The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear Page A
Authors: W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear
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revealing the dents in the smooth outer table of the woman’s cranium. “Battered just like the others.”
Dale studied the skull, then glanced at the few artifacts in the unit, and said, “It’s time we called in a physical anthropologist.”
“I agree, Dale, but I don’t want some lab rat that can’t stand dirt under his fingernails.”
“No, we need someone accustomed to the rigors of field work. I know just the person.”
Dusty’s brush halted in midair. He felt his facial muscles tighten as they tried to pull his mouth into a rictus. “Tell me you’re not thinking what I think you are.”
Dale rubbed his shirt sleeve over his gray mustache. “I am. She’s the best.”
Dusty threw the trowel to Sylvia, and scrambled out of the pit. “Over my dead body!”
Every time he thought about Dr. Maureen Cole, his stomach churned.
Dale pulled his fedora down and walked away.
Dusty ran after him, calling, “Wait a minute. Let’s discuss this!”
“Maureen Cole is one of the finest physical anthropologists in the world. If we can get her, we’ll be lucky.”
Dale checked his watch and stepped up his pace, heading for Dusty’s Bronco; it sat parked near the five tents that formed a neat circle around a central fire pit.
“Are you really going to do this to me, Dale?” Dusty pleaded. “No matter how I prostate myself before you—”
“That’s prostrate, you illiterate.”
Dusty thought about it. “Whatever. Listen Dale, I genuinely despise that woman. I do not—”
Dale finished, “—want to work with any woman who knows more than you do. Yes, I know.”
Dale opened the door to the Bronco and tossed his hat inside. As he wiped sweaty gray hair from his forehead, he added, “This is not open for negotiation, William.”
Dale got into the Bronco and pulled out Dusty’s cellular phone.
Dusty propped his dirty hands on the roof of the Bronco. “You’re a sadist, my friend. And very likely an accomplice to murder. Don’t you realize I’ll have to kill her just to preserve my masculinity?”
As he punched in the number, Dale said, “After this discussion, I’d say you’re already too late.”
WHEN HER PHONE RANG, MAUREEN COLE CLOSED THE LATEST issue of the American Journal of Physical Anthropology and placed it on the table beside her wicker chair.
She wavered on whether or not to answer it. She had one more week at home before she had to return to Hamilton to prepare for classes and wanted to savor it. She reached for her cold glass of mint iced tea. She picked the mint fresh from her garden every morning, and it gave the brew a naturally sweet, cool flavor.
The phone continued to ring.
She turned away. What a beautiful day. Hot, but not too hot. She wore faded blue jeans and a red T-shirt. Sunlight glistened through the trees and dappled the floor of the porch that encircled three sides of her small house in Niagara-on-the-Lake. A cool breeze tousled long black hair around her shoulders.
Maureen drew her bare feet up onto the chair cushion and heaved a sigh. She’d turned thirty-seven last Tuesday. Lines had just started to crease the skin around her eyes and mouth. Her aquiline features, the straight nose, dark eyes, and full lips, came from her mother, a full-blooded Seneca. She had passed away just six months ago. Maureen swirled her tea and listened to the cubes clink. God, how she missed her.
The phone stopped ringing.
Maureen sighed and took a long look at Lake Ontario. The water turned a magnificent shade of blue this time of year. Autumn had already touched a few of the trees, dotting the shoreline with clumps of yellow and orange.
She took no joy in the fact that classes would start soon. Three years ago, when her husband, John, was alive, they’d spent every night discussing grand ideas about the future of the human species and sharing interesting questions their students had asked; it had made teaching fun. Since John’s death, she’d found joy only in the
Dale studied the skull, then glanced at the few artifacts in the unit, and said, “It’s time we called in a physical anthropologist.”
“I agree, Dale, but I don’t want some lab rat that can’t stand dirt under his fingernails.”
“No, we need someone accustomed to the rigors of field work. I know just the person.”
Dusty’s brush halted in midair. He felt his facial muscles tighten as they tried to pull his mouth into a rictus. “Tell me you’re not thinking what I think you are.”
Dale rubbed his shirt sleeve over his gray mustache. “I am. She’s the best.”
Dusty threw the trowel to Sylvia, and scrambled out of the pit. “Over my dead body!”
Every time he thought about Dr. Maureen Cole, his stomach churned.
Dale pulled his fedora down and walked away.
Dusty ran after him, calling, “Wait a minute. Let’s discuss this!”
“Maureen Cole is one of the finest physical anthropologists in the world. If we can get her, we’ll be lucky.”
Dale checked his watch and stepped up his pace, heading for Dusty’s Bronco; it sat parked near the five tents that formed a neat circle around a central fire pit.
“Are you really going to do this to me, Dale?” Dusty pleaded. “No matter how I prostate myself before you—”
“That’s prostrate, you illiterate.”
Dusty thought about it. “Whatever. Listen Dale, I genuinely despise that woman. I do not—”
Dale finished, “—want to work with any woman who knows more than you do. Yes, I know.”
Dale opened the door to the Bronco and tossed his hat inside. As he wiped sweaty gray hair from his forehead, he added, “This is not open for negotiation, William.”
Dale got into the Bronco and pulled out Dusty’s cellular phone.
Dusty propped his dirty hands on the roof of the Bronco. “You’re a sadist, my friend. And very likely an accomplice to murder. Don’t you realize I’ll have to kill her just to preserve my masculinity?”
As he punched in the number, Dale said, “After this discussion, I’d say you’re already too late.”
WHEN HER PHONE RANG, MAUREEN COLE CLOSED THE LATEST issue of the American Journal of Physical Anthropology and placed it on the table beside her wicker chair.
She wavered on whether or not to answer it. She had one more week at home before she had to return to Hamilton to prepare for classes and wanted to savor it. She reached for her cold glass of mint iced tea. She picked the mint fresh from her garden every morning, and it gave the brew a naturally sweet, cool flavor.
The phone continued to ring.
She turned away. What a beautiful day. Hot, but not too hot. She wore faded blue jeans and a red T-shirt. Sunlight glistened through the trees and dappled the floor of the porch that encircled three sides of her small house in Niagara-on-the-Lake. A cool breeze tousled long black hair around her shoulders.
Maureen drew her bare feet up onto the chair cushion and heaved a sigh. She’d turned thirty-seven last Tuesday. Lines had just started to crease the skin around her eyes and mouth. Her aquiline features, the straight nose, dark eyes, and full lips, came from her mother, a full-blooded Seneca. She had passed away just six months ago. Maureen swirled her tea and listened to the cubes clink. God, how she missed her.
The phone stopped ringing.
Maureen sighed and took a long look at Lake Ontario. The water turned a magnificent shade of blue this time of year. Autumn had already touched a few of the trees, dotting the shoreline with clumps of yellow and orange.
She took no joy in the fact that classes would start soon. Three years ago, when her husband, John, was alive, they’d spent every night discussing grand ideas about the future of the human species and sharing interesting questions their students had asked; it had made teaching fun. Since John’s death, she’d found joy only in the
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