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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear

The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries (35 page)

BOOK: The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries
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“What are the clinical considerations in such cases?”
Dusty made a face, and took a swig of his beer.
Maureen said, “
Hyperostosis frontalis interna
is observed almost exclusively in women, primarily postmenopausal women. Several studies have documented it. One of the best known was carried out on women who had died and were being autopsied. In that case, forty percent showed thickening of the skull, and these same bony growths. Another study was done in a home for the aged. Sixty-two percent of the women there suffered from HFI, but none of the men.”
Dale seemed to be weighing this information. His bushy gray brows twitched. “What happens to the women involved? This sounds like a painful condition.”
“Not always,” Maureen answered. “Sometimes the victims suffer
insomnia, urinary difficulties, disturbances of equilibrium, that sort of thing, but nothing severe. On the other hand, some are in agony. They have raging headaches, fainting spells, even convulsions. One researcher discovered a dramatic frequency of HFI in women who were insane.”
Sylvia’s chair squeaked, and Dusty glanced at her. Her eyes had gone huge. She was listening to the discussion literally on the edge of her seat.
“So these bony growths,” Dale said, “must extend themselves into the brain.”
“They certainly put pressure on specific areas. The larger they are, the more brain tissue they squeeze.”
Dale touched the pieces of skull in the clear plastic bag. “Dusty? Didn’t you say you thought this woman’s skull had been split by a rock?”
“Maureen matched the fractures to the stone,” he said without looking at her. “That’s exactly what happened. The rock was thrown into the pit on top of her head, cracking her skull, but—”
“Wow! Hold on! This is coming together!” Sylvia shouted. “Maybe she was crazy, and her people thought she was a witch. Did you ever read that great book by Marc Simmons on
Witchcraft in the Southwest
? In the past four hundred years, lots of crazy women have been accused of being witches. After they were captured, their own people would torture them to get a confession and force them to undo their evil, then they were killed, and in some pretty gruesome ways.”
Hail Walking Hawk lifted a frail old hand, and the camp went silent.
Gray hair blew around her ancient face as she propped her elbows on the arms of her chair. “Many years ago, my grandmother told me about two witches who lived over at Zuni pueblo. They could change themselves into animals by jumping through yucca hoops, and once they turned a man into a woman. Everybody said they were crazy, but people were too scared of them to try and kill them. My grandmother said that the oldest witch ran around at night in the body of coyote, howling in pain, because her head always felt like it was going to explode.” Hail Walking Hawk looked at Maureen. “Do you think those women might have had these
growths in their heads, Washais? Is that why they were crazy, and became witches?”
Maureen’s midnight eyes resembled deep dark holes in her firelit oval face. “It’s possible. I can’t say for certain without examining their skulls, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Dusty asked, “But you said earlier that HFI was found primarily in postmenopausal women. The skull on the table is from a woman in her early twenties. What’s the overall occurrence in the general population?”
“About five percent of all adult women suffer from it,” Maureen said, “but only ten percent of those are under thirty.”
Sylvia flopped back in her chair. “Thank God. I still have a few years before I go crazy.”
“Don’t be hasty,” Dusty said. “What if you’re in the ten percent of the five percent?”
Sylvia turned her Coors can in her hands. “I wonder if HFI is related to the incidence of depression among women? I mean, wow, these things grow in your head, and you start thinking crazy thoughts. Who wouldn’t be depressed?”
“That’s an interesting hypothesis, Sylvia,” Dale said. “I think you should do a paper on it next year. In the meantime”—he stretched, and yawned—“it’s been a long day for me. I’m going to bed. Good night all.”
“’Night, Dale.”
He lifted a hand, and walked behind the tents into the darkness, headed in the direction of the Sanolet.
Hail Walking Hawk said, “I’m going to sleep, too. Give me a hand, Magpie,” and reached out to her niece.
Maggie helped the old woman out of her chair and tenderly slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Good night everybody. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night,” Sylvia said and lifted her Coors can in a salute. “Don’t let the ghosts get you.”
Maggie chuckled. “I won’t. You either, White Eyes.”
Sylvia grinned.
As Maggie and her aunt slowly made their way to the red tent, which nestled between Dusty’s tent and Maureen’s, Sylvia finished her Coors, crushed the can in one hand, and tossed it
into the trash box behind Dusty. It landed with a soft metallic clank.
“Heavy discussion,” Sylvia said. “Ghosts, torture, murder, insanity. I’m going to rub my bat with garlic before I go to sleep.” She got to her feet, and stretched.
