"And why did it fail?"
She shrugged. "The barefoot doctors thought they were graduates of Johns Hopkins, that's why. Instead of doing the basic treatments they were trained to do, they overreached. Thought they could do surgeries, cancer treatments, and so on and so bloody forth."
"Barefoot doctors," I said. "And how was Jon a barefoot doctor?"
Hendricks reached over and scratched Oreo's head. "Not in a pejorative sense, you understand. It's just that most professors here have had run-ins with amateurs --- bright, enthusiastic amateurs --- who believe they may have something to contribute to our fields of learning. For our math professors, it's amateurs who are convinced that either they've successfully found the answer to a problem theorem that's centuries old, or they've created an entirely new system of mathematics. For our physicists, it's the dump attendant from Lee who's figured out the unified field theory. And for anthropology professors, well..."
I made a note in my notebook. "Crazy tales about Vikings."
She smiled. "No, not entirely, In fact, I'd say Mr. Ericson was probably the most polite and well read of the barefoot doctors that I've ever met. I've had people in here with proof that the Druids inhabited New England for hundreds of years, chased out of the British Isles by the Romans, or proof that the missing tribes of Israel were the actual predecessors of the Algonquin and the Passaconaway tribes. Then, of course, I've had people in here, arguing with me that I was part of some great cabal or plot, keeping the truth away from the rest of society."
"And you said Jon was polite?"
Her hand was now gently rubbing the back of the cat's head.
"Oh, yes, quite polite. He started off by saying that he knew that from the start, I would pooh-pooh his theories, but he was still looking for information on pre-1500 visits from Europeans to New England."
"Did he specifically mention Vikings?"
She kept on stroking Oreo's head. "Not at first, but after I started asking him some rather pointed questions, he told me what he was after. He said he was confident that Vikings had made it down here to New Hampshire from Newfoundland and had set up a settlement for further exploration. Of course, he didn't have any proof, but that didn't stop his interest."
"What did you tell him?"
She shrugged. "What I've told others who have some specific group or person who they think got here before the English. That in many, many years of archaeological digs and research --- almost ten thousand excavations --- not once have we ever found one piece of evidence suggesting a pre-1500 visit. Not once. Oh, Basque fishermen probably ended up here occasionally in the 1400s, but there was nothing permanent. The first permanent European settlement happened here in 1623. Of course, there are pieces of evidence out there, from carved stones from a Scottish knight to a supposed Viking storehouse in Rhode Island, but that's all later been proven to be fake or otherwise misinterpreted."
"How did Jon handle what you told him?"
"Oh, I think he handled it pretty well, but my last comment... well," and with that, she pulled her hand free from Oreo and folded her hands again. "Just before he left, I told him that I didn't think it made any difference whether the Vikings got here or not. Mr. Ericson was quite displeased by what I said, though he was still quite polite about it."
Another note in my notebook. "What do you mean, it wouldn't make any difference?"
"That's what I meant," she said, and her cheery professor demeanor got a bit chilly. "It doesn't make any difference. Look, the native Americans here in New England had a wonderful, vibrant culture that existed within its means for thousands of years. It had adapted to the environment, was doing quite well right up to the point when strange large canoes appeared on their shores. That's what matters. What happened to the natives. I don't particularly care if a Viking or two or Druid or a member of the lost tribes of Israel was out here, traipsing around the wilderness. They didn't make an impact. The Europeans of the 1500s and 1600s did. That's what the history is all about, that's what counts. And he didn't want to hear it."
"But even with the evidence he had... "
'What evidence? An old coin he may have found as a youngster, and a tale of mysterious mounds in a farm field somewhere in Tyler. That's it. Plus the pride in his Nordic ancestors. I'm sorry, Mr. Cole, but barefoot doctor or no, that doesn't cut it in my world. Look. You're a writer, correct?"
"Of sorts," I said.
"How many times have you encountered men and women, nice and polite and well mannered, who say that one of these days they want to write as well? Or that they want to know your secret to getting published? Or say that they have a great idea for a novel, and if they gave you that idea and you wrote the novel, you'd split any profits, fifty-fifty?"
I shifted in my seat. "Okay. A few times."
"And did you try to reason with them, after the third or fourth time? Try to tell them about the apprenticeship and years of work that went into your skills? Or did you give up after a while, just smile and change the topic?"
I nodded. She went on, warming up to the subject. "I do that now, smile and change the topic. But earlier, I would go into great detail about the training I went through, telling about the years at college and graduate school, and the months abroad on a doctoral project, in Tunisia, and all that work led up to where I am now. I was especially fond of describing my time in Tunisia, warding off sand fleas and amorous suitors who thought American women would spread open their legs at a smile. I talked about all the weeks and months and years of hard work to get where I am today. And then I'd have someone come in off the street, who thinks that I'm part of some grand conspiracy to hide the, quote, truth with a capital T, unquote, from the people. Well, that can be irritating."
"You seem to be handling it well."
