by George Wier
“I had you figured that way,” he said. “Are you ready to go out to the dig?”
“Sure. But I want to go over to the library, first. I figured you’d want to come along.”
“The library? What for?”
“I don’t know, which is why I want to go. That was where the scream was heard that first night. I mean, the night Lee Purcell came running in here.”
“Purcell Lee,” he corrected me.
“Right. I keep missing that. He’s got one of the bass-ackwards names.”
“That he does,” the Sheriff agreed. “Anyway, the library is closed. Mrs. Hingston, the only librarian this town has got, is at home, sick.”
“What’s she got?” I asked.
“I have no idea. Maybe it’s the flu. Maybe she just wanted a few days off. Who knows.”
“Okay. I guess the library is out, then. I’m sure there’s nothing to find there, anyway. I wouldn’t have minded talking to her, though.”
“If you hang around long enough, I’m sure you’ll get your chance. Hungry?”
“Starved,” I said.
“Let’s go get a bite to eat, then we’ll head out to the dig.”
“That’s sounds fine to me.”
*****
It was well past lunchtime when we stopped in a Dixie’s Diner. A young waitress handed us menus and I asked the Sheriff for his recommendation.
“You can’t go wrong with the chicken fried steak.”
Julie was always wanting me to eat heart-healthy foods, but she wasn’t along with us at the moment. I felt a mere twinge of guilt, then plunged on ahead. I looked up at the waitress and shook my head.
“Bring us two,” Sheriff Renard said.
“Don’t you want to know what I asked your deputy?” I asked when the waitress was gone.
“I figure you’ll tell me in your own time.”
“I know you may find this hard to believe, Sheriff,” I said, “but I’m just playing everything so far by ear. What I mean to say is—”
“You don’t carry a playbook. I know.” He sat forward, put his elbows on the table and interlaced his arms in front of him. “Neither do I. But some of the best plays in football history were totally off the book. The way I see it, a plan is nothing more than an educated guess in the dark well before you arrive where you’re going. There’s an old saying. Something like, ‘in warfare, the first casualty is usually the plan of attack.’ ”
“Yes, that’s so,” I said. “So why are we going out to this dig?”
“Because,” he said, “ I don’t like it.”
“What don’t you like about it?”
“I don’t like it that they’re digging in that Indian mound. That thing was there long before my grandfather ever came along. He told me that he used to picnic by that mound when he was kid. His folks would take the family out there after church on Sunday, and they’d bring along a picnic basket and a blanket and spend the better part of the afternoon. That mound is a part of this town. It’s part of our history. Oh, I know it’s really a part of Indian history, but there aren’t many Indians around here anymore. So, it’s sort of...ours now, if you take my meaning.”
“You checked into the permits, didn’t you?” I asked.
“I did. I made them delay a week before they could start digging, but that’s all I could do. Legally speaking, of course.”
“Sounds to me like you did all you could.”
Our food arrived, and we dug in. Between bites and sips, we carried on the conversation.
“Maybe I did what I could, and maybe I didn’t,” he said.
“You can’t run people out of town for doing their jobs.”
“I know it. That’s the frustrating part. Knowing what’s right and not being able to do a damn thing about what is wrong.”
“That’s law enforcement,” I said, “the nature of.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Tell me, Sheriff, is this a social visit, then? Or are you looking for a reason to shut it down?”
“It’s both. You might say there’s an insurance policy I need to see to.”
“Insurance policy. Huh.”
“Let’s eat,” he said, and I knew that no amount of further probing would get him to tell me any more than that.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sheriff Renard pulled off the county road onto a dirt path and stopped in a clearing in a grove of trees where a small trailer had been set up. A sign on the side of the trailer declared the property to be off-limits to anyone except Authorized Personnel, whatever that meant. There were a couple of SUVs and pickups close by. All the activity, however, appeared to be going on fifty yards farther on into the clearing where the mound was visible. The Texas Gulf Coast is amazingly flat terrain, but the ten foot tall mound sat in the center of the clearing and appeared so perfectly rounded as to be aesthetically pleasing. While the grass over the mound was green and lush, an ugly and thoroughly unnatural four-foot wide scar was cut into the side of it, marring its beauty.
