The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear Page B

physical anthropology lab, talking to dead people. She’d discovered that they carried on far more interesting discussions than most living people. She—
    The phone rang again.
    After ten rings, Maureen grudgingly got to her feet and started for the screen door.
    The oak floorboards felt cool against her bare feet as she walked across the living room to the phone on the table in the bay window. A notepad and pencil rested on the seat of the chair.
    She picked the phone up, and said, “Hello.”
    “Good afternoon, Dr. Cole, I understand classes start soon, are you anxious to get back to training the next generation of great physical anthropologists?”
    Maureen smiled. “Dale Emerson Robertson, you old coyote. Are you in town?”
    “No, I’m sitting in a Ford Bronco in northern New Mexico. It’s ungodly hot, too, one hundred six degrees.”
    “Let’s see, that’s about forty degrees to those of us who live in the enlightened world. I’ve been telling you for a decade that you ought to move to Canada. It’s a lot cooler here in civilization.”
    Dale chuckled. “Maybe in my old age.”
    Robertson was one of the truly great anthropologists of the twentieth century. He’d led expeditions into the jungles of the Yucatan to find lost Mayan cities, dug in Egypt, explored Thule archaeology in the frozen tundra of the Arctic, and pioneered the field of underwater archaeology. If he lived long enough, she expected him to be the first archaeologist on the moon. He was particularly legendary for his work in the southwestern United States.
    “What’s up, Dale? Or is this a social call?”
    “No, business, I’m afraid. Stewart and I are working on a project that’s turning up some burials, and I was wondering—”
    At the mention of Stewart’s name, her eyes narrowed to slits. She said, “Good-bye, Dale.”
    And hung up.
    She’d tramped halfway back to the screen door when the phone rang again.
    She lifted a brow. This time she didn’t wait for Dale’s customary greeting. She walked back, picked up the phone, and said, “You can tell the ‘Madman of New Mexico’ that I wouldn’t work with him again for all the well-preserved mummies in South America.”
    Dale paused. In a stern professorial tone, he said, “This is a very important project, Maureen. I’m sure you can both put your personal feelings aside for—”
    “What do you mean ‘both?’ What did that glorified pothunter say about me?”
    “Let me tell you about the site, Maureen. It’s far more interesting.”
    She clenched her jaw. Two years ago she’d had the misfortune to work with Stewart on an Iroquoian excavation in New York state. Never again. The man was not a scientist.
    Maureen said, “I’m listening, Dale. Go on.”
    He did.
    After a minute, her heart rate increased. She said, “Really? Mass graves among the Anasazi? That is fascinating.”
    “It gets better. They’re all women.”
    “All?” she blurted.
    “Women and children, yes. But that’s not the only anomaly, Maureen. I really need your expertise.”
    “Dale, I—”
    “This will only take a couple of weeks. You can find a graduate student to teach your introductory classes, and give your master’s degree students special research projects while you’re away. I’m sure one of your colleagues would be willing to cover any other—”
    “Dale,” she said, and propped her foot in the seat of the chair. “I really hate that guy.”
    A pause.
    She could hear someone else’s voice in the background.
    Then Dale covered the receiver, and she heard muffled voices. It sounded like a spirited debate, but she couldn’t make out any of the words.
    Dale returned, “Sorry, Maureen. We have a Kokwimu on the site who can be very annoying.”
    “A what?”
    “Never mind. As I was saying, I understand the fifth Earl of Carnarvon was no piece of cake, either, but it didn’t stop Howard Carter from working with him so that he could dig King Tut’s tomb.”
    Duly chastened, she