“You’ve got a flashlight!”
“Yipes!” I almost peed my pants as Roger stepped out of the darkness.
Roger pulled a tampon-shaped gadget from his pocket. He’d perfected the Multi-phasic Unidirectional Density Diviner or MUDD as it’s commonly known, to a higher sensitivity. It could now detect abnormalities as finite as cloth in the earth.
“Shine the light on the MUDD while I set the controls.”
With shaking hands I focused the beam on the device while I stood in a pool of murky gray-black water.
Roger fiddled with the MUDD settings, aimed it down the pit, nodded, and patted my shoulder. “I may be awhile. You go back up top and keep watch. Call for help only if there’s a cave-in.”
I looked at the fissure he was about to drop his semi-hunky body into. “I’m going with you.”
“I’m only going down as far as they’ve dug, another five or six meters.”
I shot him a blank look.
He smiled. “Fifteen or twenty feet, max. There’s not enough room on the elevator for two.”
“That’s no elevator. That’s a board on strings.”
Roger stood between me and the rickety Otis lift. “Those sitting mummies were planted here to delay the condo construction. My archaeologist gut feeling is someone is trying to buy time to get down there and grab something worth the risk of transporting two ancient cadavers from one continent to another. This goes beyond the boundaries of dirty developers.”
“If this were some sort of antiquity plot couldn’t the bad guys have recruited some local mummies?”
“Too obvious. Someone wanted to arouse my curiosity. And they did. Maybe this is about killing two birds with one stone.”
“Kyzer Saucy? See I told you it computes.”
He searched his jacket pockets until he pulled out a gadget similar to a tiny hearing aid. “Take this earpiece. We should be able to stay in contact at least for the first ten or twenty feet.”
“Here, hold my hat.”
I took the edge of the fedora with my thumb and index finger and held it at arms length.
He wedged a matching earpiece in his ear. After a round of “testing, testing,” we were audibly linked. Roger aimed the flashlight toward the street level opening.
“Go back up top. I’ve got this under control. Somebody has to be available to call for help.”
Dizzy from the lack of air, I nodded. The grit in my eyes burned like salt. “Please don’t take any foolish chances,” I said.
Chapter Nineteen
Warning Roger Jolley about a dig equated to telling a child not to play with the Legos. He radiated excitement as he crab-walked to the rickety wooden platform, fiddled with the pulleys, and disappeared. I could hear him mumbling to himself through the headset. There went the love of my life.
The fedora fit nicely in a dark crevice of the dig, and with a few kicks of sand it was buried. We’d replace it with a new hat tomorrow.
I used the rough-cut steps to exit the pit; swinging one knee over the lip, I hoisted myself onto the sandy ground. Sites similar to this one had been discovered a few blocks south on the Miami River and a huge ancient cemetery was revealed about a hundred miles north of the city of Miami. Was this a part of that civilization? But why slip two foreign mummies into the deck?
I sat on the watermelon watching the afternoon traffic build while trying to look as casual as I could. I’d been in the development business long enough to know that you chain a site like this if for no other reason than someone taking a shortcut could stumble into a hole and sue the landowner. It defied logic for this dig to be sitting open for vandalism.
“Eureka!” Roger yelled from somewhere down in the pit. The plug popped in my ear.
“Did you find a vacuum cleaner?”
“I’ve hit limestone bedrock and…”
There was a scratchy sound and my earpiece went dead. My heart ponged against my ribs. I jumped into the pit and yelled Roger’s name three times with no response. I considered calling nine-one-one and then considered how pissed Roger would be if he weren’t in trouble.
Relief spiraled through my body when I heard him yell, “Coming up!”
I leaned against the wall, my spine performing a shimmy. The ropes and pulleys squealed like a herd of pigs but brought Roger to the surface in less than five minutes, his eyes two giant chocolate drops, his mouth struggling with words to contain his excitement. “I think there’s a mummy in the bedrock!”
He flicked on the MUDD and a tiny screen appeared showing a strange twisted fiber. “It looks like the edge of a cloth, but different than the palmetto fabric found at the Windover Bog site. I’m sure it’s not just a wrapped body, it’s a mummy.”
