Bones had no particular desire to finish the dig. Isaiah had made it through the surgery successfully, but remained in what the doctors described as a “shallow coma”. They assured him this was normal, and in fact a healthy way for a person with a brain injury to recuperate. This was not the sort of vegetative state from which patients did not come back; it was simply the body’s way of healing.
Not completely reassured, but encouraged, he decided to go back to the dig. It was Isaiah’s project, and he felt an obligation to see it through to the end. And perhaps he could pick up some clues to his cousin’s attackers.
The dig site had changed much in the four days since Isaiah’s attack. The ground around the rock overhang was roped off in squares and digging was well underway. But the dig lacked the pleasant air of people doing what they loved. Everyone worked in sullen silence. Only two of them even looked up from their work to greet him with curt nods. He headed to the rock face where a man in khakis and a starched pink oxford cloth shirt stood with a clipboard in hand, scowling at whatever he was reading.
“May I help you?” he said in a sour voice, not looking up from his clipboard.
“No, but I can help you. Your bald spot is getting sunburned,” Bones said.
The fellow jerked his head up to scowl at Bones. One of the diggers snickered.
“Thank you. I shall attend to that right away. What can I do for you?”
“I’m Dr. Horsely’s cousin, Uriah Bonebrake. I was helping him with the dig.”
“I see. Well, I am sorry to tell you that we have all the help we need. I appreciate your visit, and will thank you to leave without further disturbing our work.” He turned his back on Bones and walked away.
“Wait a minute. This is Isaiah’s dig,” Bones protested.
“Not anymore.” The fellow sounded disgustingly pleased with himself. “Dr. Horsely’s financial backers have placed me in charge. I will thank you to leave my dig immediately.”
“Who are these backers, mister…?”
“Doctor. Doctor William McLaughlin. And my backers are none of your concern. Now, if you will please excuse us, we have work to do. The Jesus picture is only the beginning.”
“The Jesus picture? Have you established that’s what it really is?”
McLaughlin was offended by the question. “Of course that’s what it is.” He turned and walked away before Bones could question him any further.
“Pompous ass,” one of the diggers said in a hushed voice. Bones sidled up next to him. “All he cares about is fame.” The man was tall and angular, with an expression of permanent disdain on his sunburned face.
“How about his backers?” Bones asked casually. “They after the fame as well?”
“Hardly. I don’t know who exactly they are. No one on the dig knows. But I know they’re Mormons. They want it to be true.”
“What’s that?” Bones asked.
“The Jesus thing. Mormons believe Jesus came to America and appeared to the people here. They would love to have the archaeological record support that.” He spat in the dust. “They’re going to spin this their way. No consideration of anything else. Oh, he has us going through the motions of excavating the site, but he’s not at all interested in the artifacts. He wants more Jesus pictures.” He spat another gob in the dust, and kicked it with the toe of his boot. “Anyway, how’s Dr. Horsely?”
“He’s stable,” Bones said. “Still not come out of the coma, but the doctors aren’t too concerned yet. They say he’ll wake up when he’s ready. He’s going to freak when he finds out what McLaughlin is doing to his dig.”
“No kidding. Well, I’d better get back at it before McLaughlin jumps my case again. He and Orley got into it yesterday. You should have seen it. That old farmer was warning him away from that barn of his with the sick bull. McLaughlin couldn’t care less about the barn or the bull, but he can’t stand to be told what to do…”
Bones didn’t hear the rest of the story. He suddenly remembered the last thing Isaiah said before going into surgery. Orley doesn’t have a bull. Grinning politely as the fellow finished his story, Bones shook the man’s hand and walked away. Feeling dazed, he wandered back toward the farm until he came to the barn.
It looked no more remarkable than it did the first time he had seen it: a small, sturdy wooden structure built against the side of a hill, though he had to admit that it was unusual to construct a building directly against a rock wall. He paused two steps from the door and looked around. No one was in sight.
“Mr. Orley!” he called. “Hello?” He didn’t truly think the old man was around, but no need taking chances. “Anyone here?” He noticed that the door was padlocked. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened. Silence. If there was a bull in there, it was dead. He walked around the left side of the barn. Near the back, the ground had washed away, leaving a hole a yard wide and eight inches deep under the wall. Bones looked around again, then cleared away the rocks and loose. When he could make the hole no deeper without a pick and shovel, he dropped to the ground.
He lay down on his back and squeezed into the opening. He had to exhale and relax his muscles in order to get his chest and shoulders through, but he made it with only a few scrapes. He climbed to his feet in the dim barn, brushed himself off and looked around.
