by Rachel Grant
Josh nodded. Some White Patriots brazenly wore swastikas on their arms. It was impossible to see that symbol without feeling a deep sense of fear and loss. Fear for Ava’s future. Immediate fears of pending attacks on synagogues. Heartache for his great-aunt Ethel who, along with his late grandmother, were the only members of that branch of the family to survive the Holocaust, only to see a rise in anti-Semitic violence in what should be her golden and peaceful years.
It burned that groups like the White Patriots were granted permits to gather for rallies—which news outlets then broadcast nationwide, allowing the organization to use it as a propaganda film to recruit even more members—and the Portland Police Bureau had to spend taxpayer dollars protecting them.
He looked at Desmond. Black, brown, and Native American people were the primary targets for White Patriot hate. Desmond and the other young men here would risk far more than Josh did if they showed up at the rally, and that was before factoring in their police records.
Josh was a decorated veteran and former SEAL employed by a wealthy US senator. His job was secure, and he’d have Raptor’s attorneys to help with legal issues that might arise. He risked only physical safety in the moment. If these guys were willing to risk everything to make a stand against white supremacists, he would damn well show up and use his privilege to aid them.
“It’s dangerous, and you would be risking a lot,” Josh said. “But if we present as protectors of the peace and control the narrative with our actions, it’s hard to argue we’re the instigators.”
“You’d show us what to do and stand with us?” Desmond asked.
Josh looked to Owen, who nodded.
“Yes. One hundred percent,” Josh said. “We can probably get my company to provide T-shirts—a uniform that would make us look official and another way to control the narrative—and Senator Ravissant could make a statement in support of communities standing up against fascism and racism.”
“Might be better to get one of our Oregon senators to do that,” Javonte said.
“Or the candidate, that Tisdale guy who’s all over the internet,” Desmond said.
Javonte scoffed. “No way would Tisdale support us.”
Josh was inclined to agree with Javonte there. “I don’t know either current senator or Congressman Tisdale, but I do know Rav, and he’d speak up in support of this.”
Arthur, who’d clearly been listening as they talked, crossed the rubber-mat-covered floor. “You can train my boys here to provide protection and not get arrested at the rally on Sunday?”
“I can’t guarantee the not-get-arrested part, but as long as no one here initiates confrontation or throws the first—or even the second—punch, it’s possible. This kind of protection work requires patience and taking more blows than is reasonable. But it’s foolproof in proving the other guy started it when cameras are rolling—which is guaranteed to be the case at a White Patriot gathering.”
“So, you’re saying no fighting back? We’re just punching bags?” Javonte asked.
“No, but…” He paused and searched for an example, then said, “Did you see the movie, 42? About Jackie Robinson? How he was told he had to brace himself and hold it in, because his response to racist shit would become the story? He would be the problem if he fought back? This is similar, but on a lesser scale. You don’t have to eat all the bullshit. Just two or three punches before you can fight back. Enough for cameras to capture who the real aggressor is. It’s shitty, but it works.”
“You up for taking some blows if necessary?” Owen asked.
Javonte, Desmond, and the others glanced at each other, then nodded almost as one. “We’ve been dealing with this shit our whole lives,” Desmond said. “As long as we can fight back, I’m in.”
Josh cocked his head and scanned the group. “Okay, then. Let’s come up with a plan.”
At the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Maddie glanced up, expecting to see Josh and Owen, but sadly, the person who entered the crypt wasn’t Josh. It was a tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed white man. Handsome. Fortyish. He reminded her of Peter O’Toole in his younger years.
“Oliver!” Troy said. “Thank you for stopping by.”
Oliver had to be Oliver Shields, the curator of the Columbia Legacy Museum, which would become the new home of the Kocher collection once Maddie’s work was complete. She pulled off the surgical gloves she wore for handling remains and offered the curator her hand. “Mr. Shields, it’s nice to finally meet you. Madeline Foster.”
“Yes, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to meet with you sooner.”
“I am envious of your trip. How was Norway?”
“Wonderful, as to be expected. I just wish I’d had more time to explore, but the symposium was successful.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“How is your inventory going?”
“It will take me at least seven more days to inventory the house—I’ll be working through the weekend—then the research phase will begin.”
“Do let me know if I can help. We’re eager for the collection to be transferred to the museum.”
Legally, he couldn’t help with the inventory. It was a conflict of interest as her work would lead to the repatriation of—she hoped—a large number of the remains along with their associated artifacts. He’d been eager to acquire the entire collection for his for-profit private museum giving him motive to undermine her work.
Shields had a degree in museology like she did, and his willingness to take on a looted collection confused her. But then, a job was a job, and the artifacts needed a home. The family had been clear they would never return any part of the collection to the tribes. And in the private museum, at least they’d be curated and cared for and, for the first time in eighty years, if Maddie could identify where the items were taken from, they could actually contribute to the knowledge of the prehistory of the region. Without provenience, they were old tools that contributed nothing to the archaeological record.
“I’m wondering if you’ve worked up a valuation for the collection?” Shields asked.
