"The current school of thought is that they migrated to the north where water and game were more plentiful and assimilated into the Anasazi ranks. Later Anasazi cliff dwellings reflect the influence of Sinaguan style."
"But the Anasazi didn't bundle their dead."
"Nope. Some of the primary burials held bodies flexed into fetal position, but the majority were secondary burials that were essentially just piles of disarticulated bones without regard to individuality. Many were even violently broken before death, leading to speculation of cannibalism."
"And there haven't been any previous findings of Sinagua remains?"
"This is the first."
The Pathfinder grumbled to a halt, the fist of dust trailing in their wake closing around them. Elliot climbed out and walked around to the front of the car, shielding her eyes against the sun and surveying the area. The flat desert reached toward the eastern horizon, where in the distance she could see a khaki tent a shade apart from the glimmering sand. Three cars were parked farther up the road to the right: a black Blazer, an old, white Ford pickup, and a boxy police cruiser straight out of the Seventies, all covered with so much dirt it appeared the desert was trying to claim them for its own. She had been so distracted on the way in that she hadn't noticed them.
Without a second thought, she struck off into the desert, weaving through scattered bushes until she encountered a recently trampled path and headed straight toward the tent. When approaching a site for the first time, she always tried to mentally transport herself back in time to see the world as it once was through the eyes of the dead, stripping away all of the extraneous details. The tread of footprints in the sand faded away. The cars behind and even the tent ahead disappeared. Only the hawk circling overhead and its shrill cry existed in the otherwise empty desert. A gentle breeze arose, blowing into her face. She closed her eyes, allowing the warm wind to caress her features, and was stolen away by the past.
She knew something was amiss before she even opened her eyes.
The burial site felt somehow...wrong. Nothing she could specifically pinpoint, but she definitely felt an uncomfortable sensation she hadn't experienced before. She smelled rot on the currents creeping into her nostrils. There was only the vast expanse of desert ahead where she was unable to imagine the ancient Sinagua gathered in mourning to bury their loved ones. She instinctively knew that something about the scene was incorrect, and with that flash of intuition came another thought that should have elated her, yet somehow filled her with dread.
There were still many more bodies to be unearthed.
VI
Byron G. Rogers Federal Building
Denver, Colorado
Carver slapped the case file down on his desk, leaned back, and rubbed his weary eyes. He had read every scrap of information within, but nothing made any sort of logical sense to him. Worse, he didn't know exactly why. None of the pieces fit together like they were supposed to, or maybe his perspective was simply askew. Tobin Schwartz just didn't conform to the profile he had created. He fit the classic profile for sure, maybe too well, but studying Schwartz was like viewing a three-dimensional image without the glasses. Nothing aligned quite right.
Much of Schwartz's life read like a checklist for the creation of a serial killer. There were allegations that he was physically abused as a child; a police report filed by a neighbor when he was fifteen suspecting his involvement in the death of their prized Boston terrier; frequent incidents of violence and suspensions in high school; and drug and alcohol use. Anything and everything that could be crammed into a juvenile record was there, though after it was sealed, he appeared to have moderated his behavior. His grades had barely been high enough to gain acceptance to Oregon State, and had he not been from Corvallis, he would surely have been passed over. His undergraduate years were a study in anonymity. He hadn't played sports or participated in any extracurricular activities. It was as though he existed only as a name on a lease or tuition loan account. He attended summer classes and graduated summa cum laude in three years, despite the fact that he hadn't left enough of an impression on any of his professors that any of them remembered him. It wasn't until graduate school at Stanford that he again drew attention to himself. He earned his Ph.D. in Molecular and Cellular Physiology with an emphasis in genetics and worked as a lab tech for nearly every genetic trial conducted, his name appearing in dozens of trade journals along the way. And after graduation he had returned to the Pacific Northwest to take a six-figure salary as the resident geneticist at HydroGen Aquaculture in Seattle, a pioneering research and propagation facility specializing in bioengineered salmon and trout.
The years following were quiet until Schwartz resurfaced in Carver's study, armed with a handgun and the image of a dying girl. There was precious little information regarding Schwartz's professional years: random newspaper articles detailing advances at HydroGen and the resultant battles with Greenpeace, but only listing Schwartz's name in passing; records of a single, routine IRS audit; and various financial documents. Preliminary interviews with his friends and neighbors had been hurriedly assembled, though all described him in the typical manner: quiet, keeps to himself, polite enough in passing. All of them were genuinely surprised to be approached about Schwartz by the FBI. The only detail of any real significance was that HydroGen had been bought out two years earlier and Schwartz's job terminated with a generous severance package six months ago. Specialized agents from the Information Technology division were already scouring his phone records, retracing his steps online, and chasing paper trails, but Carver already knew what they would find. Schwartz was far too intelligent and had too much practice covering his tracks for them to uncover anything useful, which was exactly what bothered Carver about the whole situation. Here was a man who had learned discretion and developed the ability to hide his deviance from the world.
