Sacred Ground (26 page)

Zimmerman turned to Sam. “I thought we were finished here. You gonna let just anyone come in and keep this meeting dragging on?”

Before Sam could speak, another voice intervened softly. “I would like to hear what the young lady has to say.”

Erica looked at the Indian elder. “Thank you, Chief Rivera.”

“I, too, would like to hear what Dr. Tyler has to say,” Jared said with a smile. Erica did not return the smile.

“Very well, Dr. Tyler,” Sam said, not looking happy. “Please proceed, but keep it short.” He made a point of looking at his watch.

She squared her shoulders. “Gentlemen, I have no charts or graphs, no slide show or video, no fancy binders filled with expensive words. All I have is this.” She reached into her bag and brought out a nine-by-eleven manila envelope. Handing it to Mr. Voorhees on her left, she said, “Would you please look at this and then pass it around?”

The others waited— some impatiently, some with interest— while Voorhees opened the envelope and drew out its contents. “Good God!” he blurted, staring in shock at the black-and-white photograph. “Is this a joke?”

“Please pass the picture around, Mr. Voorhees.”

He quickly handed it to the man from the Bureau of Land Management, who took one look and said, “What the hell is this?”

“Erica?” Sam said. “What have you got there? What did you bring?” He held his hand out, but the picture was passed first to Jared, whose shocked reaction matched those of the other two.

“What you are looking at, gentlemen,” Erica said, “is a photograph from the City Morgue. You will find the official stamp on the back. The subject is a Caucasian female in her mid-twenties who was found in a field three days ago, the victim of suspected foul play. Her identity is unknown. She is tagged currently as Jane Doe #38511. The police are trying to find out who she is.”

Erica had considered making copies of the photo, one for each member of the meeting, but then had decided that a lone photo would have more impact, each man having to face it and deal with it, the lone victim being passed around the table without even the company of cloned sisters. The photo was brutal and frightening. The young woman’s eyes were closed, but she did not give the appearance of sleep. She had clearly not slipped from life peacefully; shadows of the struggle she must have suffered haunted her once-beautiful face. Strangulation marks on her throat stood out in savage relief.

Jared handed it to Sam, who barely gave it a glance before thrusting it upon Zimmerman. “Jesus!” the movie producer shouted, and jumped as if Sam had put a snake in his hands.

Erica continued: “This young woman lies naked and exposed on a morgue table. She was once someone’s daughter. Perhaps she was someone’s cherished sister or wife. She deserves to be mourned and remembered.”

“I still say it’s just a pile of bones,” Zimmerman muttered.

“Beneath that flesh, Mr. Zimmerman,” Erica said, pointing to the morgue photo in his hands, “is also a pile of bones, as you put it. That woman is three days dead. The Emerald Hills Woman is two thousand years dead. I fail to see the difference. I propose we submit the Emerald Hills remains to DNA testing for tribal—”

“DNA testing!” Wade Dimarco said. “Do you realize the cost of such a procedure? To the taxpayer, I might add?”

“And how long would it take?” Voorhees the builder groused.

Dimarco, his expression stormy, said, “Sam, you yourself said the project was already a drain. How much more money and time are we going to waste on it?” He turned to Jared. “You said you’ve already made arrangements for reburial of the skeleton, right?”

Jared nodded. “The Confederated Tribes of Southern California wish to assume guardianship of the remains.”

“We have no right to just sweep that woman under the bureaucratic carpet because of a few dollars,” Erica countered. “The historical evidence in the cave indicates that her descendents intended for her to be remembered. Mr. Commissioner” —she turned to Jared as she brought a piece of paper from her purse— “may I read something to you?”

The others made a sound of impatience but Jared gave her the go-ahead.

She read out loud: ” ‘The mission of the Native American Heritage Commission is to provide protection to Native American burials from vandalism and inadvertent destruction; to provide a procedure for the notification of most likely descendants regarding the discovery of Native American human remains and associated grave goods; to bring legal action to prevent severe and irreparable damage to sacred shrines, ceremonial sites, sanctified cemeteries and places of worship on public property; and to maintain an inventory of sacred places.’ This is the mission statement of your own Commission, Mr. Black.”

