Whispers in the Dark (3 page)

I went back to my deep breathing. I didn’t want to crawl into my tent until I felt comfortable there, or I knew I’d spend the night imagining monsters sneaking around the thin protection of my nylon walls. I could sleep in my car, as I had done several times on the drive out, when I wasn’t sure of my security. But this campground would be my home for weeks. I had to get used to it, face my fears until they disappeared. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the cool air on my skin, the soft breeze.

I heard voices in the distance and a thump like something being dropped. I told myself it was good to know others were within hailing distance. I breathed, and listened, and finally felt my heart slow and my muscles relax. I thought I might be able to sleep.

A new sound drifted through the air, and my breath caught in my throat. I heard a soft sobbing, like a woman crying.

Should I check it out, see if someone needed help? But no one was calling for help, and I couldn’t target the sound.

It was probably some animal or bird, but still, I felt goosebumps prickle my skin. I went to my car for a sweater, trying to blame the drop in temperature for my chills.

When I opened the car door, the overhead light came on, shockingly bright. I jumped and glanced around, feeling oddly guilty, as if I’d insulted the night. I grabbed my sweater, closed the door quickly, and stood for a minute waiting for my eyes to readjust as the darkness pressed around me.

The crying seemed to ripple in the air, coming from nowhere and everywhere.

And then it faded, leaving only the echo of its memory in the dark, and a great sadness.

Chapter 3

I woke and stared at the bright blue nylon above me, wondering where I was. Then I remembered—away from it all. Yeah, right. I’d expected to have challenges; that was the whole point. But being in the middle of nowhere had already held a few surprises.

My face felt chilly in the cool morning air. I’d read about the possible 40-degree temperature swings between night and day, but I hadn’t quite believed it. I wriggled into a sweatshirt and jeans and bolted for the restroom. Washing my hands and face in cold water didn’t warm me up, so I decided to jog to the canyon rim and get my blood pumping.

By the time I’d done the quarter-mile, I was gasping. I’d managed the Boston Marathon less than a year earlier, but I hadn’t jogged in six months. Maybe here, at last, I could try again. If I got back into the habit in totally unfamiliar surroundings, maybe I’d be able to jog in Boston again. Or wherever I went next.

I stopped at the edge of the canyon to catch my breath. I had the place to myself, with no one in sight except the birds and squirrels. The ruins along the rim glowed golden as the sunrise spread across the desert floor. I shaded my eyes and looked down into the canyon, where vegetation grew lush and green along a small river. A great place to spend a hot afternoon, but for now I preferred to stand in the sun.

I strolled along the rim trail, admiring the view. To the southeast, the desert stretched out flat for miles and then suddenly jutted up into a mountain range at the far horizon. I couldn’t even guess at the distance, since I wasn’t used to seeing more than a few hundred feet in any direction. Even the field camps I’d joined had been in wooded areas. Maybe I should have felt exposed in the Southwest’s wide-open spaces. Yet somehow everything combined to feel cozy: the small canyon, just over a mile long; the dozen ruins along the canyon rim, most no bigger than my apartment; the friendly tourists who felt the lure of this place.

I tried to imagine living here in ancient times, knowing nothing else but this landscape and the few hundred people in my community. That abstract concept was starting to feel more real, even appealing.

I shivered as I lost the heat from my run. I turned and jogged back toward the campground, my lungs burning. At least fighting for breath and watching my footing kept my mind almost too busy for other thoughts. Though I glanced nervously at the bushes, I avoided full-fledged panic.

I heard a distant car door slam. As I reached the campground, the restroom door swung shut. I had once again entered the modern world of humans. I slowed to a walk and enjoyed the chirping of birds in the trees above, the sounds of a lazy world waking.

A man’s voice broke the peace. I couldn’t catch the words but the harsh tone stopped me in my tracks. A woman’s voice, high-pitched and anxious, struggled to compete.