Dusty said, “Good night, Sylvia.”
“Good night, boss.” She headed for her tent.
Dusty used the toe of his hiking boot to rock the pot at the edge of the coals. “There’s still coffee in the pot. Are you interested, Dr. Cole?”
Maureen ran a hand through her hair. “I guess.” She sat down across the fire and reached for the cup she’d used at dinner. “We need to dig that pit, Stewart.”
“I’ve got to hand it to you, a serial murderer?” He shook his head. “An Anasazi crime site? They’ll be laughing from the Pecos Conference to the SAAs.”
“What’s the Pecos Conference?” she asked as she poured coffee into her cup.
“The oldest conference on Southwest Archaeology. A. V. Kidder started it back in nineteen twenty-four. It happens every year. People go and talk about their research. The SAAs, I assume you’ve heard of.”
“The Society for American Archaeology.” She nodded. “I am going to dig that pit, Stewart.”
He sat back. “
You
don’t know how to dig, Doctor. If anybody digs that pit, it’s going to be me, and I can’t scuff the surface without Maggie’s approval. Get it?”
She sipped her coffee. “The only thing I get is that the American government is run by antiscience fundamentalists bent on destroying any research that threatens their—”
“Their what?” he demanded, trying to keep his voice low. “Their respect for other traditions? I thought Canadians were all for the ‘Cultural Mosaic’? Or did you miss that lecture in Canadian History one-oh-one?”
“The concept of the Cultural Mosaic is based on understanding other cultures, Stewart. We don’t take their religious beliefs, turn them into laws, and shove them down the throats of nonbelievers.”
He glared at her. “No wonder you’re alone. Who in the hell would have you?”
For a moment, she just stared at him as though sideswiped by the comment. Then her lips quivered, she tossed her coffee into the fire, and walked out into the darkness.
Dusty bowed his head, and squeezed his eyes closed. “God, I’m an idiot. I’ve always been an idiot. I will always be an idiot.” He opened his eyes, and stared unblinking into the fire. He had to find her. He couldn’t let her leave thinking he …
“Maureen? Wait!”
“
I
WISH TO LEAD THE WAY, UNCLE. YOU UNDERSTAND? IF we trap the killer in there, it will be up to me to kill or disable him. I don’t want you to get in the way.”
Stone Ghost stood leaning into the hole in the wall, surveying the dark interior. His thin white hair fluttered around his head. “I have no objections, Nephew.”
Browser poured hot bear grease from a small pot onto the tightly wrapped top of the cedar bark torch, then dipped it into the warming bowl that rested on the ground. Smoky flames curled around the wrapping.
“There is no way that we can travel silently or secretly through these dark warrens, Uncle. The light of the torch, the grating of our sandals on the crumbled floors, will provide plenty of warning to anyone inside. Let us proceed slowly.”
Stone Ghost stepped out of the room and gestured for Browser to enter. “I’ll be following right behind you, Nephew.”
Browser led with the torch, sticking it in to light the square room. The white plaster had cracked away from the intricately laid stone walls, and crusted the floor. Charred roof beams dangled from the ceiling. Stone Ghost stared closely at the finely fitted rocks, many no larger than the palm of his hand.
“People hide the most curious things. Imagine, this fine stonework, and they covered it with plaster.” He canted an eye toward Browser. “Just like people, wouldn’t you say?”
“He went this way.” Browser walked across the room, and ducked through the low doorway into the next chamber.
Sunlight slanted through the gaping hole over Browser’s head. He could see a mound of fallen stone resting on the lip of the
hole. The beams sagged beneath its weight. “Careful, here, Uncle. A good breath of wind will cause this ceiling to come crashing down.
Stone Ghost entered, gazed up at the hole, and silently followed Browser through two more rooms.
Browser stepped into the next room and the rounded wall of a small clan kiva curved to his right. He hadn’t seen that last night.
Stone Ghost whispered, “Is this as far as you went the other night?”
“Yes, Elder.” Browser held his torch high, illuminating the litter on the floor. A layer of fine dust and ash covered burned beams, half-rotten wood, old plaster, and torn matting. Footprints had churned up the dust.
Browser identified his own prints, and Jackrabbit’s. The third set mystified him. The man had been wearing yucca sandals. Browser knelt and measured the prints against his hand.
Stone Ghost whispered, “My feet are bigger than his.”
Browser rose, and narrowed his eyes. “His tracks lead around the curve of the kiva.”
Browser walked forward cautiously, searching every pile of rubbish.
