The phone on my desk rang as soon as I hung up the call with William, and when I answered, Joan’s voice on the other end of the line was tense. “Will you come up to the front, please?” I could hear a frantic male voice in the background.
I strode up the hall and into the lobby to find Carl Thornton pacing back and forth. He whirled around at the sound of the door. “Hector.” He rushed toward me, and the pure panic on his face had me scanning him quickly for injury. “Jesus Christ, you have to help me. Help me find her.”
He looked like his legs were about to buckle, so I caught his arm in a firm grip and led him to one of the wooden benches against the wall.
“Calm down,” I ordered. “Calm down, and tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s Amanda.”
His wife taught kindergarten at the elementary school in Gardiner. “Is she hurt?”
“No,” he whispered. “She’s gone.”
Fourteen
On average, over 83,000 people are missing
at any time: 50,000 adults and
33,000 children and teens.
EVELYN
“We have set you up in Roberta’s old office,” Annette Zierdt said as she led me down the hall. “She was our previous image archivist, but she retired a few months ago. I thought this would be more preferable than a desk in the archive room.”
“I’ve worked at a desk in the corner before.” I stopped in the doorway and she gestured for me to enter. It was not a large office, but it had a window and the desk was a deep L-shaped monstrosity. “This is lovely. It will be perfect.” I deposited my purse and coat on the chair behind the desk.
The frustration of my meeting with Hector had worn away as the morning had been filled with the usual paperwork and human resources minutia of a new position. Annette was the archivist and collections manager of the Park County Museum, and thus far I had found her to be warm, welcoming, and excited about the work I had been brought on to do.
“I can go ahead and show you the repository and the collection you’ll be working on, unless you’d like to get your log-in credentials for our system first.”
“Oh, the repository, please.”
She smiled. “I had a feeling that would be your choice. It’s just down the hall.”
The archive room was massive, with twenty-five-foot ceilings and two parallel rows of twenty-foot mobile shelving.
“The room is badged entry. It is climate controlled, so you can prop the door open if you’re coming and going. But if you’re going to be in here for more than a few minutes, we ask you keep the door closed.”
“Of course.” I followed her down the long corridor between the shelving units, stopping beside her as she turned the rotary handle of the first rolling stack.
“I recommend moving one shelf at a time. Two at the most, unless you have superhuman strength.”
I moved around her and spun the handle on the next stack.
“Thank you,” she said, moving to the next. “I couldn’t convince the committee to approve the added cost in the budget to add electric motors when we had these installed. As a general rule, we have paper archived material on the numerical shelves.” She gestured to the row of shelves on the opposite side of the room. “And all other artifacts are stored in the alphabetical shelves.”
She moved to grab the rolling set of stairs at the end of the room, but I waved her away. “I’ve got it.”
“I’m afraid we have just had these artifacts collected under a category of ‘Native’ and we’ve been adding to it as we’ve been unpacking from the move into this new building.” She caught hold of the leg of the rolling step ladder and positioned it next to the shelf before setting the brake. “I think you can understand that there’s a lot of pressure on us to expedite this project. It should have been done two decades ago, and the project kept falling through the cracks. We didn’t realize the extent of the collection until the move.”
“Of course. I’ll put all of my energy and focus into this project.”
“I know you will, dear.” She touched my arm and then carefully climbed the step ladder. “That’s exactly why I hired you. Now, let me see… Yes…” She peered at each of the dozen shelves. “The paintings on the top shelf depict scenes of Native American life, but they aren’t part of the collection you’ll be working on. So everything but the top shelf in this section is part of the collection you’ll be processing.”
The space was packed with archival storage boxes, and excitement bloomed in my chest. “I’ll get started on it as soon as I familiarize myself with your software program.”
Annette nodded approvingly as she climbed down the ladder. “I think you’ll fit in well here, Evelyn. You came highly recommended, but I always appreciate enthusiasm more than anything. Come along. I have a meeting with the head of IT. I’ll take you to Rachel in that department. She’ll get your log-ins set up and give you a crash course on the EMu software we use.”
Rachel, I was surprised to find, was someone I already knew. She had attended the book club meeting at Book Ends. Her personality was as effusive as her abundance of curly hair. Within three hours, I had access to the computer system, felt like I could use the cataloging software competently, and was back in the repository standing at the end of the row of shelves labeled N. I left the push cart at the end of the row and walked slowly between the shelves, trailing my hand along the storage boxes.
It was unlikely that all of the items in the collection would fall under the NAGPRA guidelines. I would need to consult with representatives from nearby tribes once I had the artifacts catalogued, and if I found human remains stashed forlornly away in dusty boxes, I would need to bring in archaeologists and physical anthropologists. The identification process was tedious and technical and required expertise far greater than mine. But my work would be the first step in their journey home.
I pushed the rolling ladder aside, knelt next to the bottom shelf, and slid a box free. Two more boxes filled the space directly behind it. The eleven shelves were stacked four wide and three deep. I had a lot of material to catalogue, and anticipation hummed in my veins.
