Joyce Robbins relaxed on the redwood
deck as she watched the colors of the summer sunset spread across the rippling
lake. This was her quiet place where she could get away from the troubles of the
outside world, a place where she could be alone with her thoughts. She listened
to the seagulls crying overhead and wondered how they ended up in Ohio. Probably
blown off course by a storm, she thought as she picked up the newspaper and
turned to the business section.
The publication was a sure disappointment for anyone
looking for serious news. The articles were usually poorly written reiterations
of stories appearing the day before in high circulation papers like USA Today
and the editorial section was a joke. Sometimes she wondered why she didn’t
subscribe to a real newspaper, but the answer was simple. As bad as it was she
could still keep track of all her investments and stay current with Calvin and
Hobbs, Haggar the Horrible and Garfield, which was all she wanted. It was really
all she wanted out of any paper, but patronizing this one was her way of
supporting the neighborhood kids that delivered it.
She had a definite soft spot when it came to kids. She
never wanted any of her own, but when they came to the door peddling their candy
bars or magazines or Christmas cookies for whatever organization, she was an
easy touch. They were always so cute and professional, but it was the newspaper
kids, a brother and sister team that really got to her.
The first time she saw them standing at her front door
holding hands she melted. She always guessed her attraction to them had as much
to do with the loneliness of her own childhood as anything else. She always
wanted a brother or sister. Her parents tried to give her a sibling, but after
three miscarriages things seemed doubtful. When she was seven, fate, with the
help of a drunk driver, ended her chances forever.
She finished with the business section and folded the
paper to the comics. Many of the cartoon strips were so lame that reading
them made her feel guilty, like she was wasting her time but her favorites were
different. They never failed to give her a little lift and sometimes she came
away with a refreshing new reflection on life. Calvin and Hobbs kept her in
touch with her inner child and made sure she didn’t take life too seriously,
Haggar the Horrible was always there to remind her that plans rarely worked
exactly the way they were envisioned and Garfield was so much like her own cat
it was hilarious.
She wondered where her own cat was as she folded the paper
and laid it on the table. “Sam,” she called as she stood up and walked to the
railing. She spotted the Lynx Point Siamese in the tall grass near a tree just
beyond the deck. He was nearly motionless as he watched an unsuspecting robin
searching for food near the lake. She could see the tension in the cat’s
haunches as it prepared for the attack.
“Samurai!” she yelled as she clapped her hands. “Leave
that bird alone.”
The startled robin flew off without suspecting its close
call with death as the cat turned its attention to Joyce.
She could almost see a disgusted look on the cat’s face.
“You know I don’t allow you to kill birds,” she scolded.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
The cat turned away from the memory of the kill that had
slipped away and jumped up on the deck. He rubbed up against her leg as if
asking for forgiveness.
Joyce opened the sliding glass door and walked into the
condo with the cat running ahead. The inside of her place was a beautiful
contrast of different times and places, blended together with elegant class.
Large potted plants and smaller hanging baskets of foliage covered the expanse
of the glass door. Several pieces of antique rattan furniture were placed across
the room from a state of the art entertainment center. A five foot wooden Indian
stood next to an eighteenth century roll top desk with brass trimmings, and held
down one corner of a Persian rug from the same era.
Joyce pushed the power button on the receiver as she
walked passed, filling the room with vintage Beatle music, compliments of a
local FM station. She sang along with “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club
Band” as she moved into the kitchen with the cat running ahead and looking back
at her every few steps. He ran to his dish when she took the bag of cat food
from the cupboard.
As she filled his bowl it hit her that the two great
definers of time were music and politics. They segregated time into
separate elements and tended to keep people in their own age groups. It was why
she had nothing in common with Steve except sex, thank God. He didn’t know any
of the Beatles’ songs, and the few things he knew or thought he knew about
Vietnam came from movies. Vietnam was a subject burned into her heart by
personal experience, she thought.
She set the cat’s bowl of food on the floor and wondered
if she acted as young as Steve did when she was twenty-five. Of course she did.
A few painful memories from her college years trickled through the portals of
her mind before she slammed the door on them.
The twenty some years between her and Steve kept them from
enjoying the same music and sharing similar political views, but sex was a
different story. God, he could be ready in an instant and stay that way for
hours, she thought as she smiled to herself. Sex with him was great, but that’s
all there was to their relationship except for their friendship, of course. She
knew he wanted more, but it just wasn’t going to happen, it couldn’t happen.
There was no more to give. She was certain that he’d eventually meet someone his
own age, someone who’d give him the emotional depth he needed and deserved. They
would always be friends but there would come a time when their sexual liaisons
would be nothing more than a pleasant memory.
She walked over to the entertainment center and opened one
of the bottom doors where she kept her compact disc collection. The FM station
played good music but after awhile she needed to hear something a little
different. She scanned through most of the titles before going back to “Hotel
California” by The Eagles. After fighting with the box for a moment she slipped
the silver disc into the player and pushed the play button. A few seconds later
the first cut from the album started coming through the speakers, taking her
back to Cincinnati in the Summer of 1978.
The Eagles had played in Riverfront Stadium that August.
That was back when sharing pot with your friends was like breaking bread with
your family and crack was something you found in your basement wall. She turned
the music up a little and walked into her bedroom.
Tomorrow was going to be a busy day, she thought, as she
got undressed. She hoped the part time teaching position was going to be more
fun than work. The opportunity to give college students a chance to learn the
truth about the American Indians fascinated her.
The money wasn’t great, but it didn’t really matter. The
experience would be its own reward, besides she had all the money she needed.
Her stock investments and salary from the museum kept her more than
comfortable and the revenue from the other condos she owned in the complex gave
her plenty of money for special things like vacations or the Little League teams
she sponsored at the Children’s Home or help for needy families at Christmas
time.
She walked into the bathroom, started the shower and
looked at herself in the full-length mirror, wondering if she could still pass
for thirty. Tomorrow would be the true test. Being around a campus full of young
college girls was probably going to be a sobering experience. She laughed at the
thought as she picked up a brush and started working it through her long dark
red hair. No gray yet and no obvious wrinkles. She put the brush down and took a
step back as she turned for a good look in the mirror. She supposed she didn’t
look too bad for her age. Her breasts and butt were still firm, her long legs
hadn’t lost their shape and she had good muscle tone, thanks to the Soloflex.
She adjusted the water temperature, stepped into the
shower and wondered if Steve would remember to pick up a bottle of wine on the
way over. Sometimes he was forgetful, but she supposed there was good reason.
Whenever he came to see her his mind was preoccupied with sex, and that was just
fine with her. After all, it was exactly what she wanted.
...
During the day downtown Lima was bustling with activity. Cars
and busses filled the streets with noise and the sidewalks were jammed with
pedestrians moving between a variety of stores. After business hours the same
area became deserted except for an occasional tavern patron or a lawyer working
late. After dark traffic picked up again as a different type of commerce started
taking place. The police did their best to control the prostitutes and drug
dealers, but they were still there, along with their customers. There were
others who didn’t deal in contraband or flesh, but relished the night as their
season just the same.
