by Dana Cameron
“It might be easier,” Meg added, “because I heard his father is taking an early retirement next semester.”
Again I didn’t say anything. Once news of what had happened at the Point reached the department, events transpired quickly. I got a call from Jenny Alvarez, who said that the incident with the doll had prompted Dr. Kellerman to suggest an early retirement as a means of graceful withdrawal for his friend. Harassment of that sort made for ugly headlines and lawsuits. It wasn’t the censure I’d wanted, but it was as much justice as I could hope for in the face of Rick Crabtree’s seniority and influence. At least I wouldn’t have to look at the old sourpuss for much longer.
“Have they moved forward on the topic of the bequest?” I’d asked Jenny idly. I didn’t really expect that any decision about me being offered Pauline’s chair would be made for some time, until all the legalities had been sorted out.
“Well, that’s going to be up to the college of course, but the new department chair will also have something to say about it,” Jenny had replied. “You’ve caused quite a stir in the chain of command, Emma, clearing the next two candidates out of the running. First Tony Markham—I still can’t believe that—and now Rick. Kellerman’s not thrilled, I can tell you. At first he was grumbling over divvying up your classes for the next week until you get back, but that’s paled with replacing two senior positions. He’s worried about his retirement plans now…”
“Oh God,” I said bleakly, sinking back into my pillow. “That’s going to endear me to the new chair, whoever he is. That’s the end of my career. Give me the worst, who’s it going to be?”
I could hear a long pause, and a terrible thought occurred to me. Anyone but Gretchen the Wretched, the syrupy suck-up, the Queen of PC…
“Well, there’s nothing official yet…”
“Jenny, you’ve got to tell me,” I said weakly. “Who is it?”
“Me.” Before I could take that in, Jenny rang off, laughing and saying, “God bless, Em. Get well soon.”
“—okay?” Meg asked worriedly, bringing me back to the here and now. “Emma? Do you want me to call someone?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I’m just a little drifty right now, the doctor said it’ll go away in a couple of days.” Then, before I could lose my nerve, I quickly blurted out, “Meg, thank you for being at the site. No—Meg, thank you for saving my life.” I felt better and immensely foolish all at once.
Meg fidgeted, supremely uncomfortable. “Well, I didn’t go out there intending to be the cavalry, you know. I just went along because Neal was tearing off and I’ve gotten in the habit of tagging along with him. I almost lost it when he got shot.”
“Where were you? I couldn’t figure out where you came from.”
“I’d been looking under the seat for a flashlight. I heard the windshield shatter, then the truck smashed into that wall, and when I saw Neal bleeding—well, I saw Professor Markham and just got pissed off before I got a chance to be scared,” she said, shrugging. “That’s another bad habit with me.”
“Wherever did you find that gun?” I asked. “I lost track of the ones that Tony had.”
“Emma,” Meg said incredulously. “That was mine. Sally’s a Heckler & Koch P7 M8. I’ve been shooting for years. I told you this.”
I gaped.
“My father taught me,” she continued, “I’m very good, even better in daylight, with no wind and rain, unfortunately.”
Meg saw my look of—what? surprise? horror? marveling?—and sighed, then began reeling off what sounded like a well-practiced monologue.
“Emma, I’ve got all the permits, I follow the NRA regs. I keep it locked up in a gun vault at home, and besides, it’s my constitutional right—”
“You’re not serious!” I broke in, recovering from my shock. Holy snappers! I’d been rescued by a member of the NRA? I had long sensed something of the conservative about her, but could this be the final indication that Meg was a Republican? “I didn’t think that College Housing allowed guns,” I finished lamely.
“Well, I’m not living there anymore,” she said without a trace of guilt. “I don’t see why you should be so surprised. If I’d had it with me that day Tichnor had you cornered out on the site, none of this might have happened. It’s a scary old world out there, and the lieutenant, Dad, I mean, wanted to make sure that I could take care of myself. Better to bend a few stupid college rules then end up on a slab.”
Meg appeared to be struggling with something too, a little more serious perhaps than my own present astonishment. I recognized the telltale signs: It was a bit of basic truth fighting its way to the surface. “But I’m learning that self-reliance isn’t everything, is it?” she concluded.
What could I possibly say to that?
Epilogue
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” I ASKED SLEEPILY A COUPLE OF days later. Brian was bringing me to Somerville for the rest of the week, to keep an eye on me, he said. The Civic had left the smooth pavement of Route 95 and was bumping down a much quieter road. “You’re not going to detour to see that place with the plastic cows again, are you? Route One is too slow this time of day…”
“No, we’re not going down to see the cows, but getting a steak later would be a good idea. Help those bones and muscles of yours,” Brian answered. “I just want to show you something.”
