Grave Danger (12 page)

“Mostly I’m for it. Jack’s plan to build it could be a huge boon for Coho, a tourist attraction to provide jobs. The museum will be a big draw and Coho has needed a new library for a long time. The plan to include space for major retail chains has the Main Street vendors worried, and I know the tribe doesn’t want corporations to sponsor their potlatch ceremony. But when you get right down to it, unemployment means crime. The more people employed in Coho, the easier my job will be.”

“Do you think what’s happening to me could be related to the project? Someone who thinks they can intimidate me to stop the project and therefore the Center?”

“It’s an angle I’ve considered.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought I was your only suspect.”

He smiled. “We’ve been checking up on a few people. Has anyone treated you oddly?”

“Laura Montgomery comes to mind.”

He laughed.

“Do you think that artifact was really stolen?” Libby asked.

“No.”

“Pothunters usually respect, or at least are interested in the native cultures they loot. Yet she said the most awful things about Indians during her interview today. But she collects Indian artifacts? I don’t think so.”

“She said the artifact was Earl’s.”

“That makes more sense, I guess. Most likely that artifact was stolen, but not today—it was stolen when Earl collected it.” Her voice held a note of annoyance. “He probably took it from public land, which is illegal.”

Libby played with her wine glass, and then took a sip, before continuing. “People tell me all the time about arrowheads they’ve collected from national parks and other federal lands. It’s a difficult situation. I don’t blame people who keep artifacts they find on the ground surface. It’s really exciting to find a tool, even for me, after all my years in the field. But taking artifacts is looting. It destroys the context; all the information tied to the artifact is lost.”

“Like when people move things at a crime scene. It can ruin the investigation.”

She smiled. “Exactly, but the consequences for us aren’t that crucial.” She paused. “We use the Latin term ‘
in situ
’ to describe an item that’s been found in its natural or original place. Archeologists want to find everything
in situ
. I know the term is also used by other scientific disciplines with variations on the meaning. Do you use
in situ
to describe the position of items in a crime scene?”

“We don’t, but it’s not a bad idea.” He sipped his wine and studied her, hoping for another glimpse of her orange bra strap.

The conversation flowed to other things. They talked easily, done with awkward silences and suspicion, and Libby’s free laugh triggered a rush every time he heard it.

He was certain she was far too sane, far too intelligent, and had far too much going for her to be the groupie type. And she wasn’t paranoid, which meant Aaron Brady or someone new was harassing her.

Mark’s job was to find out who and why, and unfortunately, he should avoid her on a personal level until her case was solved. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to realize they’d been talking for over an hour. He needed to leave, now, before he acted on impulse and explored her creamy skin in a very thorough but un-police-like search. Regretfully, he collected his badge from the counter. She walked with him to the front door.

“Lock up behind me. If you hear anything that worries you, anything at all, even a door slamming, call 9-1-1.”

She tucked her head in embarrassment.

He reached out and lifted her chin and then brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. “I want you safe. I’m glad you called tonight. I don’t care that it was the wind. Promise me you won’t second-guess yourself in the future.”

“I promise,” she said, her voice husky.

Her sexy voice went straight to his core. Want conquered restraint. He slipped an arm around her, pulled her to him, and then lowered his lips to hers. Her soft mouth pressed to his, welcoming but hesitant, while her hands rested on his chest. Cradling her face with one hand, he explored her lips with gentle, coaxing kisses. Her lips parted. A ripple of satisfaction coursed through him as he pressed closer to slide inside and taste her.

Her arms stiffened and she gently pushed him back. “I—I can’t. I can’t do this again.” She looked down at the floor as she flushed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

Her words brought their situation back into focus. The last time she’d gotten involved with a cop, she’d ended up with a stalker. Again he reached out and touched her chin, urging her to look him in the eye. Her eyes showed desire and confusion. He could be satisfied with that. For now. “I’m the one who should be sorry. But I’m not.”

She laughed softly. He traced her bottom lip with his thumb one last time and then said, “Goodnight, Libby.” He heard the slide of the deadbolt as he descended the porch steps.

He could get past her fears. She just needed time. He climbed into his vehicle, hearing Bobby in his head, calling him on the carpet for getting involved with a victim. But still, he planned to convince Libby Aaron was the exception, not the rule.

H
E WATCHED FROM ACROSS THE STREET
, in the shadows by the bay. His arms ached from holding the binoculars to his eyes for so long, but he didn’t dare look away. He watched each of the front windows for an interval of five seconds and then moved to the next. He wished he knew where they were inside the house. He had to know what was going on. The police chief had been with her for over an hour. No one should have answered this call. No one should believe her at this point. What had gone wrong?

A muscle spasm in his shoulder caused him to drop the binoculars. He kept his gaze focused on her door and stretched his arms, feeling the pins and needles sensation in his fingertips and palms as circulation returned. The ache reached the excruciating peak, when there was movement by the front door. His hands felt like clubs as he raised the binoculars again. Pain shot through him as the weight of the glasses pressed against the raw nerve endings on his palms. But that was nothing compared to the frustration that flared when the police chief pulled her against his body and kissed her.
Shit.

