Earthcrack: A Lin Hanna Mystery (2 page)

Even though the evening was cool and the
sun was beginning to set, Cullen was sweating—his palms were damp.
 
He rounded the last large rock formation
in the canyon. The end was near.
 
Suddenly he heard and sensed a slight movement nearby. Before he could
react, a searing crunching pain shot through the side of his head.
 
He felt his knees buckle as he
collapsed.
 
Then all went black and
silent.
  
As Cullen’s life’s
blood oozed out into the sand, a shadowy figure silently raised a large stone
and looked around.
 
Seeing no one,
the assailant knelt beside the body checking the faint pulse as it weakened and
finally stopped altogether.

The assailant moved quickly dragging the
body closer to the slot and shoving it down into a large earth crack near the
entrance.
 
He tossed the bloody rock
after the corpse and then moved to gather some juniper branches to shove in on
top.
 
He had to hurry.
 
The light was fading and he had to
collect the artifacts.
 
He had been
assured that they were here within the slot at the end of the box canyon.
 
There were not many hiding places here.
Locating the cache should be easy. The professor had seemed relieved to avoid
being present and the gallery owner never planned to come anyway.
   
He had been more or less on
his own for this part of the deal and he intended to take full advantage.
 
Killing the Indian meant more money for
him. He silently fingered the bills in his pocket, bills that were originally
meant for Cullen.
 
There would be
even more money when the items were sold.

The man assured himself that no one was
around to see any light.
 
Then,
using his flashlight, he began a search of the immediate area where the cache
was supposedly hidden.
 
He expected
to find the pottery quickly, move it to his truck, and then make an important
phone call.
 
He continued searching—nothing.
It was rapidly growing darker. What was going on here?
 
He was growing nervous—his failure
would not be taken lightly.
 
He
could be in real trouble.

Finally, he gave up the search.
 
It was growing too dark to see well, even
with the aid of the flashlight.
  
The day had been warm for April.
 
There could be rattlers out in the rocks.
 
What should he do? He decided to leave,
at least for now.
 
Returning to his
truck, he slowly drove down the park road to the highest point where he could
get a cell phone signal.
 
He dialed
the number.
 

“Where are you?” his contact sounded
nervous and upset.
 

“I’m still in the park.
 
The stuff is not where we were told and
I haven’t found it yet.
 
It has to
be somewhere nearby but it’s getting dark.
 
I’ll come back early tomorrow.
 
It has to be nearby.
 
I’ll
find it and get in touch,” he paused waiting for a response.

After what seemed like a long silence,
his contact responded,
 
“Guess that
is all you can do.
 
Be careful that
you are not seen.
 
Go early before
the park is open. I will wait to hear from you.”

The killer breathed a sigh of
relief.
 
He had bought himself at
least a few hours.
 
He still had
Cullen’s share of the money.
 
He
guessed it was time for him to disappear and lay low for a while.
  
He could come back later when
things were quiet and resume the search.
 
If anyone else found the pottery he would learn of it through the Rez
grapevine.
  
He was going to
vanish before anyone realized what was really happening.
   
Smiling to himself and
feeling pretty clever, he made one more important call then he drove out of the
park turning north not sure what his final destination would be.

***

John Sessions looked at his clock in the
gallery office.
 
It was after eight
o’clock and he still had not heard from his assistant.
 
Darren should have called by now to
report that he had concluded his business with the Hopi. Cullen was his name,
he thought.
 
Sessions had told
Darren to park well outside the ruins area where his vehicle could not be seen
and to hike in; perhaps it had just taken him longer than he originally
thought.

Sessions had not wanted to go to the
meeting—too risky.
  
He
had advised Smith against this also.
 
He had made it clear that he did not want to know anything about that
part of the operation.
 
Deniability
was important in such cases.
 
Whatever transpired was of no further interest to him.
  
He had a nagging worry that his
assistant was trying to pull a fast one.
 
He would certainly regret that, if such a thing happened.

 
The network for these types of sales was
a tight one.
 
If these items hit the
market by other means Sessions would most likely learn of it.
  
Most of the dealers who dealt in
the lucrative market for “private” sales of antiquities and art used local
contacts on the reservations to obtain the items.
 
Sometimes things did not always go as
smoothly as they would like for them to; however, if one deal fell through,
another was usually just around the corner and it was not too difficult to “take
care of” any uncooperative locals who tried to sabotage these deals.

Sessions had a lot of experience with
this market and had good contacts on the Rez.
 
He generally managed to come out on top
of these transactions and this one would be no different in the long run he
felt sure.
 
If the pots were not
located soon, he would simply contact his outlet in Santa Fe and let them know
that this particular deal had fallen through but there would be other
opportunities.
 
The dealer in Santa
Fe would be upset of course. He probably already had a buyer, but it would not
be the first time such things had happened.
 
It was part of the business.
 
Sessions was a trusted participant and
he felt he could handle the situation.

Just then the phone rang on the
desk.
 
“Where are you he asked the
familiar voice on the other end?”
 

“Just got back to my truck,” his
associate responded, “the Hopi did not show up. Not a sign of him
anywhere.
 
I looked around for the
pots where we were told they would be but no luck.
 
I think we’ve been had.”

Sessions was silent.
 
