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  Don't kid yourself. It's stealing.

  He planned to mount it on a gold chain and give it to Betty on their anniversary. Betty loved her bling. She had twenty grand in jewelry stashed in an ivory-inlaid dowry box. He tossed the medallion up and down in the palm of his hand, feeling its weight. Now that he'd had an opportunity to open up the whole collection he'd found there wasn't much gold. The Azuma were not big on ornamental jewelry.

  It was the squirrely fluting on the arrowheads that convinced him the Azuma were a heretofore undiscovered tribe. He saw the pattern repeated on some of the pottery and woven baskets. No other tribe to his knowledge had ever used it. A squiggly line embossed in gold and worked into stone. How had they done it?

  He turned the disc over. The back was flat and rough. He planned to epoxy a small gold loop on the back through which to run the chain.

  The old floor creaked as Betty comforting Lars came to the head of the stairs.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Just checking on a few things. Go back to bed. I'll be right up."

  She padded away. Beadles slipped the gtold bead back into its pouch and replaced it in the back of his drawer.

  Tomorrow was the department party and he had to get some rest.

  ***

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "Babysitter"

  Beadles rose at six and did three miles on the green streets of Creighton. At thirty-eight, he was determined not to slide into middle-aged professorship like the well-fed burghers who surrounded him. He entered through the kitchen door puffing.

  Betty was giving Lars his breakfast. "My turn. Can you watch Lars while I go to the gym?"

  "Sure. Just let me take a quick shower."

  Beadles showered and dressed in slacks, sandals, and a guayabera he'd purchased in Guatemala. It was a typical early May morning, temperatures in the sixties and expected to hit the mid-seventies. When he returned Lars was strolling the living room hanging onto the furniture and gurgling.

  Beadles retrieved his backpack from the entryway, sat on the sofa and removed a stack of term-end papers. Minutes later Betty breezed through in a Bruce Lee jumpsuit and blew him a kiss.

  "Back by noon. You want anything from the deli?"

  "Bring me a club sandwich."

  "Love you."

  "Love you," Beadles said. He placed the stack of papers on the coffee table while Lars amused himself with a primary-color Lightning McQueen that burped aphorisms. "Life is like a highway. You've got to stay on the road."

  Lars gurgled in delight.

  "Lars, you are one swell kid," Beadles said.

  He picked up the first paper, "Did Mongolians Discover America?," and started to read. Every year at least five papers about Asians crossing over into the Americas via the Alaskan land bridge, each student reinventing the wheel. Not that this was a knock--it was becoming increasingly difficult for students to come up with fresh antrhropological angles. Beadles didn't know whether it was the times or the students. There would be at least a dozen papers every year on the Vikings discovering America. Several maintained ancient aliens sowed the seeds of civilization. Erik Von Daniken was very popular. Invariably Beadles gave these papers low grades. He had little patience for ancient aliens.

  One student had turned in a paper claiming 7th century Druids had not only discovered America, they had deposited a despised wizard as far inland as Wisconsin. The student had spent his summer searching for the grave. Beadles suggested he switch his major to creative writing.

  Beadles got through six papers before Lars confronted him and said with the utmost seriousness, "Daddy I have to go poop now."

  Beadles set the papers aside and scooped Lars up. "All right little man. Let's get 'er done."

  They spent a little time in the back yard and when they came in Lars was down for a nap. Beadles returned to the living room and phoned Rob Whitfield. It rang five times before he got the recording.

  "Rob, it's Vaughan Beadles. Give me a call when you get this."

  He phoned the hospital. Whitfield had been discharged last evening shortly after Beadles had left. He would not shed a tiny spasm of anxiety until he heard from Whitfield himself.

  Beadles went back to grading papers. Betty returned at three, fresh-faced, pumped, and toting a big paper bag from Norm's Deli. "Ran into Liz Maroukis at the gym. She wants me to try out for Taming of the Shrew."

  Both Betty and Liz were members of the Hometown Players' Theater Guild. Betty had played a small part in last year's production of The Crucible, and had been active in high school and college drama.

  "Do you have time to do that?" Beadles said from the couch.

