Old Bones, page 14
Without speaking further, they wrapped up the remains of the coin purses and their contents and placed them in an artifact container; secured the grids and exposed skeletons with tarps and fixed them carefully in place; returned to the HQ tent and placed the coins in the strongbox—and then headed down the trail, toward the campsite and dinner.
20
May 9
SHORTLY AFTER LUNCH the following day, Nora took a break from working in the dirt. She, Clive, Adelsky, and Salazar had focused on the Spitzer and Reinhardt site all morning. After explaining the discovery to the two assistants, Nora had finished exposing the skeletons, while the others had extended the excavations on either side, stretching out another meter into undisturbed ground. They had taken the entire area down to the 1847 soil horizon and even farther, in case the gold had been buried right at the site. But so far they had found nothing—no gold or any signs of a burial, only ragged scraps of clothing and a few buttons.
After lunch, Clive and the two assistants continued to work in that area. But Nora decided to take a break. Over the course of her career, she had discovered that, from time to time, she had to stop and let an archaeological site speak to her. Just speak. In the midst of digging, sometimes she got so focused on a square meter of dirt that she would start losing the overall story that the site was trying to tell her. That had happened while searching for the gold, and she had to remind herself that it was only a small part of the archaeological treasures the site was yielding.
So now she laid down her trowel and wandered about the site, shutting down the intellectual side of her brain, pushing out thoughts of gold, and “letting the history rise from the earth,” as one of her professors had put it. She tried to re-create in her mind the conditions of the site—the drifting snow, the bleak cliffs, the absolute wilderness—and how the people stranded in it were focused on one thing: survival. As she drew in the mountain air and looked around, she got a taste of the strangeness, the isolation, they must have felt. Today, they were a mere fifteen miles from a major interstate highway, yet it still felt like the ends of the earth. In 1847, the travelers would have been farther from civilization than anything conceivable today.
As she wandered around, her footsteps took her to an area down by the creek—the row of parallel grids labeled F that were farthest from the Hackberry trail. Here, in one isolated spot, the magnetometer had registered a small shadow, something unnatural, in or around grid F2. For some reason, this spot spoke to Nora. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe she was attracted to it because the place was more pleasant than most in the valley. She had not opened up this grid yet, but she felt it might contain something special, even important. It whispered to her professional instincts of history; of stories long hidden, waiting to be told. And there was something about untouched ground, before the first trowel had bit into the dirt, that seemed almost magical.
Most important, it would take her mind off the search for Wolfinger’s gold.
Carefully, she prepared to excavate F2. As she worked, she could hear the low chatter of Adelsky and Salazar floating down from higher ground, where they were finishing up the Spitzer and Reinhardt section—still with no success. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Clive. He’d wandered away from Adelsky and Salazar and was standing near the far line of trees, hands in his pockets, looking skyward, apparently lost in thought.
As she began work on the grid, carefully sweeping the dirt away, a shadow fell over her. She turned to see Clive, hands still in his pockets.
“Decided to try your luck over here?” he asked.
Nora wiped her forehead with the back of one glove, then nodded.
“Mind if I watch?”
“Not at all.”
Clive squatted beside her, careful not to disturb any of the grid lines. He pulled out one of his cigars and lit it up.
“Do you mind?” Nora said, pointing downwind.
“Oh. Sorry.” Clive changed position. “I used to be a cigarette fiend, three packs a day. So I switched to cigars—these expensive Dunhills—hoping the cost would keep my habit down.”
“That’s only the second one I’ve seen you smoke.”
“Yeah. I’ve cut back over the last couple of years. Now I only smoke to relax, calm my nerves—you know, that kind of thing.”
For about five minutes, he watched her work. And then he shook his head. “I’ve been thinking…” He stopped.
“Thinking what?”
“What a goddamn idiot I’ve been.”
Nora stopped working and sat back on her heels. “Care to tell me why?”
“Those two, Reinhardt and Spitzer, were carrying the gold in their boots. Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“Because that’s all the fucking ‘treasure’ they had.”
Clive said this in a low, bitter voice, eyes on the ground. It was the first time Nora had heard him use such profanity. “And how do you figure that?”
“You and I both agree they would have kept the gold close. Well, we just excavated their entire miserable hovel and found nothing.”
“Maybe they hid it beneath a nearby tree,” Nora said. “Or buried it in the snow.”
Clive shook his head. “That’s not what my gut tells me.”
Nora could hardly believe what she was hearing. “But, Clive, it was you who did the historical research on all this. It was impeccable. You laid it all out, for me and Dr. Fugit, back in her office. Wolfinger withdrew that gold.”
Clive puffed on his cigar. “All I found was a withdrawal note. Its details in regards to Wolfinger are, technically, debatable.”
“But still, we know there was a robbery and murder.”
“Sure, by a couple of jackasses who got a hundred dollars for their trouble. When we first found those coins, I said they looked uncirculated, although with heavier bag marks than usual. But I’ve thought about that some more. If I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that’s not the case. They’re scratched, dinged up, far beyond what any bag marks would cause. And do you know why? Because Reinhardt and Spitzer had been walking around with those coins in their boots ever since they killed Wolfinger.”
