Site Unseen (9 page)

I laughed. "I'm ferociously proud of him, don't get me
wrong. It's just odd sometimes, to hear the way that people talk about Oscar. He was a big deal to the archaeological community of course, but he was just Grandpa to me, when I was a kid. Just doing what grandfathers did, I thought."

"I've got this mental image of you, Emma," Tony said, "as a lisping urchin, clutching a projectile point in one grubby hand and a copper bead in the other."

"Not too far off, I guess." I took a sip of beer. "It's how I got my start, following Oscar around. I picked up a lot of the mindset before I even knew what was happening. It was a bit of a shock to start college and see his name in textbooks, with all those verbal laurel leaves. I was glad to be able to relate to him professionally, though, for that little while he was alive. He died a couple of years before I took the position at Caldwell. I'm the only one in the family who followed in his footsteps."

I swallowed another mouthful as I thought about the welter of emotions, the pride, the worry that I wouldn't measure up, the love I had for him, the fear that people would expect too much of me. That I would disappoint him. "Graduate school's when I started to be shy about it. Too many people would ask me what Oscar was
really
like. He was of the old school, demanding, scathing, at times. John Houseman in
The Paper Chase
crossed with a Marine staff sergeant. But what was I supposed to answer? He was Grandpa." I shrugged.

Tony seemed to be deep in thought himself. "I met Oscar on several occasions, but never knew him well. I suspect few people would have been privileged to see his family life. He had such a reputation for, er, demanding exactitude," he said, carefully polite.

When I was very little, I had thought that Oscar was a pirate. His bushy red beard and growls ensured that most people never grew out of that superficial impression. I never minded, though, because I wanted to be a pirate too, stomping through the woods, looking for treasure, and then telling
stories about it. It was just a by-product of my affection for him that by the time I was in high school, I'd already had more field experience than most graduate students.

I changed the subject. "So what brings you to the area? We're a ways from the college."

Tony settled back into the booth. "I was having lunch with a friend nearby; he's got a summer place near here. And I thought as long as I was around, I'd drop by. What with my sabbatical and your workload, I figured we could stand to get better acquainted."

"It's been a busy year." I thought about the amount of work that gets heaped on new professors. "I'm hoping that things will settle down this semester."

Tony laughed humorlessly. "It will never settle down. Academia's a grind, so you just have to find your own approach to dealing with it. I'll tell you a secret." He leaned over across the table. "The more you seem to disdain the process--while completing all the obvious tasks you need to get tenure--the more that people will think you know something they don't. The more they will defer to you. The more you will succeed, through appearing to scorn the scene. By seeming to reject the process, you will triumph over it."

"That's sort of the cat theory of academic advancement, isn't it? The more you ignore your keepers, the more desirable you become?"

"That's it precisely." He took another deep draft of beer. "Enough about this. Tell me about the site."

"Not too much besides what I told you out on the site. We're still getting down to the right levels. The locals, for the most part, our maniacal friend today quite excepted, have been great, very supportive. We'll be out working for another couple of weeks, and then back to classes. I'm extremely hopeful about what we're going to find."

"It is exciting and you should make the most of it, because these opportunities don't come along that often." Tony continued, "particularly since Rick Crabtree wants to give the nonmajors' introductory class to you again this year. Says
it will help your tenure review. Though how Lifestyles of the Dead and Famous could help anyone is beyond me." He smiled briefly, meaningfully.

"I always thought of it as Ancient Thrills for Jocks and Jills." I put my glass down carefully. This was great kindness in Tony, to let me know what Rick, who was probably my greatest obstacle in the department, was thinking. "I'll see if I can't offer Chairman Kellerman a more attractive option instead."

"Good idea. You've got a lot riding on this, of course."

"You don't need to tell me. I don't know what I'll do if this doesn't work out," I admitted. "Everyone knows the tenure statistics ..." I laughed awkwardly. "There's not a huge market for slightly used assistant professors out there .. ."

"Look, let me tell you about my field season," Tony offered, as eager to change the subject as I was. "We've been finding just the most..."

We spent the next half hour trading war stories and gossip, a decent end to the day.

". .. and that was when I realized that in addition to telling the new students which plants to avoid touching, I really did have to warn them to use the official, cleared latrine sites. Imagine a snakebite . . ." Tony paused, then chuckled a little into his beer glass. "Well, the poor lad lost all interest in archaeology after that."

