Skorpio Page 3

  Curt had wanted to bring guns but Ronnie talked him out of it. They froze, waiting for the next rock. The wind turned the crown into a madman's pipe organ. The bus howled and whistled. Ronnie thought about shutting the back vents but was afraid to move. For long minutes nothing happened.

  Could they have been mistaken? Could it have been something else?

  "Maybe they fell off the ledge," Curt said.

  A shadow fell across the windshield. A mailed fist punched through the glass and uncoiled. Each finger was a scorpion's tail. The hand extended and seized Curt by the throat.

  ***

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "The Collection"

  Vaughan Beadles beamed at his students on the last day of the semester. The finals were over, the grades issued, the i's dotted and the t's crossed. They were a bright, resourceful bunch destined to do great things. Some in anthropology, which he taught, and some in completely unrelated fields. At six foot one with wavy dark hair, Beadles did not resemble a stereotypical university professor. More like a runner, or a boxer. He wore a wine and green Hawaiian shirt over creased Dockers and the tan of an outdoorsman.

  "Why did the Mayans disappear? Basic sanitation, or the lack thereof. That's my guess."

  Rob Whitfield, one of his best students, raised his hand. Beadles recognized the bookish young man in wire-rimmed glasses. "Rob?"

  "What about the possibility they were conquered and absorbed into a more warlike culture, like the Toltecs?"

  "If you can prove that, you'll be halfway to your Phd. And on that note, I wish you all success with your finals and I'll see you next semester."

  The 126 students in Emory Lecture Hall gave him a standing ovation. Beadles was an extrovert and easy to like. He invited favorite students to go biking with him on weekends on the many bike trails in and around Creighton University, in the heart of sylvan Creighton, IL. CU was a private liberal arts school with outstanding anthropology and engineering schools.

  A half dozen students gathered at the foot of the stage to speak with Beadles including two co-eds who might arouse suspicion in a less than trusting wife. Like Betty. Betty was a bombshell and she knew it. The whole faculty knew it. A gorgeous wife could be an asset or a detriment in academia depending on the character of one's colleagues. Thus far Betty had been an asset.

  Beadles chatted with one of the co-eds, a brunette stunner from Wyoming. She left no doubt about her availability. Beadles waved his wedding ring in her face until she got the hint.

  Ten minutes later only Whitfield remained.

  "What's up, Rob?" Beadles said.

  "Hey Professor, can I take a look at the collection?"

  Beadles swung his backpack over his shoulder and headed up the aisle. "What collection?"

  Whitfield scampered after. "Come on, Professor! Everybody knows you've taken possession of the Lost Tribe collection! There was an article in National Geo about it."

  "'The Great Lost Azuma Collection.' It was never lost. Mr. Hayes knew about the collection since he was six years old. Kept it secret his whole life, a family tradition, I gather. The only reason he turned it over to Creighton was because his granddaughter came here on a basketball scholarship. She's a senior now."

  "Yeah. Roberta Hayes. She's phenomenal. I've seen her play."

  "Bright girl. I gave her an 'A' last year."

  "Wow. You know what that means, Prof? It means you're the reason that rancher chose Creighton!"

  They had left the Emory Building and walked across the quad, criss-crossed with pathways and students, shaded by centuries old oak and elm. They headed diagonally across the quad toward Merrill Hall where the collection was kept under lock and key.

  The University had scheduled a press conference for next Friday, one week from today, to announce the acquisition. Beadles would formally take charge. Six years ago Beadles had written In the Footprints of Ghosts, an inquiry into the existence of a heretofore unknown tribe of the Anaszi, a loose configuration encompassing numerous Indians who roamed the Southwest prior to the Navajo and Hopi. It had been a critical and popular success and had unleashed an undertow of fear and loathing among his colleagues that flowed to this day.

  Beadles recalled Sayres' Law, "Academic politics is the most vicious and bitter because the stakes are so low."

  Particularly apt re: Head of Anthropology Herr Professor Joel Liggett with whom Beadles was expected to celebrate tomorrow night.