“But—” Nora began, then stopped when she saw the expression on his face.
“They murdered him expecting a fortune—and found only ten gold pieces. Not exactly chump change in 1847, but no treasure, either. It’s exactly from such things that legends are born, and this particular legend was just credible enough to gull this particular historian.”
“Clive, what makes you think that gold isn’t hidden somewhere else—?” Nora began, but Clive cut her off.
“Put yourselves in their shoes for a moment. Think about what you would do.”
Nora thought. “I suppose I wouldn’t have let it out of my sight.”
“Exactly! I made a fatal mistake. I’m a trained historian, and I should have been more careful. I have no excuse.”
“What mistake, exactly? Excuse for what?”
“For making an assumption. I assumed Wolfinger made that withdrawal. But Nora, the fact is those bank records were incomplete. Dr. Fugit was right to be skeptical. Sure, Wolfinger made a withdrawal that week—but it was for one hundred dollars. The other nine hundred must have gone out in other withdrawals, lost in the bank’s incomplete records. That’s why Reinhardt and Spitzer divided the gold equally between them—five coins apiece. That’s why it was in their boots. And…and that’s why I’ve let you down.” As he’d done earlier, he looked up at the sky. “Nora, I’m ashamed. I guaranteed the Institute we’d find that gold—and instead all we have is ten lousy coins.”
Nora was silent a moment. Listening to Clive talk, she felt something she hadn’t expected: regret. As an archaeologist, she’d always told herself that gold—treasure—didn’t matter. After all, she wasn’t going to get any of it. Here she was, surrounded by the real treasure—an important archaeological discovery—and yet despite her best efforts, she, too, was experiencing more than a pang of disappointment.
She pushed these thoughts away. “Those ten coins are still worth a lot of money,” she said.
“Not enough to fund this expedition,” Clive said. “And they’re not uncirculated. Their historical value might up the price a little, but they’re still only worth a thousand dollars each, perhaps a bit more.”
“Maybe so. But don’t you see? We were never sure we’d find that gold. And the fact is, it doesn’t matter anymore. We found the Lost Camp. That’s what’s important. This is going to be such a coup for the Institute that Dr. Fugit will probably be able to raise a lot of money based on the site alone.”
“I hope she can,” Clive said. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I let you down.” He dropped his half-finished cigar and ground it out in the grass.
“Better take that away with you.”
“Of course. Sorry.” Clive wrapped the cigar stub in a tissue. “Here I’ve interrupted your work, feeling sorry for myself. Go ahead: let’s see what’s in this grid.”
Nora took the whisk and began brushing her way down through the soft soil, removing it with the trowel for later screening. Almost immediately, she felt the whisk encounter an obstruction. She set the whisk aside and resumed work with a paintbrush, brushing in a gentle semicircular motion. A delicate human jawbone appeared—the maxilla.
“Tiny,” Clive said.
“It’s a child,” said Nora. “See the baby teeth? I’d estimate this came from a person six to eight years old.” Her voice faltered; in a moment, all thought of the gold was gone.
“There was only one child of that age in the group,” Clive murmured, peering closely.
Working slowly, with something close to reverence, Nora continued to brush dirt away from the jaw, freeing it from the earth that had held it prisoner for more than a century and a half.
“Why don’t you take pictures while I work, to document this,” she murmured.
Clive photographed the jaw from a number of angles. Soon the rest of the skull appeared. It was intact.
Quietly, as if sensing an important discovery, Adelsky and Salazar had left their quads and come to observe.
Working downward, Nora began uncovering cervical vertebrae and a small rib cage. A silver hair clasp appeared, in the shape of a ribbon, with a lock of blond hair wedged in it. Seeing this, she paused. The others were looking on, mesmerized. She could feel the intensity of their gaze as they stared at what were quite clearly the remains of Samantha Carville, the only child in the Lost Camp. The skeleton was lying on its back, skeletal arms folded lovingly across the chest.
Clive broke the silence. “Amazing her hair survived all these years.”
“It’s the cold,” Salazar said. “And the altitude.”
Suddenly, Nora realized both her legs had gone to sleep. She stood up with effort, massaging her calves. As she did so, she was startled to notice that someone was standing behind them, at the edge of the clearing.
It was Jack Peel. They had all been so focused on the discovery that they hadn’t heard his approach. He was wearing a cowboy hat and a long duster, and was staring at them intently.
Nora pulled off her gloves and waved. Adelsky did the same.
For a moment, Peel stood there, half-obscured by shadow. At this distance, his expression was unreadable. Then he raised a hand in acknowledgment, turned, and disappeared into the gloom of the trees, duster billowing behind him as he headed back to camp.
“He’s an odd one,” said Clive.
Adelsky and Salazar went back to their own tasks and Nora continued working, assisted by Clive, until she had finished the quadrant. At last, she put aside her tools and sighed. A pair of ravens cawed back and forth between two dead trees. A mist began settling down as evening darkened the sky. She gazed upon the delicate skeleton, with its silver clasp and tight braid of golden hair. Only the top part of Samantha was exposed in this quad; the body below the waist ran into the next quad, which Nora had not yet opened. That would be a job for tomorrow.