"Oh, I can imagine. Poison ivy's bad enough."

Suddenly Tony set his glass down rather decisively, almost impatiently. He reached over and brushed his thumb across my wrist and down my index finger. "Look, will you have dinner with me tonight?"

A thrill ran up that arm and down my spine. I sat transfixed, shocked, disbelieving for the second time today. "Wha-what?"

Tony reddened, but persisted. "Dinner. Would you have dinner with me? I'm asking you on a date."

Startled, I started to snatch my hand away from his, and then imagining what kind of rejection that must look like, I
pulled away more gently. "Uh. Tony, thanks, but I'm . . . I'm married, you know?"

He stared at me, swallowed, and looked away, compressing his lips. "No, no I did not know that." Tony exhaled and smiled embarrassedly "I did not know, I'm not in the habit of asking out married women. I didn't see a ring, else I wouldn't have asked."

Now I felt guilty, like an idiot. "No, you didn't. I don't wear jewelry in the field. It's not your fault. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry, really." He looked away, pained.

We sat there, supremely uncomfortable, for an interminable thirty seconds.

"Look," I started hastily. "How about another beer?"

"No, no thanks. I've got to get going." Tony got up and waved aside my offer to pay for another round or even my half of this one. "I won't hear of it, I invited you out." He threw down some bills on the table, leaving a decent tip.

"I'm sorry, really," I repeated.

Tony reached over as if to touch my shoulder, but then pulled back, thinking better of it. "We are fine, here," he said. "Really. It was a simple misunderstanding." He peered at me, cocking his head. "Right? We're good?"

I nodded. "Sure."

"Okay. Now. Thanks for the tour, it was even more interesting than I expected." He shook his head. "Everyone seems to think that we Mesoamericanists are the inheritors of Indiana Jones's reputation, but you--you're right in the middle of it all! It's not every day I get to see medical examiners and mug shots."

"Well, I'm not used to it either," I said. "It's not a regular thing for me."

"Fair enough." He looked uncomfortable, then laughed again, offering his hand to me. I took it and probably shook it a little too long, trying to make up for the misunderstanding. "Thanks again. See you in a month or so."

"See you, Tony."

I leaned back against the booth a moment after he left and groaned to myself. In the few meetings we'd had during my interview at Caldwell, Tony seemed rather detached, but that made sense in light of his views on how one gets ahead. He reminded me a bit of Oscar, age difference apart. There was the same old-school flair for the dramatic, the same sort of encyclopedic mind, a similar sense of humor. But no matter how honest the mistake, I had blown him off. Great.

I went over and sat down at the bar and rubbed my head; the day was settling down on me. "Another one, Nick?"

"You bet." He pulled on the optic and glanced over at me, a toothpick working between his lips. "You okay?"

"Yeah. It's been a hell of a day. I've got a headache, is all." I sipped at the beer, trying to assimilate what I'd been through in the past twelve hours. Tichnor's appearance, the potential of the posthole, the decidedly odd scene at the sheriff's office ... And then there was Tony's visit, replete with its own drama. Really, it was just too much.

"Ah, to hell with it," I muttered, setting the glass down. I'd handled everything just fine, everything was covered. I looked at Nick, who was drying glasses. "I got better things to worry about."

He switched his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. "You say so. Say, I heard you were the one who found Augie."

"Yeah. Bit of a shock." I thought about the disagreement I'd overheard at the sheriff's department. "Say, Nick, did Augie get into a lot of fights? You know, fistfights?"

"Oh, more'n most people, less than some." He shrugged. "Get to drinking, get wound up about something. He was more of a weepy drunk, but every so often he'd get scrappy. The other night, night before he died, that was the first time in a while. Why'd you ask?"

"Just wondering," I said. "He looked pretty beat up to me when I found him. All sorts of fun at the Point. Had some nutcase named Tichnor out
there today. Sonofabitch threat
ened me, can you imagine?" I kept my tone light; it
was
sort of amusing, well after the fact. Two people facing off over holes in the ground.

Nick's toothpick stopped dead in its migration. "No shit? Tichnor, you know, he and Augie ran around together sometimes. They were in here the night before last."