“I’m familiar with it.”

“I thought you might need to be reminded that your primary objective is to find the most likely descendent. Don’t you think that immediate reburial of the skeleton is in direct contradiction of that goal?”

She lifted the morgue photo, which had made its way back to her. “Gentlemen, let me put it to you this way. Would you prefer that the authorities make no effort to find out who this woman was?” Erica met the eyes of each man at the table. “If she was your wife, Mr. Zimmerman, or your daughter, Mr. Dimarco, or your sister, Sam, wouldn’t you want the authorities to handle her remains with respect and dignity, and do everything in their power to restore her to her family?”

Erica placed her palms flat on the table and leaned forward. “Let me finish my work in the cave. It can’t be much longer. Once DNA testing is approved, we should have at least a tribal identification of the skeleton. And maybe that tribe, whoever they are, have a story in their mythology about a woman who came across the desert from the east. They might even know her name.”

Sam Carter’s small, acute eyes roved Erica’s face, saw the familiar passion and earnestness. He wished he had sent her back to Gaviota and the abalone shells. “You’ll never get approval, Dr. Tyler. What you’re proposing is spending a big chunk of taxpayer money on something the public is going to consider a waste of time and resources.”

“But I plan to get taxpayer support.” Erica reached into her purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping. “This woman has agreed to help.” She sent it around the table until it reached Sam. He scowled when he saw what it was. Sam was familiar with the columnist for the
Los Angeles Times,
a woman who was also the founder and president of the League to Stop Violence Against Women. She was famous for occasionally running a Jane Doe morgue photo in her column with the caption:
Do you know me?

“She has agreed to run a photo of the Emerald Hills Woman,” Erica said.

* * *

Downstairs in the lobby, Jared caught up with her. “Quite a persuasive presentation, Dr. Tyler.”

She turned on him. “Did you really think you would get away with this?”

His mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon?”

“You and your cronies holding a secret little meeting—”

“
My
cronies! What are you talking about? The meeting wasn’t a secret.”

“Then why wasn’t I told about it?”

He gave her a blank look. “I thought you had been. Sam said he informed you of the meeting but that you couldn’t make it.”

The elevator doors opened and Sam Carter, in the company of Zimmerman and Dimarco, stepped out. Erica blocked his path. “What’s going on, Sam? What was that all about?”

He gestured to his companions to go on ahead. “I called the meeting in the interests of the other parties, not that I have to explain myself to you.”

“Damn it, Sam, that was no first reading. You were going to vote today, weren’t you? You violated the standards of the Little Hoover Commission. You met behind closed doors to vote on a decision that is going to affect the public and yet the public was not informed.”

He started to push past her but she stood her ground. “It’s the Dimarcos, isn’t it? What did they promise you? Curatorship of their museum?”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying?”

“When I saw you with the Dimarcos I thought something was up. But you know, I might have let it go if I hadn’t gone into your tent one morning looking for you just as a fax was coming through on your machine. I’m not a snoop, but when I saw that the letter bore the official seal of California, I knew it wasn’t personal and so I felt within my rights to read it. But you know, Sam? The memo was puzzling. It was signed by the Secretary for Resources and it was essentially a letter of permission for you ‘to move on your proposed action.’ Naturally I wondered
what
action. Wasn’t what we were already doing— excavating out the cave— our official action? What more would you be wanting to do?

“That was when I remembered you once telling me that you would like to retire from fieldwork and find a nice office or museum job somewhere. What a coincidence that the Dimarcos should happen to want a museum with their name on it.”

“So you went to the City Morgue and got a picture that was sure to shock.”

“Can you tell me any other way I can fight all of you? We’re going to run the column, Sam. And I’m betting I get public support on my side.”

“Why does it mean so much to you, to the point of risking your job, your career?”

“Because once, years ago, I was as vulnerable as the Emerald Hills Woman is. I was going to be steamrollered over just as she is. I was a case number, Sam; they didn’t even refer to me by my name. I was about to be dropped through the cracks of a heartless and soulless child welfare system when a stranger stepped in and stood up for my rights. I vowed that someday I would repay the favor by doing the same for someone else. Sam, one way or another I am going to do this. If I have to go to Washington and lobby the United States Congress, I am going to succeed.”