We followed the road away from the interstate a ways farther, came to a medium-sized town with the traditional New England layout—center green, boxy white wooden church, and town hall—and passed straight through to the other side. The tree line got denser, and fields in various stages of use appeared, delineated by low stone walls.
I couldn’t resist trying to be the expedition leader, even when I had no idea what we were looking for. “There’s nothing out here, sweetie. I think we’ve moved beyond the fringe of civilization.”
“That’s the general idea. Hang on a minute, okay? Trust me.”
I sighed and snuggled down into the passenger seat to continue drowsing, for once relinquishing command and content to be led into the unknown. Earlier that day we had swung by the little graveyard at St. Jude’s to look at the place where Pauline had finally been buried. The plot was pretty enough, but in the end I decided not to leave the flowers I brought because as far as I was concerned, Pauline wasn’t there. We drove through town and back out to the Point, where I set the bouquet down on the surviving front doorstep of Greycliff. It didn’t matter that I knew the roses would fade in a day or two on the wreck of the house; my final and best tribute to my friend would be the book I eventually wrote about her site.
Two minutes later Brian pulled onto a tertiary road. It had been paved, but not in the recent past. He stopped the car in front of a white wood-framed house, at least one hundred years old, classical revival with a series of attached buildings on the back of the house. “Big house, little house, back house, barn” was the way the rhyme went.
“What do you think?” he asked.
I looked at Brian, eyebrows raised. He shrugged his shoulders, answering my question with one of his own, looking excited and nervous.
Not daring to hope that he really was asking me what I thought he was, I looked at the place again with a critical eye.
“It’s gorgeous!” I blurted.
Then reality forced me to be objective and I looked hard at the old place. “But the exterior needs work. The barn is in bad shape, but the rest is better. The roof looks sound and the foundation is all right, though we’ll want to check to see if that’s a creek or pond behind that line of trees back there, in case of floods. But,” excitement took over again, “we could have flowers! You and me, together, could have flowers! Of our own! And things! For our house. Like a rake! Or…or a trash can, a new one, not something nasty that came with the apartment!”
But Brian, having had an opportunity to digest all of this potential, had already passed the apartment dweller’s obsession with land and had moved on to practicalities.
“We could h
ave offices,” he announced proudly. “And I could keep mine nice and clean, and we could just close the door on yours until the EPA comes to mitigate it.”
That inconceivable bit of luxe knocked us both into silence for a moment.
“What about the commute?” I finally asked. We really did have to consider the practicalities now.
“Forty-five minutes to Boston before the rush hour. And I just timed us coming from your apartment at Caldwell at fifty minutes, taking it real easy. The commuter line to Boston runs through the next town over, but I’ve been talking to Roddy down at the lab, and he’s looking to get rid of his pickup truck.” He paused. “We could use that for the renovations too. We’d both have a longer drive rather than a walk—”
“But we’d be coming home, to each other,” I finished. I unlocked my side of the car and hobbled carefully across the front yard to peer, hands cupped around my eyes, into the window. It looked okay to me, but I wasn’t the one with the contractors in the family. “Have you been inside yet?”
“Just once, a quick look on the way up last week. The neighbors down the way have a key, they saw me and let me in. I haven’t called the realtor yet.”
“We have neighbors? Like across the yard, instead of on top and all around us?”
“Half a mile back the way we came, a quarter mile farther on too.” Brian was smug with pride; he’d taken a chance and come up big. “We could dance naked in the backyard and no one would see us!”
“Bit cold this time of year, but I do like the idea of privacy, sweetie. Could we manage the repairs?”
He looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I think so. Most of it’s not major, just some updating and cosmetic remodeling, but that can come later. The barn should probably come down, though, right away. We could do most of the stuff weekends, and my dad offered to come out for a couple of weeks when I called him about it.”
“Lotta work.” I thought about how busy we both were already.
“Different work, though. It will make a good break,” he said. A greedy look came into his eyes. “And we’ll need power tools! Lots of them! I’ll get you a reciprocating saw for your birthday! You’ll love it, once your hand is better.”
I left him to consider an imaginary array of circular saws and power nailers and looked inside again, into what had been the parlor. There was some yellow striped wallpaper, not my style, but not hideous cabbage roses either; I could live with it for a while. A respectable fireplace, the sort of thing you could imagine having quiet tea next to of a Sunday, or whiskey of a winter night. Lovely complex molding that looked like it was the original was trapped under layers of paint. In the central hallway beyond I could see a staircase that obviously once had been someone’s pride and joy. I thought about how a cat of our very own would look on a couch and liked the picture. Bucky had called almost every day since she’d heard I was in the hospital, wild for something to do for me; maybe I’d tell her to keep her eyes out for a suitable feline companion.
Stepping back, I glanced around the front porch, a later addition that spread across the entire width of the house. There were a couple of trees along the driveway and a huge oak in the front yard. It appeared as though it had been there for better than a century, and good for at least that long again. Permanence, at last.