She reached over, grabbed a tarp, unfurled it, and secured it over the remains of the little girl.
* * *
Dinner around the campfire that evening was a quiet affair. Nora and her crew were bone-tired from the initial work of getting the dig under way. Clive was unusually quiet, and Nora thought he must still be ruminating about the failure to find the gold. Only Maggie seemed to be in her usual high spirits, dishing out extra helpings and needling Adelsky when he couldn’t finish his four-alarm chili, the sweat pouring off his brow. The dark came down quickly, and with it, a bitter night chill. Burleson built up the fire, and Maggie, after she’d refreshed everyone’s coffee, started in on one of her drawn-out jokes—this particular vulgarism involving a prostitute, a one-eyed parson, and a parrot that spoke French. Nora’s mind drifted away, coming back only when a burst of raucous laughter at the punch line interrupted her thoughts. But then she heard Maggie start in on one of her endless speculations about the Donner Party. With a twinge of dismay, Nora realized she was about to tell another ghost story concerning Samantha Carville.
“Maggie,” she interjected as mildly as she could, “I don’t think this is a good time for a story like that.”
Maggie fixed her with a look of mock indignation. “Why not? What else is there to do around a campfire but tell stories?”
“It’s just that particular story…” Nora took a deep breath. “We found Samantha Carville’s skeleton today.”
There was a brief, stunned silence. Maggie was the first to recover. “What about her leg?”
“We’ve only exposed the top half of her remains,” Nora said. She noticed that Peel dug viciously at the coals with a stick, scowling.
Clive came to Nora’s assistance. “As for Samantha’s leg, Maggie, I like a tall tale as much as anyone, but there’s not a shred of historical evidence to support that story. No doubt we’ll unearth it tomorrow.”
He was stopped by Wiggett, who’d put a warning hand on his shoulder and nodded out into the darkness.
For a moment, there was no sound beyond the crackling fire and the cold wind in the trees. And then Nora heard it: the thud of iron shoes, the snorting of a horse.
Nobody moved.
The slow, thudding steps came closer. And then, abruptly, a figure emerged out of the darkness: a young woman in a heavy jacket and gloves, a palomino horse trailing on a lead behind her.
21
THE WOMAN CAME to a stop in the firelight and looked over the group, an uncertain expression on her face. Closer up, she looked even younger than Nora had first thought, with a small upturned nose, pale face, and short brown hair in a choppy but professionally layered pixie cut. She stood just outside the circle, as if respectful of their space. Her body might have been still, but her eyes were busy, taking everything and everyone in.
Burleson rose. “I see you’ve ridden one of our horses up here,” he said.
“I did,” the woman said. “I rented it from your ranch. I…I’m sorry to intrude on you like this.” She hesitated, then pulled a badge out from under her coat, hanging on a lanyard. “I’m Special Agent Corinne Swanson of the FBI. I’m here as part of an investigation.”
Nora stared in disbelief. An FBI agent? This had to be a joke. What kind of investigation would take place out here? Anyway, she didn’t look old enough to be an agent—she looked barely out of high school.
Burleson was the first to recover. “Welcome, Agent Swanson.” He turned to Wiggett. “Drew, could you please take her horse over to the corral?”
Wiggett got up and took the reins from the woman, leading the horse off into the darkness. Agent Swanson stood there, looking uncertain.
“Well,” said Burleson, “won’t you sit down?”
“Thanks.” She came forward and took a seat in one of the folding chairs around the fire. “We didn’t have a way of contacting you in advance. I was hoping to get up here before sunset, but the ride was longer than I imagined. They told me to bring a guide. I should have listened. I got lost once or twice along the way.”
She gave them a slight smile and brushed back her short hair. “I imagine you’re all wondering what I’m doing here.”
“That’s an understatement,” said Maggie. “Was somebody murdered?” Her tone sounded almost hopeful.
“I’ll be glad to explain.” The girl—woman—shifted in her chair. Nora wasn’t sure what an FBI agent was supposed to look like; she had known only one, and he was obviously in a category all his own, but Agent Swanson was about as far from what she’d imagined as possible.
“I just want to say up front that no one here is suspected of any wrongdoing,” she said.
“That’s good,” said Wiggett, “because I was ready to panic about that damn speeding ticket I tossed two years ago in Utah.”
A ripple of forced laughter went around.
“I’m investigating a case involving grave desecration, homicide, and a missing person.”
At this the laughter dropped away and a silence fell.
“What does this have to do with us?” Nora asked, speaking up for the first time.
“In the past seven months, three graves have been illegally opened and the remains disturbed. A woman in Arizona has recently gone missing under suspicious circumstances.”
“Oh, Lordy,” said Maggie, pouring herself another glass of wine.
“It turns out that all the individuals I’ve just mentioned, including the missing woman, share a commonality.”
“Whoa, you said ‘graves illegally opened,’” Maggie said. “You mean grave robbing? Did they steal the corpses or something?”
“Well, this information is confidential, but, yes, portions of the remains were removed.”
“Holy crap.”
“So where do we fit into this?” asked Nora.
