Skorpio (7 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Dear Vaughan"

Bail was set at fifty thousand dollars. Beadles emptied his bank account and walked free. Using Ruby's cell he phoned Betty and went straight to voice mail.

"Miss you, babe. I'll be home shortly."

A talon of concern sunk into his neck. Betty should have been there to pick him up. Her folks were watching Lars, weren't they? Ruby offered Beadles a ride home.

"So what's the story, Professor? What else is lurking out there aside from the shoplifting charge?"

Beadles ran a hand through his hair, which felt both greasy and gritty. "I got busted for grass in college. I did community service and it was supposedly expunged."

"Holding or selling?"

Beadles stared out the window. "Selling. A goddamned ounce to some fuckin' weasel who turned out to be a police informant."

"How'd you get out of it?"

"I had good grades. It was a first offense. My dad had some clout."

They traveled south on Raymond Road. Shops dwindled to schools and then neighborhoods. Ruby turned west onto Maple St.

"Your folks still alive?"

"Dad passed away four years ago. He was seventy-eight. Mom lives in a retirement community in Naples. I was a late baby."

"Siblings?"

"None that I know of, Phil! No. They were pretty damned surprised when I came along."

"Okay here's the deal. This manslaughter charge is bullshit. It's going away. They're left with grand larceny, which is debatable, and violating university policy. A case could be made that the university itself is liable for not insuring the collection did not contain noxious pests.

"I doubt you'll serve any jail time."

"Great. I'll lose my fucking job."

"Probably."

"Did you talk to the maintenance supervisor? Anatole Cerveros?"

"I was told Cerveros walked off his job on Friday and hasn't been heard from since."

A brain freeze descended on Beadles' skull.

He looked out the window. A little boy menaced his GI Joe dolls with a plastic scimitar. Beadles shook it off. Anatole was an Indian. There was no point trying to understand them.

So much for anthropology.

Beadles was glad his father wasn't around to see this. But some malicious bitch at The Hamlets was bound to find out and spread the news. He faced a grim choice--let his mother Ethyl find out from malicious bitches or tell her himself. The early signs of Alzheimer's had appeared and the doctors warned him what to expect. He'd been planning a July trip but now he had to see.

Beadles vowed to phone his mother.

They pulled up in front of the house. No police tape. No Ford or the folks' Buick either. Beadles got a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Have you been in touch with Betty?"

"No I have not. Haven't you spoken to her?"

"Not today."

Ruby shut the engine off. "Would you like me to come into the house with you?"

"I'm fine."

"Well okay. I'll let you know as soon as the PI comes up with anything about the Byrd girl."

"Oh god, the PI. What's his name?"

"Rolf Panny." Ruby dipped his fingers into his inside jacket pocket and produced a card.

Beadles took it and got out of the car. "Thanks for the lift, counsellor."

"I'll be in touch," Ruby said.

Beadles sensed neighbors' eyes as he walked up his steps. Certainly the Carsons across the street, whose twelve-year-old son Beadles had caught trying to take his bike one night when he'd accidentally left the garage door open. Beadles let the kid go with a warning but he was the type of pasty-faced little loser who would poison the whole neighborhood if he could.

Beadles resisted the impulse to turn and look. He glanced up and down the block. Couple small children playing with a puppy four houses down. A couple cars. He removed his keys, unlocked the door and went inside.

The house was empty. And there it was. A white envelope on the dark dining room table. Betty wouldn't just leave a note. No. It had to come in a fine linen envelope. He opened it up.

Dear Vaughan:

I've accepted Mom and Pop's offer to stay with them in Elgin until you get this thing under control. You know I love you and I have always supported you but I feel that Lars and I would only be a distraction to you during this difficult time.

I will call you tonight after we have settled in.

Talk soon.

Love,

Betty

So much unsaid. Betty was about to become a vice president at Jackson Loan and Guaranty, an extremely conservative organization. Was it possible she was laying the groundwork for a divorce?

Of course it was possible. Betty had always looked out for Number One. As long as the good times lasted she would cling to the last drop but once the bank account was emptied she was outta there. She wasn't about to support some unemployable academic thief.

It was crazy! Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad. Beadles was furious all right. Furious at his faithless bitch of a wife. Furious at Liggett and the university. Finally, he was furious with himself. He'd flown too close to the sun. He never should have tweaked Liggett or courted that reality show. The alumni considered it vulgar.

He wanted a shower and a drink. He went to the basement door and turned on the lights. He went downstairs. The room had been turned upside-down and his hard-drive was missing. He sat in the old kitchen chair in front of his desk, opened the center drawer and reached all the way to the back. His hand closed around the velvet bag and felt a hard disc inside.

A tremendous relief flooded through him, a cleansing rain. At least this larceny had escaped notice. He pulled it out and shook the medallion into his palm. Well fuck you, Creighton! And fuck you too Professah Liggett, you sea slug! This was the least the university owed him.