I sat down on the steps, rested my crutch against my knee, and felt the sun warm my face. A mockingbird hissed and chattered, then swooped down from a maple and across the street. I looked up and saw two large, rusted S links hanging from the inside of the porch roof, five feet apart. It took me a minute to figure out that it was for a bench swing. I couldn’t imagine anything more perfect. Across the street was nothing but a field and woods.
Then I tried thinking about all the raking, the repairs, the potential plumbing problems, and the tax bills and decided that I would happily trade them all for the possibility of a porch swing. Any day.
“How much?” It took me a couple of moments to ask the all-important question: I was already starting to feel possessive and couldn’t bear the thought of someone else in our house.
Brian hesitated, then gave me a figure. “It’s on the far side of what we can afford, with the repairs, but I think we can do it. I want to.”
When I heard his answer, my fears vanished. I smiled lazily and leaned against the porch railing: Brian might have found our dream house, but I would secure it for us. “No problem at all, sweetheart. That’s only the asking price. I can knock that down, wail about all the work it needs, how remote the place is, and then start gouging into the commission. I’ll play this limp and the cast for every cent they’re worth. Just watch me, it’ll be epic.” I made a show of cracking the knuckles on my right hand, a display of ready, capable aggression. I knew real estate agents well enough to play their games like a pro.
“I’m glad you’re on my side,” Brian said. He didn’t even like mentioning bill discrepancies to waiters when we ate out. “I never thought that listening to your father yammering about real estate would be anything but an exercise in ripping hangnails.”
“Well, this is my one chance to make use of all that, and I want to be sure I squeeze it for all it’s worth!” I nodded to my darling. “Let’s do it.”
He helped ease me off the stairs and we walked slowly around the place, taking note of the garden in the back, the earthy smell of the field beyond the back courtyard, a splintery pile of firewood already stacked and seasoning. I noticed there were a lot of exterior doors, and that made me frown briefly.
Brian noticed and read my mind. “You know, if you really think you can reduce the price by a bit, I think we’ll have enough to cover a good alarm system.” He shrugged. “We don’t know anything, but it never hurts to be careful. There’s crime in the country too.”
I nodded, relieved that he was the one to bring it up first. Since I had left the hospital, I thought long and hard about getting a gun of my own, but decided that I just couldn’t do it. I settled for asking Meg to show me how to fire hers, just so I’d know the mechanics of the things, and decided to arrange for some private lessons in self-defense. As Brian said, it never hurt to be careful.
Because I knew, sure as I breathed, that Tony was still out there, alive and waiting.
We let the subject drop, wanting to enjoy this moment, so we spoke idly and inconsequentially, flitting like butterflies from the subject of curtains to the question of drainage, from supermarkets to linoleum, without lingering so long on any one topic that the talk could pall. Details are anathema to castles in the air, and so we wandered back to the car, content to leave the real planning and calculating for later.
I looked back at the house: Our place wasn’t typical, architecturally speaking, and I loved its eccentricities.
Brian echoed my thoughts out loud. “It’s a little different, isn’t it? It’s got that extra side addition I’ve never seen around here.”
“And it looks like someone finished the attic. Maybe raised the roof, even.”
“It’s a bit quirky.” Brian added quickly, “Quirky, but nice. I love it.”
“Quirky, but nice.” I thought about it a minute longer, made a connection with a long-ago memory, and smiled contentedly. “And you know, it’s only what you warned me about all along.”
He looked at me quizzically as he fastened his safety belt and turned the key in the ignition.
“You always said that one day, if we weren’t careful, we’d end up at the Funny Farm.”
Acknowledgments
I would like to express my deepest thanks to the following, all of whom challenged me to be a better writer: Ann Bar-bier, Jessika Bella Mura, Cathy Bennett, Linda Blackbourn, Pam Crane, Janet Halpin, Mildred Jeffrey, Beth Krueger, Michael Levin, Roberta MacPhee, Peter Morrison, and Joan Sawyer. Thanks to everyone at Bread Loaf 1998, including Susanna Jones, Ronnie Klaskin, and Elizabeth Rouse, and especially David Bradley and Eric Darton. Thanks to my agent, Kit Ward, and Sarah Durand, my editor at Avon. Thanks most of all to my husband, who was righ
t about everything.
About the Author
DANA CAMERON is a professional archaeologist, with a Ph.D. and experience in Old and New World archaeology. She has worked extensively on the East Coast on sites dating from prehistoric times to the nineteenth century. Ms. Cameron lives in Massachusetts. Her web address is www.danacameron.com. Ashes and Bones is her sixth novel featuring archaeologist Emma Fielding.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SITE UNSEEN. Copyright © 2002 by Dana Cameron. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub edition June 2007 ISBN 9780061752179
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