Dark clouds drifted across the face of the moon as a black
Cadillac rolled to a stop in front of Cook Tower. Martin Aster sat in the back
of the car wearing a white Panama hat. He lit a Havana cigar, lowered the power
window and tossed out the smoldering match. The driver watched him in the rear
view mirror and waited for orders. Finally Martin reached across the seat and
tapped the driver on the shoulder.
The driver opened an attaché case on the seat next to him, took
out a fat envelope and handed it across the seat.
“Give me a couple minutes, then follow me up. Wait outside the
door and be ready for trouble. If he has the goods on Grady I’m going to
suggest he leave town for a while. You can deal with him if he refuses.”
The driver nodded.
Martin got out of the car and closed the door as he
slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket, next to a small gun. He was a
short, stocky man with a prominent nose and bushy mustache. He straightened his
tie as he stepped forward and pushed open the glass doors.
The inside of the building was dimly lit with only small
lights above the elevator and stairway doors. He moved quickly to the elevator
and pushed the up button, wondering about the money he was certain his business
partner had stolen. Stealing he could understand, but killing the fucking golden
goose made no sense. Grady had it made. He was making a great deal of money for
his part in the operation, but it was apparently not enough. And the worst part
was the bastard thought he could get away with it by juggling the books. A third
grader could have done a better job of covering his tracks. What the fuck ever
happened to honor amongst thieves, he wondered.
A small bell sounded as the elevator doors opened. He
stepped in, pushed the button for the tenth floor and watched absently as the
doors closed. He felt the car move and wondered if Grady had any idea a private
detective had followed him. A cornered rat was nothing to fool with. It was best
to kill them before they realized there was nowhere to go.
The bell sounded again as the elevator stopped and the
doors slid open. Aster stepped out of the car and walked to the only office on
the floor with light showing at the bottom of the door. The brass plate on the
door identified the office of Ron Pitney, private investigator. Martin took a
deep drag off the cigar, and then knocked.
“Who’s there?” a deep voice asked.
“Martin Aster,” he replied.
He heard a chair scoot on the floor and footsteps, then
the sound of a deadbolt being pulled back.
Ron Pitney opened the door. He was a tall, heavily built
man with closely cropped hair. “I expected you half an hour ago. You’re lucky I
didn’t leave,” he said as Martin walked into the office. Pitney closed the door
behind him, drove the deadbolt home and went back to his desk as Martin took the
chair reserved for clients.
“Do you have any information for me?”
“I do, providing you have money for me.”
Martin took the envelope out of his pocket and slid it
across the desk to Pitney.
He opened the envelope and did a quick count of the money
before putting it in his center desk drawer. He pulled a file folder out of
another drawer and laid it in front of him on the desk.
“You’re about to get more than you paid for,” he said as
he opened the folder. “But I wouldn’t charge you extra for what I got for free.”
He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “I followed Grady
to Atlantic City where he stayed at the Boardwalk Hilton.”
“Cut to the fuckin’ chase. Did he steal my goddamn money?”
Pitney leaned forward and slapped his hands down on the
desk.
“Yeah, I’ll cut to the chase. I don’t know whether this
poor bastard stole your money or not. What I do know is that he paid a casino
owner named Jimmy Swicks sixty thousand dollars, lost another five thousand, and
spent a bundle of money on the woman he took with him.”
Martin slumped back in his chair. Pitney’s report had just
sealed Grady’s fate. He could feel the rage building inside of him. Cheating was
a way of life, but you didn’t cheat a partner that had treated you as good as
family. If the stupid fucker had come to him about the gambling losses, if he
would have asked for the money there would have been no problem, but now there
was going to be hell to pay.
Martin sat up in the chair and looked Pitney straight in
the eyes.
“You said you had more on this scumbag?”
Pitney fought to hold back a smile as he opened the
folder, took out a picture and slid it across the desk.
“This is the woman he was with.”
Martin picked up the picture and looked at it wearily,
then snapped his attention back to Pitney. “What kind of bullshit you trying to
pull here? Where did you get this fucking picture?” he yelled.
“Same place I got this one,” Pitney said as he slid
another picture across the desk. This one showed Grady holding hands with the
woman.
Martin crumpled the picture and threw it at Pitney. “He
was with my wife?” he screamed as he jumped to his feet.
“Yeah,” Pitney said with a snicker, “looks that way.”
Martin’s face contorted in anger.
“Don’t push me or I’ll have your fucking legs broken.”
The half smile disappeared from Pitney’s face as he raised
his hands chest high in a defensive gesture. “Okay, Martin, I’m sorry. I was
being a little insensitive.”
“I want you out of town for awhile. Take a vacation. I’ll
even throw in a bonus to help pay for it.”
“Martin, are you fucking nuts? I’ve got a business to
run,” he said as he lowered his hands.
“I’ll buy your business. You can go to the Caribbean and
be a beach bum.”
“Fuck you, Martin. You can’t buy me,” Pitney said as he
got to his feet. “Our transaction is completed. Get the fuck out of my office,”
he said as he moved around the desk and quickly walked to the door. “You get the
hell out of here and don’t come back,” he said as he unlocked the door.
...
Ralph Mason pushed the heavy plate glass doors open and
walked out into the dark parking lot at the back of the museum. He was a thin
scarecrow of a man with gray hair and a day worth of matching stubble on his
face. The loose fitting security uniform flapped in the breeze as he looked up
at the black clouds. He took a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket and shook
out one of the smokes, put it between his lips and snapped back the cover on the
Zippo. The silver finish had worn off the corners of the lighter and the Marine
insignia was barely visible, but the flame stood against the wind, honoring all
advertised claims.
He snapped the lighter closed and wondered how soon the
storm was going to hit. He didn’t mind a nice summer rain, but God he hated
electrical storms, especially when he was working the graveyard shift. The
dancing shadows cast by the lightning were just a little too much like the
dreams that had plagued him off and on for the last year. The dreams were like
hallucinations from the darkest corners of his mind.
He wanted to talk with other Marines who had volunteered
for the drug experiment. He wanted to find out if any of them ever suffered from
bizarre dreams, but after thirty years he was lucky to remember their first
names. Besides there was the document he signed identifying the program as
classified and swearing him to secrecy. He was never to discuss the experiment
with anyone, including any of the other volunteers, not that it meant anything
to him now.
He took a deep drag off his cigarette and glanced at his
watch. The worst part about the dreams was that they had left him with very
little resistance to getting spooked, and that was a bad condition to be in when
you had to walk through a dark museum to do part of your job. A good flashlight
might keep you from breaking a kneecap on a display case, but it sure as hell
didn’t do much for the nerves, especially if your imagination had been
tainted by nightmares. There were always shadows and dark corners just beyond
the light that might conceal unspeakable things. It was real spooky to feel your
imagination starting to run away with itself and knowing you couldn’t stop it.
Sometimes the only help was to throw back a shot of Jack Daniels.