That caused her to laugh, and she reminded me of a friendly elder aunt who would feed you tea and cookies and explain to you how she lost her virginity during the World's Fair of 1938. "Very good, Mr. Cole. Let's just say that after years in academia, you can develop a fairly thick skin. Kissinger, that charming old war criminal, he had it right, you know."
Back into the memory bin I went. "The fights in academia are so vicious because the stakes are so low."
"Exactly. So instead of going into great detail of why I think Druids did not in fact set up camp in New Hampshire, I try to change the subject. But with your friend ... well, he was so eager and well prepared, it almost hurt me to see that look in his eyes."
"What exactly was he asking you about?" I asked.
"Oh, the usual. If I had any knowledge of any digs in the state that uncovered artifacts that didn't belong or that were questionable in their origin. He knew what kind of questions to ask, about what kind of artifacts wouldn't belong at a pre-European dig. But I was afraid I didn't have any information for him."
"In his talk with you, did he ever mention his brother?"
She shook her head. "No, not a word. I didn't know anything personal about him, siblings or whatnot."
"Did he tell you who else he might be seeing in looking for information about the Vikings?"
She scratched at her chin and said, "I recall him saying he was heading up to Conway, to see somebody from Tyler. I asked if it was an old friend, and he laughed and said, only if the poor bastard has Alzheimer's and has forgotten all about me. Oh, one other thing. He was off to see Billy Bear."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, Billy Bear. A frequent visitor, unfortunately, to this campus and this office. His full name is William Bear Gagnon. He runs an organization over in Porter, called the First People's Civil Rights Council."
"An Indian?"
"Don't call him that if you intend to have a conversation lasting more than a minute. And don't try Native American, either. He says that's a slave name, given to him and his ancestors by the slave owners back in the 1600s and 1700s. No, he goes by First People, which sounds perfectly reasonable. Which, sad to say, is about the only reasonable thing about him."
I carefully
wrote down his name. "You say he's been in your office. Not to discuss Vikings, I imagine."
She smiled. "That's right. Not to discuss Vikings. No, William is on a quest, a quest like your friend Jon. But this quest is to gain justice for him and his ancestors, to set the historical record straight, and to make sure that my department and this university isn’t hiding native remains or artifacts. Which, no matter how many times I tell him we are not, he refuses to believe. And when he's done with that little bit of talk, he slides into the curriculum here in the department, and my work incidentally, when it comes to the tribes that were here before the Europeans."
"Sounds like a lot of fun for you," I said.
The professor went over to touch Oreo's head again, and Oreo moved, as if not wanting the extra attention. "The funny part is, I sort of do enjoy his rants, though on a limited basis. For he does have a point, about what happened to his people, so many years ago. The problem for Billy, according to me, of course, and entirely off the record, is that I believe he and his movement are a fraud."
"A fraud?"
"Of course. You see, our first really heated discussion occurred when I made an innocent inquiry as to his ethnic background. This is going to sound extraordinarily racist and un-PC, Mr. Cole, but the sad truth is that there are not very many full-blooded Native Americans still residing in New England. Hundreds of years ago, after the wars and diseases, whatever survivors who didn't trek north to Canada stayed here and intermarried with the victors. That was my first mistake in dealing with William, in questioning his background, trying to determine what tribe he might belong to. But my biggest mistake came later, when I started to question his motives."
"You mean, besides justice for him and his ancestors?"
"I guess it depends on your definition of justice. You see, I learned something interesting about his council. Whatever funds he has managed to raise through donations or fundraisers, the bulk has gone to hiring a lobbying firm in Washington, D.C."
The cat yawned, the room was warm, and something suddenly made sense. "I'd think a lobbyist in Washington would work in your favor for only one thing."
The professor's smile was directed, it seemed, to a particularly bright student. "Go on."
"It would seem that Mr. Gagnon would want a lobbyist to help his tribe- --- whatever it might be ---to be recognized by the federal government, leading toward ---"
"Toward increased recognition, increased funding, and oh, by the way, a piece of land to call your own that can be turned into a multibillion-dollar casino. Exactly right, Mr. Cole."
"And what did you say to him about that?"
"Not much. Just raised the subject, he got angry, left, and I never raised it again. It's a losing proposition. Look at me, a privileged white woman with bad eyesight and thick hips, with a comfortable and secure life, whose only concern is securing tenure. Compare that with the shattered remains of a Native American tribe, trying to live through the new century. Besides, one can be in sympathy for what he's trying to do, as misguided as his approach might be."
"Really?" I asked.
"Of course. The Native American tribes out in the West are larger, more cohesive, and have land, as poorly placed as those reservations might be. The Native Americans still alive here in New England, they don't have much. And if convincing the descendants of the federal agents who killed and dispersed your ancestors to supply you with billions of dollars... Well, it's a rough sort of justice, isn't it? All they're trying to do is regain their history."
"Sort of like Jon Ericson."
"Perhaps," she said, nodding. "Though I have to say that William Bear Gagnon has a better claim on his ancestor's deeds than Mr. Ericson. Poor soul. Murdered, correct?"
"I'm afraid so. Just a few days ago."
