Track of the Scorpion

by R. R. Irvine

  She stared at her father. At times, he had a great capacity for denial. He’d practically turned it into an art form when dealing with Nick’s mother.

  “ES Number Two is twenty miles deeper into the badlands than ES Number One,” Elliot went on as if lecturing. “It’s a smaller site, maybe even an aberration because of its isolated location. Or so says the conventional wisdom. But a well. That would provide year-round water. If we find a well out there, Guthrie will be remembered for changing that kind of so-called wisdom. And my guess is that the water can’t be more than a few feet below the surface of the old river bed. I’m moving the dig out there before the summer’s over.”

  Nick sighed.

  There was no road leading to ES No. 2, just twenty miles of badlands that would have to be crossed in a four-wheel-drive. But Nick would have preferred that journey to the one ahead of her.

  CHAPTER 22

  After a frantic drive across the desert, accompanied by one of her father’s students who’d volunteered to return the Isuzu to Cibola, Nick was lucky to find a red-eye into San Francisco. She’d taken only one semi-dressy set of clothes with her into the desert, a lightweight tan cotton poplin suit. In Cibola, the one time she’d worn it she’d felt overdressed and on the verge of sunstroke. Coming off the plane in San Francisco, with the usual fog bank resting on the coastal hills, the poplin was no protection at all against the summer cold.

  Shivering, Nick took a taxi to the downtown BART terminal, where she caught a train into Berkeley. Another cab let her off at Sather Gate, near Sproul Hall. By the time she reached the massive rock building, Nick felt even colder. A perfectly normal reaction, she told herself. Her body needed time to adjust to the dramatic change in climate. But alarms kept sounding anyway. Tenure hearings for the Department of Anthropology and Archaeology were usually held in the Kroeber Building. Sproul was strictly administrative.

  The clock on the Campanile said she had five minutes to spare as she climbed Sproul’s granite steps. Ben Gilbert must have been waiting just inside, because he pushed through one of the doors to meet her on the threshold.

  “You cut it close,” he said. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”

  “Who’s on the tenure committee?”

  Gilbert ran a hand through his short, curly hair while avoiding her eyes. “It’s not exactly a tenure committee.”

  She stared at him, wondering why she’d ever thought him attractive. Never marry a good-looking man, her mother had often advised. Maybe, in that one instance, she’d been right.

  Now, seeing Gilbert under the present circumstances, Nick realized he was more politician than archaeologist, and that being chairman of the department was more important to him than doing real work in the field.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “It’s a disciplinary hearing. I’m serving along with Assistant Chancellor Janet Bombard and Professor Pat Campbell from our department.”

  Two women and one man, Nick thought, so there’d be no question of sexual discrimination. And Campbell of all people. She was one of the most conservative women Nick had ever met in the field of archaeology. She had a reputation for resenting younger women in the field. No doubt she believed that women Nick’s age should have as hard a time as she’d had working in a field dominated by men. On top of that, Campbell made no secret of her belief that Nick’s area of expertise, historical archaeology and its study of the recent past, was no better than rubbish picking.

  “What am I supposed to have done?” Nick asked. Gilbert shook his head. “That’s not for me to say.” “You bastard,” she said. “I have rights.”

  Ducking his head, Gilbert ushered her down a long corridor to a conference room adjoining the assistant chancellor’s office. A heavy wooden table dominated the room. Three chairs had been placed at the far end of the table. Two were already taken by Bombard and Campbell. Gilbert quickly seated himself in the third, leaving Nick the one remaining chair, facing her accusers down the long axis of the table. A microphone was already in place facing Nick’s chair. The mike was connected to a cassette recorder next to Bombard, who opened a manila folder in front of her, nodded at the colleagues flanking her, and then switched on the recording mechanism.

  “For the record,” Bombard said, “state your name and position on the university faculty.”

  Nick complied.

  “Is it correct to say that you are on leave for the summer, working at an archaeological site in New Mexico?”

  “Yes, though the work’s not funded by this university.”

  “And did you leave that site to conduct another, unsanctioned excavation?”

  “Yes, with the permission of Dr. Elliot Scott, who heads the Anasazi dig.”

  “And did you give an interview to a newspaper reporter named”—Bombard consulted her notes—”Mark Douglas of the Albuquerque Journal?”

  Nick nodded.

  “Out loud, please.”

  “Yes,” Nick answered.

  “Do you stand by what you told him?”

  “What I said to him is one thing,” Nick said, “but I have no idea what he wrote.” “Are you saying that you haven’t seen his article?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Again, for the record, you contend that you participated in the excavation of a World War Two aircraft?”

  Nick didn’t like the word “contend” but answered anyway. “A B-17 bomber, yes.”

  “And that bodies were on board?”

  “Yes.”

  Bombard leaned forward. “Where is the airplane now?”

  “Someone’s taken it.”

  “I see.” Nodding, Bombard sat back in her chair.

  Professor Campbell’s eyes rolled; her expression condemned Nick.

  “The B-17 story is a hoax,” Gilbert said.

  Nick opened her mouth to call him a liar, but caution held her back. Clamping her teeth together, she forced herself to take a deep breath. “I’m not the only witness to see that airplane, and I’m not the only one to go inside it either.”