He took the last drag off the Camel and tossed the butt
into the bushes as he walked back toward the building. After another quick look
up at the churning clouds he went back into the museum and locked the doors. The
vestibule beyond the doors was empty except for a single glass display case,
which separated the security alcove from the rest of the small lobby. A wide
stairway across from the alcove descended into the lower level where many of the
more elaborate Indian artifact displays were kept.
Ralph glanced down into the darkness of the stairway as he
walked past and fought to think of anything except what might be lurking down
there. The rational part of his mind knew there was nothing but display cases
filled with relics hundreds or maybe thousands of years old, but a rational mind
was useless when it came to stopping the heebie jeebies.
He stopped at the desk, picked up his cup and walked back
to the coffee maker. A flash of lightning from somewhere in the distance came
through the window as he poured the steaming brew. He counted to himself as he
waited for the clap of thunder. When it finally came he knew the storm front was
still about five miles away.
He went back to the desk and sat down with his coffee as
he thought about the trip he had to make through the dark museum every hour and
the location of the five time clock keys. As far as he was concerned it was
nothing but a bunch of bullshit Rudy dreamed up to insure everybody was making
their rounds. There was little doubt in his mind that the insurance company
required around the clock security, but the time clock was just plain stupid.
Sure, the timed recording made by the keys proved you were at the key location
at a particular time, but so what. It was just another rule Rudy pulled out of
his ass to show everybody he was the boss.
He glanced at his watch and knew he couldn’t put the trip
off any longer. He already had a letter in his file for late time clock punches
and he wasn’t going to give Rudy any more ammunition. It was already pretty
clear he was looking for a reason to fire him. He supposed it was all because of
a few careless remarks he made about Rudy’s weight and how the Marines might go
about getting it off. He never was very good at keeping his mouth shut, he
thought as he took the time clock and flashlight out of the bottom desk
drawer.
God he hated the midnight shift, he thought as he stood up
and slipped the time clock strap over his shoulder. The worst part was that
staying up all night and sleeping during the day seemed to make the nightmares
come more frequently and that was the last thing he needed. A couple shots of
whiskey before bed helped for a while, but when the dreams came back they were
more vivid and more intense than ever. That was when he first realized he wasn’t
dreaming of the flying monkeys of Oz. Flying monkeys were just a little weird.
The creatures flying around in his nightmares were horrid things and with each
dream they got a little closer.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached for his lunch
bucket. No sense in facing the gauntlet alone, he thought as he lifted the lid
and pulled out a pint bottle of Jack Daniels. He removed the bottle cap, spiked
his coffee and took a little swig before returning the whiskey to his lunch
bucket. He took a drink of his coffee for good measure before walking out of the
security station for his appointed rounds.
He turned on his flashlight and started down the steps as
a loud clap of thunder shook the museum.
...
Samuel Prince sat at the kitchen table and folded the
morning paper to the sports section. He was a small man with a dark, weathered
complexion and white hair. His bushy white mustache gave him an Albert Einstein
look that was enough to make some strangers do a double take.
He studied the baseball scores and wondered if this was
going to be the year for the Reds. They always seemed to start off strong and
then fall into the same old rut toward the end of the season. He was sure they
had the talent to take the pennant on a regular basis if they could only keep
players off the injured list.
He turned the paper to the business section and started
studying the mutual funds, wondering why he kept putting off retirement. The
work was no longer as challenging as it had once been. At one time his agenda at
the museum was so full it was staggering, but now, after ten years, all the
bones and artifacts were identified and the displays were completed. With the
real work done the job was reduced to little more than public relations and an
occasional speaking engagement.
Money certainly wasn’t a problem. After twenty-five or
thirty years some of his stock holdings had turned into serious investments, and
Martha’s royalty checks were swelling the savings account beyond her wildest
dream. There was no question about their financial condition, but for some
reason he couldn’t bring himself to pull the plug.
Martha tied the belt around her robe as she shuffled into
the kitchen. She was a thin, almost frail looking woman with short brown hair
streaked with gray. “Morning,” she said through a yawn as she walked up behind
Samuel and put her hands on his shoulders.
“Good morning,” he said as he stroked her hand. “I didn’t
expect to see you up before I left for work. What time did you get to bed?”
“About two thirty,” she said as she kissed him on the
cheek. “I hope I didn’t keep you awake.”
“You didn’t. I must have drifted right off. I don’t
remember hearing the typewriter. Did you finish the article?”
“Not quite,” she said as she walked to the cupboard and
took a mug off the shelf. “I hope Jason doesn’t call me today, but he probably
will.” She filled the mug with coffee, went to the table and sat across from
Samuel. “He thinks hounding me until a piece is done is being a good editor.”
Samuel chuckled.
“Isn’t it part of his job to make sure you meet your
deadline?”
“Maybe, but his zeal is maddening. He has a lot to learn
when it comes to dealing with people.”
Samuel smiled as he folded the paper and laid it on the
table. “Maybe you’re just tired of the tension associated with these deadlines.
You could write another novel. I’m sure you’ve got some unused plots in your
head.”
“The deadlines are still there, it’s just that they’re
your own instead of a magazine editor’s. Sometimes I think it’s time to put away
the typewriter and try retirement for a while.
Samuel nodded.
“I was thinking about retirement when I was reading the
paper. I know the time’s right, but for some reason I just can’t talk myself
into actually doing it.”
Martha blew steam off the top of her coffee and took a sip
before setting the mug down.
“I believe there’s two things that keep you working.
First, you think you’re still a young man. For thirty-eight years I’ve watched
you work. If you weren’t opening a tomb somewhere you were digging up bones and
piecing them together. When we left Egypt and came here you stayed busy with the
Indian displays, but now that things have slowed down at the museum you don’t
know what to do with yourself. You think you still have all that youthful
energy, but you don’t. Your body needs to slow down, but your mind
still thinks you’re thirty five, so you put off the inevitable.”
Samuel finished the last of his coffee as got up from the
table. “You make it sound like I’m ready for the glue factory,” he said as put
the mug in the sink and filled it with water.
“Don’t be silly. We’ve both got a lot of good years left.
We shouldn’t spend them working if we don’t have to.”
He went back to the table and took his jacket off the back
of the chair. “What was the other thing?” he asked as he picked up his pipe and
dropped it into the pocket of his jacket.
Martha stood up, straightened his tie and kissed him on
the lips. “You think Joyce is a little girl who needs protected from the big bad
wolf. If you weren’t in her way you’d probably find out she’s one hell of a lot
tougher than you think she is. I’m sure she can handle Rudy without your help.”
Samuel smiled and kissed her back. “You really think so?”
“Of course I do. She’s a redhead. There’s a lot of fire
behind those green eyes.”
Samuel looked at his watch. “I better hit the road. You
want to meet me somewhere for lunch?”
“Maybe. Call me,” she said and kissed him. “I love you.”
Samuel hugged her.
“I love you, too, sweetheart. Finish the article,” he said
as he started toward the garage.
“I will,” she said and patted him on the ass as he walked
by.
...
