Authors: Judith E. French
It was oddly quiet as she pulled on clean jeans shorts
and a cotton tee. There was no sound but the whoosh
of the incoming tide lapping on the shore; and the
frogs and crickets; she might have been a thousand
miles from civilization. No aircraft flew overhead, and
she couldn't hear a single boat motor. Even the wind
had died. The leaves and marsh grass hung becalmed
and motionless. The redolence of crushed grass, newly
turned earth, and primeval saltwater marsh filled her head with every breath, but it was the silence that disturbed her. Not a single birdsong resonated from the
marsh or wooded grove.
Usually, Abbie enjoyed solitude. Matthew Catlin and
Phillip Love talked enough to give anyone a migraine,
but now she missed Bailey and the endless chatter of
her eager volunteers. The hush over the clearing gave
her a hollow feeling, making her question her stubborn insistence on camping on site instead of returning to her comfortable bed at Emma's.
Maybe the marsh did harbor uneasy spirits, Abbie
mused. Grandmother Willow had thought so, and so
did Aunt Birdy, here on the island. Many people believed that old women and men were demented when
they spoke of the supernatural, but she'd always
found wisdom in their words. Well, if there were
ghosts here, they'd just have to adjust to company.
Abbie wasn't easily frightened, and she doubted if
nights alone in a Tawes swamp could be anywhere
near as spooky as camping in a lonely canyon in Mesa
Verde Park or on a two-thousand-year-old Greek battleground.
She wasn't stupid, and she didn't believe that she
was invincible. She was certain that Anati's death had
been connected to this dig, but she wasn't a detective
or a superheroine. She didn't know of any way to discover her mother's killer other than to find what that
person or persons didn't want found. If she did, when
she did, the evidence would lead to the guilty party.
And if her mother's murderer wanted to come after
her to prevent her from making the discovery, she was
ready. Sheathed at her belt were two bone-handled
throwing knives. She could hit a two-inch circle nine
tunes out of ten at thirty feet.
A rustle from the phragmites drew Abbie's atten tion. She left the tent, walked to the edge of the
marsh, and peered into the tall grass, wondering
what had caused the sound when there was no
breeze. When she saw nothing to alarm her, she decided she must have heard a muskrat, a snake, or a
marsh hen.
Shaking off her apprehension, Abbie finished
preparations for the next day's dig. Once her tools
were in their proper places, artifacts photographed
and bagged, and final notes recorded, Abbie opened
her laptop and pulled out a volume on Aegean grave
sites that she was using as a reference for her dissertation.
In late August, her work at Penn would begin in
earnest. She'd be expected to assist Dr. Maynard, to
teach some classes, and to edit an article that Dr. Maynard was preparing for publication. She also had a
speaking engagement scheduled for mid-October.
She'd be giving a talk and a PowerPoint presentation
on her work at Phaistos on Crete two summers ago.
September would be so crazy that she'd wanted to get
her CDs and notes together now.
Of all the excuses for not being prepared, she didn't
want to have to say, "I'm not prepared. I lost the entire
summer because my mother was murdered in July."
Realization of the finality of her mother's death
brought a lump to Abbie's throat. Shared evenings on
a dig site had always been special for the two of them.
They'd talked and laughed over the day's triumphs or
disappointments, and argued over whose turn it was to
prepare the evening meal or who had screwed up dinner the night before. Her mother hated gas grills, preferred cooking over an open fire, and loved her food
highly seasoned and heavy on the carbs. Abbie enjoyed her food spicy, but never to the extent Anati did. Her mother had been known to add hot chilies and
Thai pepper sauce to everything from scrambled eggs
to mashed potatoes.
Abbie chuckled as she remembered the spicy
Navaho chili, Indian fry bread, succotash, and German
chocolate cake with habanero icing that her mother
had served to her twelfth-birthday-party guests. Abbie
would never forget her best friend Rachel's eyes when
she took a large forkful of that fiery cake.
The doctorate and education that had been Abbie's goal for so many years no longer seemed as important. Maybe after she found who'd killed her
mother, and after that person was facing a lifetime behind bars, she could find excitement in archaeology
again.
She forced herself to concentrate on the article
she'd been composing. Her mind felt as sluggish as
wet concrete, and her creativity level was at empty. Her
piece seemed boring, the writing trite and wooden.