He dropped the binoculars and rubbed his eyes. Instead of putting them at odds, his plan had brought Libby Maitland and Mark Colby together.

The chief left the house. The tingling in his hands eased. He kept the binoculars focused on Libby. He used the zoom on the binoculars until he could count the faint freckles on her nose. Clearly visible was her dazed expression, the warmth in her eyes as her gaze followed Mark Colby.

He shifted the binoculars to the chief’s face. The man looked pleased with himself.

He rubbed at the healing scratches on his arm, which he’d gotten when he scoped out the site, planning his strategy. He’d been so careful. He’d laid out the evidence to make her look paranoid. Insane.

The police chief should have written her off as a lunatic, a nuisance.

Time was running out. He needed a new approach. He had to scare the hell out of her.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

L
OU
W
ARREN, THE TRIBAL MONITOR
personally selected by Rosalie, once again tried to put Libby in her place. “The Burial Treatment Plan clearly states that you are not to analyze the remains,” he said.

“I’m not analyzing, Lou. Merely looking at the skull to decide how best to remove her.” She instantly recognized her mistake and wanted to bite her tongue.

“Her?” he asked, drawing out the single word, making it an accusation.

“I’d have to be blind not to notice she’s female. Even with that crack in her forehead, you can see how straight it is, and her jaw isn’t even slightly squared. There’s nothing remotely male about her.”

“I suppose next you’re going to say she’s white,” he said, full of self-righteous hostility.

“Not a chance.”

Lou referred to a nine-thousand-year-old skeleton that had been recovered in 1996 near Kennewick, Washington. Kennewick Man became controversial when the examining archaeologist determined that the features of the skull were “caucasoidal.” Archaeologists and other scientists wanted to study the remains further, as it was one of the oldest, most complete skeletons ever recovered in the Americas. Several tribes still fought in court to keep the analysis from happening. The Kennewick Man controversy was why she had to jump through so many hoops to please the tribe now.

“Don’t write down the gender in your notes either,” he said.

She tried to keep her voice cheerful. “I wasn’t planning on it. My notes will be minimal.” The post-Kennewick Man Burial Treatment Plan forbade scientific analysis and required that the soil around the body be collected and given to the tribe. She could not screen the dirt. She was allowed to write the location, type, and style of artifacts found in association with the remains, but couldn’t photograph or even draw them. The artifacts would be reburied with the remains. That was about as minimal as you could get.

She scraped away another layer of dirt and her trowel snagged on a rock. Brushing it off, she expected to see another chunk of fire-cracked basalt, but was surprised to see a caramel-colored chunk of cryptocrystalline silicate. She quickly uncovered it. She had found a tool. After marking the location on her map, she picked it up.

“Here’s the top half of a projectile point,” she said and handed it to Lou, bracing herself for his next complaint.

He didn’t disappoint her. “The break looks fresh,” he said, clearly implying she had broken it. “Where’s the base?”

“I couldn’t have broken a rock that thick with just my trowel. It must’ve broken last week when we were using shovels—before we found the remains. We’ll look in the soils we collected on Thursday to find the other half.”

Lou placed the broken artifact in the bentwood box made by a tribal member to hold the remains and associated artifacts.

Libby wrote as much as she could about the point tip and then resumed digging. Her thoughts returned to the life of this woman, who’d lived and died around the time of the Battle of Hastings. Her teeth didn’t show the usual wear patterns associated with prehistoric burials, especially for women, who tended toward more dental wear than men because they used their teeth to soften hide. Perhaps this was an indication of status, that she didn’t do the same work as the other women in her tribe, or it could be a simple indication that there was natural fluoridation in the water supply. Regardless, that was the type of detail Libby wasn’t allowed to record.

When the surrounding soil had been removed, she lifted the skull and handed it to Lou. He placed the cranium in the bentwood box, closed his eyes, dropped his head, and murmured softly.

She waited in silence, dropping her own eyes respectfully. She would give him as much time as he needed. She knew that most tribal members loathed working with remains of the ancestors. It went against their deepest held beliefs. But the spread of urbanization made it increasingly necessary. Most tribes had to find one or two willing individuals to consult with archaeologists during the removal process. But being willing didn’t mean it was easy or pleasant to oversee burial removal. This was a spiritual issue, which explained Lou’s hostile attitude. It must be difficult for him. Libby’s annoyance evaporated as she witnessed the toll it took on him to go against his belief in the name of progress.

Lou’s face was grim—in no way resembling the cliché of the stoic Indian—when he nodded for her to continue. Back down in the excavation unit, she looked for the first time at the smoothly indented soil where the base of the skull had rested. And she had a problem.

The dirt was the wrong color.

She reached down and touched the yellow sandy-silt, sifting a tiny amount between her gloved fingers. The soil should be the same rich, dark brown floodplain silt she’d been digging through, but this looked more like the fill dirt that had been imported to the site in 1984.

No. Not just more like.
Exactly
like the modern fill.