I put my glass down, thinking hard. "Yeah? How'd they get along?"

"Like spoons in a drawer; now Tichnor's going to have to find someone else to listen to his big talk. The three of them were in here that other night, those two and Billy. Tichnor left early, before the serious drinking got started, but then later on, Augie and Billy started trouble and I had to call the cops." He pulled out a sawed-off baseball bat from under the bar to show me how the bar's tranquillity had been restored. "Takes someone as mean as Billy Griggs not to quiet down when I'm trying to get a point across."

I had just taken another sip and nearly dropped my beer glass at his words. The blood rushed out of my face. "You . .. you didn't just say Billy Griggs?"

"Yeah, sure. But you wouldn't know
him,
he's a real bast--"

"About my age, my height, bad skin, ratty hair?" I said. "Serious
personality deficiencies?"

Nick nodded incredulously. "Emma, when did you ever run into him?"

I didn't answer right away. My mind raced. The instant that Nick had said the name, I realized why the driver of the black car that drove by Pauline's had looked so familiar. My stomach did a flip-flop. There was no way that Billy could remember me--it had been more than ten years ago--or even recognize me from that distance, I thought hurriedly. It had to be a coincidence, but all at once, there were far too many coincidences occurring down at the Point.

"You okay, Emma?" Nick looked worried. "You look a little rough, there."

Thinking furiously, I said, "Billy Griggs was the one who beat up on Augie?" Sure.

"Does the sheriff's department know this?"

"Yeah, they were the ones gave Billy a free night's lodging for drunk and disorderly and then gave Augie a lift home so he wouldn't get into any more trouble." Nick stretched and shrugged. "Shoulda baby-sat him too, for all the good that did."

Okay, I thought, that rules out Billy. He must have been the "best suspect" I heard Sheriff Stannard and Dr. Moretti arguing about. "What about Grahame Tichnor?"

The bartender waved a hand dismissively. "He was gone long before the other two got bored enough to start in on each other. What are you thinking?"

"Just trying to make sense of what's been going on around me," I replied.

"Well, the cops know all this." He looked uneasy. "Not to add to your worries, but I think we had one of your kids in here that night too."

"Oh?" But my heart sank; I already knew who it must have been.

"Yeah, tall drink of water, puss on him like one of those sad clown pictures. Already pretty sloppy. I refused him." The bartender swiped at a glass uneasily. "I thought you oughta know . . ."

Alan, of course. "It's okay, Nick. I appreciate the heads-up."

"And if Tichnor shows up here again, I'll let him know not to bother you." He nodded at the baseball bat meaningfully. "No call for that kind of crap."

"Thanks," I said gratefully. It was like family around here, everyone looking out for everyone else. I drained my glass. It was time to get going myself.

"I'll see you." I slid off the stool and left some bills on the counter. "Work to be done."

"Take it easy, Emma."

When I got back to the dorm I wandered down the hall to the kitchen to see if there was anything to gnaw. On the way to a little caloric therapy, however, I passed Neal's room, where I witnessed something that was guaranteed to keep my stomach rumbling and my head aching. I know for certain that if they had seen me coming down the hallway, I might never have seen this little slice of private life.

The door to Neal's room was open. Someone was standing in the doorway with his back to me.

I heard a vehement, what--denial? "You don't know what the hell you're talking about!" That voice was Neal's but he wasn't the shadow in the doorway.

"What do you mean by that?" the other voice demanded. I couldn't make that one out yet.

"Just what I'm saying." Neal's voice was low and emphatic. "You have no idea of what's going on and it's not fair to Emma to assume you do."

My ears pricked up.

"You saw what happened out there today! But I know what you think of me--"

"You don't--" Neal interrupted.

"Oh, I'm not so stupid that I can't see you making fun of me with the others--"

"God damn, you're paranoid!"

"--and I'm just saying, you should stay away from her--"

It was at that point that the form outlined in the doorway turned and saw me. I almost didn't recognize Alan, his face was red and he was breathing through clenched teeth. If it had been anyone else, he might have been able to cover the quality of emotion that possessed him, but Alan was ill-suited to subtlety. Add to that a chronic, misinformed sense of being outclassed and ridiculed and you had a walking time bomb.

"Something wrong, Alan?" I asked as nonchalantly as I could.