  “The newspaper has retracted the story,” Gilbert said. “They admit, in print, that they were taken in by what they call, quote, „A total and utter hoax,’ unquote.”

  “The plane was there.”

  “Let me read you an excerpt from the article.” Gilbert looked to Bombard, who nodded her approval. “ „Archaeologist Nicolette Scott looks and dresses like a character from the wild West, a modern-day Annie Oakley, who’s as expert with a rifle as she is with an archaeologist’s spade.’ That sounds anything but professional.”

  My God, Nick thought, couldn’t they see that Douglas meant that description as a compliment, even though it was somewhat flamboyant.

  “Do you make a habit of using a rifle on your expeditions?” Bombard asked. “The rifle’s for protection.”

  “From what?”

  “I shot a rattlesnake near the airplane. No big deal. Now, could I see the entire article, please?”

  Bombard ignored the request. “Did you understand the situation, Ms. Scott? You are charged with perpetrating an archaeological hoax and thereby bringing disgrace upon this university.” She took a copy of the National Geographic from her folder and opened it to Nick’s picture. “If it’s fame you’re after, it might be a good idea if you tried some other profession.”

  “The newspaper has a photograph of my find, for heaven’s sake.” Nick thrust her hands into her lap so they wouldn’t see how badly she was shaking, not with cold this time, but with rage.

  “Photographs can be doctored,” Gilbert said. “On top of everything else, one of the wire services picked up the story from the Journal before it could be retracted. By now, who knows how many newspapers have carried it. My department will be a laughingstock all over the country.”

  Cool it, Nick told herself. Breathe deeply. Count to ten. Don“t say a word until you think it through. You can always fight them in court.

  “Your action,” Gilbert contin
ued, “could cast doubt on everyone else’s work.”

  To hell with caution, Nick thought. Somebody was out to destroy her, somebody who’d gotten to Gilbert, probably the military. After all, they fed enough weapons-research money into the university’s radiation laboratory to blow up the world, not to mention keeping a lot of professors employed.

  “If I’m on trial here,” Nick said, speaking softly enough to mask her anger, “I have the right to defend myself. The fact is, it might be best if I had an attorney present.”

  Gilbert started to reply but Bombard silenced him with a look.

  “As yet you have no tenure at this university,” the assistant chancellor said. “We can terminate you for cause.”

  “And if I get Mark Douglas on the phone and he confirms what I’ve said? What then?”

  “I’ve already spoken to his editor. The retraction stands. Your airplane doesn’t exist.”

  “Bullshit,” Nick blurted, then gritted her teeth.

  Bombard stood up. “This hearing is at an end. As of now, you are suspended pending further action. You will be escorted to your office to collect your personal belongings and then shown off the campus.”

  “A moment more, please,” Gilbert said.

  Reluctantly, Bombard sat down again.

  “I’ve known Nick Scott for more than a year now,” Gilbert said. “Her work has been competent in the past, as evidenced by a recent article in the National Geographic. Her father is a recognized expert on the Anasazi Indian culture.”

  “We understand that,” Campbell said, speaking for the first time. “If we didn’t, we wouldn’t be here at all, would we? I should point out, however, that Indians are one thing, airplanes quite another when it comes to archaeology. It seems to me none of this would have happened if Ms. Scott here had stuck to a more legitimate field of study such as the Anasazi.”

  “Exactly my point,” Gilbert said. “Between the Anasazi and her other pursuits she’s overworked and no doubt suffering from exhaustion. Look at the temperatures where she’s been working in New Mexico. Over a hundred degrees every day for the last two weeks. That’s enough to fry anybody’s brain.”

  “My brain’s fine,” Nick said.

  Gilbert shook his head. “People having nervous breakdowns seldom know they’re in trouble. Besides, I think we owe it to her father’s reputation to give Ms. Scott the benefit of the doubt.”

  “No, you don’t,” Nick said. “My work stands on its own. My father has nothing to do with it.”

  Bombard said, “Your unreasonable attitude makes me think that Professor Gilbert may be correct. Perhaps rest and professional care will bring you to your senses.”

  She looked at Campbell, whose eyes seemed to say she wanted Nick’s blood but whose nod went along with Bombard’s comment.

  “Very well,” Bombard said. “For the moment, you will be placed on medical leave. You will be expected to seek psychiatric help. When that is complete, your case will be reviewed.”

  Every fiber of Nick’s body screamed for instant revenge. She wanted to tell them to go to hell. Only that would be suicide. If a university of Berkeley’s reputation terminated her for a hoax, whether guilty or not, she would carry the stigma forever. She had only one chance, then, to prove the existence of the Scorpion.

  Holding herself as stiffly as a robot, Nick rose from her chair and left the room. To have done anything else, even so much as a nod, would have undone her resolve.

  Ben Gilbert caught up with her on the steps outside Sproul Hall.

  “I did the best I could for you,” he said, latching on to her arm.

  Nick twisted free and raised her hand, palm out toward him, a warning not to touch her again. “Either you’re a fool or a liar. Who got to you? Who’s using you?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “Archaeology is my life, you know that. I would never do anything to jeopardize that. That B-17 was there in the desert and you know it.”

