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 his 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.
***