It could not properly be called a barn. It was more of a storage shed; a simple wooden building with various tools and implements strewn about. Old bales of straw were stacked to the ceiling against the back wall. Bones pulled one down, covering his face with his sleeve against the thick cloud of dust that kicked up from the old, dry bale. There was no back wall- the shed was three-sided and abutted the rock face. That was interesting. He moved a few more bales out of the way, then, half out of intuition and half out of impatience, he took hold of the two bottom center bales and yanked.
The middle of the straw wall tumbled down, one of them bouncing hard off his shoulder. Dust burned his eyes and nose. He leaned down, plugged one nostril and blew the other out, then repeated with the other side. Dane hated what Bones called “the farmer’s handkerchief”, and Bones took pleasure in disgusting his friend from time-to-time. As he was wiping his eyes he was surprised to feel cool air on his face.
A four foot-high fissure, three wide at the base, split the center of the stone wall. This was getting more interesting all the time. He fished the mini maglite out of his pocket and ducked down to explore the opening.
The narrow beam of light shone on a long, narrow tunnel only a few feet high leading back into blackness. Never the one to ignore his curiosity, he made up his mind to explore. He had to crawl, holding his light between his teeth. The floor was smooth stone, and cold on his hands. He had gone about thirty feet when the passage opened up into a room with a ceiling high enough for him to stand. He played his light over the walls. What he saw made him whistle in surprise.
The room was roughly rectangular with a fire pit in the center. The walls on either side of him were adorned with pictographs much more impressive than what they had found outside, the likes of which he had seen only in pictures of southwest Indian ruins. There were spirals, handprints, and images of animals. They were beautiful and remarkably well-preserved. But it was the opposite wall that took his breath.
A large circle, about a foot in diameter, was carved into the wall near the top. Seven straight lines descended from it, each ending in what looked like a hand.
On the left side of the wall, below the row of symbols, was a scene reminiscent of the “Jesus” picture he had discovered a few days before. It was clear, however, that this was not Jesus. The bearded man led a line of men in Spanish military uniforms, and others dressed in robes. These particular cave paintings were clearly were not done by the natives who had carved the pictographs. Though not surprised, he felt a bit of disappointment at the knowledge that this was not Christ. The feeling, though, was quickly replaced by the excitement of knowing that there was definitely a mystery here.
The men were pictured moving through various scenes with landmarks behind them that probably would have borne significance to someone familiar with the region. On the right side, near the bottom, was a scene depicting the same men bearing heavy sacks, climbing what looked like a giant staircase. The final image was that of a distinctive-looking peak, though one that was unfamiliar to Bones.
Near the base of the wall, a square niche was cut into the stone, similar to those in a kiva. Something glittered in the light.
A closer look revealed a golden disc about seven inches in diameter, with an image much like the one on the wall carved on the front. Intrigued, he turned it over. Fine writing spiraled in from the outer edge in an ever-tightening circle.
“Hebrew?” he whispered? “This is crazy.” He took out his cell phone and used the camera feature to snap some pictures. Although his was one of the better phone cameras on the market, it still took several tries to get a few decent shots. He took care to replace the disc just like he had found it. He then took a picture of the front of the golden circle as it lay in the niche.
He backed up to the fire pit in the room’s center and took pictures of the walls. Suddenly aware that he had spent a long time in this place, he shone his light around the room one last time. Satisfied that he had seen everything, he turned to leave. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled only two feet before the beam of his maglite shone on twin shotgun barrels leveled at his face.
“Back it up.” Orley’s gruff voice growled from the darkness. “Move slow and stay where I can see you.”
Bones did as he was told, crawling backward into the room, his options racing through his mind. He was fast, and would stand a good chance of disarming Orley, but he’d have to injure the rancher in order to do so. He didn’t want to do that if he could help it. For the same reason, he dismissed the .22 in his ankle holster. Besides, his instinct told him that the man was not a threat.
A flame blossomed in the darkness. Orley held a zippo in his left hand. He kept the shotgun trained on Bones with his right. “I didn’t figure on it being you. By the way, you can take that pissant little flashlight out of your mouth.”
Bones chuckled and tucked the light into his jeans pocket.
“This place is something.”
Orley did not answer. He scrutinized the cave, his usual sour expression in place. “Well hell. You weren’t gonna’ take the disc?”
“Not me,” Bones said. “My people aren’t like that. I think you know that as well as I do.” He stared at Orley, hoping he was right. If not, Bones would have to make a quick move for the shotgun. “I didn't take anything but pictures.”
The silence hung between them in the semi-darkness for what felt like a minute before the rancher spat on the floor and lowered his gun.
“I reckon I do believe you at that. You ain’t so bad for an Injun.”
“And you’re not too bad for a fat white man,” Bones said, chuckling. Orley returned the jibe with a curse and a grin. “What is this place, anyway?” Bones asked.