When she reread the last paragraph, it made no sense.
With a sigh of frustration, Abbie backspaced, deleting
most of the screen, then stood and stretched.
A red-winged blackbird flew up out of the reeds,
landed on a branch, and delivered an angry tirade.
Abbie glanced around the clearing and rubbed her
bare arms. The temperature was perfect, in the seventies, and there was no breeze. Still, she shivered. She
was definitely losing it. "Back to work," she told herself
as she returned to her folding chair and her article.
She promised herself she wouldn't stop for dinner until she'd completed four solid pages.
A mosquito buzzed around his head, but he ignored
it. He'd worked too hard to reach this spot without being seen, and he wasn't about to give himself away. He wished it were dark, but dusk wouldn't fall over the
marsh for hours. The waiting was the worst.
Why hadn't she given up and gone away after her
mother got what was coming to her? Why hadn't she
learned? He would have let her live. Not now. Now,
she had to die like the others. Some people had to pay
the price for being stupid.
He'd watched her while she took off her clothes and
went into the water as bare as an egg. Splashing, swimming. She had no respect for the dead, showing off
her naked body like a whore of Babylon.
He closed his eyes and felt for the section of bone in
his pants pocket. He rubbed it, rolling it between
thumb and fingers. It felt warm and solid. Holding the
small piece of bone comforted him and eased his
mind. He would take care of the whore tonight while
she was asleep. He didn't know how, but it would come
to hire as it always did.
He took a deep breath and listened. He was alone
now. Sometimes, when he came here to this place at
night, he could feel them all around him. All those
haunts, and one stronger, more powerful, than the
others. He'd never seen their ghosts, not really seen
them, but he could make out their shadows in the
trees ... hear them whispering to him. And he knew
what they wanted him to do.
Tonight had to be done right. He was sorry he'd
thrown the ax down on the sidewalk outside the museum when he'd had to run. It was the doctor's fault. If
she hadn't fought so hard and screamed, he wouldn't
have gotten frightened and left it behind. It was the
finest celt he'd ever seen, perfect, and he'd put great
store by it.
He and Daniel had found the ax right here on the
beach years ago. He wished he could think of some
way to get it back. He wanted his ax, and it wasn't fair for the police to keep his property. But he was too
afraid. Better not say anything ... not give anybody
reason to ask questions.
It would have been fitting to kill Abbie Night Horse
with the same stone celt he'd used on her mother and
the Gilbert boy. Way back in olden times, the celt had
been carried here from off somewhere in the mountains to the north. One of the people who was buried
here, maybe even the medicine man, had carved it out
of rock and used it, maybe even killed his enemies
with it.
Now that his ax was gone and he couldn't think of a
way to get it back, he had to decide upon a way to do
for the girl. He had to make people know it was the
curse that killed her for disturbing the dead. Putting a
bullet through her head would be quick and easy, but
it wouldn't make the ghosts happy. That wasn't their
way. They would want him to finish her in the old way.
They trusted him, and he couldn't disappoint them.
He had to do it right so that people would stay away
from the burial ground once and for all.
Abbie heard someone call her name, looked up, and
saw Buck striding toward her from the marsh trail.
Her mouth gaped. Trotting gaily beside him was a
black bear. Not a bear, she realized with a start, but
one of the biggest dogs she'd ever seen. This one had
to be either a Newfoundland or a Bernese Mountain
Dog. Buck carried a knapsack and a bedroll, and the
animal wore a harness and carried saddlebags strapped
to his back.
She laughed. "What now, Chief? First a white horse
and now a bear. They'd love you on the Vegas strip."
"Hey, pretty lady." He grinned at her as she knelt to
pat the dog's head.
"What a handsome fellow," she crooned. The dog's eyes were huge, intelligent, and deep brown. "You
have beautiful eyes," she said to the dog. "Yes, you do."
She glanced up at Buck. "Does he have a name?"
"Archimedes. Actually, it's Seafarer's Archimedes,
but he answers to Archie. He's a Newfoundland."
"I wondered. Are they usually this big?"
"He's oversized for showing. Just a growing boy."
The dog's paws were the size of luncheon plates. He
was crow-black with a long thick coat and a single
white patch on his chest. "Is he yours?" She patted
Archie's head, and a thin trail of drool dripped from
the corner of his grizzly-bear mouth.