Located about two hundred miles north of Miami, Windover Bog revealed one-hundred and sixty-eight skeletons from infants to sixty-year-olds. Estimates placed the bodies two thousand years before the pharaohs. But they weren’t mummified, they were skeletons, each one wrapped in woven grass. Was this yet another civilization? From what I knew, which wasn’t worth a hill of sarcophaguses, a wrapped skeleton is not the same thing as a mummy.
“If this is what I think it is, it could throw an uber-monkey wrench into what we know about prehistoric society in North America.” He looked at the MUDD screen again. “It looks like mummy wrappings. Native American people did not make mummies. This could be an entirely different civilization overlapping the Bog people. But mummies need a dry environment otherwise they rot.” He scratched his head. “If this is a mummy how did it stay preserved in wetlands? How does this mummy relate to the Peruvian child mummies?”
“It can’t be a dried mummy, right? Dig down twenty feet and Florida is muck and water,” I said.
“It’s off to the side in a cavity. It seems like a tiny limestone tomb. I could swear the air felt dry. Here look at the moisture meter on the MUDD. It’s reading Sahara humidity… minus fifty points. That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Panting, Roger indulged in an archaeological orgasm. I checked my watch to time him. He had three minutes to come.
The crunching noise above our heads could only be a vehicle cracking the shell and macadam surface. I popped out of the hole like a prairie dog.
A black stretch limo stopped twenty feet from me. With a theatrical flourish a young chauffeur slid from behind the wheel and stepped to the way-back door. The plate on the front of the car was a replica of the Florida State flag.
Roger prairie-dogged next to me then we stepped up to the surface in time to watch Senator Harry Grant extend his skinny silk-suited legs from the car. He reached in and assisted a redhead in an Yves Saint Laurent burgundy pantsuit. I heard Roger gasp. He was at my elbow so I elbowed him. The redhead was a real looker but Roger could have been subtle.
A third passenger slithered from the limo.
It was the guy who’d mugged me in the airport. Now I knew why he looked familiar. I recognized him from the news. It was the Senator’s son and lobbyist from hell, Gary Grant.
Roger marched to the limo and got right to the point. “This site is protected. Off limits!”
The Senator snorted and looked above Roger’s head as if he were a child to be ignored. He extended his hand to me oozing charm. It didn’t work. “This is my right hand.”
“Of course it is.”
He nodded to the redhead. “I mean this lady is my right hand. Mace Kelly, meet Wendy Darlin.” Her hand looked clean so I shook it.
Gary Grant came from behind his father, his index finger waving like a weapon. He poked Roger in the chest. “Keep your nose out of this Jolley or you will find yourself barred from digging so much as a pail of sand on the beach.”
Roger ignored Gary and came back at the Senator. “It’s no secret you’ve been trying to swap your Everglades land for a downtown parcel. This is not the piece for a trade. Don’t even think about it.” Roger closed the inches between them.
The Senator brought his hand up to his nose in a protec
tive gesture. Was he afraid Roger was going to bite off his patrician proboscis?
Mace cast a disgusted look at Grant. It appeared she wasn’t exactly a fan of her boss.
A white Mercedes pulled to the curb. Tippy Henman. Perfect timing. Wearing knee-high tan leather boots and a white mini-skirted suit, she stomped toward our group, her sky-blue colored contacts fixed on the Senator. “Get off my land, you carpetbagger!”
Senator Grant lowered his voice but I was close enough to hear. “Today it may be yours, Ms. Henman, but tomorrow the state will file for possession of this historic site. And then who knows? I might decide to erect a tot lot over that pit.”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Detective Farley Stranger leaning against a Crown Vic parked at the curb. You’d think with this crowd someone would have thought to bring refreshments. I was thirsty and killer-hungry.
A dozen dark dudes headed our way, a thundercloud of angry tribal force. Every eye was fixed on Senator Grant. The scene was starting to look like West Side Story. The Sharks and the Jets and now… the Semaphores.
