Skorpio Page 6

  Betty wore jeans and a loose-fitting plaid blouse and looked worn without makeup, her hair gathered in a ponytail. They pressed their palms together on the plexiglass.

  "How's Lars?" Beadles said.

  "He's upset. He knows there's something wrong, but Mom and Pop arrived and are trying to jolly him up."

  "How you holding up, baby?" Beadles said.

  "I can't believe this is happening. Don't worry. Mel is getting Phil Ruby, a big-time criminal attorney to take over."

  Beadles did a mental audit of his bank account and assets.

  "We can afford him," Betty said. "Mom and Pop are willing to help out if it goes to trial."

  "It won't go to trial. This is absurd. Listen. I've had a lot of time to think about this. You've got to find that girl Stephanie."

  "The babysitter?"

  "Yes! She had plenty of opportunity."

  "But why, Vaughan? Why would she do something like that?"

  "I don't know. Maybe Liggett put her up to it. He's hated my guts ever since he overheard me doing my impression of him at a faculty meeting."

  Betty bit her bottom lip. "That thin-skinned son of a bitch."

  "I don't know it's him. It's all I've got. Maybe the girl had her own motives. Maybe I flunked her, I don't know!"

  Betty nodded. "I understand. What was her name again?"

  "Stephanie Byrd. First thing you do, tell the new attorney about her, okay?"

  "You got it, big guy."

  She looked like she was going to say something else but she didn't. "I love you," she mouthed as she stood and went to the door, waiting for one of the guards to buzz her out. Three other guys on Beadles' side of the partition watched her go.

  Beadles was released into the day room with the other non-violent offenders. Three blacks, two Mexicans and three white guys. The three blacks huddled together laughing loudly with big hand gestures. The three white guys sat in plastic chairs bolted to the formica floor in front of the flat screen television fastened high up on one wall watching the Quality Value Network. Two breathless blond cougars hawked ersatz emeralds in Empire settings.

  Beadles had no intention of joining the Aryan Brotherhood. The two Mexicans sat in the back row talking quietly in Spanish. Beadles sat in the back row at the opposite end. The Mexicans glanced over once and looked away. Nobody else paid any attention. Cameras hung from the ceiling corners.

  Was it possible? Was Liggett a psycho who would plant stolen goods in his house? It was the move of a desperate man and not something that could withstand scrutiny. If Liggett were responsible, this would mean the end of his career. Beadles expected full exoneration and permitted himself a daydream of assuming the chairmanship of the department.

  Why not?

  It was only just. He was the star academic. He was the one who'd landed the Azuma Collection. He'd even been in talks with the Discovery Channel about doing his own show, out in the field. People loved that sort of thing. They were willing to watch men fish off Alaska, surely they would watch anthropologists and archaeologists uncover lost civilizations.

  Mel would know a good show biz attorney. At six everyone returned to his cell and received a boxed dinner: two Arby's roast beef and cheddar sandwiches and a bag of chips. Beadles drank water directly from the faucet.

  He fell into a shallow sleep near dawn and dreamed he stood in a desert as flat and as hot as a restaurant griddle. The sun blazed so brightly that he couldn't see. Something was coming for him but he couldn't see it because the glare was everywhere. The glare surrounded him as if he were standing inside the sun. He tried to run away but he could barely move--like a cripple dragging one leg. That thing was closing in. Anxiety, sweat, thirst, running in place.

  A baton running across his barred window woke him. His clothes were drenched with sweat.

  After breakfast a guard took him to the visitor room where Phil Ruby waited. Ruby was a short man with a full head of wavy hair over a boxy face and square glasses. He had a surprisingly high voice.

  "How are you doing, Professor Beadles? I'm Phil Ruby."

  "Thank you for seeing me."