Steve Patterson turned the lawnmower over, looked at the
bent blade shaft and wondered how he was going to fix the damn thing without
Rudy finding out about it. He stood up, pulled an orange shop rag out of the
back pocket of his jeans and wiped off his hands. He had the muscular build of a
young athlete, with curly blond hair and a dark tan. After returning the rag to
his pocket he turned the mower back upright, set the idle and pulled the starter
cord. The machine shook violently for a few seconds before it died in a puff of
blue smoke. Steve shook his head as he sat down on the bench. “Luther,” he
called. “You better come over here for a minute.”
Luther came around the corner of the tool shed carrying a
leaf rake and chewing on the end of a smoldering cigar. He was a tall, heavily
built black man with thinning gray hair. He walked over to the bench and sat
down next to Steve. “It don’t sound good when it runs, do it?”
Steve looked at Luther and laughed. “Man, you really
fucked it up good. "What the hell did you hit?”
“I guess I hit the top of the wall when I was cuttin’
close,” Luther said as he pointed out toward the street where a stone retaining
wall held back the terraced lawn. “Rudy’s gonna have my ass,” he said
apprehensively as he shook his head.
“Don’t lose any sleep over that fat asshole,” Steve said.
“We’ll take care of this somehow, but you’ve got to start using the trimmer when
you’re up next to the wall like that.”
“I was just hurryin’,” he whispered as he leaned forward
and rested his arms on his knees.
Steve heard a familiar rumble and looked out toward the
street as a red Porsche turned into the drive. He lost sight of it for a second
as it passed between the retaining walls. Joyce waved as she went past and
turned into her parking place.
“That be one fast lookin’ car,” Luther said as he waved
back.
Steve wanted to blurt out that the car was faster than it
looked. He wanted to tell Luther how he put the car through it’s paces one
night, and how many times he had left Joyce’s apartment with fingernail marks in
his back, but he didn’t. No sense in screwing up a good thing, and he knew that
was exactly what would happen if anyone at the museum found out about their late
night liaisons.
“Yeah, it sure is,” he said as he got up. “I’ll go talk to
her. Maybe she knows somebody who can get us a new motor cheap.”
Joyce was climbing out of the Porsche when Steve walked up
to the edge of the blacktop and rested his hand on the top of the door. He felt
the stirring of sexual tension as he watched the slit in her red skirt expose
most of her thigh. The sight of her long legs always had an arousing affect on
him, regardless of the state of his libido.
“Hi,” he said as she closed the car door. “You look nice.
New outfit?”
“Yes,” she said as she straightened her skirt. “I start my
teaching career today. I thought I should try to make a good first impression.”
“You’d make a good impression in worn jeans and a
T-shirt.”
“I’d make a good impression on you dressed like that, but
you’ve had your hands on the merchandise,” she said with a sensuous smile. “Stop
by tonight about seven if you’re not busy. I’ll throw a couple steaks on the
grill.”
“If I’m busy I’ll change my plans,” he said as she turned
away. Her beauty always left him aroused, but this time he felt almost weak as
he watched her body move. He caught himself thinking that making love to
her just wasn’t enough. He wanted her heart, too. It was a thought for which he
quickly chastised himself. He ran into the stone wall that guarded her emotions
once, and that was enough for him. He’d spare himself that pain by keeping their
relationship where it belonged.
Joyce opened one of the heavy glass doors and walked
through the rear entrance into the museum. She glanced at her watch as she
stopped at the security station. “Morning, Ralph.”
“Morning, Joyce,” Ralph responded as he looked up from the
magazine spread open on the top of the desk.
“I need a quick cup of coffee. Got any made?”
“I always have fresh coffee. It’s the only thing that
keeps me going on this damn graveyard shift,” he said as he pushed himself back
away from the desk.
Joyce walked around the end of the glass display case and
sat in the chair at the end of the desk. “You heard anything on the radio this
morning about what’s happening on High Street by Cook Tower? The police had it
blocked off when I went past.”
“Sure did,” he said as he raised himself out of the chair.
“I guess some private detective jumped out of his tenth story office window.
They found him this morning splattered all over the street.”
“God, can you imagine?”
“No, I can’t. It probably wasn’t very pretty,” he said as
he took a couple disposable cups out of the package in the desk drawer.
Joyce noticed how loose Ralph’s uniform was fitting as he
walked over to the coffee maker and wondered if he was losing weight. She was
sure he didn’t eat right, what man living by himself did. Rotating shifts every
month probably didn’t help his diet either.
Ralph came back to the desk with two steaming cups of
coffee. He set one in front of Joyce as he returned to his chair.
Joyce blew across the coffee before taking a sip. “Hot,”
she said as she put it down and looked at Ralph. The puffy bags under his eyes
made it look like he could barely hold them open.
“You feeling okay, Ralph?” she asked.
Ralph shrugged his shoulders. “Probably as good as I can
expect to feel working this damn shift. Why?”
“You look so tired. Are you eating right?”
Ralph gave her a halfhearted smile. “I don’t eat or sleep
very well when I’m on midnights. It’s like everything in me is twisted or
something. I drink coffee to stay awake, and then when I go home I can’t get to
sleep. When I do sleep it’s usually no more than a couple hours at a time. Those
damn nightmares I’ve been having seem to get worse when I sleep during the day.”
“Would you talk to a friend of mine who’s a psychiatrist
if I made you an appointment?” Joyce asked.
Ralph shook his head. “I’ve never trusted shrinks, besides
everything will get better in a couple weeks when I get off this shift,” he said
and took a drink of coffee.
“But that’s only a temporary fix. You’ll be back on
midnights in two months. What do you do then?”
“I’ll let my buddy Jack Daniels keep me from going crazy,
just like I do now.”
“I wish there was another answer for you. I don’t think
Rudy would need much of an excuse to put you out on the street.”
“Yeah, I know, but I don’t worry much about it. The dreams
are a lot worse than anything that shithead could do to me, so I’ll continue
doing what I have to do to deal with them.”
“I wish I could help you,” she said.
Ralph offered a tired smile.
“I know you do. Just remember to stop by and have coffee
with me in the mornings. Seeing your pretty face makes things a little better.”
Joyce was surprised to feel herself blush.
“Well Ralph, I’ve got to get moving,” she said as she
stood up. “I have to be on campus in an hour and I have to see Sam before I
leave.” She picked up her coffee and walked around the end of the display case.
“Wish me luck for my first day teaching.”
“You’ve got it, honey. See you in the morning.”
“Okay,” she said as she walked across the lobby. She
stopped at the top of the steps and looked back at Ralph. “The offer stands
about getting you an appointment with my friend. Just let me know when you’re
ready.”
“Okay,” Ralph said as he watched her disappear down the
stairwell.
The central chamber of the lower level was lit by four
rows of fluorescent lights recessed in the ceiling. Two rows of large glass
display cases exhibiting skeletal artifacts occupied the center of the room.
Along the walls between colorful oil paintings of Indian life were smaller cases
filled with stone weapons and tools. A magnificent hand painted mural of Indians
hunting Buffalo from horseback spread across the far wall opposite the stairway.
A door stood ajar just below one of the mortally wounded beasts.
