Perfect Specimen: Brietta (7 page)

He pulled a camp chair up to the cot and sat down, then reached under the blanket to gently rub her forehead as he’d done on the plane.

“That feels so good.” She allowed him to massage her for a few more moments, then sat up and gave him a tortured smile. “I’m a mess, just like you said. You’d better go so I can conk out.”

“Do you want me to send Melody in?”

She shook her head. “Just let me fall apart for a few hours and I’ll be good as new. Don’t worry,” she added, this time with a touch of real humor. “It looks worse than it feels.”

He doubted that. “In the morning, we’ll drive into the village—”

“No, Tagg.” She grabbed his hand. “It’s feeling better already. Really.” She seemed surprised by her own words and murmured, “Seriously, you must have magic hands, because the pain is completely gone. I swear it.”

He studied her face, intrigued by the hint of pink in the previously pale cheeks. She actually did seem better. “You’re a good actress—”

“No, it’s true.” She slipped off the cot and pulled him to his feet, then slid one hand behind his neck. “One more kiss, then that’s it. No matter what. Agreed?”

There was a mischievous sparkle in her eyes that told him she wasn’t just pretending to feel better, so he exhaled in relief, then kissed her, gently at first, and then, as her body molded against his, he demanded more.

And she gave it, but only for another minute. Then she stepped back, her cheeks now flushed to a deep crimson. “We need to stop this. It’s crazy, and it could ruin the whole project.”

Her prediction had its intended impact, and so he didn’t protest. “You’re right, it’s crazy. But man, do I want it. Good thing you’re tough enough for the both of us.”

“Trust me, I’m not all that tough,” she murmured, stroking his cheek with her fingertips. “So get out of here, please?”

He grabbed her hand and kissed it, then arched a complaining eyebrow. “You’re making a sap out of me, you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “So much for romance. Just leave already.”

Chuckling, he looked her up and down, imagining how good she’d feel if he was rubbing her for fun instead of medicinal purposes. Then, after giving her a suggestive wink, he forced himself to walk away.

* * * *

Brietta tossed and turned that night, but for once it wasn’t due to a headache or a mad scientist with a chain saw—it was all Taggert. She could barely believe they had allowed things to go so far.

When she awoke the next morning, his words of faint praise were the first thing she remembered:
Good thing you’re tough enough for the both of us
.

“You really
are
tough,” she congratulated herself as she slid out of bed. Reaching for her amoxicillin, she noted with satisfaction that her head still felt great. Not that she would allow herself to get too encouraged this time, given the intensity of her recent relapse. Still, the day was off to a promising start.

After a quick trip to the lavatory tent, she started toward the canopy, then realized Taggert was already astride Kasha. And damn did he look good in the saddle again. So good she decided not to be so tough after all.

“Hey!” She waved to him. “Wait a minute.”

He waved back. “How’s the head?”

“All better. “ She walked over to him and flashed a hopeful smile “I was actually thinking I might ride along with you today. We could explore together. That is, if Kasha doesn’t mind.”

Taggert eyed her impatiently. “Why would you do that? The cemetery’s your assignment, remember?”

She glared. “Thanks for reminding me. Have a good day.” When she turned away, she half expected him to come after her, or at least to call out some lame-ass apology. But all she heard was the pounding of Kasha’s hooves.

Dashing to her tent, she grabbed the binoculars and marched back out in time to see him proceeding southwest at a jaunty pace. Not a care in the world, the creep. All business by day, all hands by night.

“Classy, Taggert,” she muttered. “Thanks for keeping me from making a
huge
mistake.”

* * * *

He was all business after that—day
and
night—and things settled into a routine so comfortable, so productive, Brietta decided to forgive him for treating her like an underling.

To her, it was really the opposite. She had the best part of this project, whether he knew it or not. With Vince, the mad gridder, by her side, she made quick progress, and in the afternoon of their fourth full day at the site she decided they all needed a reward, so she announced casually, “Anyone feel like digging up a dead body?”

Vince whooped, and Melody grabbed a small trowel. Then they waited patiently for further instruction.

“Use your instincts,” Brietta suggested. “Pick a grave, any grave. Stay inside the grid lines and go slow. Judging by Taggert’s experience, the first nine or ten inches of dirt are just post-internment deposits, but below that every grain of sand or speck of dust needs to be handled carefully. On the other hand,” she admitted, “I’m beginning to think he was right. There might not be much in these tombs except bones, so don’t overthink it. Have fun. But go slow.”

The students didn’t need any more encouragement, and she was pleased to see that they didn’t select side-by-side graves, but relied on their professional instincts instead, with Vince selecting a patch of dirt at the center while Melody was drawn to an undisturbed corner.

Anxious to choose her own personal treasure trove, she smiled to see that Hannan was hanging back. “Aren’t you going to dig with us?”

“I’m not an archaeologist. I’m a bodyguard.”

She arched an eyebrow. “These might be relatives of your ancestors. Doesn’t that intrigue you?”

“Indeed it does.” He stepped up to her and touched her shoulder. “Thank you for including me. And for understanding why I’m here.”

She bit her lip, pleased by the sentiment. Then she watched in awe as the bodyguard studied the burial ground solemnly, then started walking along its length. Finally, he walked over to a spot on the eastern edge, tapped the ground with his foot, and announced, “I think this is my grandmother.”

Brietta laughed, hoping he was correct about the gender at least. The idea of a cemetery filled with males had its allure, but in terms of ancient artifacts—especially pottery and jewels—Brietta’s money was on ancient women every time.

