“What are you doing?” Her words were clipped like small bursts of machine-gun fire. “Not what I told you to do.” Ratta tat tat.
“This site’s older than we thought, dammit.” Like everyone else, Adam’s tolerance for Claire’s dictatorial ways was wearing thin. “This trench needs to be deeper. Look at this pit profile. I’m not to the bottom.”
Lindsay could hear his loud voice even where she was. He stood, holding his shovel in one hand, sweat dripping from his face and arms. Byron Rogers, looking hot and red-faced behind his long beard, climbed out of the shallow trench from behind Adam and lumbered toward the water barrel, eager to take a break while Claire and Adam went a round.
“You’re wasting time and money. It’s not older.” Claire scowled. “You’ve read the proposal, or you should have. We have clear documentation of the age of the farmstead. And that looks like pit bottom to me. Now you’ll do what I say, or you can find . . . ”
“. . . a job elsewhere,” Lindsay whispered to herself. She’d heard Claire’s threat many times.
“Documentation, shit. Marina identified clay pipes and salt-glazed stoneware that she said . . .”
“A couple of artifacts from an older period mean nothing. They could have been family heirlooms.”
Adam’s teeth were clenched and his muscles taut. “Claire, I know how to read a profile. I know what I’m doing. I’m not some freshman who wants to be an archaeologist, and I don’t make stupid mistakes.”
Lindsay saw Erin look up at Adam from her digging, probably feeling the sting of his words. Sharon looked up briefly and continued to work. Bill, her husband, stopped and listened. Joel, absorbed as always in what he was doing, never looked up.
As much as she hated to, Lindsay felt compelled to intervene. She set her water bottle down and walked over to Adam and Claire. I’m a glutton for punishment, she thought to herself.
“And what do you want?” Claire snapped before Lindsay could speak. “To give us wisdom from on high? I think we can do without advice from someone still recovering from a nervous breakdown.”
“I didn’t have a nervous breakdown. I think proof of that is my ability to stay here. Claire, what Adam is doing is not unreasonable. He’s right about the parameters of the pit. The layers are subtle, but they are there. Why don’t you talk to Drew? You and she might want to look at the artifacts Marina has identified and . . .”
“I’m not changing the research design in the middle of the excavation.”
Adam threw his trowel down and it stuck up like a knife in the bottom of the trench. “Claire, are you really that dumb? I’m not talking about changing the research design. I’m talking about following it. Jesus, Claire, what does it take to get through to you?”
If the daggers in Claire’s eyes had been real, Adam would be bleeding. She worked her mouth back and forth, as if her tongue was looking for words. “Don’t you ever . . .”
“Come on, Claire,” interrupted Lindsay, “you know the design has to be flexible enough to incorporate new information.”
“Listen, Miss High-and-Mighty, when you university archaeologists get multimillion-dollar grants to dig sites, you have time for extras. But in contract archaeology, we have to be lean and efficient.”
“And accurate.”
“There’s nothing inaccurate about my work.” She turned to Adam. “It’s my way or the highway, smartass.”
“I have a contract,” he said.
“Which says you’ll do what you’re told.” Claire turned on Lindsay again. “Do you think you’re levelheaded enough to map Structure 6?”
“Yes, I can do that. But Erin has found a cache of animal bones, perhaps I could . . .”
Claire’s chin was raised in the air. A sign she wasn’t to be moved. “We don’t need you at this site. You’re here because Drew says we have to take you—some kind of favor. But I don’t have to give you any assignments. You can either map Structure 6, or you can go take a nap at the house. Which will it be?”
“Structure 6 it is then,” said Lindsay.
Claire smiled at her victory, turned on her heels, her chin still in the air, and headed toward the artifact tent, probably to have it out with Marina. Adam dropped the shovel and raised his middle finger at her retreating back.
“This site is a pile of shit,” Adam said to Lindsay.
