“You’re just going to put them back?” Clive asked in disbelief. “Now that you’ve established those pieces form a single bone?”

“Of course. The pieces belong in their original locations—for now. That’s the beauty of this method. We are documenting every millimeter of the site so precisely that, if we wanted, we could re-create it in software at any time—long after it’s been backfilled and the bones put in their final resting places.”

“So…can you identify other clavicle bones?”

“You mean, like Parkin’s? Let’s see.”

She consulted the tablet once again, then—using it as a guide—moved to a different section of the midden and, over the course of several minutes, removed four more fragments of bone: the other cluster identified by the software. She laid them out on the cloth, brushed them off gently with a paintbrush, fitted them together, and then looked at them with a loupe.

“Poor old Parkin,” she murmured. “That looks painful.”

“You mean—?” Clive began.

He fell silent as Nora handed him the loupe. He leaned in to look at the bones himself.

“My God,” he murmured. “Is that what I think it is?”

Nora nodded. “A sharp nick in the bone, no doubt made by an arrowhead, with a partial fracture, almost healed.”

Clive straightened. “Incredible. But can we find the rest of him?”

“Let’s see.” Nora applied herself to the tablet again. After a moment, she showed it to Clive. “I’ll ask the computer to assemble—based on bone placement, anatomical analysis, and other relevant factors—the best fit of bones to go with this clavicle.”

She consulted the iPad again. Now the display lit up with additional bones and pieces of bone, outlined in green. She turned back to the midden, gently removed three large pieces of a skull, plus a jawbone, and brought them over, placing them on the velvet cloth next to the clavicle. They consisted of the maxilla and lower face, the relatively intact cranium, and most of the occipital bone and mastoid process. Missing was only an orbit. The cranium displayed a distinctive star-shaped imprint on one temple: a sign of being bashed on the head, either how he died or the initial attempt by survivors to get at his brain.

“So this…” Clive paused. “This is—?”

“Allow me to introduce Mr. Albert Parkin.”

Clive exhaled. “Wow.”

“It’ll take a DNA test to be sure, but I think we can find some confirming evidence in these butcher marks.” She pointed at the pieces of collarbone. “As that FBI agent examined the midden, I noticed her observing the cut marks. And I knew why. You see, when someone is butchering with a single tool, the tool leaves its own telltale marks. Look.” Nora handed Clive the loupe again. “See how the cut marks look the same, here, and here—and then again here?” She pointed first to two pieces of the collarbone, then the cranium. “It’s textbook.” She reached for the section of jawbone, held it up beside the skull. “And notice how the condyle matches up with the mandibular process.”

“You mean, how well the jaw fits in there? I see.”

Nora carefully returned the bones to their respective places in the midden and covered it all with the tarp. When she was done, she turned and gave him a smile. “What were you saying about luck?”

Clive just shook his head in amazement. “But how sure are you?”

“Well, I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

In the silence that followed, Nora could see Clive’s brows contract.

“What is it?”

“It’s just that…well, what are we going to do now? Swanson asked us to tell her if we identify Parkin. I mean, you could’ve done this identification yesterday for her—right?”

“There was no way to know unless I actually attempted it. But yes—probably. And then what? Have her take the bones and possibly shut down the site, to boot?”

“But…it’s the FBI,” said Clive. “You don’t want to be accused of withholding evidence.”

“Here’s how I see it. Is this truly Parkin?”

“Well, you just said—”

“I said I was ninety-nine percent sure. To truly identify Parkin, we need DNA confirmation in the lab, after the excavation phase is complete.”

“Okay…But—”

“But if I’d given that demonstration to Swanson yesterday, we’d still have no proof this is Parkin, and it would have caused our expedition a lot of trouble.”

“I understand.”

But Nora wasn’t finished. “Here’s the bottom line. Up until five minutes ago, I had no idea who those bones belonged to. Lacking DNA testing, I still don’t.”

“I get it.”

Nora looked at him, a little surprised by the expression on his face. “Don’t tell me you have a problem with this?”

There was another rumble of thunder and a dark cloud blotted out the sun, plunging the valley into shadow. Nora waited as a silence descended. Slowly, the look on Clive’s face changed to a smile. “I believe that what I just witnessed was a hypothetical example of a hypothetical identification,” he said at last. “Nothing worth reporting until we know for sure.”

The sense of guilt Nora had been feeling eased off a little. “Exactly. And we’ll keep Agent Swanson in the loop, as promised. As soon as the excavation phase is complete and we have a DNA identification back in the lab, we’ll let her know.”

The wind picked up, rattling the dead branches of the trees.

“Come on,” she said, taking a quick glance at the sky. “Let’s get this site secured and head for camp. Looks like it’s going to pour any minute.”

24

THAT NIGHT, THEY all sat around the fire after dinner. Maggie chunked on another log, sending a swirl of sparks upward. There had been a brief, savage thunderstorm, but the sky was now clearing, the stars appearing. The mood in camp was somber and uneasy, but Nora didn’t think it had much to do with Agent Swanson’s visit. She guessed Peel had said something to his co-workers about Samantha Carville.

Maggie was silent, without her usual chatter and ghost stories—and her guitar remained in its case. Peel had skipped dinner and was nowhere to be seen. That, too, made Nora apprehensive.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Peel abruptly walked in from the darkness, carrying a blunt stick in one hand and his bowie knife in the other. He sat down on a log, staring into the fire. After a moment he started whittling, not making anything but just peeling off strips of wood. The conversation, already sporadic, quickly faltered.

Into the silence, Peel spoke in a low voice. “I’ve got a question. For the archaeologists.”

Here it comes, thought Nora.

“Those human remains up there—what’s going to happen to them?”

“Well,” said Nora, “once they are fully documented on-site, we’ll remove them, do additional study in the lab, and then see them reburied.”

“What does that mean, additional study?”

“Extract DNA, identify who they are by name, and look for signs of disease, starvation, cannibalism, and a host of other factors. We’ll try to identify descendants and work with their wishes for a respectful reburial.”