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  ***

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  "Ongoing Investigation"

  The sheriff planted a knee in the center of Vince's back and got the cuffs on. He removed Vince's wallet, stood, stuck the toe of his boot beneath Vince's shoulder and said, "Turn over."

  Vince turned over..

  "Sit up," the sheriff said.

  Vince sat up. The sheriff took in the scene, starting with Gregorio, slumped on the floor next to the bar, a red hole in the middle of his forehead.

  "Who shot him and with what?"

  "It was that guy on the floor, Rupe," Muriel said. "The black dude pulled a gun outta that backback but Slick there was too fast for him."

  The room smelled of cordite. Beadles' hearing was almost back to normal. The door swung open and Vern came in.

  The sheriff walked to a booth and tore a napkin out of the holder. He stooped and picked up Vince's discarded automatic by the trigger guard. "Are you telling me it was self-defense?"

  Muriel shrugged. "You could call it that. Slick there was being mighty aggressive."

  "Muriel, would you bring me a couple plastic bags? Folks, I'm Sheriff Rupert Conway. We're a little understaffed on accounta a big pile-up out to the highway so I'm all there is tonight. Now ahmina have to talk to each of you one by one to figure out what the hell happened. I surely would appreciate it if you all cooperate."

  Conway turned to Vince. "You got any nasty surprises in your pockets? Any needles or razor blades or shit like that?"

  "No," Vince sighed like he'd been through this before.

  "Stand up."

  Vince got to his feet. The Sheriff went through his pockets removing a fat wad of cash in a gold clip, a wallet thick with cash and credit cards, not all Vince's, some change and a folding knife. The Sheriff walked Vince over to a booth and sat him down.

  "Don't move," he said.

  "Vern call you?" Muriel said.

  "Ahuh. Who should I start with?"

  "Well nothing was happening 'til those two black gentlemen came in here looking for this here fella." She indicated Beadles. "They called him Professor. Something about gold out on the shifting sands, damn fools."

  Conway rounded on Beadles. "May I see some identification?"

  Beadles produced his Illinois driver's license. Muriel returned with a box of large ziplock bags into which the sheriff dropped the automatic and the contents of Vince's pockets.

  "What are you doing here, Mr. Beadles?"

  "I'm a professor of anthropology. I'm looking for ruins."

  Conway turned to Ninja. "ID, son?"

  Silent now, Ninja produced his driver's license. Conway looked from Ninja to Beadles and back. "What you doing out here?"

  "I'm with the professor," Ninja said.

  The sheriff turned to Beadles.

  "Mr. Preston provided invaluable technical assistance but now he wants to come on the dig. And as I explained, you can't have amateurs on a dig."

  "Ahuh," the sheriff said, stooping next to Gregorio and retrieving his wallet from inside the black leather jacket. The sheriff flipped it open and looked. "Gregorio Haines, St. Louis."

  "Me and him were helping the professor," Ninja said. "We're his tech support."

  "But he says he doesn't want you here, Mr. Preston," the sheriff said.

  "You need some help you can deputize me, Rupe," Weatherill said.

  The sheriff thought about it. "I appreciate that, Vern. Here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna put Mr…" He removed Vince's wallet from the ziplock and flipped it open. "Mr. Sealy here in the back of my car, then I'm gonna come back in here and get a quick statement from each of you people. Then I'm gonna ask you to wait here for other officers. Om get someone out here as soon as we can free 'em up."

  The sheriff put a hand beneath Vince's arm. "Let's go."

  Vince stood. The sheriff scooped up Vern's cowboy hat, planted it on his head and steered him out the door. The room was dead silent. Beadles and Summer looked at each other and saw the same things: fear and hope.

  "This is bullshit," Ninja said. "Ohmma call my lawyer, Mr. Arthur Feldstein. I don't know nothin' 'bout that gun."

  Beadles refrained from mentioning it appeared to be Ninja's backpack. As far as he was concerned he didn't see a thing. He just wanted out.

  Ninja took out his cellphone and walked to the end booth. Weatherill picked up Muriel's shotgun off the floor and set it on the bar. "I called 911 bout five minutes after those two gentlemen came in. I just knew there was going to be trouble."

