Chapter 9
Bones had no particular desire to finish the dig. Isaiah had made it through the surgery successfully, but remained in what the doctors described as a “shallow coma”. They assured him this was normal, and in fact a healthy way for a person with a brain injury to recuperate. This was not the sort of vegetative state from which patients did not come back; it was simply the body’s way of healing.
Not completely reassured, but encouraged, he decided to go back to the dig. It was Isaiah’s project, and he felt an obligation to see it through to the end. And perhaps he could pick up some clues to his cousin’s attackers.
The dig site had changed much in the four days since Isaiah’s attack. The ground around the rock overhang was roped off in squares and digging was well underway. But the dig lacked the pleasant air of people doing what they loved. Everyone worked in sullen silence. Only two of them even looked up from their work to greet him with curt nods. He headed to the rock face where a man in khakis and a starched pink oxford cloth shirt stood with a clipboard in hand, scowling at whatever he was reading.
“May I help you?” he said in a sour voice, not looking up from his clipboard.
“No, but I can help you. Your bald spot is getting sunburned,” Bones said.
The fellow jerked his head up to scowl at Bones. One of the diggers snickered.
“Thank you. I shall attend to that right away. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Dr. Horsely’s cousin, Uriah Bonebrake. I was helping him with the dig.”
“I see. Well, I am sorry to tell you that we have all the help we need. I appreciate your visit, and will thank you to leave without further disturbing our work.” He turned his back on Bones and walked away.
“Wait a minute. This is Isaiah’s dig,” Bones protested.
“Not anymore.” The fellow sounded disgustingly pleased with himself. “Dr. Horsely’s financial backers have placed me in charge. I will thank you to leave my dig immediately.”
“Who are these backers, mister…?”
“Doctor. Doctor William McLaughlin. And my backers are none of your concern. Now, if you will please excuse us, we have work to do. The Jesus picture is only the beginning.”
“The Jesus picture? Have you established that’s what it really is?”
McLaughlin was offended by the question. “Of course that’s what it is.” He turned and walked away before Bones could question him any further.
“Pompous ass,” one of the diggers said in a hushed voice. Bones sidled up next to him. “All he cares about is fame.” The man was tall and angular, with an expression of permanent disdain on his sunburned face.
“How about his backers?” Bones asked casually. “They after the fame as well?”
“Hardly. I don’t know who exactly they are. No one on the dig knows. But I know they’re Mormons. They want it to be true.”
“What’s that?” Bones asked.
“The Jesus thing. Mormons believe Jesus came to America and appeared to the people here. They would love to have the archaeological record support that.” He spat in the dust. “They’re going to spin this their way. No consideration of anything else. Oh, he has us going through the motions of excavating the site, but he’s not at all interested in the artifacts. He wants more Jesus pictures.” He spat another gob in the dust, and kicked it with the toe of his boot. “Anyway, how’s Dr. Horsely?”
“He’s stable,” Bones said. “Still not come out of the coma, but the doctors aren’t too concerned yet. They say he’ll wake up when he’s ready. He’s going to freak when he finds out what McLaughlin is doing to his dig.”
“No kidding. Well, I’d better get back at it before McLaughlin jumps my case again. He and Orley got into it yesterday. You should have seen it. That old farmer was warning him away from that barn of his with the sick bull. McLaughlin couldn’t care less about the barn or the bull, but he can’t stand to be told what to do…”
Bones didn’t hear the rest of the story. He suddenly remembered the last thing Isaiah said before going into surgery. Orley doesn’t have a bull. Grinning politely as the fellow finished his story, Bones shook the man’s hand and walked away. Feeling dazed, he wandered back toward the farm until he came to the barn.
It looked no more remarkable than it did the first time he had seen it: a small, sturdy wooden structure built against the side of a hill, though he had to admit that it was unusual to construct a building directly against a rock wall. He paused two steps from the door and looked around. No one was in sight.
“Mr. Orley!” he called. “Hello?” He didn’t truly think the old man was around, but no need taking chances. “Anyone here?” He noticed that the door was padlocked. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened. Silence. If there was a bull in there, it was dead. He walked around the left side of the barn. Near the back, the ground had washed away, leaving a hole a yard wide and eight inches deep under the wall. Bones looked around again, then cleared away the rocks and loose. When he could make the hole no deeper without a pick and shovel, he dropped to the ground.
He lay down on his back and squeezed into the opening. He had to exhale and relax his muscles in order to get his chest and shoulders through, but he made it with only a few scrapes. He climbed to his feet in the dim barn, brushed himself off and looked around.
It could not properly be called a barn. It was more of a storage shed; a simple wooden building with various tools and implements strewn about. Old bales of straw were stacked to the ceiling against the back wall. Bones pulled one down, covering his face with his sleeve against the thick cloud of dust that kicked up from the old, dry bale. There was no back wall- the shed was three-sided and abutted the rock face. That was interesting. He moved a few more bales out of the way, then, half out of intuition and half out of impatience, he took hold of the two bottom center bales and yanked.
The middle of the straw wall tumbled down, one of them bouncing hard off his shoulder. Dust burned his eyes and nose. He leaned down, plugged one nostril and blew the other out, then repeated with the other side. Dane hated what Bones called “the farmer’s handkerchief”, and Bones took pleasure in disgusting his friend from time-to-time. As he was wiping his eyes he was surprised to feel cool air on his face.
A four foot-high fissure, three wide at the base, split the center of the stone wall. This was getting more interesting all the time. He fished the mini maglite out of his pocket and ducked down to explore the opening.
The narrow beam of light shone on a long, narrow tunnel only a few feet high leading back into blackness. Never the one to ignore his curiosity, he made up his mind to explore. He had to crawl, holding his light between his teeth. The floor was smooth stone, and cold on his hands. He had gone about thirty feet when the passage opened up into a room with a ceiling high enough for him to stand. He played his light over the walls. What he saw made him whistle in surprise.
The room was roughly rectangular with a fire pit in the center. The walls on either side of him were adorned with pictographs much more impressive than what they had found outside, the likes of which he had seen only in pictures of southwest Indian ruins. There were spirals, handprints, and images of animals. They were beautiful and remarkably well-preserved. But it was the opposite wall that took his breath.
A large circle, about a foot in diameter, was carved into the wall near the top. Seven straight lines descended from it, each ending in what looked like a hand.
On the left side of the wall, below the row of symbols, was a scene reminiscent of the “Jesus” picture he had discovered a few days before. It was clear, however, that this was not Jesus. The bearded man led a line of men in Spanish military uniforms, and others dressed in robes. These particular cave paintings were clearly were not done by the natives who had carved the pictographs. Though not surprised, he felt a bit of disappointment at the knowledge that this was not Christ. The feeling, though, was quickly replaced by the excitement of knowing that there was definitely a mystery here.