“Through there,” Stone Ghost pointed to a corner doorway, partially obscured by the sagging roof poles. “I would say, Nephew, that’s how he managed to lose you the night your warrior was killed. There, behind the fallen timbers, see it?”
Browser walked forward, following the curving wall, until he saw the ladder stuffed into the corner. Above it, a small hole let sunlight into the chamber.
“It appears,” Browser murmured, “that the killer climbed back up on the roof, then dropped on Whi—my warrior.”
Stone Ghost came up behind Browser and frowned at the doorway. “Let’s make sure, Nephew.”
Browser nodded, handed the torch to Stone Ghost, and set the ladder into the hole. “Be ready for anything, Uncle,” he whispered, and took the torch back.
Browser climbed slowly, listening for sounds from above. He heard nothing. He climbed out into a small rectangular room. The
curiously rich and earthy smell confused him for a moment. The floor beneath his feet felt soft. He helped Stone Ghost up and frowned.
“What is this spongy brown layer we’re standing on? My moccasins are sinking into it.”
Something fluttered on the ceiling, and Browser whirled to look up. No more than an arm’s length away, the roof seemed to be moving, undulating in the heat of the torch.
Browser flinched. “Bats.”
He hated bats. Creatures of the night, they associated with owls and shared the same skies with witches.
“I don’t think they like your torch,” Stone Ghost whispered. “It’s the middle of the winter. They want to be asleep. Bats are a great deal smarter than people. If you sleep all winter, you don’t have to go out in the cold, or store food, and gather wood. Let’s leave them in peace.”
Browser lowered his torch and picked his way across the droppings into the next room. The entire ceiling had collapsed, covering the floor with crossed beams, stones, and powdered plaster. His haste to get away from the bats almost killed him.
“Oh, dear gods!” he shouted, and stumbled back as the floor beneath his feet gave way, and crashed down.
Stone Ghost grabbed Browser’s cape and tugged him backward through the doorway.
Dust rose in a smothering veil.
“Thank you, Elder.” Browser gasped for a breath and fought to still his pounding heart.
“That was close, Nephew.” Stone Ghost poked his head past Browser’s shoulder and peered down into the darkness. “Lift your torch. Let’s see what’s down there.”
Nerving himself, Browser stepped back into the doorway and raised the torch. The fallen floor lay in a heap in the center of the room, but beautiful black-and-white pottery lined the walls, dust-streaked and stained with packrat urine. In one corner lay a desiccated coyote, in another, a bobcat, apparently animals that had fallen in and couldn’t find a way out.
“Where do we go from here, Uncle?” Browser asked.
Stone Ghost pointed. “The killer went that way. If you will
notice, the dust and packrat pellets have been kicked off around the edge of the wall to the right. The dirt has also been polished by someone’s sandals.”
“What kind of fool would edge his way around this rickety floor?”
Stone Ghost smiled. “The kind who has done it many times, Nephew.” Stone Ghost edged out onto the path, hugging the wall.
“Uncle, wait! What makes you think a man made that trail? It might have been a coyote or a bobcat.”
“Come, Nephew,” Stone Ghost whispered. “If this is the killer’s trail, it will support our weight.”
“I don’t like this, Uncle. It’s not safe!” But Browser held his torch low and felt his way around the gaping hole, following in Stone Ghost’s footsteps. “If I go crashing down—!”
“You won’t, Nephew,” Stone Ghost called from where he waited in the T-shape doorway on the opposite wall. “Look around you. The spiders tell us this is the trail of the killer.”
Browser finished the perilous journey without falling into the abyss and even more miraculously, without setting himself afire. He slipped into the doorway beside Stone Ghost.
Stone Ghost stuck his head into the next room and sniffed loudly.
Browser gripped his uncle’s bony shoulder. “This time, I’m going first, Uncle.”
Browser stepped by him into the next chamber. Two ladders led into the chamber above. There was no other way out. Browser lowered his torch to the floor around the ladders.
Ceramic beads from a broken necklace scattered the dust, along with smashed pottery, and pieces of a basket. The plaster on the wall to his right had cracked off, leaving only the head and shoulders of the Badger Katsina. The masked god stared at Browser through glittering blue eyes. The artist must have mixed ground turquoise with his paint.
Bracing a hand on the ladder, Browser lifted the torch.
Stone Ghost sniffed again. “Wait, Nephew. Notice the air?”
Browser sniffed. “What about it?”
“It’s still. No wind.” He pointed to the thick spiderwebs that filled the corners of the room. “Raise your torch high. No wind
penetrates this chamber, but look at the webs. How many have you wiped from your face so far?”
