“A freedom fighter, of course,” she said, grinning at me. “I forgot. You must be Rebecca, aren’t you?” she asked.
I nodded, not yet having regained control of my vocal cords.
“Hold on a sec,” she said, turning away from the railing.
Hold on a sec? I’d hold on a sec. My feet were still rooted to the ground in sheer terror. I heard sandals clicking on the stairs, and then she reappeared from one corner of the courtyard.
“I’m Tracey. Tracey Dougall. The paleo. Tea?”
The paleo? Tea? After that welcoming party, surely scotch would be more appropriate. But I’d take what I could get. “Sure,” I managed to say.
Steve Neal wandered in. “Good. I see you’ve already met a member of the team.” He gave both Tracey and me a nice smile, but the real warmth, regrettably, was directed toward Tracey. No wonder. She was gorgeous. Young—still in her mid-twenties, I’d say—blond, hair cut very short and spiky over a beautifully shaped head, great cheekbones, wide eyes, full mouth, perfect teeth, flawless complexion, she was one of those people who have come out on top in the genetic sweepstakes. She was wearing black tights with a black halter top, sandals with platform soles, and a large denim shirt, a man’s probably, open but tied at the waist. It would be easy, I thought, to dislike this woman.
“Tracey’s my prize doctoral student,” Steve said, still smiling. “She’s in charge of the lab.” Smart too, I thought. With very little effort on my part, I thought, mere dislike could be elevated to pure hatred.
“Lucho’s been playing freedom fighter with Rebecca,” she said to Steve.
Steve’s shoulders slumped in exasperation. “Lucho, get out here!” he ordered. From behind the door came a short, rather tubby young man, dressed head to toe in camouflage gear, his face speckled with a dark stubble, curly hair barely concealed by a Fidel Castro style hat, a gun belt winding a rather circuitous route around his paunch. As silly as he appeared, though, the gun looked real enough to me.
“Give me that thing,” Steve ordered.
Lucho cringed. “How can I guard this place without a gun, Senor Doctor Neal?” he whined.
“You’re a soldier, you’ll think of something,” Steve said in a placating but firm tone. “Now give me the gun.” With more than a little reluctance, Lucho handed it over. “Now take Ms. MacCrimmon’s bag to her room. The blue one,” he added, pointing to a room on the second floor.
“He’s a bit slow,” Tracey mouthed at me, as Lucho picked up my bag and began shuffling toward the stairs. “And…” She tapped her index finger on her forehead. “Cuckoo.”
“He’s harmless,” Steve said as Lucho slunk away. “He wouldn’t have hurt you. Really. However, we’d better find someplace safe to put this, somewhere our freedom fighter won’t find it. Can you think of a place in the lab, Tracey?”
Tracey eyed the weapon with distaste. “Sure,” she said. “Give it to me.” She took it very cautiously, holding the grip gingerly between thumb and forefinger well out from her body, barrel pointed toward the ground. Guns did not appear to be Tracey’s thing. I liked her better than I had thought I might.
“Come on, Rebecca,” Tracey said. “We’ll drop this horrid object in the lab, and then we’ll get Ines to make us some tea and I’ll give you a hand unpacking. My room is next to yours. It’ll be fun. Like college.”
“Enjoy your last few hours of leisure.” Steve grinned at me. “I’m putting you to work first thing tomorrow. Let me know where you hide the you-know-what, Tracey,” he said as Lucho shuffled back into view on the balcony above us. Dealing with Lucho, apparently, was like dealing with a very small child. As in let’s put the g-u-n in the w-h-a-t-e-v-e-r.
Tracey waited until Lucho was again out of sight before leading me to a room off the courtyard to the right of the main door. The lab was a large room with trestle tables along both walls, plus one large table right in the middle of the room. On the left, what looked to be a complete skeleton was stretched out full length on the table, its head resting on a black velvet pillow. “That’s Benji,” Tracey said, following my glance. “Super, isn’t he?”
“Big Benji,” a voice said, and I turned to see a tall, greying man coming through a door off to the right. “As you can see, he is, or was, rather tall. I’m Ralph,” he said, extending his hand. “Welcome to the Hacienda Nowhere.”
“Ralph Woolsey, Rebecca MacCrimmon,” Tracey said, doing the introductions. “Ralph is our ceramicist, University of Southern California. Rebecca—”
“I know who Rebecca is.” Ralph laughed. Ralph too was rather tall, with a relaxed and easygoing manner, and a nice firm handshake. “Steve has talked about little else for the last two days except how he’s found this wonderful woman who is going to get us all organized. I can only say that if you can get us even remotely organized,” he added, his arm sweeping around the room, “you are a wizard indeed.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Tracey said. I looked about me. Actually, it seemed pretty orderly to me, in a chaotic sort of way. On the left there was Big Benji and assorted other bones. “That’s my domain,” Tracey said, following my glance. “I’m working on my doctoral thesis in paleoanthropology. I’m the bone person on the project. We’re learning some interesting things about the state of people’s health in Moche times from my friend Benji here. Look,” she said, grasping Benji’s skull and holding it up to my face. “Nice teeth! The other side of the room, as you can see,” she said, waving the skull in Ralph’s direction, “is Ralph’s.”
Ralph’s side of the room was covered in pottery shards, some soaking in large pans of water. A couple of pots were being carefully restored, broken piece by piece. About halfway along the wall was a photo setup with a camera on an arm over the table, and a computer, of the laptop variety. “How are you on computers, Rebecca?” Ralph asked. “We’re kind of hoping you can help us with the cataloguing of all this stuff.”
I took a quick look. It was the computer and software that I used in the shop. How long ago and far away that seemed. “Fine,” I replied, collecting myself after a moment or two of incipient homesickness. “This will be no problem.” Both of them looked rather delighted. They might not have been quite so thrilled had they known I was thinking how easy this made it for me to check up on their records in search of a flared Moche pot and a turquoise and gold ear ornament.
At the back of the room there was a pile of boxes, each marked with the year, the initials CV for, I assumed, Campina Vieja, and Caja, box in Spanish, and then a number. “What are these?” I asked.
“Boxes of catalogued artifacts taken from the site,”‘ Tracey replied. “We study them, catalogue and store them in these boxes. At the end of each season, they’re packed up and shipped to Lima to the INC, the Institute Nacional de Cultura. One requires a credencial, a permit, to do archaeology in Peru,” Tracey went on. “Credenciales are issued by the INC, and everything found on archaeological projects in Peru becomes INC property.”
She walked over to the pile of boxes. “Speaking of storage, how about Caja ocho, Box eight?” she said, holding the gun up carefully, then laying it in the box. “Will you two remember that? Remind me to tell Steve too,” she said, “and to take it out before we ship, of course. I doubt the INC would be too impressed by finding a very new gun in with the artifacts from our project! Now let’s see what we can do about getting you settled, Rebecca. Don’t tell Lucho about Caja ocho, Ralph,” she admonished as we left.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, smiling at her. Ralph too, judging by the warmth of his smile, was an admirer of Tracey.