Free The Visitant: Book I of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear Page B

saw the flicker of the campfire illuminating the greasewood.
    Maggie pulled up behind Dusty’s Bronco and turned off the ignition. She sat for a moment, allowing the stillness of the night to settle into her weary bones. The day had been long and complicated. A little boy from New Jersey had defied the warning signs and tried to climb the cliff behind Chetro Ketl. He’d gotten scared halfway up the Jackson stairway. Park personnel had been forced to rappel down from above to pluck the boy off the cliff. Maggie’s job had been to calm down the obnoxious parents, who kept shouting they were going to sue and have the entire monument shut down as unsafe.
    She turned off her lights and stepped out of her truck. Dusty stood at the edge of the parking area, his back to the campfire, a bottle in his hand.
    “Is that you, Maggie?”
    “It’s me.” She smiled in the darkness. “Sorry I’m late. I had quite a day.”
    “Yeah, I heard. Dale was at the Visitor’s Center when they pulled the boy off the cliff. New Jersey, huh? Is the suit filed yet?”
    She chuckled. “I don’t know. What is it about people? A thousand signs in the canyon saying don’t climb on anything, and they still climb, then figure it’s your fault. You’d think that common sense would tell somebody that if they let their kid scramble up a sheer cliff, he might get into trouble.”
    From around the fire, Sylvia said, “It’s another sign that civilization is doomed. Humans are too stupid to survive.”
    “You might have something there,” Maggie called back, then paused, and looked at Dusty. They’d been friends for five years.
She usually knew what he was thinking, but not tonight. “Dale said you really need a monitor.”
    Dusty seemed suddenly reluctant. “We found another one today.”
    She heard the wary tone in his voice, and said, “You didn’t do anything disrespectful, did you?”
    “Who do you think I am?” He paused. “I want to talk to you about this alone, okay? Away from the fire.”
    “If it’s a pass, forget it.”
    “I don’t make passes.”
    “Right. Your reputation for being a real hot dog with women is all made up, huh?”
    Dusty said, “You’ve known me for five years, and you still believe the things I say about myself?”
    He led her away, toward his blue Bronco.
    “Why can’t we talk in front of the crew?”
    He leaned against the rear of his Bronco, and firelight glimmered in his blond hair. In a low voice, he said, “From the delicate nature of the bones, body number one looks like a woman. Body number two, another woman. Body three, a woman. Body four, same thing.”
    “These were matrilineal people. Men went out to war and to trade. They worked in the fields, and hunted. They didn’t come back as often. What’s the problem?”
    “Each woman has a fractured skull. They were beaten to death.”
    Maggie sat down on the bumper. “Really? Go on.”
    “You’re not shocked?”
    “Of course, but I’m not one of these people who takes it for gospel that the ancient ones were peaceful farmers. That ‘Red Saint’ thing is for romantics. What else?”
    Dusty twisted his beer bottle in his hands. “The first victim had a rock dropped on her head.” Dusty waited in silence.
    Maggie stared. Then she blinked and straightened. “You’re sure? The rock didn’t roll down off the cliff and accidentally wind up there? You’re positive it was intentional?”
    “We’re not sure of anything. We located the burials and stopped. We’re waiting for that monitor. I just want you to know what the monitor might be getting into.”
    “Since when would an archaeologist care what an Indian monitor was exposed to?”
    “Since the archaeologist was me,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to be responsible for bankrupting somebody’s family to pay for a cleansing.”
    Maggie’s heart constricted. She whispered, “You really think this is witchcraft?”
    Even saying it aloud made her quake. She glanced around at