. Yet, having saved them Coyote-man did not know what to do with them, for they were as much animal as human, and there were already all the animal spirits needed in this world. So he named them The Guardian and sent them to guard the door between the spirit world and this one, and if ever man should trespass too close to the gateway, The Guardian shall fall upon him in the devouring
, and rend him limb from limb.”

  As though hypnotized we all stared at Melissa as she finished in a kind of sing-song, “He turned them into the darkness. The darkness of the deepest water or the blackest night, the black of the tree bark, the black of fur, the black of loam that sucks the unwary footstep. You will know them by the darkness if you stray too deep in the heart of night. But even before you feel their fangs and claws, you will see their eyes shining bright in the darkness like amber, like a hornet’s sting, like fool’s gold.”

  Melissa trailed into silence. No one spoke.

  At last Dr. Marquez chuckled and said, “I’m afraid there are several — um — holes in that story, Smith.”

  Melissa laughed too, the spell broken. “It’s just a legend. A story to keep small children from wandering too close to the caves.”

  Dr. Shoup snapped out like broken chalk, “It’s this kind of irresponsible babble about legends and folk tales that inspire dolts to dig up and cart off every removable artifact, utterly destroying the sanctity of a site.”

  “We call it the Schliemann Syndrome,” Dr. Marquez informed me.

  “But if Heinrich Schliemann hadn’t listened to and believed the old legends, he wouldn’t have discovered Troy,” I pointed out.

  Dr. Shoup barked, “Troy? Which Troy? Troy One or Nine or Zero? A little learning is a dangerous thing.”

  * * * * *

  The party broke up sometime after ten o’clock. As we cut across the wet grass to the Bronco, Jake held his hand out for the keys.

  My car, I drive. That’s the way I see it, but Jake apparently loses points anytime he permits another male to chauffeur him, so I tossed him the keys. I’d had too much cheap wine anyway and my headache was coming back.