Joyce touched some of the cases as she walked by and
wondered how much time she and Sam had spent setting up the displays. Sometimes
she missed the hard work and long hours of those days. She hoped teaching would
bring back some of the high energy that faded from her life as demands of the
museum tapered off.
She smelled cherry blend tobacco from Sam’s pipe as she
walked into the office. There were two desks on opposite sides of another door
leading out into the lab, one cluttered with mail, the other neat and orderly.
Joyce set the coffee on her desk next to the phone as she walked through the
open door.
Beyond the office was a large well-lit lab with several
granite lab stations, each equipped with a sink, a rack containing a variety of
archaeological tools and a lighted magnifying glass mounted on the table. Samuel
was at the far end of the lab trying to open the double doors leading outside.
Joyce noticed a beat up cardboard box filled with bones
sitting at the end of one of the lab stations and walked over to investigate.
“Morning, Sam,” Joyce said as she rummaged through the
box. “Having trouble with the doors again?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with the damn things,” he said
in a frustrated tone as he turned away from the doors and started across the lab
toward Joyce.
“So don’t mess with them. Give Steve a call,” she said
with a laugh. It was a total mystery to her how he could become so exasperated
with a set of doors when he once spent several months finding a way into an
Egyptian tomb.
Samuel stopped abruptly and looked Joyce over. “My, you do
clean up rather well.”
She stepped away from the table and turned for him. “Do
you think I’ll be a hit with the student body?”
“Especially with the guys,” Samuel said with a chuckle.
“Don’t be too hard on them the first day, they probably won’t hear a word you
say.”
Joyce laughed as she turned back toward the table. “Where
did the bones come from?” she asked.
“The Sheriff stopped by Friday night after you left. They
found them at the stone quarry on Sand Ridge Road and he decided this was the
place to bring them. He wanted to know whether to start a formal investigation
or not. I told him we’d do some testing and determine the age.”
Joyce picked up the skull and rolled it over in her hands
like a ball. “The skull doesn’t have the physical characteristics that I’d
expect to find with an Indian relic.”
“Let’s start off with carbon dating,” he said as he walked
up next to her and leaned against the table. “Take a bone chip from the lower
jaw. After you get that in the mail to Columbus you can do a complete inventory
of the skeleton. I want to make sure we’re dealing with one set of bones before
we get too far along. When everything’s finished you can write a report for the
Sheriff.”
“Did you see Ralph this morning?” she asked as she laid
the skull back in the box.
“I spoke to him when I came in, but I didn’t stop to talk.
Why?” he asked as he took his pipe and tobacco pouch out of his jacket pocket.
“I think he looks bad,” she said as she watched Samuel
fill his pipe.
“The midnight shift doesn’t agree with Ralph. He falls
into a rut that he can’t get out of until he gets back on days.” He lit his
lighter and sucked the flame down into the tobacco, sending a plume of cherry
blend smoke drifting toward the ceiling. “He drinks too much coffee at night,
then can’t sleep when he goes home. A few days of that routine runs him down,
mentally and physically. And then there’s those nightmares he’s been having for
the last year or so. They always seem to be worse when he’s working midnights,”
he said as they walked back toward the office.
“I feel bad for him. I wish there was something I could
do.”
“I know. He needs help, but he’s stubborn and won’t accept
it when it’s offered. There’s not a whole lot we can do for him if he’s not
willing,” Samuel said as they walked into the office.
Joyce went to her desk and picked up her coffee. “I can’t
imagine having those kind of issues and not wanting help,” she said as she sat
on the edge of the desk.”
“Ralph is a different person. I suppose the best we can do
for him is just be there if he ever wants to talk.” Samuel relit his pipe and
glanced at his watch. “You don’t have a lot of time, you better get moving. I
don’t think you want to be late for your first class.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve got a few butterflies.” She
finished the coffee, crumpled the cup and threw it into the trash. “I hope I
don’t get stage fright.”
Samuel laughed. “You’ll do just fine,” he said as he
walked over and kissed her on the forehead. “A kiss for good luck.”
“Thanks, Sam. I’ll probably need it.”
Ralph shifted uneasily in the desk chair and wondered
where Bill was. It wasn’t like him to be late for shift change, especially when
he worked days. Nobody was late when they worked days. The chances of Rudy
finding out were just too great, and that was one sure way of putting him in a
foul mood. When Rudy was on the warpath it was bad for everybody, but it was
pure misery for the guard on duty. Sam looked out for Joyce and didn’t put up
with Rudy’s shit, Steve and Luther could hide, but the guard was stuck in the
security station.
Ralph glanced at his watch, then got up and walked to the
window. He didn’t want Bill to spend the day as Rudy’s whipping boy, and he
didn’t want to see Rudy before he left. If Rudy got too close to him all the
breath mints in the world couldn’t hide the fact that he’d been drinking. He
started to turn away from the window when he caught a glimpse of Bill’s old Ford
coming up the drive.
He hurried back to the desk and grabbed his lunch bucket
as he headed toward the door. It was going to be a narrow escape, no sense in
waiting at the desk and taking the chance of running into Rudy at the last
minute. He pushed open the door and walked out into the parking lot just as Bill
was getting out of his car.
Bill was a short, stocky man with a protruding belly. He
started apologizing as soon as he saw Ralph standing in the middle of the
parking lot. “God, Ralph, I’m really sorry about being late, but I wasn’t sure I
was going to make it,” he said as he rubbed his stomach. “I was up all night
with my gut. Must have been something I ate. I still feel like shit. Nothing
seems to help.”
Ralph shook his head sympathetically. “I hope you get to
feeling better. A case of indigestion isn’t much fun,” he said as he started
walking toward his car. “I’ve got to go, I’m on my last leg. There’s a fresh pot
of coffee, but you probably ought to stay away from it. You don’t need any more
acid in your stomach. See you in the morning.”
“Okay, Ralph, take it easy.”
Bill walked the rest of the way across the parking lot to
the building and opened the door when he heard a car coming up the drive. He
hurried inside, hoping it wasn’t Rudy. He didn’t need him on his case about
being late, especially this morning.
He hurried back to the security station and grabbed a cup
out of the drawer. Coffee was the last thing he wanted, but a half full cup
would make it look like he had been there for a while. When he got to the coffee
maker he reached for the spigot and realized his left arm was aching like a
bad tooth. He wondered if he had done something to it during the night.
Rudy was coming through the doors just as Bill got back to
the display case with his coffee. He was a mountain of corpulent flesh hidden
beneath a well-tailored gray pin stripe suit. The bottom of his gold wire rimmed
glasses pressed against his rotund cheeks. Rudy walked up to the display case
and looked at Bill as he took off his glasses. “Were you late this morning?” he
asked as he took a handkerchief out of his pocket.
“No...I don’t think so,” he said as he raised the cup to
his lips. He tried to hold his hand steady, but a slight tremble was obvious.
Rudy opened the handkerchief and cleaned his glasses
slowly. When he put them back on he stared at Bill for a moment. “Well, I think
you were,” he said as he refolded the handkerchief and returned it to his
pocket. “I think you know you were late and I think you’re trying to lie your
way out of it.”
