Airtight Case (20 page)

“I bring artifacts here to catalog sometimes,” Marina said as she unlocked the door. “Sometimes I work late and don’t want to be walking back to the house from the artifact tent in the dead of night.”

“I can’t blame you.” Lindsay handed her the CD. “This is probably the spookiest site I’ve ever worked on.”

As Marina booted up the computer and called up her paint program, Lindsay glanced around the room at the boxes of supplies.

“You have extra weatherproof tents?” asked Lindsay, reading the lettering on the sides of some of the boxes.

“Yes. In case we decide to dig through the winter, we can put a tent up over a feature and dig in relative warmth. It can get cold in the mountains.”

On the shelf opposite the computer, Marina had stored reams of laser paper, a can of coffee, family-size tea bags, and a hot plate and toaster oven. Marina grabbed a ream of paper to refill the printer.

“You have a regular kitchen in here,” Lindsay commented.

Marina grinned. “If there was room, I’d move my mattress in here. I spend enough time here. A couple of winters ago when we were doing survey work for Eco Analysts, I lived on hot chocolate in the evenings.” She clicked on the image of the CD on her computer screen. “This disk has a lot of pictures on it. Some text files, too.”

“That must be the poems and the descriptive narrative Elaine McBride put together.”

“Oh, yeah, the poems. We’ll print those out, too.” Marina printed out pictures of a couple of views of the cabin before it was moved from the site. “Nice. I’m glad you made friends with the McBrides. I couldn’t imagine how Drew was going to explain why we didn’t have pictures of the cabin.”

Marina exited the paint program, called up her word processor, and found a file named loftpoems. When it came out of the printer, she snatched it up and laughed after reading the lines.

“What do you reckon these mean?”

“I have no idea.”

“You’re sure the McBrides didn’t do this?”

“I examined the floor. The scratches looked old to me.”

“You know there are ways of making things look old. Antiques traders do it all the time. The scratches could have been made to look old by being stained in some way—rubbed with nutmeats, or a drop of soy sauce. Here, let me look at a photo of the scratches.”

Marina called up a couple of the floor photographs and looked closely at the images on the screen. She wrinkled her brow, changed the contrast, brightness, and smiled at Lindsay. “You know, I’d be inclined to think it’s for real. Think we can verify this without alienating the McBrides again?”

Lindsay nodded. “I was thinking about going through the documents at the historical society, and while I look for something that might shed light on Drew’s problem, I can look for the names Cherry and Eda Mae.”

“Ask Mrs. Laurens, too. She knows a lot of the old stories around here. Maybe she’s heard of one about a Cherry or Eda Mae.”

* * *

Dinner was calm. Claire had little to say, and everyone else seemed lost in thought. Lindsay noticed Mrs. Laurens and her husband eyeing the group, probably wondering what had happened to shut everyone up. After dinner Drew called a meeting in the living room. Damage control, thought Lindsay.

Lindsay had to pass Trent to get from the dining room to the living room. The dark look he gave her was frightening. She sat down on an old cane-back chair in a corner of the room. Trent stood with his back against the wall, staring at her. Claire, Kelsey, and Erin sat on the couch, Powell perched on a window seat. Adam, Byron, Joel, Dillon, Bill, and Sharon found seats on the various chairs or floor pillows. With so many people, the room was hot and stuffy. Drew stood, her hands in the pockets of her khaki shorts, her head bowed.

“This hasn’t been an easy site. . . .” She paused until the snickers subsided. “But, with the discovery of the lead coffins and the help both in manpower and financing that we’re going to get to excavate them, we all have a chance to make our mark—or at least fill out our vitae. So please, let’s stop all of this bickering. We . . .”

She was interrupted by the telephone. Claire was closest, so she snatched it off the receiver.

“Yes, this is Claire Burke. I’m the one you spoke with.” Claire’s face changed to her self-satisfied look, which melted instantly into a frown. She was silent for a long while. “I . . . I . . . I don’t think you understand. Yes, she’s here.”

Claire handed the phone to Drew. She sat with her head down, chewing her thumbnail and not meeting any of the puzzled stares in her direction. Lindsay shifted her gaze from Claire to Drew, who, other than for a crease in her forehead, looked calm.

