Read Online The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear - Free Book Online
Authors: W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear
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woman is your mother, you know—”
“What my mother did to my father has nothing to do with the fact that Maureen Cole is a viper.”
Dale pursed his lips. “Only Freudians—and rodents—fear snakes. Are you a rat or a mouse?”
Dusty stamped on a low greasewood bush. The brittle stems snapped satisfyingly under his boot. His father had killed himself over the worthless woman he’d married. Dusty hadn’t gotten over it. He couldn’t get over it, but he hated to have anyone point out that failing. “If I didn’t love you so much, I’d break your neck.”
“Well,” Dale said and shoved his fedora back on his head. “We archaeologists are a murderous lot of misfits. I suppose I should
have turned you over to an accountant to raise. You would have been better off.”
“It so happens that you were an excellent father,” Dusty said. “You took me to every major archaeological site in the world. Every time you went off to a conference, you dragged me along. I grew up using a trowel during the day and listening to the best archaeologists in the world argue at night. Any sane kid would give his left arm to have a childhood like that.”
“Maybe, but it stunted your social development. Archaeology doesn’t exactly draw people with a ‘normal’ psychological composition. We drink too much. Infidelity and short-term relationships are the norm. Minor academic squabbles become blood feuds that last decades, and few of us ever demonstrate any kind of long-term responsibility.” Dale’s bushy gray brows lowered. “Do you realize that when you weren’t living in a tent in the middle of the desert, you were stuck on a reservation?”
“I do. I learned Hopi, Navajo, some Zuni, and even a bit of Arapaho. How many white kids are initiated to a kiva when they turn thirteen?”
“That’s the point.” Dale sighed. “You never had a chance to be a normal child.”
“Thank God.”
“Yo! Massa!” Steve Sanders called out. He stood up, dust caking his ebony face. “Y’all wanna come see this?”
From the corner of his mouth, Dusty said, “I wish he wouldn’t do that.” To Steve, he called, “If it’s another utilitarian potsherd, you can toss it with the rest.”
“No, suh, Massa,” Steve said. “I got bones.”
Dusty glanced at Dale. “If he’s right, you arrived just in time for the first excitement. Come on.”
As they walked, Dale said, “Steve just made my point. The man received his master’s degree summa cum laude, has an IQ of one hundred and seventy-six, and is leaving next week to pursue his Ph.D. at the University of Arizona. But he thinks it’s funny to talk like Uncle Remus. I tell you, William, that’s not normal.”
Work stopped across the site. People gathered over Steve’s excavation unit. Dusty elbowed his way through the dirt-caked bodies to peer over the pit wall. Steve was on hands and knees, sweat
beading his neck. With the trowel, he dexterously pulled dirt back from the bones.
“What have you got?” Dusty asked.
Dale put a hand on Dusty’s back for stability and moved up alongside him.
Steve looked up thoughtfully. “I cut the scapula first.” He pointed to the shoulder blade; it had a white nick where the shovel had shaved the acromian process. “I put it back in place, and started troweling around it, figuring I’d pedestal it. That’s when I uncovered this.” He used the point of the trowel to indicate a row of bony protrusions sticking up from the pit floor. “Looks like the vertebral column to me, Massa boss.”
“And the rock?” Dale asked, pointing to a flat slab of sandstone that canted at a slight angle where the head should be.
Steve glanced up, “Hey, hi, Dr. Robertson. Welcome to Feature One.”
“He arrived just in time for the jive talk,” Dusty said disapprovingly.
Steve grinned. “Being the smartest, best, and only African American on this project, I have decided not to report myself to the NAACP.”
“Politically incorrect
“What my mother did to my father has nothing to do with the fact that Maureen Cole is a viper.”
Dale pursed his lips. “Only Freudians—and rodents—fear snakes. Are you a rat or a mouse?”
Dusty stamped on a low greasewood bush. The brittle stems snapped satisfyingly under his boot. His father had killed himself over the worthless woman he’d married. Dusty hadn’t gotten over it. He couldn’t get over it, but he hated to have anyone point out that failing. “If I didn’t love you so much, I’d break your neck.”
“Well,” Dale said and shoved his fedora back on his head. “We archaeologists are a murderous lot of misfits. I suppose I should
have turned you over to an accountant to raise. You would have been better off.”
“It so happens that you were an excellent father,” Dusty said. “You took me to every major archaeological site in the world. Every time you went off to a conference, you dragged me along. I grew up using a trowel during the day and listening to the best archaeologists in the world argue at night. Any sane kid would give his left arm to have a childhood like that.”
“Maybe, but it stunted your social development. Archaeology doesn’t exactly draw people with a ‘normal’ psychological composition. We drink too much. Infidelity and short-term relationships are the norm. Minor academic squabbles become blood feuds that last decades, and few of us ever demonstrate any kind of long-term responsibility.” Dale’s bushy gray brows lowered. “Do you realize that when you weren’t living in a tent in the middle of the desert, you were stuck on a reservation?”
“I do. I learned Hopi, Navajo, some Zuni, and even a bit of Arapaho. How many white kids are initiated to a kiva when they turn thirteen?”
“That’s the point.” Dale sighed. “You never had a chance to be a normal child.”
“Thank God.”
“Yo! Massa!” Steve Sanders called out. He stood up, dust caking his ebony face. “Y’all wanna come see this?”
From the corner of his mouth, Dusty said, “I wish he wouldn’t do that.” To Steve, he called, “If it’s another utilitarian potsherd, you can toss it with the rest.”
“No, suh, Massa,” Steve said. “I got bones.”
Dusty glanced at Dale. “If he’s right, you arrived just in time for the first excitement. Come on.”
As they walked, Dale said, “Steve just made my point. The man received his master’s degree summa cum laude, has an IQ of one hundred and seventy-six, and is leaving next week to pursue his Ph.D. at the University of Arizona. But he thinks it’s funny to talk like Uncle Remus. I tell you, William, that’s not normal.”
Work stopped across the site. People gathered over Steve’s excavation unit. Dusty elbowed his way through the dirt-caked bodies to peer over the pit wall. Steve was on hands and knees, sweat
beading his neck. With the trowel, he dexterously pulled dirt back from the bones.
“What have you got?” Dusty asked.
Dale put a hand on Dusty’s back for stability and moved up alongside him.
Steve looked up thoughtfully. “I cut the scapula first.” He pointed to the shoulder blade; it had a white nick where the shovel had shaved the acromian process. “I put it back in place, and started troweling around it, figuring I’d pedestal it. That’s when I uncovered this.” He used the point of the trowel to indicate a row of bony protrusions sticking up from the pit floor. “Looks like the vertebral column to me, Massa boss.”
“And the rock?” Dale asked, pointing to a flat slab of sandstone that canted at a slight angle where the head should be.
Steve glanced up, “Hey, hi, Dr. Robertson. Welcome to Feature One.”
“He arrived just in time for the jive talk,” Dusty said disapprovingly.
Steve grinned. “Being the smartest, best, and only African American on this project, I have decided not to report myself to the NAACP.”
“Politically incorrect
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