She took a step back, caught off guard by the question. “Surely you’re joking?”
“I told you we need a valuation,” Troy said.
She glared at him. “Yes, and I told you that’s impossible.” She turned to the curator. “And I’m shocked you would ask for it. You know placing a value on artifacts is unethical.” To say nothing of putting a value on human remains.
“Unethical or not, I need to provide the family with some sort of receipt.”
“You do you, but leave me out of it.” Dammit, did she have to be in an adversarial position with everyone involved in this project? She’d held on to a sliver of hope that Oliver Shields would be a professional.
“I will take you to dinner, and we can discuss this,” Shields announced, as if she had no say in the matter.
“No, thank you,” she said. “There’s nothing to discuss.”
“She already has plans.” The voice came from the stairwell, and she turned to see Josh just rounding the bend in the stairs, sending a warm flutter loose in her belly.
He wore a tight T-shirt that showed off his impressive biceps. He’d looked handsome on Wednesday in his business attire, but today’s look was pure hot athlete. And he’d brought a friend, hot athlete number two.
Owen Bishop was white, tall, and wiry. His blonde hair was trimmed close to the scalp in a military buzz cut. Trina had warned Maddie about his scars, most of which would be on the back of his head.
Maddie crossed the short distance to meet Josh and Owen at the base of the stairs. Josh leaned down and kissed her, a faint brush of his lips over hers, then spoke to Shields while looking into her eyes. “She has plans with me.”
Owen cleared his throat. “And me.”
She laughed. “It’s great to finally meet you, Owen.” Because it was how she rolled, she hugged him. He hugged her back, friendly. Easy. From the way Trina had described him, it had been a long road to get
here.
“You ready to go?” Josh asked.
She frowned at the table in the middle of the room. “I found a bag of bones in a closet upstairs today when I was searching for notes on a particular burial. It threw me off schedule. I need to finish up with it and document the contents of one more vault to hit my quota for the day. Twenty more minutes?”
“Last time you said twenty minutes, it was more like forty-five.” Josh winked at her.
She flashed a grin. “Thirty minutes. I promise.”
He tweaked her nose like they were longtime lovers. “You got it.” He and Owen leaned against the brick wall between the vault doors.
“Creepy place,” Owen commented.
“Who are you?” Shields asked.
Josh smiled. “You first.”
Maddie choked down her laugh. She’d wondered about Shields when she’d signed on for this project, and it had taken only a few minutes for him to show his colors. He wanted a value placed on artifacts?
Nope. Nope. Nope.
“I’m Oliver Shields, curator of the Columbia Legacy Museum.”
“I’m Josh. This is Owen.”
“And you are?”
“Madeline’s boyfriend. Former SEAL. Current security specialist.”
Troy’s head jerked to the side at that, and Maddie hid her grin as she pulled her gloves back on and resumed cataloguing the skeleton on the table. An older male based on the cranial sutures and shape of the forehead and jaw. The note card indicated it was stolen from the Painted Hills region, as were many of the skeletons in Kocher’s collection. There was a good chance this was collected from federal grazing land, which would now fall under Bureau of Land Management jurisdiction.
The back of the card listed other burials found in the vicinity—useful information for determining groups of remains that could be repatriated together—and included the name Clifford Nielsen as a “guest” excavator. That had to be none other than Clifford Nielsen the first, son of the founder of Nielsen Steel, and great-grandfather of the current CEO. This could potentially be a big lead for her research, as Nielsen Steel had an extensive archive where she might find more information.
As far as this particular skeleton went, most of the small bones were missing. All they had were the cranium, pelvis, both scapula, the long bones, plus a few ribs and vertebrae. Hand and feet bones were missing, as was most of the spinal column. Two of the long bones—a femur and ulna—were broken, the femur in three pieces and ulna in two, but all the broken ends fit together, making a complete bone. They’d probably been broken by Otto—or maybe even Nielsen—eighty-plus years ago.
She’d tuned out the conversation around her for the most part, but her attention was caught when Shields said, “As a security guard, you’re in the same line of work as Troy here. Troy will join the museum security staff when the collection is moved there.”
That was news to Maddie, but the detail clicked into place. Troy had a lot riding on this deal going through, including future employment. It was possible the overdone utility belt was to impress his future boss. But his wearing it when Shields wasn’t around made that excuse unlikely.
“Not that kind of security,” Josh said. “We protect people and events—public figures with credible threats or other strong need for security. Politicians, CEOs of Fortune 500 companies. Raptor is more along the lines of Secret Service with a touch of special forces. We have advance teams to secure and pave the way, and an operational detachment should a situation escalate. In addition, our operations branch provides hostage rescue and other services home and abroad when the US government isn’t willing or able to step in.”
Maddie tuned them out again as the conversation turned to Shields asking Josh questions about Raptor. Much as Maddie wanted to know more about his work, she had her own job to do.
As she was finishing with the skeleton, Josh stepped up to the table. “This is the one you found upstairs?”