"My brother Bowman's. Not exactly Bowman's. He
was keeping Archie temporarily for his buddy Chuck
because the guy is in the military and he couldn't have
Archie in the barracks, but then Chuck got shipped
overseas. Archie is sort of between homes at the moment. Bowman's fiancee is allergic to dogs and I
thought-"
"No." She stood up. "Absolutely, positively not."
Archie offered her his right front paw. She shook it,
and he offered the left.
"See that? He likes you."
"Thank you, but I don't need a dog."
"Every woman needs a good man in her life. And
Archie's the perfect housemate. He never hogs the TV
remote or the bathroom. And he doesn't insist on turning on football when you want to watch ice skating."
"I like football."
"Yeah? Who do you like? Some-"
"Baltimore Ravens."
"No kidding." He laughed. "Hope for you after all,
Ms. Night Horse."
"But I'm not taking the dog."
Buck looked down at the Newf. "Did you hear that? Cover your ears, Archie. I don't remember my offering this wonderful dog to you. I probably wouldn't allow you to take possession of him if you begged me."
"Lucky for me, then."
Buck scowled. "How do I know how you'd treat
him? I've never met any Oklahoma hostiles before.
Maybe you'd like to serve the dog roasted along with
turkey for Thanksgiving dinner."
"Funny. Very funny."
"I thought so." He dropped his heavy pack on the
ground. "Want company?"
"Not especially," she lied. She was glad to see him,
wanted him to stay here with her, wanted his presence
to keep away the loneliness.
"Too bad. I'm the law on Tawes, and I'm here
whether you like it or not." He unrolled his pack, revealing a small patched and faded tent.
"That's what you brought? You expect to sleep in
that?"
"Perfectly good tent. Used it all the time when
Harry and I went camping."
"When? 1960?" She could see holes in the moldy
fabric that she could poke a finger through. "It looks
as though goats have been chewing on that thing. And
it smells musty."
"Trouble with you is, you're a pessimist." He looked
at the sky. "It's going to be a clear night. So long as it
doesn't rain, I'll be as dry as toast."
Rafi curled into a ball and hugged the bun-nee. It was
already getting dark and soon there would be no light
in the window. Rafi didn't like the dark. He was hungry and the good drink in the cup the Big Papa Man
called kok was gone. Rafi could still smell the paper
that had had the good food in it, the food the Big Papa Man had called a hot dog and flies. Rafi couldn't
remember eating dog or flies at his uncle's house, but
he'd been so hungry he hadn't fussed. He'd liked it,
too. It was good and he wanted more hot-dog.
Don't fuss. Don't cry. That was what the Big Papa
Man said.
The Big Papa Man was mean, meaner than Uncle,
meaner than Frogh who was Wali and Seema's mama
and said Never never call me Mama! and hit him on the
head with a spoon. The Big Papa Man talked funny
and locked him in the dark place. If he fussed, the Big
Papa Man twisted his arm. Hard!
Rafi wanted to go home. He wanted to see Frogh's
cat and Uncle's brown goat. Bun-nee was soft and nice,
but it wasn't real. Rafi was big enough to know real.
The Big Papa Man called it a toi-rabbit, but it did not
look like a rabbit. Rafi had fed Seema's rabbit and it
was a real animal with soft ears and teeth. Bun-nee was
a funny rabbit. No teeth. Not a dead rabbit. Not a real
rabbit. But nice.
Rafi missed the brown goat and he missed his bed.
He missed the good smell of nan and cheese. His belly
hurt and he had to make water again. His pants
smelled funny, so he knew he'd been bad.
Fat tears rolled down his cheeks. He wiped them
away. He did not like it here. He didn't like the Big
Papa Man, and he didn't like the dark place. He'd
never been all alone before. Always in his uncle's
house there had been smells from the kitchen, people, dogs barking, sheep and goats baaing. This place
was bad. There were no goats, no warm milk, and no
good nan.
Rafi began to rock and sing to himself. He couldn't
remember the words, so he just sang "Moon ...
moon ... moon..." over and over. He wished Uncle
would come or even Wali. Wali was big, but not as big as Seema or Frogh. Wali might pinch him, but Wali
would know the way home.