  “I wasn’t there, Nick, so how can I know that?”

  “You know I wouldn’t fake a find.”

  He retreated a step. “Nick, I have my own future to worry about.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’m only the messenger,” Gilbert said.

  “Are you saying there’s more?”

  “I’ve been told to tell you to forget about that damned airplane.”

  “Who told you that, Bombard? Or is there someone else I have to worry about?”

  “Take my advice,” Gilbert said. “Lay low for a while.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “There are times when even a famous father can’t protect you.”

  “I earned my own reputation,” she said.

  “Then don’t throw it away.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Once free of Ben Gilbert, Nick hurried across the campus. At North Gate, she checked to see if anyone was following before heading up Euclid Avenue to Hilgard. Originally, that area of Berkeley had been strictly residential. But as the university grew, the larger homes had been converted to rooming houses and apartments. Nick’s apartment, like many of those on Hilgard Avenue, had been built in the late 1930s, a two-story wood-shingled Victorian with bay windows, gables, and a large front porch, now glassed in to provide an extra downstairs bedroom.

  Ken Drysdale was waiting for her on the tiny stoop at the top of the outside stairway that led to her apartment. At her approach he rearranged the duffle bag he’d been sitting on, so she could open the door. More than ever he reminded Nick of her father. When he hugged her, he even smelled the same, a comforting mixture of sweat and verbena aftershave.

  “I thought you were hiding out in Hawaii,” she said.

  “It’s safer here,” he answered into her ear before breaking contact. “Nicer, too. Besides, in Honolulu the sniffers were all over me.” His tone of voice made her glance down at the street, which was wall-to-wall with parked cars as always. Nothing was out of place that she could see. In Berkeley, people had been known to stick with a prime parking place for months, only starting their cars often enough to keep the batteries charged. Drive away for a few minutes and you might end up parking miles away.

  At the moment, Nick’s ten-year-old Ford was only two houses down, and had been there ever since she’d left for the dig in New Mexico. Chances were, its battery was dead by now.

  “Let’s get inside,” Drysdale said, “before we have sniffers raising their legs on us.”

  An hour ago Nick might have accused him of exaggerating. But her session with the disciplinary committee and Ben Gilbert had only compounded her growing fear.

  “We’ve got more than sniffers to worry about,” she told Drysdale.

  With a hand steadier than she’d expected it to be, Nick let them inside, then bolted the door. Shivering, she turned on the wall heater. Most times, she welcomed Berkeley’s fog-drenched summer chill. Today, she pulled on a heavy sweater and still couldn’t get warm.

  “You look exhausted,” Ken said.

  “Have you looked in the mirror?”

  He ran a hand over his whiskered chin. “I’ll tell you what, Nick. I’ll make us some coffee while you put me out of my misery and tell me what’s happening that I don’t know about.”

  In the kitchen waiting for the water to boil, Nick brought him up to date. She started with Guthrie’s heart attack and her father’s denial of the present by retreating into the past among his beloved Anasazi. Then she moved on to her nighttime dash across the desert and a red-eye flight that got her to Berkeley in time to have her career threatened by lies.

  Drysdale looked stunned. “Can they do that without proof?”

  “In academe, tenure is the magic word. If you have it, you’ve got a job for life. Without it, you’re little more than day labor. The newspaper retracted. They called my find a hoax. If I didn’t have the navigator’s diary and the names of the crew, I’d be out of luck.”

  “What’s to keep them from calling that a
hoax, too?”

  “Nothing at all,” she admitted.

  Shaking his head, Drysdale poured coffee into two mugs and handed her one. “What about that newspaper reporter? What does he have to say for himself?”

  “That’s what I’m about to find out.”

  Nick abandoned her coffee to use the kitchen phone, angling the receiver away from her ear so Ken could listen in.

  When she asked for Douglas, the Journal’s operator connected her with the city editor.

  “This is Dr. Nicolette Scott. I’d like to speak with Mark Douglas, please.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess you haven’t heard. There’s been an accident. Mark Douglas is dead. They tell me he was smoking in bed and must have fallen asleep with a lighted cigarette. His apartment was gutted completely.”

  Nick caught her breath, then shook her head violently at Ken. “Mark told me he wouldn’t start smoking again even if they paid him,” she said into the phone.

  “I told the same thing to the firemen. Do you know what they said? Ex-smokers are the worst kind. They backslide and don’t want their friends to know about it, to know they lack willpower to stick to their promises. So they sneak smokes and suck on breath spray. Pretty soon they’re back where they started, two packs a day, and on the high road to lung cancer.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Nick said.

  “I didn’t want to, but there’s something else, too. They found a whiskey bottle beside his bed. If he was drinking, that would explain falling asleep with a lighted cigarette.”

  “Was he a good reporter?”

  “Damn good.”

  “Did you trust him?”

  “Yes, but I can’t reprint the B-17 story, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “I don’t believe he died smoking in bed,” Nick said. “And I don’t think you do either.”

  “I’m a journalist. I print what I know for a fact, not what I think or personally believe.”