Carver would have caught him eventually, and while that in itself was reason enough for Schwartz to come after him, it was an unnecessary risk. And at the very heart of the matter was the greatest inconsistency. Why would a man accustomed to dismembering with blades enter his house armed only with a gun? Butchers reveled in the sensation of up-close killing, the eye contact, the warmth of fresh blood, the absolute power. And why would any man capable of tearing apart so many children hesitate to do the same to him?
He grabbed the case file and was about to dig in again when he felt the distinct sensation that he was no longer alone.
Hawthorne was leaning against the wall in the corner of the room by the door, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised in what could have passed for amusement.
Carver tried to mask his surprise, but failed miserably. When had Hawthorne slipped in and how long had he been standing there?
"Ever hear of knocking?" Carver asked. "It's pretty simple really. Just make a fist and rap your knuckles against the door."
Hawthorne's face resumed its natural neutral expression, though with the way the scars narrowed his right eye, even that was intimidating.
Carver tapped the case file. "That's a lot of interesting information to produce on such short notice. One might almost think you already had a file going."
"I'm good with information, especially when it interests me. Take you for example. Raised by a single mother. Sandra, a secretary by trade. Won a lot of field day ribbons as a kid. Second place in the science fair in fourth grade. Mowed lawns and shoveled driveways to keep in the green. First girlfriend, Lindsay Patterson, eighth grade. Above average grades. First car an '85 Honda Civic. Star flanker in high school. You were too slow and converted to a tight end at the University of Colorado. An ACL tear ended a moderately promising career that had an outside chance of going pro. Graduated in the upper third of your class with a BS in Psychology. Thought about medical school but never took the MCAT. Recruited into the FBI by a high-ranking family friend, isn't that correct?"
"You forgot to mention the family dog."
Hawthorne reached into one of the inn
er pockets of his jacket. His hand moved beneath the fabric, but his eyes never strayed from Carver's. When he pulled his hand back out, he held up a photo of a shaggy-haired boy and a golden retriever, both drenched, sitting on the muddy bank of a lake.
"I believe his name was Dino."
The weight of their matched stares shifted and Carver suddenly felt like an ant beneath a magnifying glass on a sunny day.
Hawthorne replaced the picture in his pocket and allowed himself the hint of a smile.
Hundreds of thoughts collided in Carver's head. Who was this Hawthorne really? How did he know so much? Where in the world did he get that picture? The other agent had gone to great lengths to gain the advantage over him, but Carver couldn't fathom why. He was about to demand an explanation for violating his privacy when Hawthorne again surprised him.
"A car will arrive in front of your townhouse in precisely one hour. I expect you to be packed and waiting."
"What in the world are you talking about?"
"You have a new assignment."
"I'm not finished with this one."
"I delivered the orders to your SAC myself."
"There's no way Moorehead--"
"You no longer have to concern yourself with Moorehead," Hawthorne said, a smile cutting his sharp face. "You work for me now."
And with that, Hawthorne disappeared through the doorway, leaving Carver blinking in confusion at the empty hallway.
VII
Sinagua Ruins
36 Miles Northeast of Flagstaff, Arizona
Elliot approached the tent with a growing sense of apprehension. She should have been elated, knowing what awaited her beneath the canvas construct, and even more so if her intuition was correct and there were more bodies to unearth, but she couldn't seem to shake the cloud of gloom hanging over her. Maybe it was the jet lag, or perhaps simply the lack of decent sleep was finally catching up with her. There had to be a rational explanation for what was surely an irrational gut feeling. She had come upon a dozen different sites in the exact same manner. Why would this one feel so different?
Two men stood outside the old army surplus tent, perhaps ten feet to a side. Both wore cowboy hats, but that was about the only thing they had in common. The first was markedly taller, and dressed in his sheriff's office tans, his badge glinting in the sun. His features were chiseled and he had the leathered look of a man who'd spent far too much time out on the desert. His pale eyes mirrored the sky. The other man was dramatically shorter and wearing a slate-gray suit with cowboy boots. His bolo tie was tightened all the way to his collar by a large square clasp of polished turquoise, the metal caps at the ends of the black strings hanging unevenly. Thick black hair peeked out from beneath his hat, his skin dark, his facial features broad with a prominent jaw line and rugged cheekbones that made his ebon eyes appear too small for his face. Two more uniformed officers stood around the side of the tent. Both were darker men wearing cowboy hats, their outfits a shade darker than that of the man out front. Surely they saw Emil and Ellie coming, but made no move to meet them. Instead they hung back even farther, as though making sure their involvement didn't progress beyond eavesdropping.
"Aw, crap," Mondragon muttered from behind her.
"Dr. Mondragon!" the shorter man called, striding forward. "When did you plan on sharing this little discovery with us?"
"Now just calm down, Mr. Lonetree," the other said. Elliot was now close enough to read his name badge: Deputy J. Kent. "You had me come all the way out here so we could do this by the book. We all know the drill by now. Dr. Mondragon wasn't attempting to hide anything, now were you Emil?"
"I didn't want anyone to get too excited until we were able to evaluate the findings and run the standard battery of tests."
"You know any discoveries on Diné land have to be reported to the Archaeology Department at the Division of Natural Resources," Nelson Lonetree said, his face reddening with his bluster.