  "I don't know."

  "Do you want to do that?"

  Betty gave him a wide-eyed look and a Bronx cheer. "Do I want to do it? Of course I want to do it! Shakespeare! The big time! But I don't have time. I barely have time to do my job and take care of you two. Where's little man?"

  "Down for the count."

  "Mommie!" squealed in. Betty dropped the paper bag on the table and went down the hall. Beadles took his lunch out on the front porch and ate it there, sitting in an Adirondack chair he'd purchased from Lowes. School had just let out. Beadles watched the kids heading home on foot, skateboard and bicycle, some chauffeured from Montossori school in their parents' SUVs. The air was sweet with honeysuckle

  Yet that one nagging little doubt kept Beadles from fully savoring the afternoon.

  His phone chimed "Baba O'Riley." He scooped it up and looked at the panel.

  Thank God.

  "Professor, it's Rob. What's up?"

  "How are you feeling, Rob?"

  "A little sluggish but I think that's the anti-inflammatory they gave me. Otherwise I feel fine. The swelling's virtually disappeared and now it just itches like hell."

  "That's great, Rob. That's great. Listen. If you haven't already told anyone about this…"

  "No problem, Professor. It was wrong of me to wheedle my way in there."

  "Bike ride next week?"

  "You bet. I'll call you."

  Beadles hung up with a vast sense of relief like a long-dried lake bed suddenly filling with rain. That left Anatole, the campus cop, the orderly, Dr. Musgrove, and whoever else had treated Rob at the hospital. They would be unaware of the protocol.

  Hopefully that was the end of it.

  "Professor Beadles?"

  A young woman stood on the sidewalk wearing a backpack, shapeless in an oversized Banshees T-shirt and baggy slacks with a round head, a Beatles cut, and round sunglasses. She looked vaguely familiar. She held the handlebars of a mountain bike with a dished frame and knobby tires.

  "I'm Stephanie Byrd. I took your course 'Populating the Americas' last year."

  "Of course." He was surprised he remembered her at all. She hadn't asked a single question all semester and he could barely remember their two personal consultations, which he held with every student.

  "I spoke to your wife earlier. I'm your baby-sitter."

  "Of course! Come in. Come in."

  Beadles stood and glanced at his watch. It was almost five. They were due at the University Club at six. It was a good thing the girl had come by. He led her into the house. Stehanie hoisted the bike effortlessly to her shoulder and carried it up the steps.

  "May I leave this here?"

  "Of course. Betty! The baby-sitter's here!"

  "Just a minute!" came back from the hall.

  Beadles gestured to the living room. "Make yourself at home. There's the TV. Help yourself to whatever you fancy in the fridge. Would you like something to drink?"

  Byrd set her backpack on the coffee table with a thump. It was designed to look like an Ewok with furry head, ears and little limbs clutching forward. Something a 7th grader might cherish.

  "May I use the bathroom?"

  "Down the hall, first door on the right."

  While Beadles was in the bedroom changing his clothes he heard Betty sorting things away.

  "No
w you have both our cell phone numbers. Don't hesitate to call if anything happens."

  "Nothing's going to happen, Betty. I've been baby-sitting half my life."

  Beadles emerged waring a crisp white short-sleeved sport shirt with arrow collars and creased cream-colored Calvin Klein trousers. Betty was a knockout in a little black cocktail dress that stopped at mid-thigh, her long auburn hair done up in a wave, simple gray pearl earrings. With her high cheekbones, turned-up nose, and wide, generous mouth she was cover girl worthy, every man's dream of a sexy tomboy.

  Byrd talked nonsense to Lars on the sofa. Lars laughed, giggle and squealed.

  As they pulled out in the Ford Beadles said, "Who are the Banshees?"

  "Oh some awful heavy metal band. At least it's not rap."

  Betty rolled down her window and lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke out.

  ***

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Department Party"

  The CU Anthropology Department had benefitted munificently in the past year. In addition to Jepson Hayes choosing them as the custodians of the Azuma Collection, an alumnus named Daniel Potts had bequeathed them two million dollars. The End of Semester party was a tradition among most departments at CU and each celebrated in its own way.