  "'Cause they were colored, right?" Summer said.

  Weatherill feigned indignation. "Not at all! They just looked like trouble."

  Muriel poured herself a shot of Jack, looked around. "Who else wants one?"

  Summer, Weatherill and Beadles raised their hands. Muriel poured shots. Ninja was still on the phone to his lawyer. The sheriff came back in. His eyes took in the drinks and his mouth twitched a little.

  "Folks, looks like they won't get anyone out here for hours. Ahmina have to ask you all to stay here for the night so we can ask questions in the morning. Where's that other fella?"

  Ninja stuck his head out of the booth still on the phone. The sheriff motioned him over. Ninja said something, hung up and complied.

  "Need you to stay put for the night so you'll be here when the other deputies arrive. Anybody got a problem with that?"

  "We under arrest?" Ninja said.

  "No but this is an ongoing investigation. I'm asking you as a courtesy."

  "Sure, no prob, officer," Ninja said. "Guess I'll be looking at your rooms after all, Mr. Motel Man."

  The sheriff stared at him a beat before nodding. The sheriff scooped up the Punisher back-pack. "I'm taking this as evidence."

  Ninja swallowed.

  One by one Conway took them to the corner booth and asked them what happened, making notes in a spiral pad. He questioned Beadles last.

  Beadles faced the sheriff in the darkened booth. The sheriff smelled of sage. He removed a card from his breast pocket and slid it across the table. Beadles took it.

  "Like I said, I'm out here looking for ancient ruins. I was let go from my university position two weeks ago. You might as well know, they accused me of stealing some artifacts and I agreed to resign to avoid prosecution."

  The sheriff stared at him from beneath hedgerow brows.

  "I was framed. I can't prove anything, but if I were a thief, would I be out here in the middle of nowhere searching for ruins?"

  The sheriff shrugged. "Maybe your an antiquities thief. Seen a few."

  Beadles smiled mirthlessly. "Of course." He explained how he'd met Ninja and asked for his help. "They must have planted a transmitter in my vehicle. I was opposed to their coming."

  The sheriff made notes and looked at Beadles skeptically.

  "No doubt." He closed the notepad and eased out of the booth. He turned to the room. "See you folks tomorrow. Thank you for your cooperation."

  Muriel pointed to the corpse. "You ain't gonna just leave it there?!"

  The sheriff looked at the corpse. "Yes I am. Keep the air conditioning on."

  ***

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  "Like a Dog"

  "Folks," Muriel said, "I'm closing up. Anybody needs a place to stay see Vern."

  Ninja, Summer and Beadles followed the motellier out the door. For the first time Beadles saw Ninja's donk: a green and silver Chrysler 300 with suicide doors and huge, almost comical wheels and tires scraping against the underside of the body. It was wrapped in yellow plastic police tape with a neon orange sticker affixed to the windshield.

  CRIME SCENE DO NOT TOUCH.

  "Fuck y'all!" Ninja spat tearing off the tape and ripping the tag off the windshield. He removed a fob from his pocket and beeped the car unlocked. He got in the driver's seat and started the engine with a snarl. The passenger side window zipped down.

  "Catch you later, Professor! Good luck!"

  The big car zipped backwards into th
e middle of Main Street, the headlights flicked on and it rocked on down the road. When it was about twenty yards away booming bass shattered the night.

  "Sheriff isn't gonna like this," Weatherill said.

  They followed Weatherill up the slight incline beneath the flat port roof over the cracked asphalt. The motel was an L-shaped flat-top with the office and living quarters at the bottom and fourteen units. Weatherill led Beadles and Summer into the brightly lit office. A naugahyde sofa faced the small counter with a peeling coffee table in-between. There was a coffee maker on a sideboard and a soda machine.

  Weatherill went behind the desk. "Who's stayin'?"

  Beadles gave him his credit card. Rooms were $45.00. Weatherill gave him a key attached to brass fob with the room number. He pulled out his cell phone and the sheriff's card.

  "I guess I'll see you in the morning," Summer said.