“Looks like they’re making hay while the sun shines,” Renard said.
“It would appear so,” I agreed.
We got out and walked toward the mound. There were a number of small, swampy pools of water about.
“Careful where you step,” Renard said. “And watch for snakes.”
“I’ve been in the country before,” I said.
“Suit yourself.”
Dr. Randy Marshall saw us and came over.
“Hello, Sheriff,” he said. The two men shook hands again. “And Bill Travis, Man of Mystery.”
“Dr. Marshall,” I said. “Man of Science.” We shook hands as well.
“Glad you could make it. We’ve been slowed down some. It’s well past four o’clock. As I see it, we have no more than three more hours of sunlight, so we won’t make it to the center of the mound this evening. Definitely tomorrow, however. That’s if we don’t run into another set of artifacts.”
“What kind of artifacts?” I asked.
“They’re back in the trailer, being photographed and catalogued. We found a couple of Clovis Points and one very well preserved clay pot. It was only broken in half. You almost never find anything intact on these digs.”
“They broke them before they buried them,” I said.
“I know they broke them,” Marshall replied. “I wish they hadn’t, though.”
“They broke them because the living are done with them. They belong to the Spirits now.”
“Steeped in indigenous folklore, are you?” he asked.
“No. I know some Indians.”
“Native Americans. That’s what we call them.”
“Most of them refer to themselves as Indians. Who are we to argue?”
Dr. Marshall considered that, looked down for a moment, then nodded curtly, as if dismissing the potential for argument.
“You two talk about Indians,” Sheriff Renard said. “I’m going to go find Wolf.”
“Look the other side of the mound and off into the woods down there,” Marshall said. “I saw him headed that way twenty minutes or so ago.”
The Sheriff nodded, raked the brim of his hat in acknowledgment, then walked off.
“Why would he want to talk to Wolf?” I asked.
“Beats me. I think the Sheriff thinks its real. The Bigfoot.”
“Maybe he does. Is it really necessary to cut a gash in this mound, Dr. Marshall? I mean, it is, supposedly, a tomb.”
Randy Marshall pursed his lips. I had stung him. He looked at me, and his eyes were hard.
“Dr. Marshall?”
“What would you have me do?” he asked. “How are we to ever learn about our past?”
“Not by destroying it,” I said.
“We’re not destroying it. We’re looking and finding, cataloguing and photographing, then we’re putting it on display for all the world.”
“I know. That’s what they always think. But it’s not true. We recently pulled our troops out of Iraq, again.
Apart from the destruction of much of the city and the communities, the museums were hit hardest. Some were obliterated. Others were looted by their own citizens to sell on the black market. But so many priceless treasures were destroyed—many dating back to Babylon, Ur and Kish. It’s the greatest archaeological catastrophe of the new century. Museums aren’t safe. That mound over there,” I pointed. “That’s the safest place for the artifacts you found. Not in the hands of people.”
“This, Mr. Travis, is the United States of America.”
“Uh huh,” I said. “I wonder what it will be in five hundred years.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You’re awfully accusative, for such a nice fellow.”
“Well, thank you. But nobody ever accused me being nice before. Okay, let’s say you’re right. How about taking the pictures and measuring everything and writing it all down nice and neat, then putting it back in the ground and covering it back up? Pack the dirt back in there just the way you found it, then replant all the grass? Would that be too hard?”
“You’re a strange man,” he said.
“I wish there were more like me.”
At that moment my cell phone rang.
I fished the phone out of my shirt pocket and looked at it. The number was Austin, but I didn’t recognize it right off. “Pardon me,” I said.
Dr. Marshall nodded and I stepped away.
“Hello.”
“Bill. It’s Evanston.”
“I’m not your number one fan right now, Ev. What is it you want?”
“Whoa there, cowboy. What’d I do this time?”
