Skorpio (24 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

"At the Hop"

The chimney was black as pitch. Not even the half moon and a million stars penetrated its serpentine path. Wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up Beadles shivered in the desert night. It was in the low fifties. He gripped his tiny halogen flashlight between his teeth and carefully lowered himself, sliding his feet along the rims from catch to catch. He turned the flashlight off as soon as he was confident that he could feel his way down. There were enough kinks in the tube for him to brace himself and rest from time to time. His eyes adjusted and he could make out the general contrours.

Any snakes still in the tube would be asleep or sluggish. He'd brought the snakebite kit just in case. He didn't think about the scorpions. He didn't know whether they were diurnal or not.

He thought instead about the book deal, the tour, the fame, the fortune.

He would sue Betty for custody of Lars and he would win. She'd only emasculate the poor bastard like she'd tried to do to him.

Concentrate you moron. He paused halfway down and realized he was only using the top third of his lungs, wheezing and panting like a Chihuahua. He got his breathing under control and listened, The desert was eerily silent. No crickets, no chirping birds, no gurgle of stream. If anything moving out there it was soundless.

He lowered himself the last twenty feet with the delicacy of a diamond cutter, landing silently on the rock. He waited and listened. Keeping his back to the rock he edged out of the chimney clockwise beneath the natural arch, staying in shadow cast by a series of tooth-like boulders. Within five minutes he came in sight of the Humvee which gleamed in starlight like some chitinous insect. Beadles froze, eyes trying to penetrate the opaque windshield. Useless. But the passenger side window was wide open. If he moved away from the butte he would at least be able to see if someone were sitting in the driver's seat.

To do that he would have to give up the safety of the rocks. He would stand out like a lead soldier on a paper plate.

Beadles pulled the pistol from his pocket. Stupid! There was no shell in the chamber. If he jacked one in the sound would carry like a cannon shot. Then he remembered the titlt-up feature. As silently as possible he released the magazine. It was tiny. The bullets were the size of pencil erasers. He squeezed one out, released the barrel and pushed the cartridge into the chamber. He slid the magazine back into place muffling the click with his body. He thumbed back the hammer.

Good to go.

Stealthy as a ninja he edged out from the rock radially until he stood twenty feet from the vehicle, the stars casting his shadow to the east. Gun gripped in both hands he zeroed in on the Hummer.

Someone sat behind the wheel. In a second he could make out the cowboy hat.

Was he awake? A sleeping man made sounds. Was Vince wide awake waiting for him with a cannon in his lap?

Beadles stared. The figure was motionless. Beadles considered rushing the vehicle and simply emptying the automatic. But wait. What if it were a ruse? What if it was just a pile of sleeping bags and clothes with a hat on it? If so, hadn't it already served its purpose? Was Vince standing behind him chuckling?

Beadles turned around. No one. He scanned the rocks for movement.

He turned back to the Hummer. He felt like part of a museum diorama. The butte, the man, the car. He'd helped set them up.

He walked toward the vehicle aware of his shadow keeping pace. Ten feet from the window he stopped again. It couldn't be Vince. Whatever sat behind the wheel had a grotesquely swollen head that had snapped the hat band. Beadles walked around the back of the car and came up on the driver's side. He shone his flashlight on the thing behind the wheel.

It was a carbuncle of cancerous flesh. Orange like a misshapen pumpkin, more pig than man with mounds of swollen tissue surrounding the eyes.. An eye bulged from its socket like a soft-boiled egg. Beadles felt his gorge rebel, turned, bent over with his hands on his knees and breathed rapidly. He stood and inhaled deeply letting it out in a controlled stream through his nose over and over until he had himself under control.

Gun in hand he grasped the door handle and pulled it open.

Beadles jerked back shouting as dozens of scorpions spilled from the open door, a river of pale shining poison. Scorpions leaped from the seat and the floor as Beadles ran shrieking, waving his arms wildly.

Twenty feet away he stopped. He looked. There were no scorpions on him. He watched the flow slow to a trickle as the scorpions fled west. West. Away from the butte.

He shook like a paint mixer. The heebies left him sweating and exhausted. Gun in hand he approached the Humvee. He shined his light on the thing behind the wheel. It had blown up to nearly twice size. Moist red spots covered the things face, arms and hands. Everyplace the scorpions could reach. Beadles didn't doubt that if he were to remove Vince's clothes his entire body would be covered in stings.

Beadles played his flashlight across the front seat. A .45 automatic lay on the passenger's seat next to a loaded clip. He shined his flashlight through the open rear passenger window.

Next to a pile of gear lay a misshapen human skull.

***

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

"The Snake"

The skull seemed preternaturally long with an enormous dome and fang-like incisors. Patches of sand clung to it between the teeth on the lower jaw. The Indians considered it sacrilege to disturb a grave, even one dug by conquerors.