"Well, I ---"
There was knock at the door, and a young man with an impressive set of shoulders and a head that appeared to sit there with no neck, was looking in, wearing jeans and a UNH sweatshirt. "Uh, Professor Hendricks?"
"Yes, Stan."
"It's uh, well, my appointment is right now." She looked at me. "If you don't mind."
"No, I appreciate the time you've already given me."
She raised her voice a bit. "Stan, give me a moment, will you?" The young man exited and Professor Hendricks lowered her voice and said, "Pleasant young man. Here on a football scholarship and with hardly any ability to express any random thoughts of his own. But he's sweet and would do almost anything to get a passing grade, and I do try to help them as much as I can. Well. Mr. Cole, I've enjoyed our little chat."
I got the signal and didn't mind. I had gotten enough from this pleasant little visit, and I stood up and shook her extended hand. "Thanks, professor. I do appreciate your time."
"Not a problem. Do call me if you have any more questions. Especially after visiting Billy Bear. That might prove to be sticky, if you know what I mean."
"I can figure it out."
"Good," she said, smiling, and then like she was remembering it again, her face changed expression. "Jon Ericson. Murdered. Hard to believe, isn't it, that someone whom you've just met, who sat in that very chair you were just in, is now no longer breathing. Brrr. It does give one a chill, doesn't it? Random violence."
"There was nothing random about it," I said. "Somebody wanted him dead."
She reached over for another pat on the cat's head, who in turned moved away, as if accusing her of exceeding her daily allowance of affection displays. "Somebody who was a friend of yours, am I right?"
"That obvious?"
"The way you phrased your questions, the way your eyes looked as you asked them. I'm sorry. I wish you luck with your article."
I started for the door. "And I wish you luck with your students."
I took my time exiting the building, for some reason enjoying myself as I glanced into the open doors of the professors and associate professors and assistant professors as I made my way to the main staircase. The offices were almost always cluttered with books, papers, and artwork and artifacts. There was something about the seriousness of their work that suddenly appealed to me, of being in a university, working toward a greater knowledge of mankind's past and future, and passing along this knowledge to later generations. I knew there were pettiness and political correctness and oh-so-polite-bitchy conversation at faculty parties and whatnot, but I enjoyed the feeling of people here being paid for learning. Not a bad feeling. I wondered if Jon had felt the same when he had left this campus.
Before heading back to my Explorer, I took a few minutes out and went to a coffee shop in the same shopping plaza where I was parked. The interior was warm and crowded, but I managed to get a cup of coffee and a cinnamon Danish from a young girl with long brown hair and a charming smile, and in a corner table, I ate this midmorning meal while reading a copy of USA Today that some student or professor had thoughtfully left behind. There was a constant flow of students in and out of the coffee shop, most lugging knapsacks that looked like they were heavy enough to be used by Special Forces troops. A lot of the students were clustered around in little groups, talking earnestly about something, and I fooled myself into thinking that they were discussing medieval art history or the latest discovery in physics, rather than who got drunk at the latest TKE fraternity kegger.
When I left the coffee shop, more clouds were rolling in, and I was thinking about my next couple of trips. Jon had seen three people before being murdered. I had just completed interview number one, and I was wondering where interviews number two and number three would take me.
In my Ford Explorer, I started her up and left the parking lot, and joined a line of traffic heading out to Main Street, and in a few minutes, I was on Route 4, a busy two-lane country road that had taken me to Durham from 1-95 and from Tyler Beach. I figured if the traffic was light, me and my Explorer should be back home in about a half hour.
But in the next few minutes, that would certainly not happen.
Chapter Seven
&
nbsp; It started as a vibration in the steering wheel, a vibration that made me think, damn, was it time for an alignment again, so soon after the last one, and while I was trying to remember which month the Explorer had gone in for a checkup, the trembling in the steering wheel escalated into a major shaking, like the damn thing was tearing itself apart. My hands popped off and I slammed on the brakes, and the next few seconds were a confusing mix of screeching brakes, the harsh sound of metal on pavement, and a topsy-turvy feeling in my stomach as I realized I had lost control of the Ford, and it was going where it wanted to go.
Which was across the oncoming lane of traffic.
I think I closed my eyes, as the horns blared and other brakes screeched. The Explorer slewed to the left, hit the down slope of the dirt embankment, and like it was in some damn special effect for an action movie, did a magnificent one-and-a-half roll, my head bouncing off the roof, just as the air bag exploded and punched me in the face.
Somehow I got out, and then I was sitting on dirt and grass, as people gathered around me, asking the same questions, over and over again, sometimes asking them in a loud voice, like I had gone deaf back there. Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt? What happened?
And to each series of questions, I said the same thing: yep, nope, I have no idea.
Before me the Explorer was on its side, the driver's side door yawning open, and even from here, I could see the deflated air bag, which had caused a spectacular nosebleed down my face and the front of my jacket. The dirt around the front end of the Explorer was torn up, like a tank had rolled through, which made a bit of sense, for when I had clambered out and went around my wounded vehicle, I counted three tires, not four.
Buried Dreams Page 8