“You sent me and my wife to spy on your sister in a half-baked attempt to continue to run and generally destroy her life. Why are you calling me, Ev?”
“I just wanted a report from you. I’ve got a check ready for your wife, if—”
“We don’t want your check. I don’t think you want me to tell you what you can do with it.”
“Bill. Bill. Calm down, okay? I don’t know what she told you, but she has this propensity to distort things. She accuses me of ruining her life, but she always needs me at some point and I have to come running. If you—”
I cut him off. “Hold it right there, Slick. I have not the slightest desire to get between you and your sister in some kind of weird, parasitic, sibling rivalry ritual. I do not desire to and will not discuss it. End of story.”
“What about the mummy, the ghost and the Bigfoot?” he asked.
“What about them?”
“Exactly. What about them? If you won’t discuss my sister, at least tell me what’s going on so I don’t have to worry about her being down there.”
Down there, I thought. Down there. The lie was an easy one for him. I couldn’t let him know, though, that I knew. Not yet. I wasn’t sure what he was up to. It could simply be that he was keeping tabs on Cathy. It could be that he was keeping tabs on me keeping tabs on Cathy. Or it could be something far more sinister. Sometimes it’s best to hedge your bets.
“You’re not worried about her being here, and for damn sure you’re not worried about a mummy, a ghost, or a sasquatch.”
“Well...maybe I’m interested. Did you ever think of that?”
“No. Because you didn’t think of that either. You’re just trying to keep me talking so I don’t hang up on you, which I’m about two seconds from doing.”
“Okay. Okay. All right. I’m sorry, Bill. I’m sorry I got you involved. I’m sorry I dragged your wife into it.”
“And my dog,” I added.
“And your dog. Wait a minute, you brought your dog?”
“Ev,” I said.
“Okay. I’m sorry to bring your dog into it too. I’m apologizing here, okay. I’m eating crow and I’m chasing it with bile. All right? Okay?”
“Good,” I said.
A long moment passed. I used that moment to figure out what direction I wanted to go. I didn’t want Evanston thinking that I was piecing anything together.
“All right, Ev. What is it you want to know? And bear in mind that you need not bother asking me anything about your sister. I will tell you that she is okay, and you shouldn’t worry about her one iota.”
“Okay. Thanks for that. Where are you right now?”
I turned from the trees I was facing to see Sheriff Renard beyond the mound walking back our direction, a football field away. With him was the fellow from across the room at breakfast, Wolf Dillard. I then turned to regard the mound. How long had it stood there like that. Five hundred years? A thousand? Two? There was no way of knowing, and I seriously doubted Randy Marshall would ever know. He would theorize though, I had no doubt whatsoever on that score. Dr. Marshall was already back to the mound, pointing into the gash where I could make out the head of a graduate student level with the ground.
There was no real reason I could think of to lie outright to Evanston Cooper. A fellow can hedge his bets, but when he does, he’d better play it straight.
“I’m at an Indian mound out in the country where there’s an archaeological excavation underway.”
“A dig, Bill. They call it a ‘dig.’ ”
“I know what they call it. I met a scientist guy who’s heading up a team that is trolling for treasure in an old Indian burial mound.”
“You disapprove,” he said.
“I completely disapprove.”
“Well. So do I. That’s one thing we have in common. Some people can’t leave well enough alone.”
“I’m glad you said that, Ev, although maybe on other subject matters...”
“Okay. Point taken. Geez, will you leave it be?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“What about the dead guy?” he asked.
“Purcell Lee? Yeah. He’s dead.”
“Did you get a look at him? I mean, the, uh, remains?”
“I did.”
“And what do you think?”
“He’s dead. By which I mean, he’s dead like a three thousand year-old mummy. Pretty much end of story. Funeral’s tomorrow.”
“My condolences to the family,” Ev said.
“I’m not sure there is a family, and I’ll likely miss that funeral.”
“Okay. Suit yourself. What about the ghost thing?”
“I haven’t seen any ghosts. I haven’t seen anything. I have heard a few screeches in the night, but I have not the faintest idea what they are.”
