Skorpio (3 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

"Sand Storm"

The sun woke them. The sun and the wind. Because they were surrounded by abutments, it was past ten before the sun struck Curt in the face. He groaned, wiped a hand across his eyes and reached for his sunglasses. The wind was out of the east playing the crown like a flute. The clefts emitted dissonance as the wind ripped through. Sand flew.

Curt splashed water in his face from the canteen, took a healthy swig and shook Ronnie awake.

"Wha--?"

"Get up. Wind's picking up."

Curt stood and looked over the stones to the east. A roiling brown wall concealed the mountains. It filled the sky until it tapered off in a pale yellow.

"Fuck," Curt said. "Sand storm coming."

"What?" Ronnie said getting to his knees and unsteadily to his feet. He looked over the wall and turned away at once blinking and rubbing his face. "Ow."

"Yeah. It's a sand storm! We'd better get to the bus."

They gathered their things, rolling the sleeping bags sloppily, hanging backpacks and canteens around their necks, and scrambled down the pipe to the desert floor on the west side of the crown where they were shielded from the brunt of the wind. The bus was at six, shielded by the outward leaning sandstone shelf.

Ronnie paused to piss. "Fuck, man I'm still tripping."

Curt stared at the rock. Tiny whorls of gray/green lichen rotated in spiral nebulae. They walked around the base, drew open the side door and threw in their stuff. They got in the van. Ronnie was first to pop the red and white Igloo and pull out a slab of cheddar wrapped in cellophane. Curt found a loaf of California sourdough they'd bought two days ago and tore off a chunk. Next they hit the jerky.

Twenty minutes later the boys belched, satisfied. The wind had picked up and even here behind the crown pinpricks of sand peppered the bus. The push-out vents howled when the wind hit the right resonance. A fine grit entered through the open windows but even in the shade it was hot and neither was eager to close the windows.

Curt grabbed a handful of Arby's napkins and opened his door. "Roll up a doobie. I gotta take a dump."

He let himself out and looked for a place out of the wind. Underneath the shelf was best. He duck-walked back and looked around for a pair of rocks on which to crouch, eyes glossing over a peculiar pattern in the stone. Then back.

Curt couldn't believe it. There were pictographs under the stone. They were hard to make out due to age and shade but when he got close they were plain as day. A cluster of conquistadors in their distinctive peaked caps riding horses. The lead conquistador held a curved saber overhead. Two feet away crouched behind a peculiar rock formation stood an Indian firing an arrow. The Indian seemed like a giant compared to the tiny Spaniards but perhaps that was due to perspective. Yet the Spaniards were drawn as if moving right to left in the middle distance--not coming toward the Indian.

Perhaps it was symbolic.

Midway between them, a wagon wheel.

Curt found a different place then returned to the bus.

He opened the door. "Hey man! Get your camera and follow me. You've got to see this."

Ronnie looked up from his reefer works spread on a shopper, carefully finished the doobie and set it in the ashtray. He grabbed the Nikon.

"What's up?"

Curt led him under the ledge and showed him the pictographs.

"Wow," Ronnie said focusing. He took pictures at a low exposure to take advantage of the limited light. "Surprised they’re not defaced or something."

"Yeah, well you know with the wind around here man, the sand could have covered them up."

"It's gonna cover us up if we don't get back in the bus."

The desert plowed through them. Sand began to accumulate beneath the ledge due to back draft. They got in the bus. Ronnie pulled the doobie from the ashtray and lit up. Soon they were mellow.

"What about that old woman, man?" Ronnie said. "I hope she isn't out in this."

"For all we know she lives nearby. Walked there."

"Lives nearby where? There's nothing on the map."

"Ronnie. You're not going to obsess about that old woman, are you? Look outside. It's fucking opaque."

Visibility was maybe ten feet. The desert was moving west. A choking cloud of dust enveloped the crown leaving a bubble of slightly dense air in its lee. Sand flew into the bus through the open windows and at last the boys cranked them closed leaving only the rear flaps open. Their gear was covered in grit.

"Fuck! What if we get covered with a fucking dune or something?" Ronnie said.

"We got shovels, dude. Remember? For digging up shards and shit?"

Ronnie thought about Terry, his svelte blond girlfriend. She'd wanted him to go to Playa del Carmen this summer. He closed his eyes and pictured turquoise pools beneath swaying palm trees, surf rolling in off the Caribbean. He'd never been to Mexico. They would have been a mere day trip from the pyramids and Tulum, the fabled Mayan outpost on the sea.

The bus began to rock on its springs.

"Man that wind is strooong!" Curt said. "Grab me one of those sodas, wouldja?"

Ronnie turned in his seat and stretched for the cooler. A three inch scorpion the color of discarded skin dropped on his wrist.

"YAHHH!" Ronnie jerked his back so hard it struck the windshield. Curt twisted in his seat, a spear of anxiety rising from his shades.

"What?"

"A fucking scorpion just dropped on my hand!"

Curt half-turned and put one knee on the seat. "What? Where?"

