Burial Ground (55 page)

The kidnappings were the work of a single
individual: The man who had stolen his daughter from him. The same
man who had sent the photographs of him at the Downey house, who
had been within fifty yards of him at a point in time when if
Preston had known, he could have prevented the abduction of his
cherished daughter, and the twenty-three children who came after
her, with a single bullet.

Why could no one else see it? Why didn't
they believe him?

Because he knew all too well that the
parents of missing children would say or do anything if there was a
chance of learning the fate of their son or daughter, even if it
meant formulating a theory from a set of points that on paper
appeared completely random, like forming constellations from the
stars in the night sky.

Preston focused again on the house, but
still couldn't bring himself to press the button on the garage door
opener and pull the idling Cherokee inside. There was only solitude
waiting for him within those walls, and the heartbreaking memories
he was forced to endure with every breath he took. The house was a
constant reminder of the greatest mistake of his life, but more
than that, it was a beacon, the only location on the planet that
Savannah had ever called her own. He still held out hope that
wherever she was, one of these days she would simply appear from
nowhere and return to her home. To him. It was the reason he would
never allow himself to sell it. The one wish he allowed himself to
pray would come true.

It was all he had.

He slid the gearshift into drive and headed
south, pretending he didn't know exactly where he was going. Ten
minutes later he was on the other side of town, parked in front of
a Tudor-style two-story, upon which the forest encroached to the
point of threatening to swallow it whole. Light shined through the
blinds covering the windows. With a deep breath, he climbed out of
the car and approached the porch.

The house positively radiated warmth,
reminding him of what should have been. He pressed the doorbell and
backed away from the door.

Shuffling sounds from the other side of the
door, then a muffled voice.

"Just a second."

The door opened inward. A woman stood in the
entryway, cradling a swaddled baby in the crook of her left arm.
She brushed a strand of blonde bangs out of her eyes with the back
of her right hand, which held a bottle still dripping from recently
being heated in boiling water.

"Hi, Jessie," he said.

She still had the most amazing eyes he'd
ever seen.

"Philip," she whispered. "You shouldn't be
here."

"He's beautiful, Jess." He nodded to the
baby. "How old is he by now?"

"Phil..."

They stood in an awkward silence for several
long moments.

"You remember what today is?" Preston
finally asked.

"Of course," she whispered. "Do you honestly
think I could ever forget?"

He shook his head and looked across the lawn
toward the forest.

"What happened to us, Jess?"

"I'm not getting into this with you
again."

"Does he at least treat you well?"

"Who? Richard?" Anger flashed in her eyes.
"He's emotionally stable, physically available, and isn't hell-bent
on his own systematic destruction. And I don't cringe when he
touches me. What more could a girl want?"

"But does he make you happy?"

She sighed. "Of course, Phil. I wouldn't
have married him if he didn't." The baby started to cry, and
quickly received the bottle. Jessie shuffled softly from one foot
to the other in a practiced motion Preston remembered well. Only it
had been with a different child, in a different lifetime entirely.
"Why are you really here?"

"I needed to know that you were okay." He
glanced back at her and offered a weak smile before looking away
again. It was still impossible to think of her as anything other
than the woman he had loved for the better part of his life, since
the first time he had laid eyes on her. It hurt deep down to think
of her as anything other than his wife. "That's all."

He had to turn away so she wouldn't see the
shimmer of tears in his eyes, and used the momentum to spur his
feet back toward his car.

"Phil."

He paused, blinked back the tears, and
turned to face her again. Even with the recent addition of the
wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes, she was still the
most stunning woman he had ever seen. And the baby seemed to make
her glow. He couldn't bring himself to ask her his name.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He shook his head, releasing streams of
tears down his cheeks. No, he would never be all right ever
again.

"Do you still blame me, Jessie?"

"You invited the danger into our home,
whether intentionally or not," she whispered. "I will always blame
you."

"So will I," he said, and struck off toward
his car again. "I hope you have a good life, Jess. You deserve to
be happy."

He heard her start to softly cry as she
closed the door.

"Don't ever let him out of your sight,"
Preston said. "Ever."

His heart broke once more as he walked away
from the love of his life.

III

22 Miles West of Lander, Wyoming

Les stood beside one of the cairns in the
outer ring and watched his students perform their tasks as they had
been taught. Jeremy guided the magnetometer in straight lines
between the short walls that formed the spokes of the wagon wheel
design. He wore the sensing device's harness over his shoulders and
held the receptor, which looked like an industrial vacuum cleaner,
a foot above the ground. It interpreted the composition of the
ground based on its magnetic content, and forwarded its readings
into a program on Les's laptop that created a three-dimensional map
of the earth to roughly ten meters in depth. Every type of rock had
varying content of ferrous material and left a different magnetic
signature, as did extinguished campfires, the foundations of
prehistoric ruins, and various artifacts lost through the ages.
Often, one ancient site was built upon another when a more modern
culture eclipsed its forebear, like the Acropolis in Athens rose
from the rubble of a Mycenaean megaron. If there was an older
structure beneath this one, they would be able to find and map it
without so much as brushing away the topsoil, but of greater
importance were the relics left behind by the Native Americans who
had meticulously crafted this ornate design. Hopefully, these
buried clues would provide some indication of the function of the
medicine wheel, the identity of its creators, and the reason it had
been erected in the first place.

The magnetometer would also serve a
secondary function he had chosen not to vocalize. Primitive
societies often built cairns to mark the burial mounds of
individuals of significance. If there were indeed corpses interred
under their feet, then the magnetometer would reconstruct their
unmistakable signals as well in hazy shades of gray. Fortunately,
they had yet to isolate any remains. Based on the condition of the
stones and the level of preservation, he feared any bodies they
discovered might not be as ancient as he might prefer.