“That’s not true,” Bill objected as he set the cup on top of the
display case.
“Bullshit, Rodgers! I’m docking you an hour.”
“You...you can’t do that! If I was late it was only a few
minutes.”
“I can do any damn thing I want,” Rudy said as he poked a
finger at Bill. “And if you don’t like it, you know where the door is. Guards
are a dime a dozen, and losing you wouldn’t mean shit to me. You better be on
time from now on. This isn’t the goddamn welfare department,” he yelled as he
turned and walked away.
Bill left the partial cup of coffee sitting on the display
case and went back to the desk. He pulled the chair out and slammed it against
the wall. In his book Rudy VanBurg was the biggest cocksucker in the world. Just
once he’d like to meet up with him in a dark alley. Maybe he’d like sucking on
the end of a two by four.
He plopped down in the chair and put a hand on his
stomach, which had just taken a turn for the worse. He opened the desk drawer
and took out a bottle of Tums. God he wished he could hit the lottery. His first
stop after leaving the bank would be Rudy’s office. He’d knock those wire-rimmed
glasses right off his smug fucking face. He popped three Tums into his mouth and
threw the bottle on the desk while he thought of how he’d enjoy using a ball bat
on Rudy VanBurg’s fat face.
...
Joyce downshifted the Porsche as she took the new section of
Campus drive that curved back into the woods. The beauty of the small
campus was something that always surprised people from other communities,
especially those familiar with Lima’s reputation as a hard town. Aesthetically
pleasing buildings set in the midst of a forest of towering pines just didn’t
seem to mix with a history spotted by violent episodes with the likes of the
Dillinger gang.
Sunlight filtered down through the trees as she drove
passed a stone monument identifying the site of a Miami burial ground. She
wondered how many of the students in her class would know about the rich Indian
heritage of the area. She was certain most of the class would be comprised of
engineering students wanting to pick up a few easy hours during the summer.
Indian Culture probably sounded a little less boring than Ethics or Introduction
to Poetry. She doubted anybody signed up for the class because of a burning
desire to learn more about Native Americans. She hoped the teaching experience
left her with the desire to return in the fall when the class would be available
to more students.
She wondered if the campus was going to look as deserted
as it did when she had her interview. She hoped not. Without students a college
campus was just another collection of empty buildings. They were the lifeblood
of the academic community.
She came out of the woods into bright sunlight, stopping
the Porsche at a traffic sign near the facility parking lot. Ahead was Galvin
Hall and the open expanse of the lawn stretching to the other buildings. A
surprising number of students were sitting with books open or milling about.
Four young men were engaging themselves in some type of game played with a
Frisbee, while another group seemed to be playing tag football.
A flood of memories of another campus suddenly surprised
her; memories she thought had been locked safely away in a special corner of her
mind.
She had just turned eighteen when she met Randy outside
the bookstore at the University of Kentucky on a sunny day in September. Joyce
noticed him as she left the bookstore, loaded down with a pile of books and
supplies. He was tall, maybe six feet with an athletic body and long sandy
blonde hair down to his shoulders. He was engaged in what seemed to be a serious
conversation with an Oriental student with long black hair tied back in a
ponytail. As she watched him a wave of emotion sent her heart spiraling upward
as if on golden wings.
She turned and sauntered in his direction, hoping for eye
contact and a chance to flash a smile. She was a little too close when he ended
his conversation and turned in her direction without looking.
The ensuing collision was more than she could have hoped
for. Books, pencils, and paper went in all directions as Joyce landed on her
bottom in the middle of the busy sidewalk.
“Oh shit!” he cried out as he bent down. “Oh God, are you
hurt?” he asked as he reached out to her.
“Just my pride,” she said with a smile as she took his
hand.
“God, I am so sorry,” he said as he pulled her to her
feet.
The Oriental friend that had been talking to him was busy
gathering the scattered books and supplies.
“I’m Randy Lippencott,” he said as he bent down and picked
up a nearby textbook. “I’m really sorry. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
Joyce laughed as she brushed off the back of her jeans. “
A bruise, maybe. No permanent damage. Joyce Robbins,” she said with a shake of
his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The friend walked up next to them holding her books and
supplies that had been scattered in the collision.
“This is my friend and roommate Kim Lee,” Randy said as he
took half the books from him. “Kim, this is Joyce Robbins.”
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Kim said with a smile.
“And you also,” Joyce said, returning the smile.
“I think we have a moral obligation to buy Joyce lunch,”
Kim said.
“No, you guys. Really, you don’t owe me anything.”
“Yes we do. Do you like chili?” Randy asked.
“Yes, I love it,” she replied.
“Well, we happen to know a place that makes the best chili
in the world.”
A quick toot from a car horn severed her from her
memories.
She pulled the Porsche past the stop sign and turned into
the section reserved for faculty cars, still reeling from the unexpected flood
of memories.
She had insolated herself from the pain of the memories
for years, keeping them locked away and refusing to let them out. Now they were
struggling to break free and demanding to be examined. She pulled into a parking
place, shut off the engine and sat behind the wheel with her eyes closed,
wondering if the pain was really still there after all these years. After all,
the Vietnam War was dated material. It was a subject of which most students on
campus only had dim, shadowy knowledge.
Cautiously, she let her mind drift back to that day in
September when she met Randy and Kim.
Joyce sat at the table watching Randy as he finished the last of his second
bowl of chili. His deep blue eyes seemed to hold some magical attraction for her
own. He dropped the spoon into the empty bowl and set it inside the other bowls
on the corner of the table.
“That’s great stuff,” he said as he wiped a napkin across
his mouth. “Kim had never tasted chili until I brought him here. Now he’s their
second best customer.”
“It was a definite change from the traditional Chinese
food I was raised on,” Kim said as he picked up his beer.
“Joyce, what did you think of it?” Randy asked as their
eyes embraced.
“It was good,” she said absently as she held his gaze with
her own. “A bit overrated, but good just the same,” she said with a laugh. “I
don’t know how you managed it, but you have chili in your right eyebrow.”
Randy grabbed the napkin and wiped it across his eyebrows.
“He lives like a slob at home, too,” Kim said and laughed.
“Oh, like you’ve got a lot of room to talk,” Randy said as
he presented his eyebrow for inspection.
“That’s got it. You guys live together?”
“Yeah, we’ve got an apartment about a mile from campus,”
Randy said, then frowned. “What did you mean when you said the chili was
overrated?”
“It was good, but you said it was the best in the world.
It just so happens mine is better.”
Randy and Kim looked at each other and laughed.
“Wait a minute, you two. You can’t laugh at my chili
without trying it.”
“She’s right, you know,” Kim whispered.
“Okay,” Randy said. “You name the time. We’ve got the
kitchen.”
“God, at the rate I’m going it’ll take me six months to
save enough money to buy the ingredients.”
Randy opened his notebook, took out a piece of paper and
tore it in half. He wrote on one of the pieces and slid both across the table to
Joyce.