  Merrill Hall was a four story red brick Victorian monster with turrets at the corners. It had previously been an armory. It now housed the Museum and various collections. It had been retrofitted with cable, sprinklers and New Age light bulbs but the main doors were still iron and looked capable of withstanding the Crusades.

  It was a warm day in early June but the foot-thick walls kept the high-ceilinged interior cool. They entered the vast foyer and inhaled the smell of centuries. Dust, graphite, a hint of sage. The tile floor was checkerboard. Framed black and white photographs of pioneers, Indians, famous persons lined the corridor cutting through the heart of the building. They passed the Lecture Hall and Library, went through a set of double doors and down a concrete stairwell to the basement.

  The basement floor was gray painted concrete. Flourescent bulbs in aluminum hoods lit the way past several locked doors to a metal door marked B-12. Video cams watched the hall discreetly from the corners. Beadles removed a set of keys from his pocket and was about to insert one when the door swung inward.

  A stout Native American, long gray hair tied in a ponytail wearing a blue workshirt and Dickey's gray work pants stepped aside. His coppery face was as lined as old gloves.

  "Professor," he croaked.

  "Hello, Anatole," Beadles said entering the long, low-ceilinged chamber followed by Whitfield. A series of rectangular tables covered with sheets of brown paper held the new collection. Pottery, woven goods, shaped stones and flint arrowheads seemed to stretch to the end of the room. It smelled like a dig, like fresh-turned earth with a hint of sage.

  "Anatole, Rob Whitfield. Rob, Anatole Cerveros. Anatole's been a custodian here for, what, fifteen years?"

  "Sixteen," the old Indian replied. "But who's counting."

  "We're just going to take a look. If you want to leave I'll lock up."

  Cerveros shut the door. "Gotta stay, Professor. Them's the rules."

  Beadles was surprised. He was not yet in charge of the collection but he assumed he was in the loop. "What rules?"

  "Professor Liggett."

  "I see." He hoped Whitfield hadn't seen him grimace. He shouldn't let the little toad get to him. Joel Liggett. Even his name was chinless.

  "Don't touch anything," Beadles said.

  The room was well lit with flourescents. Whitfield stared down at the first table.

  "Holy shit. Look at the fluting on this arrowhead, Professor."

  Beadles joined him and looked at the beautifully shaped shard sitting on a sheet of white paper. "It's certainly unique. I wonder how they worked that squiggle."

  "Why do you call them the Azuma?"

  "It's as close as I can get to a translation of the petroglyphs discovered in 1938 in Corkindale, Arizona. Of course this is assuming a cultural basis in ancient Pueblo. That one site was the foundation for most of my research. The rest is from a 16th century Spanish diary."

  Beadles turned toward the janitor. "What do you think of all this stuff, Anatole?"

  The old Indian shrugged and crossed his arms. "They're all ancestors far as I'm concerned."

  "You're Navajo, aren't you?"

  "That's right."

  "You ever hear of the Azuma?"

  Shrug. "My father and grandfather told me and my brothers and sisters all sorts of stories when I was growing up. Most of them were bullshit."

  Whitfield's scream split the air like a cleaver. A pot fell to the concrete floor and shattered with a sharp report. Cerveros and Beadles whirled in shock to see the undergrad dancing away from the table frantically shaking hi
s arm. A pale scorpion dropped and skittered along the baseboards.

  Beadles raced around the table to his student whose back was against the wall staring in horror at a tiny red dot on his wrist.

  "I told you not to touch anything!" Beadles said grabbing the wrist.

  "I didn't! It leaped out of the fucking pot! It stung me! Am I going to die?"

  "Don't be absurd. Scorpion stings are rarely fatal for adults. Come on. Let's get you to the ER."

  As Beadles led the stunned and shocked Whitfield through the door he saw that Cerveros' face had blanched almost white.

  ***

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Close Call"

  Beadles sat Whitfield down on the shaded stoop and used his cell phone to call campus police. It was against policy to admit anyone to the collection not personally approved by the department head but that never occurred to him. Within five minutes a new Chevy Impala with Creighton University Police on the door pulled up on the sidewalk in front of the hall. The officer got out and walked around the car. He was an older man with a belly and a walrus mustache wearing the beige university police uniform and a ball cap.