“I repeat. Get the hell out of here, Senator!” Tippy was jumping up and down her tiny boots springing off the ground in a princess hissy fit. “Out! Out!”
A silver-haired Native American stood front and center of the Semaphore entourage. “Silence!” He caught Tippy in an icy-black glower. “Have respect for the spirits of those who rest here.”
He cut his eyes from person to person. “I know who all of you are. Not one of you has a right to be here. I will allow the scientist to stay. We will believe in the truth he seeks. His spirit is pure.”
A gnarled finger came from his sleeve and pointed at me. “And this woman I know to be truthful. I have seen her on that early Sunday morning TV magazine, Miami Nice. We hold her to her promise that nothing will be disturbed. If the scientist finds an ancestor in this ground we will declare it sacred and seal this hole for eternity. The rest of you must leave now.”
He took a menacing step toward Tippy. “You have spilled the blood of my blood.”
“It was self-defense!” She hid behind me.
Stranger trotted toward us ready to protect his favorite murder suspect and, if he had to, her real estate broker. He stopped dead in his Don Johnson tracks when Silver Hair held his hand in a “stop” position.
The tribal leader’s face reminded me of Hic when he passed, tired, weary, and ready to go. Silver Hair’s voice was heavy with misery. “Running Water was my only son. He had a bad temper, but a good Semaphore heart and would not have hurt you. You will pay for taking his life.” I felt the threat slice through me and stab Tippy.
A shiny army-green Jeep pulled onto the site. It was jacked up at least a foot over its Big Foot tires and could have been the personal wheels of the Incredible Hulk. Half a dozen braves stepped from the vehicle armed with shovels. One young brave stepped forward swinging a flat spade. “We have come to protect our ancestors’ burial grounds no matter the cost in lives.”
The backup braves formed a tool-armed line behind their leader and stomped to the edge of the pit glaring at Roger and me. This version of whack-a-mole could end up with his and her concussions. I shot a pleading look at the chief.
“You will all leave now,” Silver Hair commanded, his tone said do not cross me. The new arrivals studied Silver Hair and lowered their shovels. He was clearly the boss of them… for now.
“Except for the promise giver and the scientist. No one else is permitted.” He turned to Roger, the frown between his brows deep as an axe blow. “You and the Wendy woman will explore this burial ground alone. If we observe anyone assisting you, we will declare this site sacred to our tribe and protect it with our lives. You have until tomorrow to prove this site should not be sacred to the Semaphores.”
His point was sharp and well taken. Roger and I would finish the job alone, together, tonight.
Tippy’s hands gripped the back of my arms.
Silver Hair’s eyes grew to knife slits. “Small woman your time will come.”
Gary Grant slipped a wink at Tippy. I caught it like one would catch a gnat in your mouth while speaking. It surprised the heck out of me. She released her grip and ran stumbling to her Mercedes, gunned the engine, and squealed from the curb.
The Senator stood red-faced, goggled-eyed, and pissed. It was evident he wasn’t used to being ordered around. Why didn’t he call for protection? Was he afraid of the publicity surrounding the bad blood with the Semaphore tribe, or was the land swap so slimy a deal it couldn’t stand the light of day?
Mace Kelly eased next to me. “Watch out for Grant. He’s dangerous,” she whispered. “I’ll explain later.”
The Senator and his son stomped back to the limo with Mace wiggle-waggling behind.
Head erect, the chief strode into a beam of sunlight and disappeared. The young braves grabbed their shovels, boarded their high-riding green machine and bounced along the rocky site taking the curb as if on a moonwalk.
I looked around for Stranger but he’d vanished. Probably stalking Tippy.
Roger and I were alone except for the invisible spiders dancing on my neck.
Chapter Twenty
I shrieked. Real, not metaphorical, spiders were on my neck. I swatted at them frantically.
Roger casually brushed them to the ground. “No problem. They’re harmless daddy-long-legs.”
No problem if you don’t have arachnophobia, which I don’t of course. But the disgusting eight-legged monsters do give me the heebie-jeebies.