“That’s our address and phone number. Don’t lose it. Put
your grocery list on the other piece of paper and Kim and I’ll go to the store.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“He’s serious,” Kim said. “We’ve got plenty of money. We
don’t expect you to buy anything. Just cook up a batch and let us try it.”
“Okay,” she said as she pulled a pencil out of her purse.
Joyce jumped as a tap on her car window jolted her back
from the memories that seemed like yesterday. A man dressed in a campus security
uniform was standing next to her window. She turned the ignition key to the
accessory position and lowered the window.
“Didn’t mean to scare you, miss.”
“My mind was a thousand miles away,” she said with a
smile. “Do you want to see my parking permit?” she asked as she reached into her
purse.
The patrolman shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were a student.”
She handed him the permit, closed the window and climbed out of the sports
car.
“I really don’t want to put it on my bumper.”
“I can’t blame you for that,” the man said with a smile.
“This is a beautiful car. It’s a 911 turbo, isn’t it?” he asked as he handed the
permit back to her.
“Yes, it is,” she replied.
“I thought so. Just lay the permit on your dash when
you’re in the parking lot.”
“Thanks,” she said as the officer walked back to his
scooter.
She tossed the permit onto the dash, closed the door and
locked it with the remote as she walked away.
She moved along the cobblestone path leading to Galvin
Hall and wondered if the patrolman had really mistaken her for a student. There
was always the possibility he just wanted to get a closer look at the Porsche,
or maybe a closer look at her. Men were funny about cars and women. They liked
to look, but didn’t always want anyone to know. She guessed it had something to
do with some unwritten code of masculine pride.
When she got to the building she opened one of the plate
glass doors and stepped into the pleasantly cool interior. Several students were
sitting in the lobby with open books while others seemed to be waiting for
someone. A muscular, slightly graying man wearing a Michigan State T-shirt and
jeans was standing at the bulletin board reading the class schedule.
“Good morning,” she said as she walked up next to the man.
He turned her way and smiled. “Good morning,
yourself. Need to look at the schedule?”
“Not if you’ll tell me what room my nine o’clock Indian
culture class is in.”
“Let’s see,” the man said as he ran his finger down the
list of classes. “Ah, here it is. Indian Culture, room three-fifty-four, with J.
Robbins,” he said as he looked back at Joyce. “Must be someone new, I don’t
recognize the name.”
“I’m Joyce Robbins,” she said with a smile and offered her
hand. “This will be my first quarter in the teaching profession.”
“Jerry Lansford,” he said as he shook her hand. “I teach
chemistry and physics to the Engineering students. I’m going up to my office,
I’ll show you the way.”
“Alright,” she said as they walked away from the bulletin
board and started down the hall.
“So, this is a first for you.”
“Yes. I’m really not sure of what to expect.”
“You’re new to the students. They’ll be trying to find out
how well you know the material.” He stopped in front of the elevator and pushed
the up button. “If you come across to them as not being sure of yourself they
won’t take the class seriously. On the other hand, if you look sharp, they’ll
work hard for their grade.”
A small bell sounded just before the elevator doors slid
back. Jerry watched the way Joyce’s body moved as she stepped into the elevator,
and in that instant he knew he wanted her. The game was on, but now was not the
time for bold moves. He had at least thirteen weeks to build a relationship.
Only fools rushed in, and he was no fool when it came to women. He stepped in
behind Joyce, pushed the button for the third floor and watched the doors close.
“You don’t strike me as a person who’s right out of
college with an education degree,” Jerry said.
“Oh, education isn’t my real job. I’m a graduate
archaeologist. I guess the American Indian has become my specialty. I’ve worked
at the Allen County Museum for about twelve years.”
“Are you married?” he asked.
“No. I think you’d have to list me as a confirmed single
woman. I’ve never met anyone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.” It was
a good answer to Jerry’s subtle question, but it wasn’t entirely true. Her heart
had belonged to a man once.
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of. In retrospect, after two
failed marriages, I should have had an attitude like yours,” Jerry said as the
elevator came to a stop. The doors opened onto the third floor where a small
group of students waited. They stepped out into the hall as the others piled in.
“Your classroom is down at the end of the hall on the
left.”
“Thanks, Jerry,” she said with a smile. “I appreciate you
helping the new kid on the block.”
Jerry returned her smile.
“No problem,” he said and watched her turn and walk away.
“How about lunch one of these days?”
Joyce stopped and turned around.
“That sounds like a good idea. It’ll give me a chance to
ask you about the Michigan State T-shirt you’re wearing.”
Jerry looked down at the shirt and shook his head. “That’s
a long story,” he said with a sheepish grin.
“I bet it is,” she said with a laugh.
Jerry watched her walk away and thought it amazing that a
woman so attractive could have remained single for so many years. He wondered if
she had left a trail of broken hearts. He supposed there had to be a few. He
vowed to himself not to join them, but the resolve of that promise already felt
vulnerable. He watched her for a moment longer before turning toward his office.
Joyce walked into the small auditorium, turned on the
lights and stepped up on the platform at the front of the room. She set her
textbook and purse on the desk as she looked out over the empty seats and felt
her pulse quicken. Having a case of stage fright would be a bad way to start
out, she thought as she stepped off the platform and took one of the seats in
the first row. She took a couple deep breaths and tried to relax as she gazed
toward the front of the room where she’d be working in a few minutes. She
glanced up at the clock just as two girls loaded down with books walked into the
room. They both greeted her as they took nearby seats in the front row and
started talking about their schedules.
As she watched several guys meander through the door she
overheard the girls speculating about the sex of J. Robbins and realized they
thought she was another student. The guys glanced at her on their way to the
back of the room. Another group of guys and two girls came through the doorway
just as the clock marked the hour.
Most everyone was chatting with their neighbor when
one of the guys at the back of the room asked in a loud voice if anyone knew who
J. Robbins was. Another of the guys responded that it was probably some old
geezer with white hair and laughed loudly.
She knew that was her cue.
“Hello,” she said as she stood up and faced the class.
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m Joyce Robbins.”
All the guys howled with laughter and chided the one who
had made the old geezer remark.
“I’ll be your instructor this quarter for Indian Culture,”
she said as she stepped up on the platform. “Why don’t we begin by getting
everyone up here in the first few rows so I don’t have to shout.”
Joyce was amused to see the guys in the back of the room
grab their books haphazardly and race for the best empty seats. The girls, also
amused, took a little more time, while speculating on the things that could make
the guys move that fast.
“That’s much better,” she said as she held up the
textbook. “I hope everyone has managed to obtain a copy of this. If not, there’s
still an ample supply in the bookstore.” She set the book back on the desk. “I’m
not wild about grading tests, so don’t expect many from me. There will be a
midterm and a final, which will make up half of your final grade. The other half
will be from two term papers, the first of which will be due two weeks from this
Friday. I won’t put limits on the size, but please remember each paper is
twenty-five percent of your grade. If you’ll open your books to the beginning of
chapter six I’ll give you the assignment for tomorrow and toss out a few hints
about what I’d like to see in your first term paper.”
