disturbed, though—the mud had been kicked up. To the untrained eye, it probably just looked like dirt, but I was used to keeping a mental track of what a site looked like. And I hadn’t left it like this.
“What’s wrong?” Raven asked in a low voice.
“Someone’s been out here,” I murmured. “Look.”
To her credit, she didn’t move, observing from where I’d left her so as not to disturb the area. I checked my trench first and forced anger and disgust over the top of the ripple of fear.
An Indiana Jones action figure lay faceup in the bottom of the trench, a crude noose tied around its neck. Some kind of red dye had been smeared over the plastic to look like blood. I didn’t dare touch it. After a lifetime watching cop shows on TV, I knew enough about fingerprints and preserving a scene.
“Do you have your phone on you?” I asked Raven.
“Yeah,” she said. “Nick, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“Call the cops,” I said. “Someone’s decided to leave me a little present.”
She dialed the number and spoke to someone on the other end, quickly recounting the details of where we were. I hoped the cops had enough sense to get hold of a park ranger; getting lost up here would be a nightmare.
“Who would do this?” Raven said wearily, leaning against me.
“I don’t know,” I said and wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder. Her inky dark hair was soft through my fingers. “But I hope they find out.”
Boner had obviously noticed something and came down to our area, then stood close to me and sighed. I remembered, from a distant corner of my mind, that one of his digs had been sabotaged before. It wasn’t a good time to ask him what had happened, but I had a feeling someone had flooded it.
Two cops in uniform arrived to take statements from the team; my planned afternoon of work went out the window as I once again coordinated nonresearch activities that caused my head to hurt.
When the police asked, I admitted Hunter Joseph had been on the site and that he was well-known to the archaeology and paleontology communities due to his opposition to the way we worked. A part of me felt uncomfortable about turning his name over to the police; as far as I knew, he’d never made any actual threats to me or my colleagues in the past.
Boner called Sam to give him an update, and once the police had finished questioning us, for now, at least, I told everyone to go home or back to their hotel or apartment or wherever they were staying, because I had plans to get trashed.
According to Boner’s in-depth research, there were two bars in town worth frequenting. He picked one at random, and we went there once the site had been secured for the night. For the first time in a long time, I felt pretty desperate for a drink.
Joe’s was a proper old saloon bar, and I loved it on sight. We ordered a pitcher of beer, found a booth, and kicked back.
“Wow,” Boner said as he relaxed against the deep red leather. “What a fucking day.”
“Seconded,” I muttered.
“What are you going to do?” he asked. The tone of his voice made me meet his eyes, even though I didn’t want to.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Work with the police, keep everyone calm, keep digging. This isn’t the first time someone has tried to make a fuss on a dig, and you can bet your ass it won’t be the last.”
He nodded, and I could finally see the weariness in his face. It pissed me off. Boner didn’t let stupid shit like this get to him. He moved through it. He was supposed to be on top of it.
“Hey,” I said. “Come on. We’ll be fine. Have a fucking drink.”
My swearing made him smile.
We had more than one fucking drink. In fact, we had several. The atmosphere in the bar was good, as was the music, and the waitress understood Boner’s frequent calls for more beer. The next day was Saturday, meaning the volunteers were under no obligation to turn up if they didn’t want to, and most of
A.S. Byatt
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