Airtight Case (7 page)

“You aren’t to the bottom of this feature.” She sat on her haunches and pointed toward the bottom layers of dirt. “This layer’s simply interrupted by soil of a similar color and texture as the pit wall. But it’s different. There’s been some kind of soil disturbance into which layers of rubble were added over the years.”

“I think so, too.” He glanced toward the tent. “I guess, I’d better take it up with Drew. If she ever shows up.”

The rumble of an engine approaching nearby brought their heads up toward the sound.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” shouted Adam, jumping up as a big red pickup truck drove across the site, its giant tires rolling over and crushing into the ground a corner of Feature 3. The front of the truck stopped at his trench.

Lindsay heard another voice screaming in the distance. Claire was flying across the site like a banshee. Lindsay stood staring, amazed, as a short, square, potbellied man with a receding hairline and black mustache climbed down from the truck with a folded piece of paper in his hand.

“You’re destroying valuable artifacts,” yelled Adam. “Are you crazy?”

“Who the hell are you, you sorry bastard? Get that truck . . .” Claire stopped. Even she was at a loss for words.

The man marched over to Lindsay and handed her the paper.

“Drew Van Horne, this is for you.”

“I’m not . . .”

“I’ve been parked over in the woods watching, girly. You’re obviously in charge, and you’re obviously the illusive Miss Drew. Consider yourself served.”

“But I’m not . . .”

He turned to go, but while he was talking to Lindsay, Claire had climbed into his truck and now began backing slowly out of the excavation in the least damaging path.

“What? Hey!” he shouted, running after the truck.

But Claire made it to the dirt road and took off, disappearing in a cloud of dust. Lindsay watched in surprised admiration. The man, whoever he was, stood in the middle of the site waving his arms.

“That bitch stole my truck! That bitch stole my truck!”

Chapter 7

An Air Of Unease

“WHO WAS THAT?” The little potbellied man looked from one to the other, as if all the crew were in a conspiracy against him. “Is she going to bring my truck back?”

“I don’t know,” Lindsay told him. “I was too busy trying to figure out how even a casual observer could think I’m in charge here.”

He turned to Adam—who was still dumbstruck and staring at the dust settling on the road—and demanded that Adam tell him who took his truck.

“I don’t know, either,” said Adam. “I was concentrating on what kind of moron would drive a big-foot pickup across an archaeological excavation. Do you know what you’ve done?”

He looked around at the ground. “Rocks and holes, just rocks and holes.”

“No, not rocks and holes,” Adam shouted. “History, delicate history preserved in the ground—probably your history—and you’ve destroyed a portion of it.”

“Where’s she taking my truck?”

“Are you listening?” asked Adam. “Your truck isn’t nearly as important as this site. You understand that?”

“If she damages my truck, you all are going to have to pay for it.”

“We’ll deduct it from what you owe for damages to the site,” said Lindsay.

“I don’t owe you nothing. It’s just rocks and holes, dammit. I’m not going to pay for rocks and holes.”

Lindsay ignored his protestations and scanned the legal papers she’d been “served.” Drew was being sued by an Alfred Tidwell for the wrongful death of his aunt Mary Susan Tidwell, and she was accused of stealing valuable documents belonging to the Tidwell estate. That answered why Drew was so scarce. She was avoiding a process server. Lindsay had been at the site for a week and hadn’t once seen the principal investigator.

While she was reading the summons, Adam had managed to learn that the fuming little man was Broach Moore, a bounty hunter, process server, and repo man.

“Here,” Lindsay said, shoving the papers back at him. “I’m not Dr. Drew Van Horne. I’m Dr. Lindsay Chamberlain. And don’t you ever call me girly again.”

“Let me see some identification.”

“No.”

“Then you keep these papers.”

“Fine, I’ll deliver them to the sheriff tomorrow and let him deal with it. I
will
show
him
ID.”

“You’re really not Drew Van Horne?”

“No. I’m not.” Lindsay turned her back and walked over to Feature 3 to see what kind of damage he had done.

“Hey!” he shouted at Lindsay. “How am I going to get back to my office?”

“You should have thought of that before you came,” said Adam.

“I did. I brought my truck. I need to use the phone.”