  The Athletic Department held theirs in a beer hall with brats and deep-fried cheese. The English Dept. celebrated at an Italian restaurant. Anthropology always held theirs in the tony University Club, hub of the University Golf Course. Joel Liggett was a longtime member and avid golfer.

  The Beadles turned their car over to the chauffeur under the Frank Lloyd Wright-designed porte cochere and entered the club through double oak doors. The tinkle of ice and of laughter drifted out of the Lake Tipton room, down the hall on the left. Inside, three dozen people had gathered in clusters, some at the square tables or in the booths overlooking the lake, some at the curving bar. White liveried waiters circulating among them distributing canapes.

  There was a minute rustling as the Beadles entered, like sunflowers turning to the sun. They looked so glamorous, more like celebrities than faculty. Beadles sensed admiration, fear, envy and loathing. The rotten fruit of academic infighting. Donations from the Alumni Foundation were down across the board due to the economy and disagreement with school policies. The Creighton Catamounts' football team had pieced together three losing seasons. The B-ball team was mediocre. New speech guidelines enraged some alumni who held to the quaint proposition that universities should be laboratories of free speech and open inquiry.

  Anthropology was the exception due to the Azuma Collection and the Potts Endowment. Beadles and Betty gladhanded their way through the crowd accepting backslaps, hugs and accolades.

  An already boozy Wilmar Childs, specialist in Early Mesopotamian Society, weaved through the crowd with a silly grin. Wilmar looked like a parking meter, skinny as a rail with a big bald dome.

  "Beadles, old boy! Congratulations on landing the Azuma Collection! I don't suppose there's any chance getting a peek this week?"

  Beadles shook Childs' clammy hand. "You know the rules, Wilmar. No one is supposed to go in there except the curators until we know what we've got. However I intend to spend the next month going through the collection. I'd like to open it up as quickly as possible."

  "Do you think," Childs said weaving slightly, "that your status as an American Indian had anything to do with Mr. Hayes' decision?"

  A warning bell went off in Beadles' skull. Childs was one of Liggett's cronies. Beadles had marked that he was part Native American on his application.

  "I doubt it, Wilmar. Mr. Hayes made it clear he was honoring Creighton because his granddaughter, Meredith Hayes, played varsity basketball here."

  "Well good for you. I've always thought the department was too damned white!"

  Beadles knew Childs wasn't kidding. Childs carried White Guilt around like a shroud. He'd urged the department to add a Professor of Hip-Hop.

  Betty to the rescue. "Hello, Wilmar!" She kissed him on the cheek and took his arm. Childs was undone. He would have swooned if Betty hadn't held him up.

  "Vaughan, I hate to break this up but there's someone I want you to meet."

  Beadles excused himself and let Betty lead him to the bar.

  "Cavalry to the rescue," he murmured.

  "Oh Wilmar's harmless." She led Beadles to a tall old man with a silvery widow's peak in a somber banker's three piece.

  "Vaughan, this is Daniel Potts, class of '64."

  Beadles and Potts shook hands. "That was a very generous endowment, Mr. Potts."

  "Call me Dan. They tell me you're in charge of this new Anasazi collection."

  "The Azuman Collection, yes."

  "And you think it may be evidence of a previously unknown tribe?"

  Beadles nodded, wondering how Potts had known. His theory was of little interest outside rarefied academic circles.

  "My son Ronnie thought the same thing. He lost his life trying to prove it."

  "I'm so sorry," Beadles said. "What happened?"

  The old man was clear-eyed and sober. "He would have been fifty had he survived. Ronnie and his best friend Curt went out into the Arizona desert in 1985 searching for proof the Azuma existed. They were never heard from again. We searched for days by land and air. To this day, we haven't a clue as to what happened. I have offered a fifty thousand dollar reward to anyone who can tell me what happened to those two boys."

  "Does this have anything to do with the endowment?" Beadles said.

  "In a way. But of course this is my alma mater and I've always been proud to be a Catamount. I was track and wrestling. I've been blessed to have a successful career, a son and daughter who survive and eight healthy grandchildren. I'm afraid one of them is going to turn me into a great-grandfather shortly."