She nodded. “The number on the note card with it indicates it came from the empty vault you pried open on Wednesday.” She avoided giving Kocher an accusatory glance. “The rusted latch could be the reason the remains weren’t returned to the vault after being on display upstairs, but my guess is they were put in the closet out of laziness.”
A sideways glance showed Kocher had stiffened. “The bones could have been in there for decades. My parents, and later my sister, were in charge of rotating the displays.”
“What’s with the red marks on the collar and shoulder bones?” Josh asked. “Is that some kind of stain?”
She nodded. “Yes. Sometimes the soil or items buried with the individual will cause staining when it decomposes. I’ve worked with protohistoric remains here in the Pacific Northwest in which the person was buried wearing a copper necklace and the bones have a greenish tinge. The red could be iron, I suppose, but that would be unusual for this area.”
She studied the bones laid out on a large tray on the table. She’d placed them in the shape of the man to estimate his height, but without the spinal column, she didn’t have enough data for a better than ballpark estimation. The red mottling on the clavicle and scapula was a stark contrast to the otherwise yellowed bones. If she couldn’t confirm through Otto’s notes where these remains came from, maybe she could get a pollen sample from dirt adhered to the bones that would explain the staining. But that was a last-resort sort of test, and her goal was to be minimally invasive of the remains. She made a note about the staining and potential for pollen analysis, then carefully placed the bones in the box she’d pulled from the empty vault.
Shields said goodbye and left the crypt as Maddie returned the box to its vault and pulled the last box for the night.
“Now that your future boss is gone,” Josh said, “I’m going to give you some advice.” Maddie paused in her work to watch Josh give Troy a once-over.
“For starters, the full utility belt hurts your cause. Flashlight, Taser, knife, and gun? Over the top and makes you look scared, especially when you go to such extremes for a closed museum. You afraid of the bones? Sorry, pal, but lethal force won’t help you there.”
Troy opened his mouth, but then his jaw snapped closed. He must realize anything he said would only make him look ridiculous. Or he’d have to admit his plan was to intimidate her all along, and now he knew Josh was a former SEAL and perhaps guessed that Owen was the same.
“Security isn’t about a show of force,” Josh continued. “It’s about being observant. All those weapons won’t help you if you aren’t watching everything at all times. Your best weapon is your eyes. Look a potential threat in the eye, and ninety-five percent of the time, they’ll back off. Let them know you see them. You’re watching them.
“Sometimes, you don’t even have to be in the room to make this point.” Josh took a step closer to Troy and stared the man down. “Like, I know you’ve spent the last three days hovering over my girl to intimidate her. That stops now, man. Because I see you. She’s here for another week, and you need to remember that even when I’m not here, I know the shit that’s going down. You lay a finger on her, I know about it. You keep trying to intimidate her, and we’re going to have a problem. I protect what’s mine. I told you that two days ago.”
Troy’s face flamed red, but he said nothing, just glared at Josh. What Troy didn’t know was Josh had her install a special panic button app to her phone, so he really would know instantly if Troy scared her again. One touch, and Josh—and everyone at Raptor—would be alerted to her distress. It was only to be used if she was physically threatened, and she was thankful to have it.
She knew for a fact it had saved Trina’s life once. She’d never thought in a million years she’d have reason to have the Rap App on her phone, but here she was.
It would even work in the basement because Josh had a Raptor portable Wi-Fi device configured and overnighted to her. Now, anytime she was in the basement, she’d leave the booster in the shrubs by the open exterior door, as she’d done this morni
ng when she arrived.
She returned her focus to the bones on the table. She needed to finish so she could put this place behind her and enjoy a few hours off. She wished she hadn’t scheduled herself to work tomorrow, but she wanted to get this phase over with as fast as possible. She’d also requested access to the collection on Sunday, but Troy had refused on religious grounds.
As a result, she’d push herself to do thirty skeletons each day next week so she could move on to the research phase, which was always when the job got interesting. The week after next, she’d drive out to the John Day Fossil Beds National Monument and access the archives in the Thomas Condon Paleontology and Visitor Center. She already had special permission to access areas usually off-limits to tourists in the Painted Hills Unit of the National Park to find several burial locations, if possible. The tribes would likely prefer these remains be returned to where they’d been taken from, and now that the monument was a protected area with limited access, they would be safer from people like Otto in the future.
But nothing was foolproof. Sites within the monument had been looted just last year, and the looters hadn’t been identified. Maddie wanted archaeological looting to be classified as a hate crime—in the western United States it was always directed at Native Americans, and there was an essential racism behind it, but doubted that classification would be a deterrent. Looters, like all criminals, were always certain they wouldn’t get caught.
And much of the time, this was true.
She finished documenting the skeleton and returned it to its vault, then said to Josh and Owen, “Done.” She packed up her computer and snagged the portable Wi-Fi device from the bushes on the way to her car.
In the driveway in front of the mansion, Owen took Josh’s keys and waved to Maddie. “I’m just dropping Josh off. You two enjoy your evening.”
He drove away, and Maddie climbed into the driver’s seat of her sedan. “Where am I taking us?” she asked as Josh buckled his seat belt.