Lindsay looked in the ditch, and felt dizzy. She sat down and forced herself to take hold of the shovel that leaned against the side of the ditch. Dark images were trying to break into her consciousness. She closed her eyes. Person or persons unknown weren’t going to take away her love of archaeology. She wouldn’t allow it. She forced her vision to clear.
“The excavation is really not bad,” she said. “You guys are doing a good job.”
“Thanks, but you know . . .” He heaved a heavy sigh. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Claire seems to bring out the worst in all of us,” Lindsay said.
“What is this nervous breakdown business?” Adam took up his trowel and began scraping the sides of the trench smooth.
“On the way home from Knoxville three months ago I was attacked and left to die in the woods. I was without my memory for several days. It was amnesia due to trauma, not a nervous breakdown. I think the attack might have been some kind of serial thing.” She waved her hand as if that got rid of it.”
Adam’s jaw dropped. “You serious?”
Her friend Harper, John, her brother, all told Lindsay she was denying what had happened, pushing it too far back in her brain. But far back was where it belonged. Don’t unpack that trunk, leave it in the attic, she told herself every time her mind wandered in that direction and threatened to pull the memories to the surface.
“I don’t know much about what happened. The case is still open, and I’m leaving it to the police.”
“What the heck are you doing here in archaeology hell?”
“Francisco Lewis knows I like the Smokies. He thought it would be restful.”
Adam gave a short laugh. “Restful? Restful would be excavating in a minefield. Rumor says you’re here gathering information for the company on how we’re doing.”
“If that were true, I think Claire would treat me better,” said Lindsay.
“You don’t know her.”
“Lewis wanted me to come take a look several months ago. The president of Sound Ecology is a friend of his. But I wasn’t given instructions to spy. I think Lewis just wants to know about the site. He likes to get his fingers in everything. As if building a museum isn’t enough, now he’s decided he’s interested in farmsteads.”
“I’ve heard that about him. What’s he really like?”
Lindsay shrugged. “Probably like the rumors you’ve heard. He denies nothing. Actually, I’m thinking about cutting this vacation short. I’m not needed here, and I’m kind of tired of putting up with Claire’s abuse.”
“I don’t blame you. But when Drew’s here, things are better. She’s the only person Claire will listen to. Probably because Drew has the power to fire her butt.”
“When is Drew coming?”
“This week, I hope. She’s principal investigator on several of the Sound Ecology sites, and some of the others are more urgent because they’re due to be flooded soon.” Adam stood back and looked at the ditch bank in front of him. “What about it? Should I continue with this profile?”
Against Claire’s wishes? Lindsay thought. She wished the crew wouldn’t keep asking her advice. It only made Claire worse.
“You aren’t to the bottom of this feature.” She sat on her haunches and pointed toward the bottom layers of dirt. “This layer’s simply interrupted by soil of a similar color and texture as the pit wall. But it’s different. There’s been some kind of soil disturbance into which layers of rubble were added over the years.”
“I think so, too.” He glanced toward the tent. “I guess, I’d better take it up with Drew. If she ever shows up.”
The rumble of an engine a
pproaching nearby brought their heads up toward the sound.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” shouted Adam, jumping up as a big red pickup truck drove across the site, its giant tires rolling over and crushing into the ground a corner of Feature 3. The front of the truck stopped at his trench.
Lindsay heard another voice screaming in the distance. Claire was flying across the site like a banshee. Lindsay stood staring, amazed, as a short, square, potbellied man with a receding hairline and black mustache climbed down from the truck with a folded piece of paper in his hand.
“You’re destroying valuable artifacts,” yelled Adam. “Are you crazy?”
“Who the hell are you, you sorry bastard? Get that truck . . .” Claire stopped. Even she was at a loss for words.
The man marched over to Lindsay and handed her the paper.
“Drew Van Horne, this is for you.”
“I’m not . . .”
“I’ve been parked over in the woods watching, girly. You’re obviously in charge, and you’re obviously the illusive Miss Drew. Consider yourself served.”