Fearfully they surveyed the jumble of rubble that filled the bus' interior. No way would they know if the scorpion were inside. The junk could be hiding a dozen scorpions.

"Fuck," Curt said. "What do we do?"

"We gotta get it outta here, man, or we can't stay in here."

"Aren't they supposed to be frightened of people? Maybe it'll just hide and leave us alone."

Ronnie looked up hopefully. A scorpion crawled from between the folds of a sleeping bag and climbed to the top raising its tail in victory. Sir Edmund Hillary. This one was orange.

"That's not the same scorpion," Ronnie said.

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

Now there was no question. They had to clear the bus of scorpions or they were fucked.

"Get that Off! out of the glove compartment," Curt said.

Ronnie retrieved the orange and blue aerosol can. He read the directions. It said nothing about scorpions. It wasn't a poison--it was a repellant. But he couldn't think of a better idea.

Curt picked up a pair of two foot barbecue prongs. "Okay. I'll lift the shit with these and shake it out. You blast it with the Off!"

Ronnie aimed the aerosol at the red scorp, still posing on its hill, and let fly. The scorpion scrambled off the mound, tried to make the seams but Ronnie was right there dousing it. It struggled feebly against the side door. Ronnie opened the door and used his foot to shove the arachnid out. He followed it out. It would be easier to avoid them out here than in there.

Curt followed. They faced the interior. Curt used the barbecue tongs to drag his sleeping bag from the bus. It was light--made of nylon and filled with down. He whisked it away.

"Fuck it. We'll just leave 'em."

He extracted Ronnie's and did likewise. The interior was still filled with fast food wrappers, magazines, maps, zip-locs, backpacks, shoes and other bric-brac but at least they could clear a space to stand.

Something heavy hit the windshield with a crack. Both boys heads swiveled in unison.

"What the fuck was that?" Ronnie said.

Curt got down on his haunches and peered beneath the bus. Sand had built up around the perimeter and he couldn't make anything out.

Another report, this one unmistakable.

"That's a fucking rock!" Curt declared.

"Come on, man. No way the wind is hurling rocks."

Curt looked at Ronnie with an expression close to panic. "There's somebody out there," he said so softly his voice was drowned by the wind.

Ronnie caught the vibe. They leaped back into the bus and shut the door. Curt went for his White Stag bowie. Ronnie picked up the tire iron, which floated around the back with everything else.

Curt had wanted to bring guns but Ronnie talked him out of it. They froze, waiting for the next rock. The wind turned the crown into a madman's pipe organ. The bus howled and whistled. Ronnie thought about shutting the back vents but was afraid to move. For long minutes nothing happened.

Could they have been mistaken? Could it have been something else?

"Maybe they fell off the ledge," Curt said.

A shadow fell across the windshield. A mailed fist punched through the glass and uncoiled. Each finger was a scorpion's tail. The hand extended and seized Curt by the throat.

***

CHAPTER FIVE

"The Collection"

Vaughan Beadles beamed at his students on the last day of the semester. The finals were over, the grades issued, the i's dotted and the t's crossed. They were a bright, resourceful bunch destined to do great things. Some in anthropology, which he taught, and some in completely unrelated fields. At six foot one with wavy dark hair, Beadles did not resemble a stereotypical university professor. More like a runner, or a boxer. He wore a wine and green Hawaiian shirt over creased Dockers and the tan of an outdoorsman.

"Why did the Mayans disappear? Basic sanitation, or the lack thereof. That's my guess."

Rob Whitfield, one of his best students, raised his hand. Beadles recognized the bookish young man in wire-rimmed glasses. "Rob?"

"What about the possibility they were conquered and absorbed into a more warlike culture, like the Toltecs?"

"If you can prove that, you'll be halfway to your Phd. And on that note, I wish you all success with your finals and I'll see you next semester."

The 126 students in Emory Lecture Hall gave him a standing ovation. Beadles was an extrovert and easy to like. He invited favorite students to go biking with him on weekends on the many bike trails in and around Creighton University, in the heart of sylvan Creighton, IL. CU was a private liberal arts school with outstanding anthropology and engineering schools.

A half dozen students gathered at the foot of the stage to speak with Beadles including two co-eds who might arouse suspicion in a less than trusting wife. Like Betty. Betty was a bombshell and she knew it. The whole faculty knew it. A gorgeous wife could be an asset or a detriment in academia depending on the character of one's colleagues. Thus far Betty had been an asset.

Beadles chatted with one of the co-eds, a brunette stunner from Wyoming. She left no doubt about her availability. Beadles waved his wedding ring in her face until she got the hint.

Ten minutes later only Whitfield remained.

"What's up, Rob?" Beadles said.

"Hey Professor, can I take a look at the collection?"

Beadles swung his backpack over his shoulder and headed up the aisle. "What collection?"

Whitfield scampered after. "Come on, Professor! Everybody knows you've taken possession of the Lost Tribe collection! There was an article in
National Geo
about it."