I loaded three boxes onto the cart and rolled them to one of the work stations at the end of the room. The boxes were all record storage boxes, and the pieces within had become jumbled together. Though none of the collection had been catalogued online, there were finding aids tucked into the front of each box, hand written in pencil. I used the notes of my predecessors to inform my own as I studied each piece, photographed them next to a caliper, and entered information about each article into the computer system. I tucked each piece into more appropriate archival boxes and labeled the boxes.
I knew the basics of what to look for. I had read that the Crow did not practice basketry, pottery, weaving, or woodcarving, but the intricacy of their beadwork was astonishing. Their own overlay style of stitching was known as the “Crow Stitch,” and they favored geometric shapes, particularly hourglass structures, and the colors blue and pink.
The Blackfoot had a unique straight-up headdress, and warriors frequently wore roaches made from porcupine hair that was dyed red. They used rattles and whistles in their music and wore necklaces of braided sweetgrass and teeth or claws.
The Shoshone’s baskets were complexly and stunningly woven, and their bows were made from the horns of mountain sheep. Their beadwork was mainly done in white, green, blue, and cobalt, and the Shoshone rose was a recurring motif in more modern work.
The Bannock were closely affiliated with the Shoshone and were such skilled basket makers, their woven baskets could hold water. Their clothing was mainly made from sagebrush bark, and their jewelry from beads and shells.
While these were the peoples who had called the Yellowstone region home, it did not mean they were the only ones who moved through the area. With the national park’s inventory of human remains, the park service had consulted with around twenty tribes in the surrounding area. I was not an expe
rt even in the tribes immediately local to the area, so I made a notation of my guess as to the pieces’ origins but knew further research would be required.
I found it in the third box. I lifted it carefully from its wrappings and sucked in a breath when I realized what I held. It was brown and mottled with age and fit neatly in my hands, curved and thin. It was the dome of a skull. Someone who had never seen human bone before might mistake it for a shard of pottery, a remnant of some long-ago shattering of a vessel. In a way, it was just that, though the contents had once been the origins of thought and consciousness rather than grain or oil.
I set it gently aside and studied the other contents of the box in an attempt to determine if they were grave offerings. I kept everything from the third box together and called Annette.
A few minutes later, she hurried into the archive, face lit with excitement. “You found something?”
I held the skull fragment out to her, and she leaned over the work table. There was nothing left attached to the bone. It was nearly turned to stone, but I handled it as if it were glass. This had been a person once. A man or woman, young or old. He or she had lived a life filled with hopes and dreams, love and loss, triumph and hardship. And now the last remnant of that life had been tucked away in a box. When Annette met my gaze, I knew she felt the import as well.
“Was there any information with it?” she asked, voice quiet.
“It was found prior to 1885 by a sheepherder near his camp outside of Jardine. It was sold several times and then donated to the museum in the 1940s.” I nodded to the other items I had laid out on the table. “I don’t know if these pieces were grave offerings, but they were in the box along with the skull fragment.”
“I’ll go ahead and contact the University of Montana. Their anthropology and archaeology departments have assisted us before.” She touched my shoulder. “Good job.”
“I haven’t even made a dint in the collection yet,” I warned her.
“And already you’re doing exactly what I brought you on for.” She glanced at her watch. “I need to go make that call to Missoula to give the department a head’s up that we’ll need some of their experts.”
I placed the pieces carefully back in the box and then rolled everything back to the shelves. The box with the skull in it went on a nearby empty shelf while the others went back where I had found them. I worked methodically through two more boxes, studying each artifact, photographing it, entering into the database, and storing them in more appropriate archival boxes. I found no more bones.
Hours later, I stretched as I stood, rolling the stiffness from my neck. A sneeze crept up on me and made white stars dance before my eyes with its violence. I made a mental note to stop by the drug store on the way home and pick up some allergy medicine and nasal spray.
I rolled the boxes back down to the N section and deposited them on the shelf. A glance at my watch showed it was near the end of the day, but I pulled the next box in the row free and placed it on the floor. I removed the lid to see what items awaited my appraisal tomorrow and was surprised to find not shards and fragments of ancient pieces, but whole, unbroken pieces of pottery and artfully woven baskets.
When I searched, there was no finding aid tucked within the box. I spun the box, and on the opposite side the words PRIVATE DONATION 2017: 1 of 4 were neatly printed in permanent marker. I found the other three interspersed with the remaining boxes I had not yet catalogued on the next shelf. Each box contained beautiful pieces of art, but all seemed modern save for the item at the bottom of the last box.
I lifted it free from the box. It was a bundle of muslin and hide, about a foot wide and almost three feet long. The bottom half was laced together with the top fashioned around a wood hoop. Bands of quillwork framed the edges that were sewn around the hoop, and at the top of the bundle was a quilled disc of red, yellow, and black. It was a cradleboard, lovingly and skillfully crafted. I thought it must be from the nineteenth century.