“Highway 129’s down that dirt road. I’m sure you can find a lift,” said Adam.

“I’m not walking back.”

“Suit yourself. I’m sure we can find you a room in the house.”

“I’m not staying in that house.”

Lindsay ignored the bits of conversation and surveyed the damage to the scattered stones. At least two large flat stones were broken and others had plowed a three-foot-long furrow in the dirt from the force of the big truck tires. The air was filled with the aroma of fresh earth released by the disturbance to the soil. A shadow moved across the feature, and Lindsay looked up to see tall, willowy Erin joining her in examining the damage.

“Do you have . . .” Lindsay hesitated, searching for the word. “. . . drawings . . . drawings or photographs? I don’t recall seeing anyone working on this feature since I’ve been here.”

“No drawings. Claire said drawings would be redundant. I’m an artist. I was hoping to be able to do some drawings here, but it seems that we are overrun with artists—Marina, Joel, and now me. And Claire doesn’t even want drawings.” Erin paused a moment and looked wistfully over at the artifact tent and then at the south end of the site. “Marina does the photography. She sometimes lets me do some artifact drawing with her. She’s taught me a lot about artifact illustration. She’s done textbooks and everything.”

“Has Marina taken photos of this section?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen any of the pictures.”

Erin lowered her voice to a whisper. “What’s Claire going to do with the truck?”

“She’ll probably park it out of sight down the road and walk back to the house. Isn’t that guy . . . Trent working on this feature? Where is he?”

“He’s sick today.”

Stoned
, thought Lindsay. “How about the crew members working on it with him? Where are they?”

“Claire found another structure in the woods. She put them on that, I think.” Erin nodded in the direction of the tree line. She shook her head. “I really thought archaeology would be different from this. I mean, I really wanted to be an archaeologist.”

“I’ve never worked on a site with as much hostility as this one,” said Lindsay. “Most digs aren’t like this.”

“Is it because it’s a private company?”

“No, it’s not that. I’ve consulted with several private archaeology companies. None have been like this one.”

Claire was part of the problem, thought Lindsay, her controlling, abusive personality. But there was something else about this site that Lindsay couldn’t put her finger on, and it troubled her. It was as if some evil hung in the air. Something that made the wind rush hard through the trees, whipping the crowns back and forth. Something that brought the darkness with it. Lindsay heard the blood rushing in her ears with each beat of her heart. She turned and looked at the forest. There was no wind in the trees, and it surprised her. Was the storm she felt in her mind, hovering on the edge of her sanity?
Don’t think about it
, she said to herself.
Ignore it and it will go away. Don’t build it and they won’t come.

“Don’t judge archaeology by this experience.”

“I’ll keep reminding myself.” Erin tapped one of the rocks with her fingers.”What is this, do you think?”

Lindsay stood and stepped back, looking at the area. Only a portion of the feature was excavated. The several wooden stumps, frequently used as lunch tables by the crew, were from trees that had been cut down only a few years before. Here and there bunches of long, slender daffodil leaves stood above the grass and weeds. She noticed a thorny, long-stemmed shrub low on the ground, and picked out several more scattered about. Lindsay stepped back again.

“I believe it’s a cemetery.”

“A cemetery? The documents we have say the family is buried at Wild Grape Hollow Cemetery at the Primitive Baptist Church.”

“Look at the berm around the feature.” Lindsay indicated a gently raised strip of ground.

“I see it. Kind of like the mounded earth around the barn,” said Erin.

Lindsay nodded. “The kind of berm made by years of dirt washing against a fence. I think this feature was fenced in. It also has daffodils and antique roses.”

“But flowers wouldn’t be here from that long ago, would they? The records date back over a hundred years, and they make no mention of a graveyard. It would have been abandoned more than a hundred years ago,” objected Erin.

“That doesn’t matter. Antique roses and daffodils are hardy plants. They sustain themselves indefinitely. There’s another indication, too. There’s been a copse of trees on this spot for a long time. It’s not uncommon that local people know of the presence of a graveyard, even when who’s buried in it is long forgotten. When the surrounding timber is cut, the trees in a graveyard are always left standing. You can drive through the countryside and see little stands of tall trees alone on hilltops when the rest of the countryside has been clear-cut. Those are old cemetery sites that the loggers won’t cut. I think this was one of those sites.”