Byrd, Byrd, Byrd. He dug around in his files until he found copies of last year's essays, which counted for thirty percent of the student's grade. Over 300 essays caused the file to bulge like an accordion. He flipped through them one by one until he found Byrd's essay. "Did Ancient Aliens Populate the Americas?"

He'd given her a 'F.'

Upstairs he heard the kitchen phone ringing.

***

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Character"

They'd kept the land line because it went with the house. Betty predicted the Chicoms were going to explode a huge electromagnetic pulse over the continent and fry all the satellites and wireless systems. That's why she kept vinly LPs as well.

Vaughan took the stairs two at a time and scooped up the antique Bakelite receiver.

"Betty?"

"Hello, Vaughan," Betty said, voice oozing concern. "How are you?"

"I stink but I'm outta jail. When you coming back?"

"I think I made that clear in my letter, Vaughan. Not until you have this under control."

"Ruby says I'll probably just have to pay a fine."

"Vaughan, I don't see any way the university can keep you on after this."

He eyed a block of butcher's knives. "Come on, Betty. You're my wife."

"Vaughan, there are trust issues."

"Come on! You know I haven't looked at another woman since that one incident! How many times do I have to apologize?"

He felt her cover her phone and hunch in a corner of her parent's house as she lowered her voice. "I'm not going to argue with you. This isn't about your affair." With just the smallest emphasis. "It's about character. I thought you'd changed."

"You don't believe I stole that pot, do you?"

The pause was Brobdingnagian.

"Please just settle this as quickly as possible," she said and hung up.

Beadles clutched the receiver with white knuckles and made a low growling sound in the back of his throat. He replaced the receiver and poured himself four fingers of Macallan and added some crushed ice from the fridge. Carrying his drink he went down the hall into the master bedroom.

Bitch couldn't even make the bed. He went into the bathroom, stripped, and stood under a hot shower for ten minutes. He drank two fingers, toweled himself off and put on clean jeans and a Sturgis T-shirt. Thought about ordering out but didn't want some kid gawking at him as he forked over the pizza.

Beadles returned to the kitchen and poked around in the fridge. He found some frozen lasagna and popped it in the microwave. In a wooden chair with his feet up on the kitchen table he finished the Scotch.

That hard drive was going to kill him. Why would a guy with a wife like Betty even dowload all that porn?

Most of his research was on the hard drive. And the laptop, which they had taken as well. It was also up in the Cloud due to his file saving program. He could access it from other computers.

He got up to get more Scotch and nearly fell on his face, barely catching himself on the table.

"Whoah there, pardner," he muttered, knowing he'd poured a shitload of Scotch into an empty stomach. Well he wasn't going anywhere. He was in no condition to pull his Bullitt Mustang out of the garage and add to his woes. He'd probably have to sell it to pay his legal fees.

Carefully Beadles edged along the counter, grabbed the Scotch and returned to his seat while the lasagna pirouetted in the microwave. Time to think about a new career.

"You want fries with that?" he said. Just trying it out. If the university fired him for cause they were still required to pay three months' salary.

If he could prove someone planted that pot, he could sue them. But if it was only Stephanie Byrd there would be nothing to collect. If, on the other hand, it had been Professor Liggett, he could sue the university.

For millions.

Enough to fund an expedition to find the Azuma stronghold, the sweetest vindication of them all.

"This is what I do," he said to the room.

The microwave dinged. He let it sit.

He needed to prove his thesis. It was as simple as that. He'd been carrying it with him since undergrad days, since he first stumbled upon an obscure 16th century Spanish text. The diary had allegedly been discovered by a Benedictine monk in a mountain cave in Arizona in the 19th century. He turned it over to the Vatican which in turn sent it to the library in Seville.

The Diary began with Don Felipe's birth and upbringing in a small town in Catalonia to his volunteering to travel to the New Land.

Beadles learned of Don Felipe Balmora's diary at the New York Public Library which had one of two known print copies, the other in a museum in Seville. In 1894, a volunteer polymath named Edgar Saucier translated Balmora's diary and issued twelve leather-bound copies. Eleven disappeared without a trace. The New York Public Library had the twelfth.

***

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Don Felipe Balmora"

May 5, 1540. Under glorious blue skies and through the grace of God Almighty who shines His Fortune upon us today we set sail from Compostela in New Spain in four stout caravels in search of the Seven Cities of Cibola under the guidance of Governor Coronado.

May 19. Blessed with Divine Guidance and good winds we have made landfall. All our horses and men survived, thanks be to Almighty God. Governor Coronado has made friends with the local Indians who are called Zuni.