  "Congratulations."

  The old man shrugged. "I'd be happier if she were married but at my age I'll take what I can get. I read your paper in the summer, '11 Journal of Anthropology. I always believed Ronnie was right. I would welcome proof of the Azuma."

  Beadles had been planning a fall expedition if he could get the funding. "Funny you should mention that, Dan."

  Twenty minutes later a spoon tapping crystal drew everybody's attention. Liggett stood at the entrance to the dining room chiming away. He was a round little man, bald on top with a fringe of hair, a bulbous nose and close-set eyes.

  "Folks if we can start moving into the dining room?"

  Liggett stood at the entrance greeting everyone as they passed through. He shook Beadles' hand warmly.

  "Here's our star professor! Can't wait to see what you come up with, Vaughan. Betty, beautiful as always."

  "Thank you, Joel," Betty replied.

  `They filed in and took a seat at a round table in the back with a couple of department newcomers, Adjunct Professor Clayton Gray and his wife Doris. Gray was a pale and nervous young man with round glasses. Doris was a thick young woman in an oversized shirt.

  Gray turned to Beadles with a worried expression. "Did you hear? They're thinking of reducing our hours to comply with the new health care law. We will no longer be eligible for university health insurance."

  "I've heard," Beadles said. "It's bad news for everyone. They've put a freeze on hiring."

  "We hear they're going to start laying off faculty," Gray said.

  Doris put her hand on his arm. "Clayton, can we talk about something else?"

  A waiter appeared and plopped down salads. A young teaching assistant and his boyfriend joined them, both with long hair and bangs. All expressed delight at the Azuma acquisition and confidence that Beadles would produce a world-class collection.

  Shortly after dessert Liggett struck his crystal wine glass with his silver spoon. It was time for the department speech.

  ***

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Speech"

  "Anthropology!" Liggett boomed in a surprisingly deep voice. "The science of humans and their works!"

  Betty el
bowed Beadles in the ribs.

  "I have always considered it the noblest of professions save for perhaps medicine. I am thrilled and honored to welcome you to our annual dinner. As I gaze out among you I see so many of you who have become more than colleagues, you are my friends and together we share not only a passion for learning, but a burning passion for justice and a better tomorrow, for it is only through understanding the past that we can endure the present and confront the future."

  Teaching assistant Ben whispered in his friend's ear and they giggled. Beadles knew just how they felt.

  "It has been an astonishing year by any measurement," Liggett continued. "From the discovery of a Mayan pyramid in Georgia to new evidence that South Sea islanders may have settled South America, the revelations have been unrelenting. As you all know, Mr. Jepson Hayes of Cross Creek, Arizona has chosen Creighton to be the recipient of the Azuma Collection, a treasure trove of what many believe to be a heretofore unknown tribe. This was due in no small part to the ongoing research of our distinguished Professor of Anthropology, Vaughan Beadles! Stand up, Vaughan."

  Smiling good-naturedly Beadles stood to enthusiastic applause. None clapped harder than Liggett although Betty was close. Vaughan did a formal little bow in three directions and sat.

  "As many of you know, Vaughan's 2011 paper, "Lost Tribe of the Southwest," appeared in the February issue of Modern Anthropology and inspired a Discovery Channel Special."

  They'd filmed it in the desert. It had been 110 degrees.

  "It is this type of research that brings credit to our college and fills the seats with students. Anthropology has been doubly blessed this year. As some of you already know, Mr. Daniel Potts, Class of '57, has generously endowed our department to the tune of two million dollars! Stand up, Dan."

  Liggett already had him scoped. Beadles followed Liggett's gaze and saw the tall man shaking his head no and waving off the suggestion but his tablemates thought otherwise. Reluctantly he stood, essayed a chilly smile and sat.

  There was more boilerplate and a couple of deans spoke. It was nine by the time the Beadles finally pulled themselves free and drove home. Lights glowed softly from the little house on Maple St. They parked the Ford in the drive and entered through the front door so as not to wake Lars. They could see Stephanie Byrd watching Game of Thrones on the flat screen TV through the big front window.