And then a crack, like a branch breaking or a single clap of hands, cut off the voices.

I stood trembling, my stomach in knots. Part of my mind screamed
Run!
but I couldn’t turn away. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands. My shallow breath rasped in my ears.

A man burst out of the trees, barreling toward me. I stumbled back, but my legs felt so shaky I couldn’t escape. I made some wordless noise as he brushed past me muttering curses, but I’m not sure he noticed me at all. I watched until he disappeared up the path.

I hugged myself, chilled again. I turned and spotted the old woman at the host site. She stood on the steps to her RV, looking after the man and shaking her head. Then she came down the steps and crossed to the path. She raised a hand briefly in greeting.

I stared at her. “Should we....”

“I’ll take care of it.” She headed further into the campground. She was heavyset, but moved quickly and quietly. She disappeared among the trees and I stood still as the seconds slipped past. I should go after the woman, see if someone needed help. I should keep an eye on the man, see where he went, find out what he was doing. I should go about my business and pretend nothing had happened. I should go for help.

For the life of me, I couldn’t decide.

I took a deep breath and blew it out. I wasn’t here to hide from trouble. I had to know what happened. I would find out and then decide what to do next. I took a step in the direction the old woman had gone.

A voice called out behind me. I spun with a hand to my thudding chest.

The sun streamed into my eyes, half blinding me. I could only make out a dark figure striding toward me. I stepped back and stumbled over some rock or stick. I struggled for balance.

The figure closed the distance between us in a heartbeat. I gasped as hands grabbed my arms with bruising force.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

At least now I recognized the dark, frowning face. I couldn’t speak, could only struggle for breath and try to fight back the panic.

“You’re white as a ghost,” Danesh said. “Are you sick?”

I shook my head. He slipped an arm around me and held me tight against his side. “You’d better sit down.” I couldn’t have broken his grip, so I had no choice but to let him lead me to my campsite. He had to feel my trembling. I hated that he had seen me like that. I hated the panic that could freeze me in an instant, shatter my peace of mind, and turn me into someone I barely recognized. I hated losing control of my own body, feeling—no, knowing—that I was helpless and weak.

By the time we reached my picnic table, the anger had steadied me. I tried to shrug off his arm and grumbled, “I’m all right.”

He let go of me but hovered close until I sat. I clenched my hands in my lap and willed myself to stop shaking.

“Tell me what happened,” he demanded.

I thought about what I’d witnessed. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but if my guess was right, the women wouldn’t want a man interrupting now. “It’s nothing. I just got a little lightheaded. Too much exercise on an empty stomach.”

He crouched beside me and looked into my face. I managed a smile.

He looked very serious. “I should have brought the doughnuts.”

“What?” I gaped at him.

He grinned, a sudden flash that transformed his face and vanished so quickly I wasn’t sure I’d really seen it. “I was looking for you to invite you in for coffee and doughnuts. But you’d better not wait. You have some food here, right? Tell me where and I’ll get it.”

No doubt he meant well, but I had to take control. “I’ll get it.” I tore my gaze away from his face and stood. I even managed not to jump when he shot to his feet beside me and put a hand on my elbow. I pulled away from the steadying hand and strode to my car. I really felt too queasy to want food, but I’d made the excuse and I had to stick with it. I found a granola bar and choked down a few bites. I smiled at him. “Much better.”

He studied my face like he could read my whole history in it. I withstood it for a few seconds, then turned back to my car and found a water bottle. I took a drink and another bite of the granola bar without looking at him.

“Maybe you should drive over to the visitors center.”

“I’m not an invalid,” I snapped. “It’s not even half a mile.”

His lips twitched. “I guess you are feeling better. All right, ready to go?”

I nodded. I wasn’t, but I was too drained to think of a good excuse. Besides, sitting at my campsite brooding over my cowardly display would not get the day off to a better start. I prayed he wouldn’t insist on holding my arm the whole way.