Raising her binoculars, she scanned the distance for signs of Taggert, but he was nowhere to be found. Oddly enough, her last glimpse had caught him leading Kasha through the dense scrub on foot, walking northward toward the same area to which he always seemed to gravitate. Why did he always ride west, when he could save time by crossing the plateau directly north? And when questioned, why did he always imply that the most promising sites would be found to the
south
?

She suspected she knew the answer. Her paranoid boss didn’t want to telegraph his hunches too quickly. But certainly if he actually found something, he’d tell his team, wouldn’t he?

He hasn’t found it yet
, she assured herself,
but he’s zeroing in on something.
Which means you’d better make some serious progress too. This is a battle of wits, right? And you have to win or you’ll never live it down.

* * * *

“What do you think?” Melody murmured nine hours later as they gathered under the canopy for a cool drink to ward off the late afternoon sun. “Were they
all
executed?”

“If so, it was ritualistic.” Brietta rubbed her throbbing eyes, trying not to let the latest stab of pain ruin the day’s accomplishments. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Such precision . . .” She glanced toward the cemetery, where four new skeletons had been carefully laid out. Four males, each with a single blow to the back of the skull that had almost certainly caused his death.

“But one guy almost escaped,” Vince reminded them, stabbing himself in the heart with an imaginary dagger for emphasis.

“And the rest were tied up, forced to kneel maybe, and then hit in some sort of ritual execution? So we all agree they were probably prisoners?”

“Captured warriors?” Melody guessed. “Although I suppose there would be more signs of battle wounds.”

Brietta shrugged. “Maybe the ones who died in battle were given a warrior’s funeral. On some sort of pyre, maybe. But these guys survived, so they didn’t deserve the honor.”

“If they were enemies of the executioners, I don’t think they would have stayed so perfectly still and let themselves be whacked like that,” Melody protested. Then she jumped up and told Vince, “Here, try to do it to me.”

“You want me to hit you on the back of the head?”

“On an exact, predetermined spot on the back of my head,” she confirmed.

Brietta nodded, intrigued. “I see what you mean. Vince, get the paint. Let’s see if you can hit each one of us with that kind of precision.”

When he glanced uneasily around the group—first at the woman he loved, then at his sickly boss, and finally at the hulky Hannan—Brietta laughed. “Just get the paint. And some rope too. So you can immobilize us first. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

* * * *

One hour later, they had their answer. Even if the prisoners had been tightly bound, it would have been almost impossible to pinpoint a spot on the back of the skull, again and again under makeshift conditions, if the subjects were conscious and struggling with all their might.

Vince brushed the dust from his clothes that had accumulated during the scuffles. “It doesn’t seem possible that they were willing victims. That’s what we’re saying though, right?”

“Maybe they were priests,” Brietta suggested. “Or even better, brainwashed subjects, like at Jonestown or Waco. They preferred to die together rather than be captured. Or they thought they were all going to some sort of afterlife together.”

“Or they were silent witnesses,” Hannan said.

Despite his matter-of-fact tone, the observation gave Brietta goose bumps. “What does that mean? Silent witnesses to what?”

Vince seemed inspired too. “Maybe they witnessed a crime. Is that what you’re saying, Hannan?”

“I cannot know. But there is an ancient story. One of our most inspiring and tragic legends. It tells of a group of priests who gathered in a sacred spot to witness the coming of the horse god. Seeing him on his fiery steed was a great honor, but the priests understood it was also a responsibility. They couldn’t reveal the location of the sacred spot, or describe the appearance of the holy one. So after the magnificent event, they willingly drank poison and took their own lives.”

“Silent witnesses,” Brietta repeated breathlessly. “I
love
that.”

“But our guys didn’t drink poison, or kill themselves willingly. They were murdered,” Melody reminded her. “If they were truly willing, it wouldn’t have been so violent, would it?”

Brietta grimaced. “It’s a ritual. So it’s cultural. Just because it doesn’t fit with our sensibilities doesn’t mean it’s not possible. I
like
it. It explains why they didn’t wriggle away. Why each blow could be so precise.”

Vince nodded. “I like it too.”

His girlfriend glared. “Really? If it was a ritual, where are the holy implements? Wouldn’t that be part of the ceremony? To bury each guy with the means of his deliverance?”

Brietta laughed. “Good point.”

“And who performed the executions?” Hannan asked. “In
my
story,
everyone
took poison. In this scenario, the executioner lived. Unless he somehow managed to hit him
self
in the back of the head.”

“Maybe we haven’t found him yet. Maybe he killed them all then poisoned himself,” Vince said, his tone defensive.

“And then he
buried
himself?” Melody flashed a teasing smile. “With no shovel?”

Brietta laughed again. “We’re clearly not ready to go public with this hypothesis. And by public, I mean Taggert. He’ll rip it to shreds, even though I’m convinced it might be our answer. Or at least a possible answer.”

Hannan gave her a fascinated smile. “You would keep secrets from him?”

“He put me in charge of the cemetery. Plus, he made it a competition. Us against him. Not that I’m asking anyone to lie, or keep secrets,” she added hastily. “I’m just goofing around, really.”

“We definitely can’t tell him yet,” Melody agreed. “Unless he asks, obviously. But he won’t.” Her big brown eyes clouded. “He just doesn’t seem to care about any of this, does he? He’s off in his own world.”

“Because he’s got Brietta to handle it, so he can concentrate on other finds,” Vince explained. “That works for us, right? We have victims but no murder weapons. And our executioner is missing. Tagg can search for him—whether he knows it or not—while
we
continue proving our silent-witness theory.”

Brietta moistened her lips, encouraged. “So we’re agreed? We’ll update him on the facts, but keep the speculation to a minimum for now?”