  "I'm sorry I couldn't get here any sooner. I was downstate. Your wife told me about the babysitter. Ms. Byrd seems to have disappeared. Her roommate said she left late Saturday night right after coming home from your house. I have contacted the state police and informed them that she is a material witness. Unfortunately, they pointed out that since she is our witness, it is up to us to produce her. With your permission I'd like to hire a private investigator."

  The words echoed from a great distance. Beadles felt trapped. How had this happened? "Are you shitting me?" he said.

  "No sir."

  "What about Liggett? Did he split too?"

  "No, but Professor Liggett has not returned my phone calls. I believe he has retained an attorney of his own."

  "Why does he need an attorney?"

  "To protect himself from false accusations, he said."

  Beadles felt a vein throbbing on his forehead, sending jabs of pain into his eye. "You don't think I did it, do you?"

  "It doesn't matter what I think, Professor. But I must warn you--if this goes to trial that old shoplifting charge is bound to come up. They will go over your past with an electron microscope. If you were ever stopped for a traffic or drug beef they will find out. I hate surprises. So I want you to tell me the straight story. What are they going to find?"

  The throbbing had assumed Olympian proportions. Beadles felt as if his head would explode. "Can't that wait until I'm out of here?"

  "You're scheduled for arraignment this afternoon. I'll see what I can do."

  ***

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "Dear Vaughan"

  Bail was set at fifty thousand dollars. Beadles emptied his bank account and walked free. Using Ruby's cell he phoned Betty and went straight to voice mail.

  "Miss you, babe. I'll be home shortly."

  A talon of concern sunk into his neck. Betty should have been there to pick him up. Her folks were watching Lars, weren't they? Ruby offered Beadles a ride home.

  "So what's the story, Professor? What else is lurking out there aside from the shoplifting charge?"

  Beadles ran a hand through his hair, which felt both greasy and gritty. "I got busted for grass in college. I did community service and it was supposedly expunged."

  "Holding or selling?"

  Beadles stared out the window. "Selling. A goddamned ounce to some fuckin' weasel who turned out to be a police informant."

  "How'd you get out of it?"

  "I had good grades. It was a first offense. My dad had some clout."

  They traveled south on Raymond Road. Shops dwindled to schools and then neighborhoods. Ruby turned west onto Maple St.

  "Your folks still alive?"

  "Dad passed away four years ago. He was seventy-eight. Mom lives in a retirement community in Naples. I was a late baby."

  "Siblings?"

  "None that I know of, Phil! No. They were pretty damned surprised when I came along."

  "Okay here's the deal. This manslaughter charge is bullshit. It's going away. They're left with grand larceny, which is debatable, and violating university policy. A case could be made that the university itself is liable for not insuring the collection did not contain noxious pests.

  "I doubt you'll serve any jail time."

  "Great. I'll lose my fucking job."

  "Probably."

  "Did you talk to the maintenance supervisor? Anatole Cerveros?"

  "I was told Cerveros walked off his job on Friday and hasn't been heard from since."

  A brain freeze descended on Beadles' skull.

  He looked out the window. A little boy menaced his GI Joe dolls with a plastic scimitar. Beadles shook it off. Anatole was an Indian. There was no point trying to understand them.

  So much for anthropology.

  Beadles was glad his father wasn't around to see this. But some malicious bitch at The Hamlets was
bound to find out and spread the news. He faced a grim choice--let his mother Ethyl find out from malicious bitches or tell her himself. The early signs of Alzheimer's had appeared and the doctors warned him what to expect. He'd been planning a July trip but now he had to see.

  Beadles vowed to phone his mother.

  They pulled up in front of the house. No police tape. No Ford or the folks' Buick either. Beadles got a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  "Have you been in touch with Betty?"

  "No I have not. Haven't you spoken to her?"

  "Not today."

  Ruby shut the engine off. "Would you like me to come into the house with you?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Well okay. I'll let you know as soon as the PI comes up with anything about the Byrd girl."

  "Oh god, the PI. What's his name?"

  "Rolf Panny." Ruby dipped his fingers into his inside jacket pocket and produced a card.

