by Kathy Reichs
“We will.” I stepped back.
“And then?” Dupree’s face was birdlike, the bones sharp under pink, translucent skin.
“I’ll file a preliminary report with the Office of the State Archaeologist next week.”
The basset wandered over and started sniffing my leg. It looked to be at least eighty years old.
“Colonel, don’t be rude with the little lady.” To me, “Colonel’s getting on. Forgets his manners.”
The little lady scratched Colonel behind one mangy ear.
“Shame to disappoint folks because of a bunch a ole Indians.” Dupree smiled what he no doubt considered his Southern gentleman smile. Probably practiced it in the mirror while clipping his nose hairs.
“Many view this country’s heritage as something valuable,” I said.
“Can’t let these things stop progress, though, can we?”
I did not reply.
“You do understand my position, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
I abhorred Dupree’s position. His goal was money, earned by any means that wouldn’t get him indicted. Screw the rain forest, the wetlands, the seashore, the dunes. Dickie Dupree would bulldoze the Temple of Artemis if it stood where he wanted to slap up high-priced condos.
Behind us, Winborne had gone still. I knew he was listening.
“And what might this fine document say?” Another sheriff of Mayberry smile.
“That this area is underlain by a pre-Columbian burial ground.”
Dupree’s smile wavered, held. Sensing tension, or perhaps bored, Colonel abandoned me for Winborne. I wiped my hand on my cutoffs.
“You know those folks up in Columbia well as I do. A report of that nature will shut me down for some time. That delay will cost me money.”
“An archaeological site is a nonrenewable cultural resource. Once it’s gone, it’s gone forever. I can’t in good conscience allow your needs to influence my findings, Mr. Dupree.”
The smile dissolved, and Dupree eyed me coldly.
“We’ll just have to see about that.” The veiled threat was little softened by the gentle, Low Country drawl.
“Yes, sir. We will.”
Pulling a pack of Kools from his pocket, Dupree cupped a hand and lit up. Flicking the match, he drew deeply, nodded, and started back toward the dunes, Colonel waddling at his heels.
“Mr. Dupree,” I called after him.
Dupree stopped, but didn’t turn to face me.
“It’s environmentally irresponsible to walk on dunes.”
Flicking a wave, Dupree continued on his way.
Anger and loathing rose in my chest.
“Dickie not your choice for Man of the Year?”
I turned. Winborne was unwrapping a stick of Juicy Fruit. I watched him put the gum in his mouth, daring with my eyes that he toss the paper as Dupree had tossed his match.
He got the message.
Wordlessly, I hooked a one-eighty and walked to three-east. I could hear Winborne scrabbling along behind me.
The students fell silent when I joined them. Eight eyes followed as I hopped down into the trench. Topher handed me a trowel. I squatted, and was enveloped by the smell of freshly turned earth.
And something else. Sweet. Fetid. Faint, but undeniable.
An odor that shouldn’t be there.
My stomach tightened.
Dropping to all fours, I examined Topher’s oddity, a segment of vertebral column curving outward from halfway up the western wall.
Above me, students threw out explanations.
“We were cleaning up the sides, you know, so we could, like, take photos of the stratigraphy.”
“We spotted stained soil.”
Topher added some brief detail.
I wasn’t listening. I was troweling, creating a profile view of the burial lying to the west of the trench. With each scrape my apprehension was heading north.
Thirty minutes of scraping revealed a spine and upper pelvic rim.
I sat back, a tingle of dread crawling my scalp.
The bones weren’t simply articulated. They were connected by muscle and ligament.
As I stared, the first fly buzzed in, sun iridescent on its emerald body.
Sweet Jesus.
Rising, I brushed dirt from my knees. I had to get to a phone.
Dickie Dupree had more to worry about than the ancient Sewee.
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