wrongful death suit was a constant drain on his resources.
No one would hire him and he'd become notorious. The university claimed he'd falsified his job application and credentials. The Cherokee Nation disavowed any knowledge of his membership.
He made a few calls. His old grad school prof had died last year from a stroke. Beadles hadn't even sent the family a letter of condolence. He called a few other academic pals but each had multiple excuses. Times were tough. They were thinking of cutting the anthro department. They were laying people off. Too many qualified candidates who hadn't been accused of larceny and manslaughter.
Last year Lucasfilm flew him out for an interview. They wanted his take on a sci fi fantasy. Avatar meets Alien . The lawyers soaked up his fee like the Gobi Desert.
Finally there was only one thing left to do.
Find Anatole.
Beadles planned his trip as carefully as a space launch. He filled the old Jeep with camping gear, research materials, batteries. He would drive through Permission on the way. The night before he left he had that dream again, with the glare. Only this time the everywhere-glare disappeared, as if a curtain had been drawn, leaving the after-image of a rock butte burning red on his retina. As a child he had suffered night terrors in which he found himself trapped in some ancient cliff dwelling--walls the look and texture of reptiles that oozed the oil of age, death, dust, destruction. The idea that something so old existed was in itself terrifying. It continued to haunt him until well into his teens.
It was partly as an attempt to come to grips with his terror that he became an anthropologist. The way so many messed up people go into psychotherapy.
He left Creighton on a Sunday morning, hit the I-70 and got all the way to Salina before checking into a Best Western. He'd thought about camping at KOA to save money but that was already thinking like a loser.
All he had to do was prove the Azuma were real, find the center of their universe and he could write his own ticket. The book deals, the movie deals. Now that he'd had a taste of pop success he wanted more. There was nothing like it. Certainly not the staid and constricted academic world.
Beadles thought of himself as a serious scholar with a pop flair and a sense of humor. He'd begun making notes in a journal on the book he planned to write. He canceled all his credit cards but one on which he put his internet service.
Anasazi referred to ancient Indians who lived in the "four corners" region, where Utah, Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico meet. The Anasazi were eventually displaced by the Pueblo, Hopi, Navajo and Zuni. Scarce resources, especially water, led to war and some tribes relocated to remote areas to avoid all conflict. In the nineties, a dig outside Dolores, Colorado produced twenty-four skeletons which bore the unmistakeable mark of cannibalism.
The Anasazi were not the only Native American tribes thought to practice cannibalism. Far to the north and one thousand years ago the Aztalan Indians settled in Southern Wisconsin, built pyramids and ate their neighbors. In all fairness there was evidence of cannibalism among the Jamestown settlers too.
Beadles used his laptop to stay in touch with people and organizations he thought could help him in his search. Unfortunately, Permission, CO was now an official Ghost Town. No one ran the Historical Society. The county had the town listed on Craig's List as a potential tourist attraction and casino. No takers so far.
Beadles was cagey about his internet persona and took pains to disguise himself, often working through aliases. Anthropology was a little like international treasure hunting. It was difficult to keep a big hunt under wraps and if you weren't careful you'd find a dozen parties nipping at your heels either trying to beat you to it or suing you. Although well known in anthro circles, Beadles had already begun downsizing his social media presence hoping to
No one would hire him and he'd become notorious. The university claimed he'd falsified his job application and credentials. The Cherokee Nation disavowed any knowledge of his membership.
He made a few calls. His old grad school prof had died last year from a stroke. Beadles hadn't even sent the family a letter of condolence. He called a few other academic pals but each had multiple excuses. Times were tough. They were thinking of cutting the anthro department. They were laying people off. Too many qualified candidates who hadn't been accused of larceny and manslaughter.
Last year Lucasfilm flew him out for an interview. They wanted his take on a sci fi fantasy. Avatar meets Alien . The lawyers soaked up his fee like the Gobi Desert.
Finally there was only one thing left to do.
Find Anatole.
Beadles planned his trip as carefully as a space launch. He filled the old Jeep with camping gear, research materials, batteries. He would drive through Permission on the way. The night before he left he had that dream again, with the glare. Only this time the everywhere-glare disappeared, as if a curtain had been drawn, leaving the after-image of a rock butte burning red on his retina. As a child he had suffered night terrors in which he found himself trapped in some ancient cliff dwelling--walls the look and texture of reptiles that oozed the oil of age, death, dust, destruction. The idea that something so old existed was in itself terrifying. It continued to haunt him until well into his teens.
It was partly as an attempt to come to grips with his terror that he became an anthropologist. The way so many messed up people go into psychotherapy.
He left Creighton on a Sunday morning, hit the I-70 and got all the way to Salina before checking into a Best Western. He'd thought about camping at KOA to save money but that was already thinking like a loser.
All he had to do was prove the Azuma were real, find the center of their universe and he could write his own ticket. The book deals, the movie deals. Now that he'd had a taste of pop success he wanted more. There was nothing like it. Certainly not the staid and constricted academic world.
Beadles thought of himself as a serious scholar with a pop flair and a sense of humor. He'd begun making notes in a journal on the book he planned to write. He canceled all his credit cards but one on which he put his internet service.
Anasazi referred to ancient Indians who lived in the "four corners" region, where Utah, Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico meet. The Anasazi were eventually displaced by the Pueblo, Hopi, Navajo and Zuni. Scarce resources, especially water, led to war and some tribes relocated to remote areas to avoid all conflict. In the nineties, a dig outside Dolores, Colorado produced twenty-four skeletons which bore the unmistakeable mark of cannibalism.
The Anasazi were not the only Native American tribes thought to practice cannibalism. Far to the north and one thousand years ago the Aztalan Indians settled in Southern Wisconsin, built pyramids and ate their neighbors. In all fairness there was evidence of cannibalism among the Jamestown settlers too.
Beadles used his laptop to stay in touch with people and organizations he thought could help him in his search. Unfortunately, Permission, CO was now an official Ghost Town. No one ran the Historical Society. The county had the town listed on Craig's List as a potential tourist attraction and casino. No takers so far.
Beadles was cagey about his internet persona and took pains to disguise himself, often working through aliases. Anthropology was a little like international treasure hunting. It was difficult to keep a big hunt under wraps and if you weren't careful you'd find a dozen parties nipping at your heels either trying to beat you to it or suing you. Although well known in anthro circles, Beadles had already begun downsizing his social media presence hoping to
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