* * *

“Despite the objections of local Indian tribes,” came the newscaster’s voice over the car radio, “the federal government said yesterday that DNA testing of the Emerald Hills skeleton will go forward. The decision follows days of discussions involving representatives from Southern California tribes and officials from the Department of the Interior, and the Department of Justice, as well as the California State Native American Heritage Commission. Experts on ancient DNA analysis have pointed out that the procedures will be complex and time-consuming and may not provide conclusive data for determining the skeleton’s tribal identity. The Confederated Tribes of Southern California have criticized the decision and continue to demand that the bones be reburied.”

Jared clicked the car radio into silence. He was just getting back to Topanga after five days in Sacramento, where he had attended an emergency session of the Native American Heritage Commission. The session had been called because Coyote and his Red Panthers, protesting the continued excavation of the cave, had staged a “human landslide” on the Pacific Coast Highway, backing traffic up for miles. They swore to escalate their fight until the cave of their ancestor was sealed. Sam Carter had also been at the emergency meeting— Sam had changed his tack, as had the Dimarcos, calling for the archaeologists to be allowed to continue working in the cave until the most likely descendant could be found. The Dimarcos claimed their change of heart had nothing to do with the negative press and pressure from feminist groups that had resulted from Erica’s crusade to keep the project going. The morgue photo, printed in the
Los Angeles Times
alongside a photo of the Emerald Hills skeleton, had made its intended point.

As Jared got out of his car something caught his eye— a flash of crimson and yellow through the trees. An Asian tiger embroidered on a jacket.

He frowned. What was Coyote doing back here? A court order had been issued keeping him and his group away. As Jared watched him, he realized Charlie’s actions were furtive, sneaky. The giant kept looking over his shoulder in the direction of the cave. Then Jared saw him toss something into the back of a pickup truck.

“Hey—” Jared began.

But Charlie was behind the wheel and speeding out of the parking lot in a shower of dirt and dust.

Jared started off toward the cave, his steps going faster until suddenly he was running. Every instinct told him Charlie had been up to no good and that whoever was in the cave was in danger.

* * *

“It resembles sacred fetishes carried by medicine men and women. A very powerful object,” Erica explained to Luke as they knelt at the excavation pit, examining the small black stone they had found tucked inside a leather pouch.

“It looks very old,” Luke said. “Two, maybe three hundred years.”

“Yes, but strangely we found it on the same level as the American one-cent coin, which means this spirit-stone can only have been left here in or after 1814. Which is to say” —she lifted her eyes to meet Luke’s— “
after
the founding of Los Angeles, an indication that this tribe was still practicing its rituals in the first part of the nineteenth century.”

“Erica?
Erica!
”

She turned toward the cave entrance. “Was that Jared?”

“Sounded like him. Frantic, too.”

Erica shot to her feet and dashed the dirt off her jeans. Jared was back from Sacramento! Once he had convinced her that he hadn’t been in on any secret plot with Sam and that he had honestly thought she knew about the meeting in Century City, Erica was back on her emotional roller coaster. As she followed Luke toward the entrance to the cave, eager to hear Jared’s news, to see his smile, to share space with him, to relish the secret thrill his nearness sparked, the air rocked with a sudden, deafening
bang.
A shock wave slammed into Erica, knocking her off her feet. Then came a tremendous roar and the cave shook and trembled as dirt and rocks came crashing down.

“Luke!” she screamed.

The electricity went out, plunging the cave into unearthly darkness. The air suddenly filled with dust. On her hands and knees, Erica crawled blindly in the dark. “Luke?” she said, coughing.

She stretched her eyes wide, but there was not even a pinpoint of light. She had never known such utter blackness. She crept cautiously forward, one hand out, groping at air. Finally, she met a rock wall where there shouldn’t be one. She listened. Dust continued to sift down from the ceiling. She blindly explored the blockage. More rocks came tumbling down.