Читать книгу Anasazi Exile - Eric G. Swedin - Страница 15

CHAPTER TEN

Simon Ashbridge couldn’t get the stink of the dead men out of his nostrils. He rubbed at his nose, trying to be discreet, conscious that he had four other rangers with him. He knew that his obsession with looking competent in front of them was a bit silly, but being chief ranger meant a lot to him.

The second dead man had been taken away, like garbage in a bag, but the smell still lingered. Simon stood back away from the girl’s tent as Harry rummaged through it, putting clothes, a brush, a cell phone, and other stuff into a backpack. It was a crime scene, but all the pictures had been taken, and Simon could think of no good reason to keep Harry from taking some of the girl’s possessions to her.

Nothing in the archaeologist’s story smelled suspicious, though the whole affair stank in more ways than he could name. National parks occasionally had problems with gun-toting idiots growing marijuana, but there was not enough water in Chaco Canyon to make that possible. Who were these men? His call to the FBI had not inspired him that los federales would come quickly.

“Uh, Harry, you might want to take some of your own clothes,” Simon suggested. “Or even change clothes. Look at all that blood.”

Simon followed the archaeologist to another tent and turned away as the man stripped and dressed himself. Despite an insistent urge, Simon did not sneak a peek. He had always dreamed of being a soldier; he loved reading books and watching movies about soldiers, the look of men in uniforms, and the idea being with other men in danger. The idea of war did not attract him so much as did the idea of living in barracks and the shared life of such a masculine world. After high school, Simon had joined the Army, and spent four years driving a tank. He enjoyed tearing up the countryside of Kentucky, feeling the power of sixty-three tons under his control, but was disappointed that barracks no longer existed except in boot camp. Dormitory rooms were the normal quarters now.

Being a private sucked, with long hours on guard duty, obeying the orders of petty tyrants, and feeling that his life was not his own, so he decided to use his G.I. Bill and get a college education, then rejoin as an officer. In college he came out of the closet and acknowledged that he was gay. He felt so relieved, but he couldn’t put that part of him back into some secret place; he realized that rejoining the Army was a foolish dream. Don’t ask, don’t tell meant don’t join.

He joined the National Park Service and dedicated himself to climbing the ranks. He didn’t have a boyfriend. Three times a year he flew to San Francisco or New York or some other place with a vigorous gay scene. A bit of action and he was good until the next time.

Simon met Harry Deacon the first time that he drove out to check on the new archaeological permit for Casa Ángeles. He found Harry to be a real soldier, the kind of soft-spoken special operator that Simon idealized, with the subtle texture of muscles under his brown Puerto Rican skin and the confident way that he moved. Simon asked Harry about some of his experiences, not pumping for stories, just being friendly. Harry was a paragon of masculinity, and when Simon put out a few subtle signals, he found that Harry was also completely straight. Too bad.

* * * *

Just outside the entrance to Chaco Canyon, on Bureau of Land Management land, a poorly maintained gravel road stretched towards the south. Harry turned onto it and drove for three miles, keeping an eye out for anyone else, especially someone who might be watching him.

He recognized the paranoia gripping him and the hyper-alertness that kept his eyes constantly flitting about and his nerves quivering. He had slipped back into combat mode, where everything was a possible threat until proven safe. Long experience had shown him how exhausting such a state on perpetual awareness would be. He was not a young pup anymore, and the energy required daunted him, but he could not imagine any other proper response to the situation. The facts added up into a threat that he could not wrap his understanding around: strange men attacking Brenda and him, the apparent deaths or near-deaths of the rest of the digging team in Scotland, and the fact that an extraordinary find sat in a bag on the seat next to him. When gathering Brenda’s gear, he found the box from the tomb, wrapped in plastic. He was not surprised that she had taken it to bed with her, like the treasure that it was. Fortunately one of the stray bullets had not hit it, though he would have quickly traded the box for her life, if the universe allowed such trades.

Like an island in the midst of alkaline soil and sagebrush, a rocky butte squatted against the pressures of geological time. Harry stopped in the middle of the road, not wanting to leave tire tracks to show that he had stopped there. Taking the box, he stepped from the truck, taking care to walk on rocks until he was far into the rabbit brush and sagebrush that lined the road.

The butte was only a couple of hundred yards away, and he scanned the horizon as he quickly worked his way past rocks and over a small wash to get to it. There were no helicopters around; the only indication of airplanes were the white trails following two airliners miles up in the sky. He knew that satellites could easily be watching him, but that was a bit too paranoid. There were no other people or cars that he could see.

Near the butte a clump of green stalks of greasewood grew as tall as Harry. The Chacoans had eaten the leaves of the plant and used its sturdy wood for lintels over doors and windows, and as firewood. Passing around the clump, he found a small overhang with a puddle of windblown dust nestled below it. Harry buried the box six inches below the surface and placed a rock on top as a marker. He figured that the plastic would protect it for a while, maybe even a few years.

Stepping out from the shade offered by the overhang, he wiped his brow. The heat seemed more oppressive today than yesterday. Probably not that different as measured by a thermometer, but the stress of his overwrought emotions made him more sensitive.

Once again he was committing a mortal sin for an archaeologist, hiding this precious discovery where no one could find it. What if he died on the road later that night? Then the box would be lost forever. No one would ever be able to open it and marvel at its manufacture, and its discovery would not rewrite the history of Chaco Canyon.

Breaking a branch off a rabbit brush, Harry swished it behind him as he followed his footsteps out. He felt like he was in a Western. It was obvious to anyone who looked what someone had tried to do, but he figured that the wind and any rain that might fall would more easily obscure the brushings rather than his footprints.