Beadles didn't know if it was the skull beneath the wagon wheel but he thought it was. What else could it be? Vince had followed their tracks closely, probably dug it up and tossed it in the back seat for his "collector's market."

A priceless curse.

Vince's death was beyond abnormal. It was freakish. Scorpions did not attack en masse. They were not hive animals and too elemental to train. At least a hundred scorpions had poured from the Hummer. How had they gotten in? Leaped through the open windows? Could scorpions leap that far?

Did they come up through the floorboards?

It defied nature.

Beadles opened the rear passenger door behind the driver and leaped back. Nothing came out. The interior was as still as the desert.

Beadles released the rear hatch via a lever next to the driver. He pulled out a loaded backpack. He opened the front passenger door and took the .45 and its clip. It already had one in the butt. Finally, he helped himself to full canteens that lay in the passenger footwell and shut the doors.

He looked at the skull. The skull grinned back.

He recalled a passage from Hampton Sides' study of Manifest Destiny,
Blood and Thunder
. Speaking of the Navajo, "But the ghosts of the dead were devilish enough. They were vexing and malicious and unimaginably frightening--and they were everywhere. They could even invade a person's dreams."

"No sir," he said. "Ain't gonna touch it."

He took a long drink and headed toward the pipe. The waning moon illuminated the butte a pale ivory. He mounted the backpack on his chest. Halfway up his muscles screamed and he longed to let go but the thought of that grinning skull and the leaping scorpions urged him on.

Dawn broke as he dragged himself up into the bowl, flopped on his back and lay there panting. He shrugged off the heavy pack and drank deeply from the canteen. He got to his knees, dragging the backpack behind him by the strap and trudged wearily back to the camp where Summer lay on her back, one arm across her forehead, sawing away.

He flopped down on the rocks and dug the pistol out of his back. Must have weighed a pound. Like most members of academia he'd always considered guns vulgar and faintly louche, and had gone along with all gun control measures. He didn't hate gun owners or wish them ill. He didn't have any guns. Like most people he knew he couldn't visualize a scenario in which he would ever need one.

And here they were. The gun felt heavy and reassuring in his grasp. He wondered if the same principles applied. He ratcheted the shell from the chamber and Summer woke with a start.

"What/" she barked. She saw him.

"Are you all right? What happened?"

"Vince is dead. The scorpions got him."

Summer put a hand to her throat. "What do you mean?"

He told her. Summer stared with her mouth open. "What if they come up here?" she croaked.

Beadles handed her the canteen. She drank deeply. "I don't know why they would. There's nothing for them up here."

"There's us," she said.

Beadles pulled out the .25 and passed it over. "Here."

Summer looked at the .45. "That's Grampa Ned's gun. Aw shit."

She turned away and covered her face with her hands. Beadles put his arm around her shoulder and held her to him as she sobbed, gasping. The sobs gradually subsided into hiccups. She held her breath and the hiccups went away.

She pointed at the backpack. "What's that?"

"Let's see." Beadles unlatched the straps and pulled out the contents. There was a box of crackers and a summer sausage in its plastic skin. They cut the sausage and had that for breakfast along with the crackers. The backpack contained a black nylon windbreeaker, medical kit, maps, socks, and a good Zeiss binocular.

Stuffing the .45 in his belt Beadles stood. "Let's go check out the ruins."

"I'm not going in there," Summer said.

"Well come with me anyway. What else you got to do?"

They crossed over to the ruins which lay in shadow, back to the sun. There was enough ambient light for Beadles to see the length of the ground-floor room, light shining down from the second floor. He was determined to take a closer look at the glyphs. The rock face was cool to the touch but that would soon change. They could already feel the promise of heat where the sun struck.

Again, Beadles boosted himself up and onto the second floor, scanning all around for snakes. It was still cool in the rocks and whatever snakes remained would be sluggish. Or so he hoped.. He watched for a long time.

"Are you all right?" Summer called from below.

Beadles went to the vertical window, barely large enough for him to lean out. "I'm fine. Just looking for snakes."

"Be careful."

Beadles turned his attention to the far side of the room, too dark to see. He shined his flashlight in the corner and there was the damn snake, slowly uncoiling as if wakened by his light.

Beadles drew the pistol, ratcheted a round into the chamber and aimed with both hands. The report caused dust to fall from the ceiling and momentarily deafened him. The snake flew into two pieces splattering gore and ichor on the walls.

"WHAT'S WRONG?" Summer wailed.

Beadles stuck his head out the window. "It's okay. I got the snake."

Still holding the cocked pistol he approached the corner with his flashlight. The snake had been sleeping on a pile of rubble that had filled in the corner. Something dull and silver gleamed. Beadles used his foot to scrape away the rubble revealing an ancient blade embossed in Latin.

***

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

"Gold!"

