Elisha’s Bones by Don Hoesel

for it to have been the other way around.”
    “But that doesn’t explain why they would have adopted an obscure ancient carving as a guild crest,” Romero grumbles.
    No one says anything for a time, but I know we are all thinking variations of the same thing. Mr. Reese’s little project has just become both much more promising and more complicated. And it will involve more resources than I’d planned.
    “I wish I’d brought a team,” I say.
    “We can put one together for you.” Romero closes the book and leans back until the chair creaks. “They won’t know the whys and hows, but they’ll dig where you tell them, and they’ll keep their mouths shut.”
    I’ve worked more than one site with just locals, so I’m comfortable enough with Romero’s offer, although it would be nice to have someone else there who knows an effigy mound from an eolian deposit. Romero has worked alongside me more times than I can remember—before the revelation that brokering treasures required less work than finding them—but his days of traipsing all over the world in search of antiquities are long gone, and I will not ask him. He’s a businessman now, with all of the concerns associated with the designation. He would come with me were I to ask him, which is why I don’t.
    “I’ll need supplies, too.”
    “Anything you need, you’ve got.”
    “How long?”
    “A day or two to gather your team, but we have all of the equipment in town.”
    Something in his expression more than suggests that he wants to forsake Caracas for a good dig. I understand. It’s something that never quite leaves the blood. And Romero has turned enough dirt with me that he coughs dust. Dress a dirt jockey in nice clothes, teach him a few manners—in short, try to civilize him—and there’s still that muted voice inside calling him back to sand and sweat and discovery. I’m more energized than I can remember feeling, like I’m waking from a long but restless sleep.
    It’s a feeling I wish I could pass on to my friend, and I’m disappointed for him. There is, however, a way he can help me and, while it will not bring the pleasure of real fieldwork, it gives him something to do.
    “There is something you can do for me,” I say. “Our research has the bones supposedly passing from the Chevrier family to Fraternidad de la Tierra. If we can find evidence that these two groups could have had contact with each other around the time of the supposed transfer, it would go a long way toward helping us to establish plausibility.”
    Romero is thoughtful; he knows what I am doing. He also knows I’m not throwing him a bone—that what I’m asking for would be helpful. “So you want me to research this?”
    “It would help. I won’t have access to anything while I’m at the site.”
    He nods, accepting the responsibility. And then I see something else in Romero’s eyes—a troubled look that does not often roost there.
    “I’m not sure you’re fully aware of what you’ve gotten yourself into, my friend.”
    I don’t have an immediate answer, principally because I know there is something behind the question to which I am not privy.
    “Your little excursion has made you a popular man,” the Venezuelan says. He leans forward in his chair; his posture suggests worry. “You were not gone thirty minutes before I had a visitor.”
    My initial response is a confused frown. I’m well aware that there are people in this country who would not be cordial were I to run into them, but I can think of no one who dislikes me enough that they would have designated resources adequate to monitor the airports—because that’s the only way someone could have zeroed in on me in the few hours I’ve been in-country.
    In response to my unasked question, Romero says, “He was a foreigner. Perhaps South African; I’ve never been good with accents.”
    “What did he want?”
    “To look at my merchandise.”
    I consider this for a moment and stop myself from