"Mr. Lonetree," Mondragon said, "I assumed the man who called the university must have notified the Navajo Nation as well. He does live on your land after all."
"It doesn't matter who called or didn't call whom," Deputy Kent said. "You boys both know how this works. Emil, have you removed anything from the site?"
"We excised tissue samples from the thigh and upper arm, and small slices of the femur and occipital bone. All were sent to Flagstaff for testing. We ought to at least have the results of the Carbon-14 dating by late this afternoon, or tomorrow morning at the latest."
"And that's all? No artifacts of any kind?" Kent asked. "I know I don't have to remind you that any archaeological findings are the sole property of the Navajo Nation, especially human remains."
A face cautiously peered out from between the tent flaps, which Elliot took as an invitation to slip inside.
"These aren't just remains," Lonetree said. "This was once a living, breathing human being. One of my ancestors, my family. You don't see us running around digging up your cemeteries."
"Give it a rest, Nelson. For all we know..." Kent's voice faded as the tent flaps fell closed behind her.
Elliot was intimately familiar with the political hoops. She'd jumped through them countless times in different countries, but she hadn't traveled this far to embroil herself in bureaucracy. Let the men outside hash out the details.
The Navajo Nation was a sovereign governing body encompassing a large portion of Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah with an overall population of three hundred thousand nationwide and one hundred seventy-five thousand within Diné reservation boundaries. It had every right to confiscate the body or take control of the site, but the bottom line was that everything of physical importance would still belong to them when the excavation was through, and Northern Arizona University would foot the bill for the manpower and scientific testing. The entire scene outside was just for show, a dance of sorts. All of the huffing and posturing was merely to establish the rules of cooperation. Besides, if the Navajo Nation was overprotective of its land, it had every right to be, and no one could fault it for overreacting to a perceived sleight, given their shared history.
Two girls in their early twenties shied away from Elliot, backing into the corner of the tent where twin lawn chairs flanked an ice chest. Both wore khaki shorts and flannel shirts straight off the rack and hiking boots with tread as fresh as they were. One was blonde, the other brunette. Mondragon obviously still knew how to pick them. Both wore their hair in ponytails and matching expressions of horror on their faces. They were way out of their depth here.
"You get used to it," Elliot said, knowing full well that neither would be reassured in the slightest.
She turned back to the business at hand and stepped into the past. The tent had no floor, granting free access to the ground. The sand slanted steeply down in the center, where the mummy bundle had been exposed. The wrappings had been torn, revealing the desiccated body within. The blankets appeared authentic, though she would have to await formal fiber analysis. There were no visible layers of cotton or other stuffing, and if there had been anything of value buried along with the corpse, it was nowhere in sight. It smelled so badly she was surprised neither of the girls had vomited after closing themselves inside to dodge the confrontation with Lonetree and Kent, but she wouldn't have been able to smell it over the odor of the bundle regardless, a wicked biological stench like raw meat rolled in sewage and left on a hot sidewalk to bake. She recognized the telling smell, yet there was something about it that wasn't quite right, something she couldn't clearly express. That wasn't all. There were other minuscule details that seemed somehow inconsistent. The ground surrounding the bundle was crusted and dark, but not to the degree she would have expected. Perhaps the arid conditions of the desert had contributed, but it still nagged at her. There were no trepanation holes in the skull, and it appeared more rounded and smooth than most she had seen, even through the straggly hair. The brow was less prominent and the remaining teeth appeared to be in reasonable shape. She ha
d no doubt this was a younger specimen, possibly early- to mid-twenties at a guess, but still...
She knelt and traced the skin with her fingertips. It was brittle and dry, wrinkled into crisp folds in places it might have otherwise sagged in life. Where she touched the rope, the braid frayed easily. She drew her fingers away and sniffed them, noting the almost sweet aroma of wood fire. The corpse had obviously been smoked, which was a common means of preservation. Many of the mummies she had studied had been cured in such a fashion.
Elliot couldn't fathom why she was allowing such niggling details to bother her. Maybe it was simply her nature to be overly critical, possibly leading her to look for flaws in what would be a diamond of a discovery that would shed new light on an important mystery to which she had devoted a great measure of her career to solving.
That has to be it, she thought. She shook her head to chastise herself and climbed back out of the hole. Grabbing a shovel from the mess of tools on the ground by the entrance, she nodded in passing to the girls, who still whispered nervously despite the voices on the other side resuming a more civil tone, and headed back outside, welcoming a deep breath of fresh air.
Lonetree was already headed back across the desert in the direction of the cars with the two silent officers trailing at his heels, while Mondragon and the deputy appeared to be wrapping up their conversation. Elliot walked around to the back of the tent and stared toward the eastern horizon. The sun had yet to reach its zenith, though the heat radiating from the sand made the bushes seem to waver. Closing her eyes, she imagined bodies committed to the dirt, held in the Sonoran's firm embrace while the winds ceaselessly altered the landscape and only sporadic rainfall attempted to impede the relentless shifting of the sand.
When she opened her eyes again, she became the breeze, but instead of conspiring to hide the secrets the land protected, she prepared to uncover them.
Bloodletting Page 4