She was surprised at how easily she was falling into her
teaching job. The butterflies were gone, replaced by the sudden realization that
she had total command of the subject matter, a command that would enable her to
shape the minds of the students in front of her. It struck her that she was
engaging an awesome responsibility and wondered if such sobering thoughts had
ever occurred to her own teachers. She cleared her throat when she was satisfied
that everyone had located the chapter.
“I want you to read this chapter for tomorrow. Much of it
refers to the general area in which we live,” she said as she sauntered toward
the window. “Not many people are really aware of the rich Indian heritage of
this area.” She gazed out the window at the tops of the towering pines swaying
in the wind. “I was never particularly aware of it until I started working for
the museum,” she said as she turned back toward the class. “The thing that makes
northwestern Ohio archaeologically interesting is the fact that several Indian
nations claimed it as their own. The ensuing conflicts were fairly bloody.
That’s the reason you can go into almost any unworked field, turn over a few
shovels of dirt and find arrow heads.”
She walked back to the desk and picked up the textbook. “I
hate to say it, but this isn’t the only history book to be tainted by
Hollywood’s image of the American Indian. The American southwest was not the
only place historically significant to the Indians, yet this book only
contains a few chapters devoted to aboriginal life east of the Mississippi.”
She walked back to the board and picked up a piece of
chalk. “To the archaeologist, Ohio is very fertile for new discoveries,” she
said as she sketched a map of the state. “Especially the western portion,
between Lake Erie and the foot hills to the south.” She tossed the chalk back
into the trough and dusted off her hands as she walked back to the desk. “The
Delaware Indians named this vast marsh land Quilna, which loosely translated,
means black foot. Many Delaware, Shawnee, and Wyandotte died trying to control
the area. It was sacred ground and nobody really knows why.”
For twenty minutes Joyce continued to pace back and forth
between the desk and the window while she reviewed some of her most important
field discoveries since coming to Lima. When she finished a girl in the second
row raised her hand.
“Yes,” Joyce responded.
“Do you think it would be possible to visit the museum as
part of the class?”
“I think that would be a great idea,” she said. “We might
have to do it on a Saturday, though. I don’t think we could squeeze a tour into
an hour and make it meaningful.”
Joyce glanced at her watch.
“That’s about all I have to say for today. Tomorrow we’ll
use the whole hour,” she said with a smile. “Come prepared to discuss the
chapter and start researching your term papers.” She watched the students
closing their books and wondered if they all had picked up on the idea of
researching a term paper about their own backyard. A trip to the museum would
probably help reinforce the subtle suggestions.
She picked up her things and shut off the lights as she
followed the last student out of the room. The class had gone well, leaving her
secure in the feeling that she would enjoy the experience. It was a nice break
from her normal daily routine.
...
Samuel lifted the skull out of the box carefully and
rolled it over in his hands as he did a superficial surface examination. Once he
was satisfied there were no marks indicating trauma, he set the skull at the end
of the table and picked up a set of calipers.
He had handled enough skulls during his professional
lifetime to know these bones were several hundred years old, but that was just
another opinion without supporting data. He opened the calipers and slipped
them over the skull, wondering if the circumstances of a two-hundred-year-old
death really mattered to anyone except an historian. It would be easy to simply
inform the Sheriff’s office that the bones were relics, and be done with it. It
would be damn easy, but sometimes the exercise was more important than the facts
it provided to the researcher. He read the calipers and wrote the dimension in a
spiral notebook. He was about to take a reading on the other axis of the skull
when the door leading into the office opened with a slight creak.
Samuel looked back toward the office and saw Steve opening
the door.
“Sounds like your hinges need oiling,” he said as he
stepped through the doorway.
“Yeah, they do. I wonder if I could get the maintenance
man to take care of it?” he prodded. “I could use some of his magic on the
double doors while he’s at it.”
“Are those damn things sticking again? I think I could
make a career out of keeping them working.”
Steve followed Samuel to the other end of the lab and
watched as he tried the doors a couple times before they finally opened.
Samuel looked back at Steve with a helpless expression.
“It seems like they get a little tighter every time they get used.”
Steve just stood there with his hands on his hips and
nodded his head. “These doors are a pain in my ass,” he grumbled as he pulled a
heavy screwdriver out of his tool belt. “Pull them closed as hard as you can,”
he said as he bent down and put the shaft of the tool between the closing doors.
They came together against the screwdriver with a bone jarring crash. Steve
pushed the doors back open, stood up and started tightening the hinge plate
screws. When he was finished he opened and closed them a couple times without
any difficulty.
“That should take care of them for awhile. Now about my
problem,” he said as he put the screwdriver back in the tool pouch. “You have
any idea how I can get my hands on an engine for the Snapper mower without
putting a requisition through for Rudy to sign?”
“I don’t know, give me some time to think about it,” he
said as they walked back to the table. “Why do you need a new motor?” he asked
as he picked up his pipe and pouch of tobacco.
“Luther was using the Snapper too close to the retaining
wall and hit the blade. The shaft is bent so bad I can’t keep it running. I told
him I’d fix it without Rudy finding out, but I’m going to have to replace the
motor.”
“I thought he had one of those weed trimmers for getting
up close to the wall,” Samuel said as he started filling his pipe.
“He said he was in a hurry. He deserves to have his ass
chewed, but if Rudy finds out...”
Samuel packed the tobacco down in the bowl of the pipe,
thoughtfully. “Let me make some phone calls. Maybe I can help you out somehow,”
he said as he took a lighter out of his pocket and lit the tobacco. “Maybe
somebody owes me a favor,” he said as they walked toward the office.
Steve followed him and sat down at Joyce’s desk just as
Luther came into the office from the outer door.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Steve said.
Samuel turned in his chair and looked back at Luther.
“Well good morning, Luther. I understand you had a little problem with the
lawnmower.”
“Sam, I think Bill’s sick. He be white as a ghost an’
breathin’ real funny. Better come...”
Samuel was out of his chair and moving toward the door
before Luther had finished. “Steve, call 911,” he yelled as he and Luther
hurried out of the office.
Steve grabbed Joyce’s phone and made the emergency call.
When Samuel and Luther got to the security station Bill
was slumped over in the chair with his head against the wall. “Bill, can you
hear me?” Samuel asked as he pulled him up in the chair.
Bill nodded his head slowly. His face had a gray pallor
with beads of sweat standing out across his forehead.
“Are you having chest pain?”
Bill nodded his head again. “Can’t breathe,” he whispered.
“Luther, help me get him out of the chair and onto the
floor.”
Luther grabbed Bill under the armpits and lifted him out
of the chair as Samuel took his legs. They carried him out of the alcove and
laid him on the floor. Samuel knelt down next to him and opened his collar.
“Bill, the rescue squad is on the way,” he said as he took
off his jacket. He rolled it up and put it under Bill’s head. “Try to relax,” he
said as he felt for a pulse in his neck.
“You be okay, Bill,” Luther said as he knelt down next to
him and took his hand. “We gonna take care of you.”
“The rescue squad will be here in two minutes,” Steve
yelled as he ran up the last few steps.