He struck a standing version of Rodin’s The Thinker pose. “I probably can free the mummy enough to examine it, at least partially. It’s about twenty-five feet down, wedged in a curious airless pocket. I’m certain it will be destroyed in minutes if exposed to this humidity.”
“How about calling your archaeology buddies?”
“They can’t help. I don’t have a permit for this dig. They could get in big trouble. Plus, a few members of the Society would love to crucify me if they found out what I’m doing. I don’t like working without a permit, but I must. Tippy, Senator Grant, and the Semaphores all have different plans for this land. I want to protect history. I have to inspect the mummy so I can formulate a plan to accomplish my goal.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“See what you can find at Walgreens that I could use as tools to free the mummy without damaging it. I’ll stand guard, actually sit guard, on the melon until you get back.”
He gave me a peck on the check for luck. I loped the two blocks to the traffic light by Walgreens. I ignored the Don’t Walk command and dashed across the street weaving among a host of drivers who displayed their wrath with horns and hand signals. The door to the drugstore whooshed open.
I ran down the nail and eye care aisle plucking tweezers, eyebrow brushes, and an assortment of nail files. I hit the hair products aisle and threw assorted metal combs, picks, soft brushes, and a cordless hair dryer in the carry basket. At the toy aisle I grabbed a couple of pails and two plastic shovels. The hardware section yielded a screwdriver, a box of heavy-duty clear trash bags, and three battery-operated lanterns. At the register I found cheap one-size-fits-all raincoats. I took two in day-glow pink. I was out in less than ten minutes and back to Roger in another five with a similar harrowing experience bucking the Don’t Walk admonition.
I handed Roger the bags and said through sheepdog panting, “Are you sure we can’t call for help? Manpower, Inc? Merry Maids? Anybody?”
He stood, sending the melon rolling. “The Semaphore chief gave us our marching orders. We must do this alone or face them.”
Armed with the Walgreens bags Roger headed into the pit. I repositioned the melon and was just about to get ostrich-egg-sitting comfortable when a dark gray Audi bounced over the curb onto the lot. Senator Grant was behind the wheel and Mace Kelly sat in the front passenger seat, staring straight ahead. He had returned in his personal car instead of the publically recognizable limo.
I felt a bribe in the air.
Roger dropped the bags and joined me watching the Audi come to a stop about ten feet away. Grant left the engine running. Maybe it was going to be a drive-by bribe. He slid from behind the wheel and stepped between the front of his car and a broken section of cinderblock wall. He curled his finger in a come-here motion to Roger.
Mace stretched a long muscular leg out the passenger door and was about to completely alight when the driverless car lurched throwing her out the door.
The Audi rolled forward. The bumper knocked the senator down and then sent him headfirst into the wall with a bursting cantaloupe pop. He dropped to the ground, his head leaving a red smear on the cinderblock. The car continued advancing until the wall stopped it with the right front wheel resting in the middle of Grant’s back. The crunching had been his bones. His eyes were big as golf balls and his tongue poked out of his mouth. Senator Harry Grant would bribe no more.
The momentum of the car knocked Mace to the ground, the side of her leg a swirl of blood.
“Is he okay? Is he okay?” she screamed scrambling to her feet and backing away from the splat that had been one of Florida’s most notorious legislators.
I remembered Roger’s reaction to blood and spun around. He had already passed out and was buckling at the knees. I caught him and lowered him to the ground before he hit his noggin.
A thud came from behind me. Mace had collapsed in a heap.
One dead. Two down. Time to call nine-one-one. My hand was shaking so badly I couldn’t get it into my pocket. I swallowed hard to keep from throwing up. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths; I had to get myself under control. I finally got my phone out of my pocket and with much difficulty dialed nine-one-one.
I spoke distinctly into the phone. The operator was as dumb as Squire’s bag of hammers. What didn’t she understand? A senator had been run over by his own car. Wait, it had to be me. I slowed down and tried again. This time she understood me.
She asked, “Is the victim in pain?”
Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 04 - Miami Mummies Page 10