Beadles played his light all around the corner. No more snakes. He knelt in the soft dirt and brushed away the rubble. It was a Spanish saber with a two foot blade. Beadles believed it was from Toledo, the source of most Conquistador armor and weapons. The swords were tested by bending them into a full half-circle and attempting to shatter them against a steel helmet. No sword was released that did not meet these tests.

Holding the light in his teeth he played it across the tarnished steel until he read the letters.

Consilio et animis
.

By wisdom and courage.

A fat crucifix engraved near the hilt.

Beneath where the sword lay a rotting canvas sack. Beadles gripped it and tugged gently. The bag partially emerged before disintegrating in his hand spilling a pile of yellow ingots at his knees. They were the size of quarters, each with a turquoise in the center surrounded by radiating lines. Childish glee rose in his gullet. Every treasure hunter's dream--the end of the rainbow. Beadles picked one up and examined it beneath the flashlight. Was it possible the Azuma had developed a form of currency? It flew in the face of all accepted knowledge. It was so un-Indian! If it were true it would only add luster to his discovery. Beadles counted the coins. There were thirty-two of them and they were heavy.

Beadles had lied about the gold to entice Ninja. His lie had become the truth.

"Hey Beadles!" Summer called anxiously from outside. "What's going on?"

Grinning, Beadles went to the window and tossed a coin at Summer's feet. She picked it up.

"Oh my God," she said. "OH MY GOD!"

"There's a lot more where that came from!"

"I'm coming up!"

Summer entered the west-facing door.

"Over here," Beadles called through the skylight.

Summer stood beneath him. "How did you get up there?"

"I jumped."

"Well look out. Here I come."

Summer easily leaped up and caught the rim of the circular hole. Beadles leaned down and helped her up with a grip on her arm. He pointed to the corner with the saber. Summer knelt in the dirt and ran doubloons through her fingers laughing, a sound like hummingbirds hiccuping.

"We're rich!" she declared.

"Not so fast. The law says these belong to the state. It's possible they'll let us keep one or two as finders' fees, but the real money will come when we tell our story."

My story
, he thought. Summer was just along for the ride. Sure he liked her. Given enough time it might grow into something more. But right now he was on a mission and it didn't include Summer.

"They won't miss a couple. They don't know what we found. I'll go get that backpack."

"Please leave it where it is, Summer. The entire site has to be preserved exactly as we found it."

"Says who?"

"That's the way we do things. And it's the law."

Summer frowned. "How are we going to make money again?"

"Books. Television appearances. Lectures."

She stared uncomprehending.

"Reality show."

Her entire face brightened.

"Look. Take one. Put it in your pocket. Don't tell anybody about it, okay?"

Summer rubbed the gold coin on her jeans and slipped it into her pocket.

"Come on," Beadles said. "We need to eat."

Summer hung from the lip of the hole and dropped two feet to the floor. Beadles followed. They walked back to their makeshift camp and found two Canadian geese paddling in the brackish water.

"Where in hell did they come from?" Beadles said. The geese were far off the beaten path.

Summer drew her little pistol. "Dinner."

Beadles said nothing as Summer knelt and aimed with both hands. She squeezed the trigger and drilled one goose through the neck. The other exploded in a paroxysm of wild honking, flapping its wings, only taking to the air when Summer waded into the pond after its mate.

Beadles felt bad. Geese mated for life. Another stone on his karma. He thought of the albatross from
The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner
.

Summer expertly cleaned the goose tossing the feathers and entrails over the edge. She rigged a fire from dead cottonwood limbs and spiked the goose on a sharpened stick. The goose sizzled on the stick, fat dropping into the fire with a crackle. Summer turned the stick from time to time to cook it all the way through. It took over an hour. She cut it up with a hunting knife and served it to Beadles on a flat rock.

Beadles had never tasted anything so delicious in his life. They wiped themselves off with cottonwood leaves. Summer picked up the binoculars.

"I'm gonna take a look."

Beadles sat cross-legged by the fire and wrote in his notepad, detailing the morning's events. Later, he would go back and photograph what he'd found with the western sun shining straight in through the windows. He looked at his watch. It was almost noon.

Beadles stretched out in the shade of the cottonwoods noting that the sun was near its zenith and the only shade came straight down. He drifted. He dreamed he was on the desert, flat and hot as a chopper's traight pipes. Unable to see because of the glare of the sun when a stark shadow fell across his path. Mind-numbing fear seized his lizard brain, a mouse before an owl. He dared not lift his gaze to see what cast that terrible shadow. Acid ate his guts.

"BEADLES!" Summer cried.

He woke up with a start. She ran to him wild-eyed and grabbed his arm so hard it hurt.

"Please you've got to come. You've got to see this."

"What?"

"You've got to see it."

She leaped up and ran toward the western rim.

***