What was happening here?
 
Had Cullen gotten cold feet or had he,
and possibly Smith, tried to cheat him by meeting earlier?
 
Maybe his assistant was in on the deal
too.
 
Something was happening here
and it was not good.

“ Come back to town.
 
We’ll talk to Smith and try to get more
information about his contact.
 
You
can go back tomorrow during daylight hours and find the stuff.”

“Okay,” his associate responded, “ I
think I’ll spend the night with my uncle near here on the Rez, but I will be in
first thing tomorrow.”

“Very well,” Sessions responded, “I’ll
get in touch with Smith.
 
Meet me at
the gallery by eight.”
 
He hung up
the phone and considered the situation.
 
Something was definitely wrong here, a no show contact plus the pottery
not where it was supposed to be. Something was certainly amiss.

He picked up the phone again and dialed
Neal Smith’s home number.
 
No
answer.
 
He left a message and sat
back to consider his next steps.
  
Perhaps the Hopi contact had just gotten cold feet.
 
Smith had said he was uneasy about the
deal.
 
Perhaps the situation could
be saved.
 
Smith knew more about
that area and the places such things might be hidden.
 
Perhaps they could still find the
pottery.
 
Of course, the Hopi
contact might report his find to the tribe or to the authorities but then he
might get into trouble himself so maybe not.
 
The two of them would have to consider
what to do about him later.

 
He breathed a sigh and relaxed a bit.
Things would work out.
 
If the
pottery proved hard to locate he would simply wait a while.
 
There would be other opportunities to
find it.
 
It could not travel far
and, if Cullen came back to get it, he could not do anything to market it alone
neither could Neal Smith for that matter.
 
If Smith were trying to cheat him on this deal he would find it more
difficult than he thought.
  
As
he considered this he relaxed a bit.
 
If Smith or his Hopi friend were trying to cheat him, it would not
likely work.
  

 
He pushed his chair away from the desk
and picked up the phone.
 
This time
he called Smith’s office at the university.
 
He had recalled that he sometimes taught
night classes and might be working late.
 
A short five-minute call later he had informed Neal Smith about the
problem.
 
Smith was
 
“ less than happy” that the pottery was
not yet found, but he did not sound surprised— did he already know that
something would go wrong?
  
He
sounded even a bit angry that his friend had not been there to meet Session’s
assistant.
 
Was Smith that desperate
for the extra money?
 
Sessions
mentally noted this.
 
Perhaps the
archeologist could be counted on for other “under the table” deals even if this
one fell through.
 
That was good to
know.
 
Why did he sound so
nervous?
 
Did he have other plans
that Sessions did not know about?
 
Was he trying to cheat Sessions on the deal?
 
He certainly seemed too anxious.
 
Sessions felt the need to discuss this
further with the professor.

“Let’s have breakfast tomorrow,” Sessions
suggested, “we can talk to Darren.
 
He is coming in at eight so let’s meet at Country Inn at
eight-thirty.
 
Think of all the
information your friend shared—anything that might help Darren locate the
pots.
 
He is going back early to
look further for the stuff.”

Smith readily agreed.
 
As he hung up the phone, Sessions was
thinking.
 
He had an idea for
finding the pottery even if Darren was not successful.
 
Yes, that could work.
 
He was eager to talk to Smith about his
new plan.
 
Also, since the Hopi had
not shown up, he was “out of the picture” and that was more money in the deal
for the two of them.
 
He would see
that Darren got some of that share for his extra work but then the rest would
be his to divide as he saw fit.
 
After
all, it was his money fronting the operation.
   

Neal Smith turned in his chair as he
tucked his cell phone into his pocket. He felt a deep unease about this
situation.
 
This was not going
smoothly at all.
  
What if
Session’s man got caught?
 
What would
he say?
 
Smith’s career could be
ruined.
 
If his part in such an
operation were discovered, the university would fire him not to mention what
the law would do.
 
He could never
work in his field again even if he managed to avoid prosecution. He would not mind
leaving the university; he was close to retirement age anyway. Smith had hoped
this deal would perhaps lead to others.
 
That was where real money could be made, the illegal antiquities
market.
 
Wealthy collectors all over
the world were willing to shell out big bucks for items for their personal
collections.
 
Sessions had offered
him entry into that world.
 
He could
quit teaching, maybe move to Mexico or Central America, and spend his time simply
doing archeological fieldwork—his true love.
 
So what if a few clandestine deals on
the side provided him with a source of funds for his own support and future…
 
He sat back, gradually allowing himself
to relax a bit.
 
Nothing was lost
yet.
 
The pottery had to be there
and he knew its value.
 
Of course,
he would have to get his hands on the pieces and do a bit of research to be
sure of their value; however, he was certain of one thing, the pots certainly
appeared authentic and they were remarkably intact which meant they were rare
specimens.
 
They were different
styles, which indicated they had probably “traveled” to the area—perhaps
as much as 150 miles. The pots were probably brought there by traders who had
cached them in a protected area for future use.
 
He had not shared all this information
with Cullen.
 
The Hopi was just
desperate to help his family.
 
He
had no idea of the true worth of his find and Smith was content to let him
remain ignorant.
 
Cullen was happy
in agreeing to an amount that was only a small part of the pottery’s true
value.