"'The Great Lost Azuma Collection.' It was never lost. Mr. Hayes knew about the collection since he was six years old. Kept it secret his whole life, a family tradition, I gather. The only reason he turned it over to Creighton was because his granddaughter came here on a basketball scholarship. She's a senior now."

"Yeah. Roberta Hayes. She's phenomenal. I've seen her play."

"Bright girl. I gave her an 'A' last year."

"Wow. You know what that means, Prof? It means you're the reason that rancher chose Creighton!"

They had left the Emory Building and walked across the quad, criss-crossed with pathways and students, shaded by centuries old oak and elm. They headed diagonally across the quad toward Merrill Hall where the collection was kept under lock and key.

The University had scheduled a press conference for next Friday, one week from today, to announce the acquisition. Beadles would formally take charge. Six years ago Beadles had written
In the Footprints of Ghosts
, an inquiry into the existence of a heretofore unknown tribe of the Anaszi, a loose configuration encompassing numerous Indians who roamed the Southwest prior to the Navajo and Hopi. It had been a critical and popular success and had unleashed an undertow of fear and loathing among his colleagues that flowed to this day.

Beadles recalled Sayres' Law, "Academic politics is the most vicious and bitter because the stakes are so low."

Particularly apt re: Head of Anthropology Herr Professor Joel Liggett with whom Beadles was expected to celebrate tomorrow night.

Merrill Hall was a four story red brick Victorian monster with turrets at the corners. It had previously been an armory. It now housed the Museum and various collections. It had been retrofitted with cable, sprinklers and New Age light bulbs but the main doors were still iron and looked capable of withstanding the Crusades.
It was a warm day in early June but the foot-thick walls kept the high-ceilinged interior cool. They entered the vast foyer and inhaled the smell of centuries. Dust, graphite, a hint of sage. The tile floor was checkerboard. Framed black and white photographs of pioneers, Indians, famous persons lined the corridor cutting through the heart of the building. They passed the Lecture Hall and Library, went through a set of double doors and down a concrete stairwell to the basement.

The basement floor was gray painted concrete. Flourescent bulbs in aluminum hoods lit the way past several locked doors to a metal door marked B-12. Video cams watched the hall discreetly from the corners. Beadles removed a set of keys from his pocket and was about to insert one when the door swung inward.

A stout Native American, long gray hair tied in a ponytail wearing a blue workshirt and Dickey's gray work pants stepped aside. His coppery face was as lined as old gloves.

"Professor," he croaked.

"Hello, Anatole," Beadles said entering the long, low-ceilinged chamber followed by Whitfield. A series of rectangular tables covered with sheets of brown paper held the new collection. Pottery, woven goods, shaped stones and flint arrowheads seemed to stretch to the end of the room. It smelled like a dig, like fresh-turned earth with a hint of sage.

"Anatole, Rob Whitfield. Rob, Anatole Cerveros. Anatole's been a custodian here for, what, fifteen years?"

"Sixteen," the old Indian replied. "But who's counting."

"We're just going to take a look. If you want to leave I'll lock up."

Cerveros shut the door. "Gotta stay, Professor. Them's the rules."

Beadles was surprised. He was not yet in charge of the collection but he assumed he was in the loop. "What rules?"

"Professor Liggett."

"I see." He hoped Whitfield hadn't seen him grimace. He shouldn't let the little toad get to him. Joel Liggett. Even his name was chinless.

"Don't touch anything," Beadles said.

The room was well lit with flourescents. Whitfield stared down at the first table.

"Holy shit. Look at the fluting on this arrowhead, Professor."

Beadles joined him and looked at the beautifully shaped shard sitting on a sheet of white paper. "It's certainly unique. I wonder how they worked that squiggle."

"Why do you call them the Azuma?"

"It's as close as I can get to a translation of the petroglyphs discovered in 1938 in Corkindale, Arizona. Of course this is assuming a cultural basis in ancient Pueblo. That one site was the foundation for most of my research. The rest is from a 16th century Spanish diary."

Beadles turned toward the janitor. "What do you think of all this stuff, Anatole?"

The old Indian shrugged and crossed his arms. "They're all ancestors far as I'm concerned."

"You're Navajo, aren't you?"

"That's right."

"You ever hear of the Azuma?"

Shrug. "My father and grandfather told me and my brothers and sisters all sorts of stories when I was growing up. Most of them were bullshit."

Whitfield's scream split the air like a cleaver. A pot fell to the concrete floor and shattered with a sharp report. Cerveros and Beadles whirled in shock to see the undergrad dancing away from the table frantically shaking his arm. A pale scorpion dropped and skittered along the baseboards.

Beadles raced around the table to his student whose back was against the wall staring in horror at a tiny red dot on his wrist.

"I told you not to touch anything!" Beadles said grabbing the wrist.

"I didn't! It leaped out of the fucking pot! It stung me! Am I going to die?"

"Don't be absurd. Scorpion stings are rarely fatal for adults. Come on. Let's get you to the ER."

As Beadles led the stunned and shocked Whitfield through the door he saw that Cerveros' face had blanched almost white.

***