Anasazi Exile. Eric G. Swedin

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      “Again with your hands?” The woman sounded dubious.

      The authoritative voice cut in. “I’ve known Harry for years. He’s an ex-operator. Master Sergeant. Army Special Forces.”

      “I was lucky and I had a gun by then,” Harry said. “They didn’t expect anyone to be awake.”

      “Cowards never do.”

      “I don’t know that they were cowards,” Harry said. “They just didn’t want any complications.”

      “That makes sense,” the authoritative voice said. “We’ll need to go up there to do an investigation.”

      “Can’t I go with Brenda?” Harry asked. “I’ll be back.”

      “There won’t be any room in the helicopter,” said the woman.

      “She’ll be okay.” Authoritative voice turned gentle. “You can go see her as soon as we get things squared away here.”

      Brenda could just imagine her mother’s reaction. Oh, she was going to be mad. She had not wanted Brenda to come west to go to school and really didn’t like it when Brenda announced her summer plans, thus missing the family’s annual stay on the island. That’s where they were right now, Flannery’s Island, off the coast of Maine and a family possession since the Civil War. Her great-something-grandfather had made a fortune in the Clipper trade with China. The family didn’t have much of the money left, but they had the island, shared with a couple of dozen other relatives.

      She remembered summers on the island, digging holes with her older brother, Dirk, as they sought pirate treasure. Family stories about Drake the Blackhearted entranced Dirk and her. She now wondered if such a pirate had even existed. She really ought to run a web search and a bibliographical search on the name. Were the stories just fables made up to scare children? Walking the plank, shooting his own men in the back to provide ghosts to guard the treasure, murdering women and children. Who would shoot a woman or child?

      Who? She pushed thoughts of the island abruptly aside. A man had tried to kill her. Two men, according to Harry. Whatever for? She took secret pride in being friendly to everyone, even if they didn’t deserve it. Did they want to kill Harry and she was just in the way? He was the kindest man, but she knew that she saw only a part of him, that there was something else in him. She saw it when his eyes hardened in anger, a part without pity and forged in steel. Now she felt that she was glamorizing him as the hero of a romance novel.

      The sound of Harry speaking brought her back to the present. “I should call Dr. Bancroft.”

      * * * *

      Harry remembered the hotel where Dr. Bancroft was staying in Scotland. He called information on his cell phone and a few minutes later had a connection.

      “Hello, Royal Hotel. How may I help you?”

      “Please connect me to the room of Dr. Bancroft.”

      Gone for a long moment. “Are you a relative?”

      “No.” Quickly, he thought the better of the honest answer. “I’m sorry, yes, I’m her cousin. From America.”

      “I’m sorry, sir, we can’t release any information right now. Only to the immediate next of kin, and a cousin does not qualify.”

      Harry hung up. With a force of will, he pushed his feelings of dread away. Now was the time for clear thinking, unhampered by emotions, pure intellect in the service of survival.

      He hit redial.

      Same voice answered. Harry coughed and spoke in a more formal voice. “Yes, good sir, may I be connected to the room of Mordecai Herzog.” Herzog was a graduate student from the University of New Mexico in the party with Dr. Bancroft, a husky Jewish boy from New Jersey, never to be found without his yarmulke firmly placed on his head.

      “Are you a relative of Mr. Herzog.”

      “His brother.”

      “I’m sorry to inform you that he has been taken to the hospital.”

      Harry felt deflated. “Why?”

      “He was attacked in his room. The police are investigating.”

      “Is he alive?”

      “I don’t have that information. He was taken to the hospital.”

      “What hospital?”

      “Royal Victoria Hospital.”

      “Do you have a phone number for them?”

      The clerk recited the number as Harry wrote furiously.

      “Can I talk to someone else in Mordecai’s party?” Harry asked.

      “I’m sorry, you will have to take that up with the police. We can’t release that information.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “You are not their next of kin.”

      Harry swallowed the bile rising in his throat, too stunned to really think coherently, other than to dial the number to the hospital in Scotland and continue his charade. He found that Mordecai was still in surgery.

      * * * *

      Brenda listened to Harry. Even in her muddled state, hearing only one side of the conversation, she felt chilled. Something bad had happened to Dr. Bancroft and Mordecai. She didn’t care for Mordecai—he looked at her breasts too blatantly and she was not interested, but Dr. Bancroft’s classes had inspired her to become an archaeologist. The archaeologist, in her mid-fifties, features wizened from the outdoors, eyes bright with curiosity and intellect, so enthusiastic in her lectures that she sometimes bumped into desks, always ready to encourage any student, and now something had happened to her. Brenda was sure that Dr. Bancroft had a first name, but she had no idea what it might be.

      She heard the sound of a helicopter. Coming closer. First time flying in a helicopter and she couldn’t enjoy it.

      Gathering her wits and energy, she spoke. “Harry.”

      A hand touched her shoulder and Harry spoke near her ear. “Save your strength, honey.”

      “Harry, hide the box,” she whispered. “Just hide the box.”

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      Harry showed Chief Ranger Simon Ashbridge the first body. Already the blood had formed a crust and attracted flies. The ranger took pictures, moving around to cover different angles. Harry was struck by a sense of skewed déjà-vu: the ranger was acting as detective, just as yesterday he himself had been acting as an archaeologist. Hundreds of years, maybe over a thousand years, separated the dead.

      Another ranger stepped closer, put on latex gloves, and went through the pockets of the deceased. He found a wallet, keys, a money clip holding seven hundred and twenty dollars, coins, and an extra magazine for the .22. Opening the wallet, he read the name on a New York driver’s license СКАЧАТЬ