“But who would be buried here?”

Lindsay shrugged. “Some members of the family who didn’t get themselves buried in Wild Grape Cemetery. Were the Gallowses slaveholders?”

“I don’t think so.”

“When it’s excavated, we may find some stones that will tell something.”

“Actually, I’m not sure it will be excavated. I think maybe Claire is cutting this area from the plan.” Erin pulled a small twig from one of the antique rose vines.

“So much for not changing a design in the middle of a dig. I think I’ll be glad to be leaving this place.”

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me that. You’re the only nice person here. You, Marina, and Mrs. Laurens.”

“I’m clearly unwelcome and, frankly, my abilities are being purposefully wasted.”

“Hey, man, what’s going on?”

Before Lindsay turned around, she caught a whiff of beer and body odor. Trent Rich approached them, looking as if he had just risen from his bed after a two-week drunk without changing, showering, or even combing his hair. He sniffed and wiped his nose on his bare forearm, then wiped his arm on his cutoffs. Lindsay and Erin stepped away from him.

“Getting a cold, man. I feel awful. Who’s that guy over there?”

His eyes were so bloodshot, Lindsay was surprised he could see out of them.

“Someone looking for Drew,” offered Erin.

“Well, good luck to him. What happened here?” Trent stared at the damage to Feature 3.

“He drove his truck over it,” said Lindsay. “Do you have photographs of the feature?”

“Me? I just got here.”

“No. I mean before it was damaged.”

“No, it’s not finished.” Trent looked around. “Where’s his truck?”

“Claire stole it,” said Erin.

“Hey, way to go, Claire!”

“Trent,” said Lindsay, “you don’t look well. Why don’t you go back to bed? We’ll explain to Claire how bad you look.”

“It’s tempting, but I gotta earn my pay. Where’s my crew?”

Erin pointed to the woods where the Adonis twins—as she and Kelsey sometimes called tall, blond, long-haired Powell Gavin and his short-haired blond brother, Dillon—were digging.

“They’re working on another structure,” said Erin.

“The woods, huh?” He eyed the area suspiciously. “I just hate this jungle, don’t you? Maybe it’s cooler over there.” Trent caught site of his crew and ambled over in their direction.

“Is he on drugs?” asked Erin.

“It would be my guess,” said Lindsay. “I’m taking a break—I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Lindsay started for the house where her new Explorer was parked.

I must be in a coma and this is a nightmare,
she thought.
No. I’m probably dead and this is hell. I was sent here for digging up
John’s ancestors.

The thought of spending an eternity at this site was almost too dark a punishment to imagine. Why in the world had Lewis wanted her to come here in the first place? Then it hit her. Of course.

She doubled her speed, racing across a small bridge spanning the creek that fed Helget Pond and to the parking lot. She punched the number code into the keypad on the driver’s door of her Explorer, opened the door, and climbed in. Fortunately, the cell phone had a good signal. She dialed the number for the UGA Division of Anthropology and Archaeology, muttering under her breath and drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as she waited for an answer. Kate, the division secretary, answered the phone.

“Kate. I want to speak to Lewis, now.”

“Is this Lindsay? How you doing? I think Dr. Lewis is with someone . . .”

“I don’t care if he’s with the President, I want to speak with him.”

“Uh-oh, what’s he done now?”

“Sent me here.”

As Lindsay talked, she caught sight of Marina Ethridge on the front porch talking to someone in the shadows.

“Lindsay.” The too cheerful voice came over the phone. “What can I do for you?”

“Lewis, did you send me here to investigate a crime?”

Chapter 8

The Repo Man

“HAVE YOU FOUND a crime?” Lewis asked.

Lindsay could imagine him sitting behind his polished French provincial desk trying to look innocent. She was in no mood for it.

“Let’s not fence, Lewis. A woman’s family is accusing Drew of murder and theft. You must have known about it when you first suggested I spend time up here.”

“Yes, I did. Keith York and I were in school together. His company, Sound Ecology, could be held liable if, well . . .”