  Beadles nodded, went outside and returned to his dirt-encrusted Jeep. He unlocked the tailgate, grabbed his overnighter, shut the gate and walked back up the hill. A faint light emanated from the unit next to his. He went inside, tossed his bag on the bed and went straight into the bathroom where he stripped off his clothes and took a hot shower. He dried off and put his jeans and shirt back on. It was almost midnight but he wasn't sleepy and didn't think he would be able to sleep.

  Beadles sat on the bed, finished in a brown and turqouise Navajo pattern. He wished the bar hadn't closed. He needed a drink. His plans didn't include hanging around for a police investigation. If the news got out it would only come back and bite him on the ass--one more arrow in Liggett's quiver.

  Christ, how did he get in this mess?

  Soft rapping at the door. Beadles rose, inserted the chain and opened it. It was Summer. He took the chain off the hook and let her in. She carried her own bulging backpack.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't feel like being alone and I've got something I think you should see."

  Beadles sat in the chair next to the little round table, indicated for her to have a seat. "What's on your mind?"

  Summer set the backpack on the table, opened it and removed a quart bottle of bourbon. "Would you like a drink?"

  Beadles grinned. "You read my mind."

  She poured a couple fingers into two plastic glasses. "You want ice?"

  "Neat is fine."

  Summer handed Beadles a glass and sat in the other chair beneath a framed black and white Ansel Adams.

  "You're gonna need another set of hands," she said, holding up her cup. They touched and drank.

  "Ever been on a dig?" Beadles said.

  "No. But I make jewelry and I'm good with my hands."

  She looked damned good for midnight. "You said you had something I ought to see."

  Summer reached into the backpack and withdrew what looked like the Shroud of Turin, folded. It was made from some animal skin and creaked as she unfolded it on the table. Beadles switched on the overhead lamp and stood to look at it. It took him mere seconds to realize what it is.

  "Holy shit," he said almost reverently. "This is it, isn't it? This is deGama's map! Where'd you get it?"

  "It was in Vince's car. He thinks he's an antiquarian dealer among his many other talents."

  For some minutes Beadles regarded the map in silence, his finger hovering like a plumb line. It found the butte. Beadles leaned until his nose was inches from the map. He could barely discern a series of squiggly lines radiating from the butte but they were there.

  "Do you see these lines?"

  Summer stood next to him and looked. Her scent drove him mad. "What lines?"

  His finger traced the pattern. "These squiggly lines radiating from the butte."

  "No."

  Beadles reached into his pocket and withdrew the gold medallion. He held it out to her. Summer cradled it in her palm. "This is gold."

  "Yes."

  She reached beneath her shirt and withdrew the medallion Grampa had given her. "Mine's ceramic."

  Beadles fingered the ceramic. "Where did you get this?"

  "An old friend of the family. A medicine man. He said it would keep me safe."

  She looked up, lips parted. Beadles cupped her head in his hand and kissed her. They came together like magnetic dogs. There was an awkward dance to the bed. Summer knelt and pulled off her shirt revealing high, firm breasts. She had a tat on her ass of a butterfly. Pants and shirts hit the floor.

  Just before he inserted himself Beadles said, "Are you practicing any form of birth control?"

  "I've been spayed," Summer said guiding him in. "Like a dog."

  ***

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  "Champion"

  She lay in the crook of his arm, black hair fanned across the pillow.

  "Holy fuck," he said.

  "I'm not a whore," she said, more to herself than him.

  Beadles turned his head. "Who said you were?"

  Summer sighed and trailed her fingers across his chest. "Sorry. I have a self-image problem."

  "Not with me."

  "I was working at a topless joint. Vince turned me out but I only did two tricks for him. Because I was afraid of him and I thought I loved him. How fucked up is that?"

  "Don't beat yourself up," Beadles said. "We all make mistakes. We're all flawed human beings."

  "Is it true you're part Indian?"

  Shame flushed through his veins. "No. I lied because I thought it would help my career. I didn't think they'd ever check it out and they never did. They're so desperate for fucking diversity, excuse my French."

  Summer laughed. "I bet I can out-curse you."

  "I'll bet you can."