“Yes, this is Drew Van Horne. I was unaware. Yes, of course, I understand. I’ve been to Scotland; it’s lovely there. Yes, she’s here.” Drew put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Lindsay, it’s Nigel Boyd. He’d like to speak with you.”

Lindsay rose and took the phone. She stretched the cord as far as she could away from Claire, until she was almost in Powell’s lap. He moved to let her lean against the window seat.

“Hi, Nigel.”

“Lindsay, are you all right? What the heck is going on down there?”

“It’s a very long story, Nigel.”

“Who is this Claire Burke? She called here this morning telling me about the lead coffins, and that I was the only forensic anthropologist available to work on the bones. I’m backed up here with remains found in a well, possible missing hikers found by some hunters, and the skeleton that may be the remains of an elderly man who wandered away from his nursing home last year. It was already going to be tight getting done before I have to leave for the forensic conference in Scotland, and then this came up. Luckily, I called Lewis to find out about the timing on the coffin thing, and he tells me you’re already down there. What gives?”

“I’ll explain over dinner sometime.”

“Can’t talk, eh? I’ll be waiting to hear what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself in this time.” He gave an audible sigh. “I was very sorry to hear about the attack on you. I’m glad I didn’t find out about it until you were found safe and sound. Would’ve worried myself sick. And to think I’d just seen you and Derrick. You two going to get back together?”

“No, don’t think so. I’m still seeing John.”

“The coffin thing sounds like an interesting project, but I’m happy to leave it in your very capable hands. I’ve been looking forward to Scotland.”

“Have a good trip. We’ll talk when you get back.”

“Take care, Lindsay.”

Lindsay hung up the phone and went back to her seat. Claire got up and rushed out of the room.

“Hey, Claire, what’s the matter?” called Trent.

“I didn’t know she’d done that, Lindsay. I’m sorry,” said Drew.

“No harm done.”

“Done what?” asked Adam.

“Let’s just drop it for now,” said Drew. “Lindsay, you were about to tell us about the scratches on the floor.”

Marina passed around the photographs she had printed of the cabin and handed out copies of the poems.

“Did they take photographs of the floor?” asked Powell.

“Several,” Lindsay told him.

“You think this is real?” Joel asked Lindsay.

“I believe the McBrides didn’t do it. I don’t know how to date the scratches. They could date from the late 1700s, or from the Gallowses’ time, or they could have been made any time between the building of the cabin and now. It sat empty for decades.”

“It’s kind of weird.” Byron stroked his long beard and scratched his head.

“Does anyone remember running across mention of a Cherry or an Eda Mae?” Joel asked.

They all looked at Drew, who shook her head. “I don’t recall seeing either of those names, but at the time we were looking only for documents and information about the Gallows farmstead.”

“I think I’ll spend tomorrow looking, if that’s all right,” said Lindsay.

“They won’t let you in the historical society archives,” said Adam. “Claire’s messed that up, too.”

“I think Lindsay’s made friends with the natives,” said Marina.

The conversation drifted away from site business, so Bill and Sharon got up to go to their motel. Adam and Byron went to the kitchen to get a round of beers for everyone, and Kelsey put on some music and pulled the twins up to dance. Lindsay took the opportunity to go upstairs to see Claire.

The door was closed. She knocked lightly.

“What do you want?” Claire sounded as if she had been crying. Lindsay didn’t wait for an invitation. She opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. Claire was propped up on her mattress, an open book in her hands. “Come to gloat?”

“Claire, you really need to do a network analysis before you go off halfcocked again. I’m a forensic anthropologist. Nigel is a forensic anthropologist in a neighboring state—didn’t you think we might know each other? In fact, we were in graduate school together.”

“I suppose you couldn’t wait to call him up.”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t call him.”

“Yeah, sure. Like I believe that.”

“I didn’t have to call him. He called Francisco Lewis to find out about the project. I imagine Lewis was very surprised when Nigel called. Claire, why don’t you stop alienating people? You’ve got Nigel and Lewis thinking you’re nuts. Why did you do that?”