  Beadles took it and got out of the car. "Thanks for the lift, counsellor."

  "I'll be in touch," Ruby said.

  Beadles sensed neighbors' eyes as he walked up his steps. Certainly the Carsons across the street, whose twelve-year-old son Beadles had caught trying to take his bike one night when he'd accidentally left the garage door open. Beadles let the kid go with a warning but he was the type of pasty-faced little loser who would poison the whole neighborhood if he could.

  Beadles resisted the impulse to turn and look. He glanced up and down the block. Couple small children playing with a puppy four houses down. A couple cars. He removed his keys, unlocked the door and went inside.

  The house was empty. And there it was. A white envelope on the dark dining room table. Betty wouldn't just leave a note. No. It had to come in a fine linen envelope. He opened it up.

  Dear Vaughan:

  I've accepted Mom and Pop's offer to stay with them in Elgin until you get this thing under control. You know I love you and I have always supported you but I feel that Lars and I would only be a distraction to you during this difficult time.

  I will call you tonight after we have settled in.

  Talk soon.

  Love,

  Betty

  So much unsaid. Betty was about to become a vice president at Jackson Loan and Guaranty, an extremely conservative organization. Was it possible she was laying the groundwork for a divorce?

  Of course it was possible. Betty had always looked out for Number One. As long as the good times lasted she would cling to the last drop but once the bank account was emptied she was outta there. She wasn't about to support some unemployable academic thief.

  It was crazy! Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad. Beadles was furious all right. Furious at his faithless bitch of a wife. Furious at Liggett and the university. Finally, he was furious with himself. He'd flown too close to the sun. He never should have tweaked Liggett or courted that reality show. The alumni considered it vulgar.

  He wanted a shower and a drink. He went to the basement door and turned on the lights. He went downstairs. The room had been turned upside-down and his hard-drive was missing. He sat in the old kitchen chair in front of his desk, opened the center drawer and reached all the way to the back. His hand closed around the velvet bag and felt a hard disc inside.

  A tremendous relief flooded through him, a cleansing rain. At least this larceny had escaped notice. He pulled it out and shook the medallion into his palm. Well fuck you, Creighton! And fuck you too Professah Liggett, you sea slug! This was the least the university owed him.

  Byrd, Byrd, Byrd. He dug around in his files until he found copies of last year's essays, which counted for thirty percent of the student's grade. Over 300 essays caused the file to bulge like an accordion. He flipped through them one by one until he found Byrd's essay. "Did Ancient Aliens Populate the Americas?"

  He'd given her a 'F.'

  Upstairs he heard the kitchen phone ringing.

  ***

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "Character"

  They'd kept the land line because it went with the house. Betty predicted the Chicoms were going to explode a huge electromagnetic pulse over the continent and fry all the satellites and wireless systems. That's why she kept vinly LPs as well.

  Vaughan took the stairs two at a time and scooped up the antique Bakelite receiver.

  "Betty?"

  "Hello, Vaughan," Betty said, voice oozing concern. "How are you?"

  "I stink but I'm outta jail. When you coming back?"

  "I think I made that clear in my letter, Vaughan. Not until you have this under control."

  "Ruby says I'll probably just have to pay a fine."

  "Vaughan, I don't see any way the university can keep you on after this."

  He eyed a block of butcher's knives. "Come on, Betty. You're my wife."

  "Vaughan, there are trust issues."

  "Come on! You know I haven't looked at another woman since that one incident! How many times do I have to apologize?"

  He felt her cover her phone and hunch in a corner of her parent's house as she lowered her voice. "I'm not going to argue with you. This isn't about your affair." With just the smallest emphasis. "It's about character. I thought you'd changed."

  "You don't believe I stole that pot, do you?"

  The pause was Brobdingnagian.

  "Please just settle this as quickly as possible," she said and hung up.

