Near the butte a clump of green stalks of greasewood grew as tall as Harry. The Chacoans had eaten the leaves of the plant and used its sturdy wood for lintels over doors and windows, and as firewood. Passing around the clump, he found a small overhang with a puddle of windblown dust nestled below it. Harry buried the box six inches below the surface and placed a rock on top as a marker. He figured that the plastic would protect it for a while, maybe even a few years.
Stepping out from the shade offered by the overhang, he wiped his brow. The heat seemed more oppressive today than yesterday. Probably not that different as measured by a thermometer, but the stress of his overwrought emotions made him more sensitive.
Once again he was committing a mortal sin for an archaeologist, hiding this precious discovery where no one could find it. What if he died on the road later that night? Then the box would be lost forever. No one would ever be able to open it and marvel at its manufacture, and its discovery would not rewrite the history of Chaco Canyon.
Breaking a branch off a rabbit brush, Harry swished it behind him as he followed his footsteps out. He felt like he was in a Western. It was obvious to anyone who looked what someone had tried to do, but he figured that the wind and any rain that might fall would more easily obscure the brushings rather than his footprints.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Brenda lay on the hospital bed with an IV in her arm, an oxygen tube running under her nostrils, and a breathing tube coming out of her mouth. The room smelled of disinfectant and the low hum of machinery gnawed at the edge of Harry’s hearing. The floor nurse was a large woman, with a face that had seen too much of life, yet a sunny disposition. She explained somberly but hopefully that the young woman had come out of surgery only an hour ago, her prognosis was positive, with good blood pressure, but that the surgeon had decided to keep her in a drug-induced coma so that she could heal better.
Harry had some medic training from the Special Forces and struggled to ferret out what the nurse’s words really meant. The only person he had ever known who had been kept in an induced coma was a college friend who had hit a jackknifed semi-truck in her car. She had broken over a dozen bones; the coma had been induced to let her heal and to allow her brain recover. He swallowed and his vision turned blurry: that friend had died.
“Are they concerned about neurological damage?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” The nurse tugged at her sleeve as if to draw reassurance from the green cloth. “The doctor should be able to tell you more, but he’s operating on another emergency case right now.”
“When will they take her off the machine?” Harry asked.
“Couple of hours. The anesthesia has to completely wear off before she can breathe on her own.”
“Can I stay with her?”
“Is there any family?”
“Not yet. I’m the only person who knows her.”
“The rules say that a person can stay as long as the family agrees, so I guess it’s okay.”
“Thank you. Where can I put her things?” Harry held up the backpack.
“In the cupboard under the bed stand.”
Harry slipped into the chair next to the bed, placing the backpack at his feet. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around Brenda’s hand. She felt warm, for which he was grateful; he had anticipated her feeling cold.
He dug out her cell phone and turned it on. Good, no password. The screen was already open to some text and he started reading. After a few moments of scrolling he realized to his astonishment that it was a romance novel. Everyone has their secrets, both trivial and important. He certainly had his own secrets.
He found a phone database with Mom listed. No, he shouldn’t phone in here, it might disturb her. A part of him knew that she was probably completely unconscious, but what if she wasn’t and she heard him describe her wounds to her mother? That would be disturbing, wouldn’t it?
Giving her hand one more squeeze, he crept from the room, trying to be as quiet as possible. The five-story hospital of white-painted concrete was the best medical facility short of Albuquerque and the intensive care unit occupied part of the fourth floor. The nurse sat at her station, tapping at the keyboard, and she barely glanced at Harry as he passed her. Her name tag said “Helen, R.N.” and her brown skin and broad cheekbones indicated Indian heritage.
Harry went to the end of the hall near an outside window, where reception would be better. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself and thought about what to say before placing an earpiece in his ear and selecting Mom.
The phone rang four times before being picked up.
“Hello.”
“Is this Mrs. Finnigan?”
“Yes.” Her voice was wary and he recognized the familiar tones that made Brenda’s voice interesting.
“My name is Harry Deacon. I’m working with your daughter Brenda in Chaco Canyon.”
“You’re the retired soldier.”
That surprised Harry. He had never supposed that Brenda might have talked about him to her family. “Uh, yes.”
“Is Brenda okay?”
“We’ve had an incident at the dig. For some unknown reason, men attacked us and Brenda was shot.” He spoke more quickly to preempt her questions. “Brenda is okay and is recovering from surgery right now.”
“Oh, my Lord,” Mrs. Finnigan exclaimed. “Can I talk to her?”
“She is still recovering from the anesthesia and they want to keep her sedated.”
“We need to come out.” It was not a question, but rather an assertion of intent.
“That would be a good idea,” Harry agreed.
“We’re on the island right now and we might not be able to get a boat today.” He had forgotten that Brenda’s family left their Maine home every summer to live on an island off the coast in a home that the family had owned for generations.
Brenda’s mother talked to herself, as if Harry was only a spectator. “Maybe Tony will take us. I’ll have to call you back. What number can I reach you at?”
Harry gave her the number for his cell phone. After a few more words, the conversation ended and he thumbed an end to the connection. He wiped his damp palms on his jeans and struggled to control his trembling.
He needed to get outside, away from the bland beige paint of the corridors, the smell of disinfectants and other fleeting odors with no name, and the oppressive sense of sickness and demise.
Down three flights of stairs and out through the glass front doors, and he was outside.
* * * *
Harry looked up at the sun. It was only midday but he felt punchy, that curious feeling that he remembered from many times in training or combat, when he hadn’t slept for a couple of days.
Across the street from the San Juan Regional Medical Center was a strip mall containing a café, a Payless shoe store, a video store, and a place called L&J. Here in the high desert of the West—a place that the imagination wanted to be forlorn and dusty, full of ghost towns and characters exotic enough for a novel—was only suburbia. A Budweiser sign in the window, garish with neon colors, advertised what L&J offered.
He didn’t care for Budweiser—too bland—but just looking at the sign brought the bitter taste of a dark brew to his tongue. Deep in his soul, he craved a beer, even a Budweiser, or something stronger. Just one, or maybe two, not enough to dull his senses,