“But I’m not . . .”
He turned to go, but while he was talking to Lindsay, Claire had climbed into his truck and now began backing slowly out of the excavation in the least damaging path.
“What? Hey!” he shouted, running after the truck.
But Claire made it to the dirt road and took off, disappearing in a cloud of dust. Lindsay watched in surprised admiration. The man, whoever he was, stood in the middle of the site waving his arms.
“That bitch stole my truck! That bitch stole my truck!”
Chapter 7
An Air Of Unease
“WHO WAS THAT?” The little potbellied man looked from one to the other, as if all the crew were in a conspiracy against him. “Is she going to bring my truck back?”
“I don’t know,” Lindsay told him. “I was too busy trying to figure out how even a casual observer could think I’m in charge here.”
He turned to Adam—who was still dumbstruck and staring at the dust settling on the road—and demanded that Adam tell him who took his truck.
“I don’t know, either,” said Adam. “I was concentrating on what kind of moron would drive a big-foot pickup across an archaeological excavation. Do you know what you’ve done?”
He looked around at the ground. “Rocks and holes, just rocks and holes.”
“No, not rocks and holes,” Adam shouted. “History, delicate history preserved in the ground—probably your history—and you’ve destroyed a portion of it.”
“Where’s she taking my truck?”
“Are you listening?” asked Adam. “Your truck isn’t nearly as important as this site. You understand that?”
“If she damages my truck, you all are going to have to pay for it.”
“We’ll deduct it from what you owe for damages to the site,” said Lindsay.
“I don’t owe you nothing. It’s just rocks and holes, dammit. I’m not going to pay for rocks and holes.”
Lindsay ignored his protestations and scanned the legal papers she’d been “served.” Drew was being sued by an Alfred Tidwell for the wrongful death of his aunt Mary Susan Tidwell, and she was accused of stealing valuable documents belonging to the Tidwell estate. That answered why Drew was so scarce. She was avoiding a process server. Lindsay had been at the site for a week and hadn’t once seen the principal investigator.
While she was reading the summons, Adam had managed to learn that the fuming little man was Broach Moore, a bounty hunter, process server, and repo man.
“Here,” Lindsay said, shoving the papers back at him. “I’m not Dr. Drew Van Horne. I’m Dr. Lindsay Chamberlain. And don’t you ever call me girly again.”
“Let me see some identification.”
“No.”
“Then you keep these papers.”
“Fine, I’ll deliver them to the sheriff tomorrow and let him deal with it. I will show him ID.”
“You’re really not Drew Van Horne?”
“No. I’m not.” Lindsay turned her back and walked over to Feature 3 to see what kind of damage he had done.
“Hey!” he shouted at Lindsay. “How am I going to get back to my office?”
“You should have thought of that before you came,” said Adam.
“I did. I brought my truck. I need to use the phone.”
“Highway 129’s down that dirt road. I’m sure you can find a lift,” said Adam.
“I’m not walking back.”
“Suit yourself. I’m sure we can find you a room in the house.”
“I’m not staying in that house.”
Lindsay ignored the bits of conversation and surveyed the damage to the scattered stones. At least two large flat stones were broken and others had plowed a three-foot-long furrow in the dirt from the force of the big truck tires. The air was filled with the aroma of fresh earth released by the disturbance to the soil. A shadow moved across the feature, and Lindsay looked up to see tall, willowy Erin joining her in examining the damage.
“Do you have . . .” Lindsay hesitated, searching for the word. “. . . drawings . . . drawings or photographs? I don’t recall seeing anyone working on this feature since I’ve been here.”
“No drawings. Claire said drawings would be redundant. I’m an artist. I was hoping to be able to do some drawings here, but it seems that we are overrun with artists—Marina, Joel, and now me. And Claire doesn’t even want drawings.” Erin paused a moment and looked wistfully over at the artifact tent and then at the south end of the site. “Marina does the photography. She sometimes lets me do some artifact drawing with her. She’s taught me a lot about artifact illustration. She’s done textbooks and everything.”