“Okay. What about the Bigfoot?”
“There’s a Bigfoot hunter down here. I haven’t formally met him yet,” I looked up to see Wolf and Sheriff Renard were closer, “but I have a feeling I’m about to. So far, that’s all I know.”
“Okay, Bill. Thanks for that much. Can I buy you dinner when you get back to town.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Later, Ev.”
“Later.”
I thumbed my phone, hanging it up.
I stood there and felt the cool, stiff breeze. It felt good. I watched the grass dance in waves on the Indian burial mound and wondered what it was like the day it was completed, five hundred years ago or more. While no one could ever truly know, the imagination runs wild and paints its own pictures.
“Evanston,” I said to myself. “You are one son of a bitch.”
*****
“This is Wolf Dillard,” Sheriff Renard said. Wolf extended his hand and I shook it. “Wolf, this is Bill Travis.”
The man in front of me was a tall, rangy fellow. He looked to be in his late-thirties, and was dressed in jeans and a cotton checkered work shirt. Wolf Dillard was probably my weight but stood nearly a head taller.
“I think I’ve heard of you,” he said.
“Oh yeah? I hope it wasn’t something bad.”
“Hmm. I dunno. I think it was something about my Uncle Holt.”
“Holt Gatlin?”
“Yeah. I think you saved his life, or something. And his fortune.”
“How is old Holt?” I asked.
“He was fine, last I checked. He was living in one
of those fancy-schmancy retirement homes in Conroe.”
“Well that’s great,” I said. “Randy says you’re looking for something. Or someone.”
“Yeah. I call him the ‘old man’. Actually, he’s a huge sasquatch.”
“A Bigfoot,” I said. “There must be few Bigfoot hunters around. I’ll bet it’s a lonely life.”
“That it is. Except, I’m not a Bigfoot hunter. I’m just looking for this one...Bigfoot.”
“Why?” I asked.
“You might say he’s an old friend.”
That gave me a moment of pause. I nodded to Sheriff Renard, who sauntered off back to the dig.
“Would you care to tell me about it? My wife is back in town and I’ve got a small bottle of Jim Beem whiskey. We could have a little spiked coffee and watch these fellahs dig, and you could tell me the story. That’s if you want to.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Wolf said, and sighed. “But you won’t believe it. Nobody believes it.”
“I have a feeling I’m going to believe you,” I said.
“Come on,” Wolf said. “I want to show you something.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
Wolf led me back to one of the trucks. I assumed that it was his at first, but then I noticed the faded University logo on the door panel.
“Back here,” Wolf said, and gestured. “Now put your hand on this hand print.”
I did as he asked. I don’t have small hands, but neither are they a couple of hamhocks. The print where I placed my hand contained most of it in the crescent moon of its palm. I removed my hand and examined the tips of the fingers. I could make out the curly cue ridges of whorls embedded there.
“So. Whaddya think?” Wolf asked.
“I see what looks to be a hand print,” I said.
“Yeah. But of what?”
“Andre the Giant?”
“I think he’s dead. Naw. This is the old man. I’ve got pieces of my house back home with a few dozen prints just like this all over it.”
“Your house?” I asked.
“Yeah. We’ll have to sit down for this story,” he said, and led me back to Randy Marshall’s tent.
*****
It began five years previous to the night of Wolf’s last encounter with the Old Man, and that first foray and the final confrontation five years down the road had left Wolf a changed man. Wolf and his cousin had gone camping in the Sam Houston National Forest and had found a Bigfoot lair. Being the young and brash East Texas drunken hotheads they were, they proceeded to trash the place—they caved in the roof, set the place on fire, and were fortunate they didn’t start a raging forest fire. Five years later, Wolf awoke to a blood-curdling scream in the night. It was the Old Man, and he had sought out Wolf and his cousin to exact retribution for the vandalism. The Old Man—Wolf related how that was what the Park Rangers called him, right before they escorted him and his cousin out of the forest—destroyed Wolf’s home and put Wolf himself in the hospital for a week.
