Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [40]
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Colonel,” I say, leaving my hands in plain sight on the table. It’s not that I think the young men in the uniforms are trigger-happy, but misunderstandings are best avoided. “I’m authorized to work in the area. I have the necessary papers from Central University of Venezuela’s School of Anthropology.”
The colonel frowns. He had obviously not been prepared for a rebuttal.
“If you were cleared to work here, why wasn’t I informed?” the man snaps. “Where are your papers?”
“Let me get them.” I raise my left hand from the table and, while maintaining eye contact with the colonel, slip it into my pack. I pull out my passport, a dated authorization form from the university, and an addendum extending the duration of the dig from the dates on the original form. That last is a nice touch, and I’d complimented Romero. It keeps things from looking too clean. Something like an addendum adds legitimacy to the enterprise.
The colonel takes these from me and looks them over with a sharp eye, but everything is in order. The people Romero works with are the best at what they do. In fact, the first time I met Romero, when Espy introduced us, it was to have him forge documents to allow me to take antiquities out of the country. He’s only gotten better at his craft.
“I still wasn’t notified that you would be here, Dr. Hawthorne,” the man says.
The other two, sensing the change in circumstances, and acting on Espy’s smile, lower their weapons. And now they’re paying more attention to the lovely woman at the table than they are to me.
“I’m sorry no one told you, Colonel. I would have stopped by and introduced myself but, as you can see, we’re not authorized for an extended stay and I’d like to get as much done as I can.”
This appeases him, although he still seems troubled about being kept in the dark.
“Colonel, how about I buy you and your men a drink? That way your trip into town won’t be wasted.” It’s as these words escape my lips that I see a ghost. Beyond the colonel, in a seat near the door, is a man in jeans and an off-white shirt. He wears a hat, pulled down low so as to almost cover his eyes. Before I can get a better look, or jump out of my chair, the colonel leans in, obstructing my view.
“That’s very generous of you, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says. And by the time he leans back, the other man is gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
Later, after I’ve put a few drinks for the colonel and his men on my card and have resumed eating my dinner, Esperanza says, “You know he’s going to call Caracas when he gets back to the base, right?”
“I wouldn’t think much of him if he didn’t.”
She raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t worry you?”
“Have a little trust in your big brother.”
Back at the university, there’s a form corresponding to the one I have in my pack. A clerk will pull the file and confirm for the colonel that one Dr. Jack Hawthorne is approved to conduct an academic exercise in the area of Rubio.
Still, the confrontation has me unsettled. Obviously someone told him that we were here. It might have been Henry. He’s nursed his grudge for years, and my recent recompense may not have satisfied him. What bothers me more, though, is the possibility that my mind is playing tricks on me. Can it really be true that the man I just saw is the Australian who visited Jim at KV65? His is the face I’ve attached to the whole event—the person who vanished like smoke just minutes before the ground swallowed my brother. A clinical part of my brain understands—has understood since that day—that I’m reaching, that a malevolent look does not make someone a killer, or mean that something insidious is behind what happened. Add to this, however, that there was a rush to close the investigation, that no one would even consider the notion