“Has Marina taken photos of this section?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen any of the pictures.”
Erin lowered her voice to a whisper. “What’s Claire going to do with the truck?”
“She’ll probably park it out of sight down the road and walk back to the house. Isn’t that guy . . . Trent working on this feature? Where is he?”
“He’s sick today.”
Stoned, thought Lindsay. “How about the crew members working on it with him? Where are they?”
“Claire found another structure in the woods. She put them on that, I think.” Erin nodded in the direction of the tree line. She shook her head. “I really thought archaeology would be different from this. I mean, I really wanted to be an archaeologist.”
“I’ve never worked on a site with as much hostility as this one,” said Lindsay. “Most digs aren’t like this.”
“Is it because it’s a private company?”
“No, it’s not that. I’ve consulted with several private archaeology companies. None have been like this one.”
Claire was part of the problem, thought Lindsay, her controlling, abusive personality. But there was something else about this site that Lindsay couldn’t put her finger on, and it troubled her. It was as if some evil hung in the air. Something that made the wind rush hard through the trees, whipping the crowns back and forth. Something that brought the darkness with it. Lindsay heard the blood rushing in her ears with each beat of her heart. She turned and looked at the forest. There was no wind in the trees, and it surprised her. Was the storm she felt in her mind, hovering on the edge of her sanity? Don’t think about it, she said to herself. Ignore it and it will go away. Don’t build it and they won’t come.
“Don’t judge archaeology by this experience.”
“I’ll keep reminding myself.” Erin tapped one of the rocks with her fingers.”What is this, do you think?”
Lindsay stood and stepped back, looking at the area. Only a portion of the feature was excavated. The several wooden stumps, frequently used as lunch tables by the crew, were from trees that had been cut down only a few years before. Here and there bunches of long, slender daffodil leaves stood above the grass and weeds. She noticed a thorny, long-stemmed shr
ub low on the ground, and picked out several more scattered about. Lindsay stepped back again.
“I believe it’s a cemetery.”
“A cemetery? The documents we have say the family is buried at Wild Grape Hollow Cemetery at the Primitive Baptist Church.”
“Look at the berm around the feature.” Lindsay indicated a gently raised strip of ground.
“I see it. Kind of like the mounded earth around the barn,” said Erin.
Lindsay nodded. “The kind of berm made by years of dirt washing against a fence. I think this feature was fenced in. It also has daffodils and antique roses.”
“But flowers wouldn’t be here from that long ago, would they? The records date back over a hundred years, and they make no mention of a graveyard. It would have been abandoned more than a hundred years ago,” objected Erin.
“That doesn’t matter. Antique roses and daffodils are hardy plants. They sustain themselves indefinitely. There’s another indication, too. There’s been a copse of trees on this spot for a long time. It’s not uncommon that local people know of the presence of a graveyard, even when who’s buried in it is long forgotten. When the surrounding timber is cut, the trees in a graveyard are always left standing. You can drive through the countryside and see little stands of tall trees alone on hilltops when the rest of the countryside has been clear-cut. Those are old cemetery sites that the loggers won’t cut. I think this was one of those sites.”
“But who would be buried here?”
Lindsay shrugged. “Some members of the family who didn’t get themselves buried in Wild Grape Cemetery. Were the Gallowses slaveholders?”
“I don’t think so.”
“When it’s excavated, we may find some stones that will tell something.”
“Actually, I’m not sure it will be excavated. I think maybe Claire is cutting this area from the plan.” Erin pulled a small twig from one of the antique rose vines.
“So much for not changing a design in the middle of a dig. I think I’ll be glad to be leaving this place.”
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me that. You’re the only nice person here. You, Marina, and Mrs. Laurens.”
Airtight Case Page 5
