Billy hid his smile. Lane was always talking about how he was going to "deck" his dad or "beat his ass." Last week, when they'd found a lottery ticket on the ground, Lane had said that if they had the winning numbers he was going to leave home and send a truckload ofdogshit to be dropped on his father's car.
Lane's plans and pronouncements were always funny, but there was something sad about them too, and Billy was thankful that he didn't have his friend's parents.
Lane looked around the drive. "Where's your bike?"
Billy nodded toward the edge of the road. "I left it back there. I thought maybe your brother was sleeping. I didn't want to wake him up." The last time he'd come over, he'd called out for Lane instead of knocking on the door or ringing the bell, and Lane's mother, smiling as always, had come out and told him in a polite voice edged with steel that he had awakened the baby.
Lane laughed. "You think your bike was going to wake him up? The doorbell's louder than that."
"Did I wake him up again?"
"No. He's fine. Stop being such a pussy. What do you think my mom's going to do? Beat you?"
It was possible, Billy thought, but he said nothing. He walked down the drive to the bush where he'd stashed his bike while Lane got his own wheels, and soon the two of them were speeding down the road.
Although the land at the top of the hill had been open for development for over two years, few of the acre lots had sold and even fewer had been built upon. There was theChapmans ' house; Dr.Koslowski's house; the house of Al Houghton, who owned Pine Top Acres; and a few expensive vacation homes built by people who never used them. Other than that, the flattened hilltop was home to only trees and rocks and bushes.
Billy and Lane pedaled down the paved road past the dark wood and stone of the doctor's rustic residence. The view from here was spectacular. To the left was the town, white wooden buildings and brown shake roofs peeking up from between summer green trees, and the rugged ridge beyond. To the right was the forest, stretching toward the horizon in an alternating pattern of hill and valley, hill and valley, broken only by the cleared spaces and tiny jumbled patterns of increasingly far-off towns.
They sped along the road. Their plan today was to check out the Indian ruins at the bottom of the hill. A team of archaeology students from ASU had arrived yesterday for their annual summer workshop, and they hoped to be invited to join the exploration.
They had discovered the dig last summer while practicing motocross jumps and maneuvers on the maze of barely perceptible trails that branched outward from the forest service road that dissected the narrow valley. They had seen, from far off, moving swaths of color amid the forest green and had ridden up to investigate. The dig had already been under way for a month by the time they'd arrived, and the sight that greeted their eyes amazed them both. Fifteen or twenty men and women were digging with tiny trowels in square shallow holes precisely outlined with sticks and string. Many of them were examining small rocks and pieces of pottery, dusting the objects off with small black brushes.
In the center of the meadow, next to a battered pickup truck, were rows of bones and skulls and Indian grinding stones. Around the perimeter of this activity, a low stone wall had been partially unearthed.
The two of them had stood with their bikes at the edge of the meadow until someone had spotted them and yelled, "Hey!" Then they'd taken off, pedaling fast and furiously away from the site.
But they had returned the next day.
And came back the day after that.
Gradually, like wild animals, they grew used to the archaeology students, and the students grew used to them, and one day, finally tamed, they had gathered the courage to walk into camp.
It had been an eye-opening experience. The two of them had hung around, trying to stay out of everyone's way, until the professor in charge let them chisel out some arrowheads from the hard-packed ground. It had been fun and rewarding, and although they hadn't been able to keep any of the artifacts they'd unearthed, they had both decided then and there that they were going to be archaeologists when they grew up.
The road curved down and they found the trail that led off the pavement through a vacant lot into the forest. Billy jumped the small embankment, Lane followed, and then they were through the lot and into the trees. The trail wound through the underbrush, following the path of a long-dead stream, running down the hill to the valley below. They sped over the sandy earth. Small lizards scattered out of the way of their onrushing tires; birds flew up from the surrounding bushes, squawking into the air. Finally they reached the bottom of the hill, and Billy turned into his stop, sliding across the dirt. Lane skidded to a halt next to him. From off to their right came the faint sounds of conversation and rock music, and they swiveled their bikes around, heading toward the sounds.
Although the low stone outlines ofAnasazi buildings stretched across the entire floor of the valley, the university team concentrated on only one small section at a tune. Last year, the students had been digging at the north end of the tiny valley, near the meadow, but this year it sounded as though they had given up on that idea and were trying to look for artifacts on the heavily forested south end.
Billy and Lane were at the site almost before realizing it, and they quickly stopped at the edge of the small clearing. Folding tables and chairs had been set up underneath various trees, and on them were piled books and boxes and assorted work tools. The carpet of brown pine needles that ordinarily covered the ground had been cleared and flat bare dirt shone through, broken in spots by square shallow excavation holes. Bright-blue and red tents were set up about the area, though not enough for everyone to sleep in. The students themselves were grouped around their professor, a baldingmiddleaged man with an Abe Lincoln beard and a prospector's tan.
The boys parked their bikes in the bushes and walked slowly and shyly forward. A few of the students' faces were familiar from last year, but most of them were new and Billy and Lane weren't sure what kind of reaction they were going to get.
The eyes of the men and women shifted focus from the professor to the two boys trekking across the rough ground. The professor turned to see the new center of attention, and a smile of recognition crossed his face. "I was wondering when you were going to show up," he said. His voice was cracked and hoarse. "Ready to work?"
"That's why we're here," Lane said.
The professor laughed. "Glad to have you aboard. I'm sure we'll be able to find something for you to do." He turned to face his class. "Those of you who are new to our extension course, meet Lane . . ."
"Chapman," Lane prompted.
"And Billy . . ."
"Albin."
"Right." The professor was about to add something else when his attention was drawn to the other end of the clearing. Pressing forward, Billy followed his gaze. He saw movement in the underbrush. A man. A man with a blue uniform and a thin white face.
And bright red hair.
The mailman stepped into the clearing from the other end. He had obviously been walking through the trees and bushes all the way from the control road, which cut across the valley at its southern tip, but his postal uniform was free from all traces of dirt, there were no small dead leaves or branches in his hat, and the gold buttons on his jacket shone brightly, unscratched. He held in his hand a single envelope.
"Dr. Dennis Holman?" he asked in his smooth low voice.
The professor nodded.
"I have a letter for you." He handed the envelope to the professor, then glanced purposefully over at Billy. There was the same suggestive smile on his face that Billy had seen that day by the mailbox, and he felt both sickened and scared. His heart was pounding, and he glanced over at Lane to see if he had noticed, but Lane's attention was focused on a braless woman in the front row of students.