Free Perfect Specimen: Brietta by Kate Donovan

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