  Beadles clutched the receiver with white knuckles and made a low growling sound in the back of his throat. He replaced the receiver and poured himself four fingers of Macallan and added some crushed ice from the fridge. Carrying his drink he went down the hall into the master bedroom.

  Bitch couldn't even make the bed. He went into the bathroom, stripped, and stood under a hot shower for ten minutes. He drank two fingers, toweled himself off and put on clean jeans and a Sturgis T-shirt. Thought about ordering out but didn't want some kid gawking at him as he forked over the pizza.

  Beadles returned to the kitchen and poked around in the fridge. He found some frozen lasagna and popped it in the microwave. In a wooden chair with his feet up on the kitchen table he finished the Scotch.

  That hard drive was going to kill him. Why would a guy with a wife like Betty even dowload all that porn?

  Most of his research was on the hard drive. And the laptop, which they had taken as well. It was also up in the Cloud due to his file saving program. He could access it from other computers.

  He got up to get more Scotch and nearly fell on his face, barely catching himself on the table.

  "Whoah there, pardner," he muttered, knowing he'd poured a shitload of Scotch into an empty stomach. Well he wasn't going anywhere. He was in no condition to pull his Bullitt Mustang out of the garage and add to his woes. He'd probably have to sell it to pay his legal fees.

  Carefully Beadles edged along the counter, grabbed the Scotch and returned to his seat while the lasagna pirouetted in the microwave. Time to think about a new career.

  "You want fries with that?" he said. Just trying it out. If the university fired him for cause they were still required to pay three months' salary.

  If he could prove someone planted that pot, he could sue them. But if it was only Stephanie Byrd there would be nothing to collect. If, on the other hand, it had been Professor Liggett, he could sue the university.

  For millions.

  Enough to fund an expedition to find the Azuma stronghold, the sweetest vindication of them all.

  "This is what I do," he said to the room.

  The microwave dinged. He let it sit.

  He needed to prove his thesis. It was as simple as that. He'd been carrying it with him since undergrad days, since he first stumbled upon an obscure 16th century Spanish text. The diary had allegedly been discovered by a Benedictine monk in a mountain cave in Arizona in the 19th century. He turned it over to the Vatican which in turn sent it to the library in Seville.

  The Diary began with Don Felipe's birth and upbringing in
a small town in Catalonia to his volunteering to travel to the New Land.

  Beadles learned of Don Felipe Balmora's diary at the New York Public Library which had one of two known print copies, the other in a museum in Seville. In 1894, a volunteer polymath named Edgar Saucier translated Balmora's diary and issued twelve leather-bound copies. Eleven disappeared without a trace. The New York Public Library had the twelfth.

  ***

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "Don Felipe Balmora"

  May 5, 1540. Under glorious blue skies and through the grace of God Almighty who shines His Fortune upon us today we set sail from Compostela in New Spain in four stout caravels in search of the Seven Cities of Cibola under the guidance of Governor Coronado.

  May 19. Blessed with Divine Guidance and good winds we have made landfall. All our horses and men survived, thanks be to Almighty God. Governor Coronado has made friends with the local Indians who are called Zuni.

  May 20. Governor Coronado has agreed to Captain Lopez deGama's request for a small expedition to cut into the mountains northeast of us to search for the Seven Cities of Cibola. Captain deGama has chosen me to be his lieutenant. We leave in the morning. I pray to God Almighty that I may perform my duties to His satisfaction, and to the satisfaction of Captain DeGama and our King.

  May 27. By the Grace of God Almighty, we have left behind the friendly Zuni and turned away from the river. The Indians run in fear from us. We must present a very strange breed to them--they have never seen horses before and some of them believe man and beast to be one. We have traversed twenty-five miles of the most desolate terrain, filled with poisonous vipers that will announce their imminent attack by rattling a series of calcified rings surrounding their tails. These are called rattlesnakes. One such viper bit Paulo Vatine's horse which went mad, broke its leg and had to be put down. Captain deGama sent Vatine back on foot. We pray for our brother's safe return.