May 20. Governor Coronado has agreed to Captain Lopez deGama's request for a small expedition to cut into the mountains northeast of us to search for the Seven Cities of Cibola. Captain deGama has chosen me to be his lieutenant. We leave in the morning. I pray to God Almighty that I may perform my duties to His satisfaction, and to the satisfaction of Captain DeGama and our King.

May 27. By the Grace of God Almighty, we have left behind the friendly Zuni and turned away from the river. The Indians run in fear from us. We must present a very strange breed to them--they have never seen horses before and some of them believe man and beast to be one. We have traversed twenty-five miles of the most desolate terrain, filled with poisonous vipers that will announce their imminent attack by rattling a series of calcified rings surrounding their tails. These are called rattlesnakes. One such viper bit Paulo Vatine's horse which went mad, broke its leg and had to be put down. Captain deGama sent Vatine back on foot. We pray for our brother's safe return.

There are also venomous arachnids similar to those found throughout the Holy Land. There is nothing in this dessicated land, it seems, that does not bite, sting, or poison you to death.

I would write more often but long days in the saddle and the work of finding water and setting camp is exhausting. A rare storm blew over this afternoon, bringing much needed water into gulches and arroyos, thanks to God Almighty.

May 28. We have entered an eerie landscape. Fierce winds tear down hills in one place and deposit them in another. The Indians call these "walking hills." We see mountains in the distance and many shimmering mirages but there is no water to be found. Captain deGama scans the skies with his glass upon the hour searching for buzzards or a speck of green. He is a skilled cartographer and makes extensive notes in a leather portfolio, fixing landmarks by the light of the sun or with his sextant. It his desire to present Our Most Holy Father in Rome as well as King Philip with a map of this previously unknown land.

At night we hear strange noises from the arroyos that cover the earth like a fisherman's net, but never a drop to be found. The men talk fearfully of devils and demons. Father Dominguez is sorely-tried and himself given to melancholy. He seems to have lost enthusiasm for blessings, prayer and consultation. I fear the Father may not last long without food and water and will be the first among us to go.

My thoughts are never far from God Almighty and His Infinite Mercy.

May 29. Father Dominguez fell off his horse. When we got to him he was dead. May God have mercy on his soul. We buried him beneath rocks and made a cross from driftwood left from long ago flood. I now carry the Father's Bible in my saddlebags. We are reduced to eating snakes.

May 30. God in His Infinite Mercy has blessed us with a drenching downpour. We were able to fill all the canteens and satisfy the horses. Indeed, they had to be restrained lest they burst their bellies. Captain deGama has ordered us to rest for the day. In the morning we will head for an odd rock formation he spotted in his glass.

May 31. We covered 18 miles today and are no nearer to the butte upon which Captain deGama has set his sights. At night we hear the call of coyotes and other beasts we are at pains to identify. It is up to me now to lead the men in evening vespers, those who are interested. I did not think that at the tender age of seventeen I would be called upon to minister to these hardened warriors, all so much older than me, but if it is God's Will so be it. May His Mercy continue to shine on us.

June 1. Oh Horrible! Oh Demon from the darkest pit of hell! It is our brother in arms Paul Vatine whom we found spread-eagled in the sun, mutilated in the most horrible way! His blood was fresh! What manner of fiend has tracked us through this fearful land keeping Paulo alive until such time as they could torment him in the most vile manner, to taunt us, to warn us, to wish us dead! Captain deGama has ordered 3 men to stand guard throughout the night. May God have Mercy on our Souls.

June 2. We came upon a village of the savages hewn into the walls of a canyon, like certain towns in Portugal. Driven by a Righteous Fury of Vengeance we attacked with musket and halberd, showing no mercy. We killed twenty-seven that day ncluding eight children and nine women. Captain deGama showed the survivors no mercy, as they had shown none to Brother Paul. Surely God in His Merciful Wisdom guided us in this endeavour for hidden among the pots in one of the cliff dwellings was twelve pounds of gold in the form of heathen images.

June 5. The Fiend who has been stalking us has showed himself. At noon he stood atop a ridge a mile distant surrounded by lessers of his tribe. He stood for an hour as if deliberately giving each of us a chance to look through the Captain's glass, and so we did. This Fiend is a very tall Indian with long waving hair, broad of shoulder and stout of thigh. He and six or seven warriors are armed with bows and arrows, but stood beyond the reach of our muskets. Oh that we had brought a cannon! Yet no cannon could have made this journey. Captain deGama was prepared to order a cavalry charge were it not for the rough ground. The Fiend taunted us in the most vulgar and obscene manner. He and his tribesmen dance in merriment.

June 6. The Fiend has agreed to a meeting. Through means of sign language, which I understand as well as some Zuni, Captain deGama will advance on foot with only three soldiers and his cavalry sword. Captain deGama has asked that I accompany him for my language skills and to judge for myself whether the Fiend and his tribe represent Satan. The Fiend will bring three of his tribesmen.

The remaining pages had been removed by the Vatican.

***