  "I may have slept with a couple guys out of desperation but I was never a whore."

  "No one said you were."

  "Vince said it. All the time. Everyone expected it of me where I come from. Even my folks. You know what they used to call me in high school? Princess Thunderfuck."

  "They used to call me The Beetle 'til I beat the crap out of them."

  "So," she said wrapping her fingers around his arm. "What's the plan?"

  "What plan?"

  "For tomorrow, y'know? What are we going to do? I think we should hit the road early."

  There was that "we" again. Once again Beadles found himself in bed with a strange woman only this time he couldn't sneak out on her. She had the map and she was far too street-wise to let him rip her off. Just beneath the luscious curves lurked hard edges. Well maybe she should come along. He could use another pair of hands and she was more than agreeable as a bed warmer. He hadn't asked her if she had any STDs. Too late for that, you old horndog.

  She would have told him, right?

  Summer was right. There was no point hanging around for more trouble. Beadles had nothing to do with the shooting and he'd told the sheriff all there was to say.

  "Have you hiked before?"

  Summer gave him the stiff arm. "I grew up on the res. I used to race the boys to school--four miles on foot. I've been hitting the gym four times a week for the last six years. I'm in better shape than you are! And my physiology is probably better-suited to the desert, white man."

  "All right. Ninja was crazy to think we could get in and out in one day. We don't know if there are even any roads back there. We'll see how far we get. I've got the site dialed in on the GPS. We can always take it with us if we have to walk."

  Summer shivered. "People die out there. You heard that story about the two college kids. Isn't that creepy?"

  "People die all the time. I can carry twenty-five gallons of water in the Jeep. Shoulda brought two mountain bikes. Think we can get any around here?"

  "In this shit hole?" Summer said. "I doubt it. Where'd you get that amulet? Think there's any gold out there?"

  "It was part of the collection I was cataloging when they fired me. I didn't have a chance to return it."

  "And now it's too late, huh?" Summer said. "May I see it again?"

  Beadles leaned over, snagged his jeans an
d dug out the medallion, feeling its weight in his hand. Had to be an ounce. He handed it to Summer who held it up and examined it with childish glee.

  "Wow. Real gold. Wow. Grampa told me I have Azuma blood."

  Beadles looked at her surprised. "You know about the Azuma?"

  "Only from Grampa. He's not really my grampa. He's a very old medicine man. I went to see him before coming here. He said I had to find Shipapu. He said I would find a champion. I thought it was this other guy but it wasn't. Maybe it's you. I'm hoping it's you."

  Beadles barked. "Sorry to break it to you, kid. I ain't no champion." There was that time in college, a bunch of jocks hassling an androgynous hippy. Beadles surprised himself by breaking it up. He and the hippie became friends and later the guy tutored Beadles in geometry. He'd done it without expectation of reward. He'd never liked those jocks. Maybe that was his reward. But as he gazed back at the map of his life there were few incidents of altruism and a great deal of opportunism. The cupboard was bare. Oh sure, the generous tip, helping a girlfriend change a tire, helping friends move. Any sociopath would have done the same.

  "You're my champion," she sighed, her hand trailing across his chest. They slept. As was always the case when he had to share a bed, Beadles did not sleep well. He fell into a shallow sleep in which he was stumbling across the baking desert shielding his eyes from the merciless sun.

  Summer was in it too.

  ***

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  "Dead Burro"

  A ballistic nylon mesh separated the front of Sheriff Conway's cruiser from the rear seat. The rear doors lacked lock and window buttons. A laminated ID of the sheriff was affixed to the dash board like a cab license. A shotgun jutted up butt first in the passenger footwell. Vince sat on the right side testing the amount of play he had in his wrists and arms. He had to get the cuffs around to the front in order to get them off.

  "Sheriff Rupe," the radio squawked. "We got multiple collisions out here by Saguaro Corner. Some tourist didn't slow down and ran into the rear of that semi. We sure could use a hand out here."

  "No can do, Charlie," the sheriff replied. "I'm transporting a suspect to the jail. We had a homicide at The Last Chance. Ahmina need some help with this one."