“I don’t rightly know. I found it near twenty years ago. A storm came through, one of them gully washers. Washed away enough of the rock to uncover this place. I’ve tried to figure some of it out, but I ain’t too good at that kind of thing. I tried to keep it a secret, but once the government started pushing me to open up the other ruins, I knew this place would get found. If it has to be found, I reckon I’m glad it was you.”
“Why do you say that?” Bones was flattered, but confused.
Orley was about to reply when a loud clatter came from the entrance.
“Mr. Orley?” a voice called. The speaker’s tone of voice sounded taunting, as if the man, whoever he was, knew precisely where the rancher was.
Orley whirled around, peering back in the direction from which he had come. “It’s them! Take the disc and…”
“Who is ‘them’?” Bones asked.
“The Dominion. Now shut up and do what I tell you. Take the disc with you. There’s a way out up there,” he gestured over Bones’ right shoulder to the dark corner. “It’s narrow, but you can do it. Go!”
Bones wasn’t foolish enough to argue. He grabbed the heavy gold disc and shoved it into his shirt. Three long strides brought him to the corner. He ran his hands up the wall, his fingertips finding purchase on a small ledge. He pulled himself up, digging his steel-toed boots against the rocky face, reached out with his right hand and found the narrow passage. Clambering up, he twisted onto his left side and scooted into the crevice.
“Don’t come back no matter what you hear,” Orley said.
Feeling more guilt than he had thought himself capable of, Bones slithered forward, now understanding how sausage was made. He had never had much fear of tight places, for which he was now thankful. The cold rock sucked the heat from his body. He continued forward in the darkness, wondering how long this passage was and whether it would narrow to the point that he could not get through. His shoulders were almost touching the sides. One thing was sure; Orley had never crawled through this tunnel, or at least not in many a decade.
He heard muffled voices, then a shotgun blast. He froze as the staccato report of small-caliber handguns echoed down the narrow tunnel. One more defiant shotgun blast, a pause, a single shot, and it was over. Bones remained motionless for the span of a three heartbeats, entertaining the irrational notion that he should somehow wriggle backward, take the bad guys by surprise, and save the day. Common sense won out over guilt almost immediately, and he continued his trek, cursing Orley for his stubbornness and himself for not being a hero. He was certain the rancher was dead. Now he needed to save himself.
He crawled for what seemed like an hour, all the while wondering when bullets would ricochet down the passage. Had they killed Orley immediately? Did he tell them about Bones escape route? Would they find it themselves? None of it mattered. All he could do was keep going.
The tunnel curved, and for a brief moment panic threatened to overwhelm him as the walls closed in on him, but he was soon able to wriggle free and move on. Still grappling with guilt over leaving Orley behind, he was distracted by a pale sliver of light in the distance. Energized, he scurried ahead on hands and knees.
A gentle slope climbed toward the light, and the tunnel gradually widened. Suddenly aware that he had no idea where he would be emerging, or who might be waiting on the other side, he slipped his .22 from its ankle holster and quietly moved ahead. Dry air tinged with the aroma of sage and dust assaulted his nostrils. The tunnel ended in a narrow crack about seven feet high and a foot wide at its broadest point. Sage and scrub covered the entrance. Bones could see little through the cover of foliage, but the way appeared clear. His pistol at the ready, he moved forward.
Emerging on the slope of a dry, narrow gulch and carefully making his way down into the parched defile, the sun scorching his face after the relative cool of the cavern, he thought about the layout of the passage through which he had come, relative to the ranch, and guessed that he was due northeast of the dig, on the other side of the hills that backed Orley’s barn and lined the eastern edge of his property. He couldn’t be far away as the crow flies, but with gun-toting archaeologists, or whoever the hell they were, so close by, things felt decidedly unsafe. And what was the “Dominion” of which Orley spoke? He needed an answer.
Absently he ran his hand across his stomach and felt the disc underneath his shirt. He had actually forgotten about it. He withdrew the weighty gold circle and examined it in the sunlight. Its gold surface flashed in the brilliant light, displaying the spiraled writing in sharp relief. It was one of the most beautiful artifacts he had ever seen, and a complete enigma. What was a Hebrew artifact doing in Utah? “I hate puzzles,” he muttered.
Flipping open his cell phone, he checked for coverage, and was relieved to see that he had one bar. No way was he going back for his rental. He’d call the agency and report it broken down. He didn’t have any personal items in the car anyway. Who to call? He thought of Emily Dixon, the television reporter. She had been loads of fun for about five hours, and then the obvious fluff between her ears had significantly detracted from her appeal. He needed someone sharp, someone who might know about the Dominion, someone with the guts to dive into what might be a dangerous situation.
A broad grin spread across his face as he called information and requested the number for the Deseret Bugle.