  "What's the problem, Professor?" he said looking at the seated Whitfield.

  "Hello, Phil. We've got to get Rob to the ER. He was just bitten by a scorpion."

  The cop's bushy eyebrows hunched. "A scorpion?"

  "Long story. It came in a pot."

  Together they eased Rob into the backseat. He seemed dazed and his arm had begun to swell. The cop switched on the lights and took the shortest route back to Storrow Drive which wound through the campus. Once on the road he hit the siren. University Hospital was seven minutes away. They pulled up in front of the ER behind an ambulance. An orderly in a green smock saw them helping Rob from the back seat and wheeled a chair toward them through the automatic doors.

  "Scorpion sting," Beadles explained as they wheeled him inside. The orderly motioned for a lady doctor to come over. She wore a white lab jacket and catseye glasses, her blond hair pulled back in a severe bun.

  "He was bitten by a scorpion that crawled out of a pot," Beadles said.

  "Oh my," the nurse said. "Let's get him back there and see what we can do. Sir, are you a relative?"

  "I'm his professor," Beadles said. "His name is Rob Whitfield. I think he's from Paducah."

  "You'll have to stay here," the doctor said. Her label said Musgrove. "Would you notify his next-of-kin if you think it's appropriate?"

  "He's not going to die, is he?"

  The nurse checked Whitfield's pulse. The patient's eyes followed her fearfully.

  "I doubt it but the quicker we act the better chance he'll have."

  Beadles watched them wheel Whitfield through the automatic doors into the interior. What did he do now? He had work to do but it didn't seem appropriate to simply abandon Whitfield while he went about his business. He checked his Razr. Betty had called. He called her back.

  "Vaughan, what are we going to do about a baby-sitter? Cathy can't make it and the Burkes are out of town."

  The department party was the following night and their son Lars was two years old.

  "Relax. There's a pool of students registered at the union looking for baby-sitter work. I'll find one of my students."

  "Please let me know as soon as possible."

  "Don't worry about it Betty baby. My students love me. I have a couple in mind."

  "When will you be home? I'm making lasagna."

  Beadles debated whether to tell her about Whitfield. Better not. Betty was a worrier, an obsessive/compulsive perfectionist. It had made her a star at the mortgage title company where she worked but she could be difficult when fixated. Like a terrier with a bone.

  "I'll be home by five, snookums."

  "Love you."

  "Love you."

  Beadles checked his stock portfolio and his Facebook page. He had twenty-two comments, mostly on scholarly matters. He sat in a plastic chair and made notes on a lecture he planned to give on the Azuma. A young Hispanic mother dozed fretfully in another chair while her five-year-old played with plastic toys from a box.

  Forty minutes later Musgrove came out the sliding doors. "He's sitting up. He's asking for you."

  Beadles stood. "How's he doing?"

  "Fine. We got some anti-venom serum into him, basically the same stuff we use for allergic reactions and he seems to be responding. His pulse is back to normal and so is his body temperature."

  "Thank God," Beadles said with such conviction the doctor glanced. He followed her back through the medicinal-smelling halls to a room. Inside Whitfield was sitting up in bed watching Judge Judy.

  "Professor! Man, I'm sorry about this mess."

  "Rob, don't be silly. I'm just glad you're okay. You want to notify anyone? Your parents?"

  "God no. They said if I'm still stable in an hour they're going to release me. You don't have to hang around."

  Beadles looked at the arm. The sting was covered with a white bandage and the swelling had gone down. He felt massive relief. That will teach him to violate the rules.

  Yeah right, he thought. As if I ever learned to tow the line.

  "Give me a call in a few days. We'll go riding."

  "You bet, Professor. And thanks again for letting me see the exhibit and getting me in here so fast."

  Beadles waved. "All in a day's work."

  He took the bus back to campus, walked up the hill and unlocked his Trek 10-speed which was chained to a rack outside the Emory Building. Riding through the shaded streets Beadles reflected on how lucky he'd been. He'd always had good luck.