Browser lifted the torch. “None, Elder.”
“See, the spiders tell us that someone, at least as tall as we are, walked here before us.”
Browser’s eyes widened. “I understand.”
He tested the strength of the ladder, and climbed up into the next chamber. There were two doorways, one on either side of the room. An intact web hung from the lintel in front of Browser. The web on the door behind him, however, was gone.
He reached down to help Stone Ghost off the ladder.
The old man licked his lips, and sighed. “Which door, War Chief?”
“This one, Uncle.” Browser led the way.
As he stepped into the small, dark chamber, the light of his torch gleamed over corncobs, a splintered war club, and shreds of dusty cloth.
A path had been kicked through the clutter into the next room. Browser followed it. When he ducked into the next room, he stopped suddenly. “Uncle, come and see this.”
The sound of Stone Ghost’s steps crunching on broken pottery seemed loud in the stillness.
Browser walked forward. The man’s skeleton lay hunched in the far corner, propped against the wall, and covered with a crumbling stack of mats. Mice had gnawed the extended leg bones, but a single patch of hair clung to the rear of the skull.
Browser lowered his torch and pulled back the mats to examine the man. A broken arrow shaft, partially packrat gnawed, lodged in his ribs like a malignant sliver.
Stone Ghost bent over Browser. “He’s been here for a long time.” Browser let the mats down and straightened. “Do you think he was one of the First People?”
“Perhaps. But if so, someone in the past one hundred sun cycles stole his turquoise wolf pendant. All of the First People had one.” Stone Ghost gestured to the next doorway. “Have you looked in there yet, Nephew?”
“No, Uncle.”
Browser walked to the entry, and thrust his torch inside.
Behind him, he heard Stone Ghost whisper to the dead man, “No, I’m sorry. I haven’t seen the Blessed Sternlight.”
Browser’s grip tightened on the torch handle. “Uncle, isn’t Sternlight the priest who first brought word of the Katsinas? Back in the days before the Blessed Poor Singer became a prophet?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Stone Ghost answered, and casually stepped by Browser into the next chamber. “He was captured and killed by the Fire Dogs.”
Browser’s skin prickled as he followed the old man through the chamber toward the ladder that stood in the hole in the floor. The air had a musty, heavy feeling.
Stone Ghost gripped the poles of the ladder and started to step onto the rungs.
“Uncle, please don’t do that,” Browser said and trotted forward.
His breathing had gone hoarse, as if he’d been running for days. Despite the cool air, perspiration soaked his war shirt.
“Very well, Nephew,” Stone Ghost said and stood aside.
“Thank you.” Browser climbed down two rungs and extended his torch into the chamber. In the corner to his right, a shining mass of what looked like wet rope lay. The opposite corner was filled with over a dozen standing poles, as if someone had brought them in to shore up the roof, but hadn’t used them yet.
Browser climbed down, and waited.
Stone Ghost panted as he descended, and his legs were shaking.
Browser gripped his arm and supported him to the floor.
Stone Ghost smiled and turned.
He froze.
Browser spun around, searching the room for some threat he’d missed.
“Easy, Nephew,” Stone Ghost whispered. “It’s the middle of the winter. I think if we stay away from them, they won’t bother us.”
“What?” Browser held out his torch.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. They are dormant now, but like all of their kind, heat brings them to life.”
“Blessed Katsinas!” Browser leapt back with his heart in his throat. “I didn’t see them!”
His torch sparkled from a hundred eyes. Their triangular heads
rested on gleaming scales. The diamond patterns on their backs resembled mottled weavings.
“I don’t think the rattlesnakes arrived here the same way that we did, Nephew.” Stone Ghost looked around. “There must be another entrance.”
The old man picked his way through the crumbling matting that scattered the floor, and headed into the blackness to the left.
Somewhere above them, a rodent scurried across plaster, its claws clicking.
“Ah,” Stone Ghost barely whispered. “Here, we have it.”
Browser followed. Only the faint hissing of the burning grease, and the sputter of the flames could be heard.
Stone Ghost walked behind the upright poles, and vanished. Browser ran after him.
As he stepped into the chamber, a cold shaft of light shot across the room to illuminate a spiral painted on the far wall.
“It’s a solstice room,” Stone Ghost said as he walked toward a large oblong bundle in the middle of the floor. It was wrapped in yellow cloth, and two small pots sat on either side of it. Each pot had a flat piece of sandstone waxed to the rim to seal the pot. “Since we are nearing that day, the spiral behind you is illuminated. At any other time of the year, however, this room will be in shadow.”
BOOK: The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries
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