He stayed close but did not touch me again.

At the visitors center, Danesh unlocked the door and swung it wide. The door creaked, and Jerry, standing behind the counter, jumped. His hand hit the phone, the handset clattered onto the counter, and he fumbled to replace it, his face going red above his beard.

Danesh crossed the room without a glance in Jerry’s direction. He called over his shoulder to me, “We’re not open yet. Come into the back.”

I ignored his command and smiled at Jerry. “Good morning Jerry! How are you?” He gave me one swift glance then looked down as he stammered a reply. I realized my greeting had been excessively warm, more for Danesh’s sake than Jerry’s. No doubt everyone ignored chubby, stuttering Jerry when the hot young warrior was around. And no doubt Danesh bossed Jerry like he bossed everyone else. I’d let Danesh see he wasn’t everyone’s favorite.

Jerry’s gaze jerked around the small office, avoiding my eyes. I realized I was making him uncomfortable, so I gave him another smile he probably didn’t see and went into the back room. Jerry came in behind me. Danesh handed him a mug and asked me, “Anything in it?”

I noticed he had two more mugs of coffee already poured. Just to be contrary, I said, “Actually, I’d prefer tea.”

“All right.” He grabbed a fresh mug, filled it with water, and stuck it in the microwave.

I picked a doughnut and sat on the couch next to Jerry. Danesh fixed my tea and then sat cross-legged on the floor. He studied me without expression, and I felt my face heating. I tried to think of something to say, but my mind was painfully empty. I took a sip of tea and nearly burned my throat.

Finally Danesh said, “Tell us about your work.”

That seemed safe enough, so I launched into an explanation of grain and seed analysis. If I found food residue, I could determine its genetic makeup, then hopefully draw some conclusions about when the Ancestral Pueblo People had domesticated various plants and what those plants were like at the time. I planned to focus on the storehouses, but given time I’d take samples in other areas as well.

When I wound down, Danesh said, “I notice you’re careful to call them the Ancestral Pueblo People, and not the Anasazi. That name seems to stick, even though it’s inappropriate.”

“I know, it means ‘ancient enemies’ in Navaho, and it’s insulting to the ancient people’s descendents, who are not Navaho.” I was glad I hadn’t given him another chance to lecture. “I suppose you’re especially sensitive.”

He gave the almost-smile that seemed to be his trademark. “That’s me, Mr. Sensitive.”

Could he actually be poking fun at himself? More likely he was teasing me. “I just mean, if you’re....” I trailed off. I didn’t really know what he was or what might offend him. He didn’t look Navaho; his face had too many sharp angles, with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. But that didn’t mean he was Puebloan, and I was no expert in native tribes.

He said, “If you mean genetically, I’m half Filipino and half Danish, with a lot of Spanish on the Filipino side. If you mean professionally, I’m a park ranger but my background is biology, not anthropology or archaeology.”

I stared at him. Filipino and Danish combined to make this? Wasn’t genetics amazing! When I found myself thinking that it was too bad the Danes and Filipinos didn’t breed more often, I smothered my thoughts. “Your name. Is it—what is it?”

“It’s a Gypsy nickname for Daniel.”

“Gypsy?” I wondered if Denmark had Gypsies. I was pretty sure the Philippines didn’t.

Danesh shrugged. “My mother liked it.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t sure where to go from there, so I turned to Jerry. “What about you? How long have you worked here?”

I only half listened, my mind still trying to make sense of Danesh. I felt like he’d caught me at something. But he had to know people would make the wrong assumption, especially seeing him here, where everyone was focused on native history. If he didn’t want people to think he was Native American, he should have gotten a job at Carlsbad Caverns or Crater Lake.

He probably did it on purpose. Maybe he liked the extra glamour of playing native to the tourists. Maybe he just liked to see people squirm when he told them the truth. I had a feeling he was still staring at me, but I refused to check. If he meant to be unnerving, he was certainly good at it.