So far, the only signals had come from rocks
under the soil, in no apparent pattern and of varying mineral
content, save one square object roughly a foot down, midway between
where he stood now and the central ring of stones. Breck and Lane
had cordoned off the square-yard above it with string and long
metal tent pegs, and had begun to excavate in centimeter levels.
They were only six inches down, and had yet to sift through
anything more exciting than the coarse dirt.

"I still don't think this thing is working
right," Jeremy said. "I can't seem to get rid of that strange,
streaky feedback a couple yards down."

"I told you that you were putting it
together wrong," Breck said.

"You could always switch with me and lug
this thing around, princess."

Les rolled his eyes and tuned them out.
Their bickering was grating on his nerves. Besides, he needed to
try to sort out his thoughts, to figure out exactly what was so
wrong with this site.

"There's another one over here!" Jeremy
called. "Same size, same shape, and same location within this
section."

"Mark it and try the next section over," Les
said. Two could be a coincidence. Three was a pattern. "Let me know
immediately if it's there."

What was roughly five inches square, half an
inch thick, and crafted from metal? He would know soon enough, he
supposed, but the objects made him nervous. The Bighorn Medicine
Wheel predated the development of Native American metallurgical
skills. If what they uncovered was manmade, then this site wasn't
nearly as old as it had been designed to appear.

The wind shifted, bringing with it a scent
that crinkled his nose. It smelled like something had crawled off
into the forest to die. He stepped around the cairn and walked into
the wind, but the smell dissipated. A cursory inspection of the
forest's edge didn't reveal the carcass he had expected to find.
Perhaps the detritus had already accumulated over it. The breeze
waned, and he returned to his post, where he resumed his
supervisory duties.

"Right here," Jeremy said. "Just like the
other two. What do you want me to do?"

"For now, just mark it and keep going with
the magnetometer. I want to map as much of the site as we can
before sundown."

"I could just dig it up really quickly."

"That's not how it works and you know
it."

Les sighed. The impatience of youth.

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Jeremy said
with a shrug, and went back to work.

Another gust of wind brought the stench back
to Les. The breeze made a whistling sound as it passed through the
stacked stones of the cairn.

He crept closer and the smell intensified.
The source of the vile reek was definitely somewhere under the
cairn. He leaned right up against it and tried to peer through the
tiny gaps between the stones. At first, he saw only shadows, so he
crouched and inspected the lower portion, nearer the ground. He
gagged and covered his mouth and nose with his dirty hand.

There was a dark recess behind the stacked
rocks. He could barely discern a smooth section of something the
color of rust. A rounded segment of bone through which thin sutures
coursed. Just the barest glimpse and he knew exactly what was
entombed within those stones.  

"We've reached the artifact," Breck called.
"What do you want us to do?"

Les couldn't find the voice to answer. He
craned his neck to see through another gap below the last. An eye
socket in profile, the sharp stub of the nasal bones, crusted with
a coating of dirt and blood.

A spider scurried over the cheekbone and
disappeared into a small fissure in the ridged maxilla above a row
of tiny teeth.

There was no doubt it was human. And it
definitely wasn't thousands of years old.

His legs gave out and deposited him on his
rear end in the dirt. He scanned the forest, expecting to find
whoever had done this watching him from the shadows.

"Dr. Grant? What you want us to do with
this?"

He whirled in her direction. These kids were
his responsibility. He needed to get them out of here this very
second.

Breck raised her eyebrows to reiterate the
question. She and Lane knelt over the square hole in the earth,
mounds of dirt to either side by the screens they had used to sift
through them. They must have recognized something in his
expression, for both of them backed slowly away from him.

"Gather your belongings," Les snapped.

"What about the magnetometer?" Jeremy
asked.

"Leave it!"

Les crawled away from the cairn and shoved
to his feet. He grabbed his backpack and strode toward where Breck
and Lane cringed. Fear shimmered in their eyes.

"Get your backpacks. Hurry up!"

"But Dr. Grant---" Lane started.

"We don't have time for this!"

The graduate students scurried away from
their excavation. Les heard a shuffling sound as they donned their
gear. He knelt by the hole and stared into its depths.

A tin with rounded edges peeked out of the
ground. He brushed away the loose dirt to reveal three rows of
numbers and letters that had been crudely scratched into the
metal.

19

3-20

V.E.

He pulled one of the tent pegs from the
cordon and pried at the corner of the object.

The top portion of the tin popped open to
reveal its contents.

A DVD-R in an ordinary plastic jewel case.
The same series of numbers and letters had been scrawled on the
disk in black marker.

There was blood smeared all over the
case.

The fossilized remains of a
previously unclassified hominin species are discovered in the Altai
Mountains, prompting teams of scientists from around the globe to
converge upon this isolated region of Siberia in search of further
evidence to corroborate the revolutionary theory that a third
proto-human ancestor coexisted with Neanderthals and
primitive
Homo sapiens
.
What awaits them is anything but extinct.
FBI Special Agent Grey Porter leads the investigation into the
mysterious circumstances surrounding the appearance of a factory
trawler of Russian origin off of the Washington Coast. He finds
twelve bodies; all of them exsanguinated through ferocious bite
wounds on their necks. According to the manifest, there should have
only been eleven.
Whatever killed them is no longer on board.
Elena Sturm of the Seattle PD is assigned to patrol the waterfront
renovation project on Salmon Bay. While rousting the homeless from
the underground warrens of the massive construction site, she
stumbles upon the corpse of a man whose wounds are identical to
those of the victims aboard the ghost ship.
Something has cut a bloody swath across the Pacific.
And it's already here.