“And you think you’re a pet with Dr. Lewis?”

“No. You’re missing the point. When the finding of those coffins is made public, and the professional papers and reports are published, it won’t be my name on them that matters to Lewis. It’s the connection to the University of Georgia that’s important. Lewis is doing a lot of work and spending UGA money to bring NASA here. By bypassing me and bringing Nigel Boyd in to do the forensic analysis, you would have taken credit away from UGA. It wasn’t a smart move.”

“And you came to throw it in my face?”

“No, I came to offer you a proposal.”

“Proposal?” asked Claire. “What could you possibly propose to me?”

“I would like some peace; so would the crew. I’m offering to co-author two papers with you with your name as primary author.”

“And you think that would be attractive to me? I’m going to be co-authoring papers with Drew.”

“No doubt. However, Drew and I have different expertise. Our articles appear in different journals. This is an opportunity to expand your vita. Go to Marina’s computer and get on the Internet. Look up the UGA Department of Archaeology faculty and call up my vita. You’ll find I have pages of publications, all in good academic journals, and in most I’m the sole author.”

“And in return, you want what?”

“I want you to lighten up. Stop making little insulting remarks every time I open my mouth. Stop criticizing the crew during dinner.”

“I suppose you want special treatment, too?”

“No. You can put me shovel shaving if you want. Just lay off your hostility. Think about it.”

Lindsay didn’t wait for an answer. If she forced Claire to make a decision right then, it would be no. However, if she let her think about it, there was a good chance she would go for it.

Instead of going back downstairs, Lindsay returned to her room. She lay on her bed with her eyes closed. It was the first chance she’d had to think about the incident with the truck that had zoomed past her that morning. Maybe it was an unfortunate coincidence. Maybe not. If not, whoever attacked her in the spring had followed her here.

Oh, God. How did they know I was here? Have they been looking for me? Did someone tell them? Who? Most everyone who knows that I’m here was told not to give out the information
. That her attack was connected to something going on here now looked more likely.

She recalled Trent’s dark expression.
What was that about? Did Drew talk to him about drugs, and he blames me? Am I in danger here—in this house, in this room without a door?

Tears came to her eyes, spilling over and running to her ears. She reached up with the heel of her hands and wiped her eyes.

Damn, I hate this. I used to be so strong. Is this who I am now? A crybaby?

She could ask Erin, Kelsey, and Marina if she could share their room, but they were already crowded. Besides, she liked being alone, just not exposed. She looked at the curtain. A door would go a long way toward making her feel secure. If they could put in a darkroom, they could put in a door. She would ask Mr. Laurens to do that for her tomorrow.

She turned over and took a drink from her cooler. The house had a chill, and the cold drink made her shiver. She got out of bed and stood by the window, watching the mountain flora waving back and forth in the wind through the twilight. It looked like there was a storm brewing.

* * *

Storms are nature’s way of keeping a good house. Rain washes dust from the leaves and replenishes moisture in the soil, and the wind clears out the dead wood. The forest after a rain is fresh, like new. That’s what Lindsay’s uncle used to tell her when a coming storm frightened her. The storm this night shook the house. Lindsay lay awake, watching the flashes outside her window and listening to the wind blow through every portal of the house, playing it like a reedless instrument. No one would be lurking about the house that night, she need only fear the people inside.

Why don’t I just go home?
It was her last thought before she fell asleep.

At first Lindsay thought it was the storm outside that had awakened her. It took several moments for her to realize that the storm was inside. Like loud crashes of thunder, violent sounds spewed up the stairwell from the first floor. She jumped up, slipped her feet into her shoes, and grabbed a robe. The noises had awakened everyone. Outside her room, the others raced with her down the stairway.

Chapter 18

Tighty Whiteys

AT THE BOTTOM of the stairs they all piled into the reception hall where all the guys were gathered in their underwear. Adam was holding onto a flailing Dillon. Byron was holding back Trent, who had blood running from his nose onto his chest. Claire started to go to him, but Drew reached out and grabbed her arm.

“What the hell is going on?” Drew shouted, looking from one to the other.