  Plus he made his own luck, often recklessly. He'd first spotted Betty in a supermarket aisle. He'd followed her through the parking lot with a grocery cart which he "accidentally" let slide into her car.

  That was six years ago in Elgin. They dated. They clicked. She was the most exciting thing in his life. Beadles had never had trouble attracting women. It was getting rid of them that was the hard part. He didn't see himself getting married before age forty, but after a year of dating Betty said, "Either we get married or I'm out of here."

  Beadles did that quick calculation so many make. Can I do better? Like staring at a Ferrari with the keys in your hand. Yeah it goes like hot stink and it's beautiful, but think of the upkeep! Mechanics alone are 250 an hour. Premium gas. Thousand dollar tires. Limited utility.

  He was an up and coming academic star with pop success. She was an ambitious, gorgeous, intelligent and charming loan officer with a future. What could go wrong? It wasn't until a week later he realized she smoked.

  She'd tried to keep it hidden. For awhile. He could taste it on her lips but never said a word. God knew he had his own vices.

  Their anniversary was coming up. They planned to drop Lars with Betty's parents in Rockford and spend a week at Sandal's in Jamaica.

  Six years on and he still couldn't get enough of Betty's world-class body and bedroom flair. It blinded him to a certain selfishness. He pulled into the driveway of the Craftsman-style bungalow he'd purchased three years ago when he'd joined the faculty and there she was, hoisting Lars from his car seat in her Ford Edge, tailgate open revealing two sacks of groceries.

  He swung his right leg over while still in motion, came to a halt next to Betty and kissed her while she held the babe. He tasted cigarettes. She'd velcroed an ashtray to the console in the Edge.

  "Guess what?" Betty said. "Got a baby sitter. I went to that university site listing undergrads and found someone who was your student last year."

  "Great? Who is it?"

  "Stephanie Byrd."

  Beadles shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell."

  "She has excellent credentials. Liggett endorsed her."

  "Oh well if the great Liggett himself endorsed her…"

  "Grab the groceries, wouldya?"

  ***

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "Souvenir"

  Betty baked lasagna, Lars went down for the count. The
y watched Ghost on cable with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, and made passionate love on the king-sized bed in the master bedroom. Betty went out on the porch and smoked a cigarette. Lars slept in a crib in the dressing room which dog-legged off the bedroom. Betty returned and crawled into bed.

  She slept.

  She ground her teeth. A low wave irritation accompanied by atonal humming. It did no good to wake her. Beadles had begged her to visit a dentist, a psychiatrist, someone to stop the grinding. Betty flew into a fury the second time he did this. It was better to just keep his mouth shut and put up with it even if it did cause him many a sleepless night. A big part of marriage was overlooking your spouse's irritating habits.

  Lars woke around one a.m. and squawked. Betty heaved herself out of bed and pulled on a flannel robe. "Your turn next time, buster."

  Beadles got out of bed too. "I'm going to do a perimeter check."

  "That's good. There might be Injuns."

  Beadles slipped into his sheepskin moccasins, went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. He removed an open carton of orange juice, drank directly from the spout and put it back. He opened the basement door, turned on the lights and went downstairs where he had a makeshift office: a desk, computer, and table covered with books, papers and artifacts. He sat at the desk and opened the center drawer, reaching far back behind the pens, paper clips, flash drives and post-it notes to a small cloth bag in the rear. He pulled it out, opened it, and shook a quarter-sized gold object into his hand.

  He held the softly gleaming gold medallion between thumb and forefinger. Squiggly lines radiated from a turquoise center. He had discovered the medallion the first day the Azuma Collection had arrived, before anyone else had seen it. Before Liggett and his apes raced over, even before Anatole had unlocked the door.

  Uncatalogued. It had fallen out of a pot filled with beads and shards. One tiny little item. He deserved it for his devotion to his students and the prestige he brought the University. It was otherwise destined to be catalogued and shut away--or perhaps put on display in the university museum--forever to gather dust. No one would miss this one little item out of so vast a collection.