It did not fit with the rest of the private donation. There were fetishes, pottery, baskets, jewelry, a weaving, an intricately carved flute, and a number of other pieces. The colors were different with each piece, the patterns and shapes unique. But all appeared to be made by modern artisans save for the cradleboard.
Curiosity piqued, I photographed the cradleboard before I tucked it back into the box, packed everything away, and turned out the lights as I exited the repository. I grabbed my coat and my purse from my office and stopped by Annette’s office on my way out. She was still at her desk, gaze fixed on her computer screen. I rapped a knuckle against the doorframe, and she turned to me.
“I would say you’ve already had a successful first day on the job.”
“The collection is fantastic,” I said. “I would love to put together a display for the front with the items that aren’t NAGPRA pieces.”
“We have been trying to find someone to fill that role now that Roberta is gone. That was her pet project.”
I had learned in my years of working with archivists and curators that the quickest way to make yourself indispensable was to enthusiastically and creatively fill any gaps. “I’ll mock up some plans for you to look over. Once I complete the cataloguing, I’ll have a much better idea of what we have to display, but already I have a vision for it in my mind.”
Her smile was filled with approval. “I’ll be happy to look over any plans you have.”
“You mentioned the anthropology and archaeology departments at the university have assisted you before?”
“Yes, we’ve worked with both departments. Did you find something else?”
“Nothing that would fall under NAGPRA, but I did find an item that roused my curiosity. I wondered if we had any contacts who are experts on the lives of Native women and children.”
Annette turned back to her computer and her fingers rushed over the keyboard. “Dr. Marilou Cobel. I just sent you her contact information in an email. She’s brilliant, and if you have any questions about the historic roles of women in the Plains Indian tribes, she’ll be able to answer them. If she doesn’t know the answer, she’ll know someone who does.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
“Of course.” Her phone rang, but before she picked it up, she said, “We’re pleased to have you here, Evelyn.”
As I left the museum, the last of the day’s light faded in a wink over the rooftops, and the street lamps flickered to life. My steps felt light and buoyant as I walked out to where I had parked Ed’s Chevy. I had given up my job at the museum in Atlanta when it became too much to balance with caring for my grandparents. My grandmother’s bedridden state and my grandfather’s rapidly advancing Alzheimer’s had left me drained, mentally and physically. Working the graveyard shift stocking shelves at the grocery store had been a job that kept food on our table and paid the bills.
I felt exhilarated, the gears turning in my head like they had not done since I left the museum in Atlanta, and I realized a smile lingered on my face as I drove through town. It remained on my face right up to the point that I hopped out of the truck and moved to the entrance of the supermarket.
The sign on the door read, HAVE YOU SEEN ME? PLEASE CALL. A phone number was listed underneath, but it was the photograph that grabbed my attention. The woman in it was grinning at the person behind the camera, her face lit with happiness. It was a face I recognized. I knew that welcoming smile. She had directed it toward me just the other night. Hello. You’re both new to the group. I’m Amanda.
The sign said her name was Amanda Thornton, age 41, height 5’7”, weight 170 pounds, blonde hair, brown eyes. Missing since yesterday, last seen jogging on the state road headed east. My stomach twisted at seeing the vibrant, friendly woman reduced to statistics. The same signs were posted on the community bulletin boards within.
I moved straight to the pharmacy and grabbed a bottle of allergy pills and a nasal spray from the shelves. There was a checkout at the pharmacy’s counter
with no line, so I approached and offered the elderly woman behind the register my items.
“Need a bag for these, honey?” Her smile and voice were subdued.
“No, thank you.” I glanced at the flyer taped to the back of the register. “Amanda Thornton, the woman missing…”
“Isn’t it just awful?” she whispered. “Those poor babies. And Carl has been so distraught.”
“Do they know…?” I let the sentence dwindle, grappling with what I wanted to ask.
She shook her head. “She just went for a run yesterday morning and never came home.”
I paid and headed out to the truck. In the parking lot, I found a flyer tucked under the windshield wiper of Ed’s Chevy. The paper trembled in the wind like a trapped bird, helplessly pinned, frantically fluttering. I slid it free from its moorings.
Amanda’s face stared up at me from the flyer as I settled behind the wheel and pulled out of the parking lot. I glanced at her smile, and instead of turning to cut down side roads to the inn, I drove uphill to Main Street.
I parked in the public lot at the corner, angling the truck so I had a clear view down the street to Jeff’s Land Rover parked in front of Book Ends. The cold began to seep in as soon as I shut the truck off, and I buttoned my coat up to my throat.
The traffic on the street was minimal as the evening slid toward night, and within thirty minutes, Jeff made an appearance on the sidewalk in front of the bookshop. He did not move toward his vehicle, though. Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and started down the street toward where I was parked.
I ducked out of sight below the steering wheel as he approached. The pace of my heart quickened as I strained to hear his footfall, but I could hear nothing aside from the thump of a car door being closed nearby and the sound of my own breathing as it clouded the air before my face. The temptation to look was almost overwhelming, but I made myself wait. A muffled greeting was exchanged close by, and then all was quiet again.
Hunting Ground Page 10
