like the Maya. Buck first made his reputation by documenting their involvement with the French and English in slave trading.”
“The Indians were involved in the slave trade?”
“Big time. Anyway, the electroplating factory that used to sit on the paper mill site was built during World War Two. Buck had heard rumors that the construction workers turned over artifacts every day with their bulldozers. He tracked down a few old-timers, checked out the relics they’d given to their kids. But it was all later-era stuff—1500 to 1730. A lot of guys would have quit there, but Buck had seen descriptions of the site that predated even its agricultural use. Before that land was plowed up during the early 1800s by tobacco and cotton farmers, there were supposedly semicircular rings on the ground—raised concentric ridges facing the river, possibly built up on an older bend where the river used to flow. That’s exactly how Poverty Point is oriented.”
“I remember.” Nadine is nodding and smiling as though reliving her childhood picnic. “Buck couldn’t prove that?”
“No. Most of the acreage around the factory had been graded flat and paved over. The company refused to let him dig out there—even on the fringes—and Buck was so busy with other projects that he just let it go.”
Nadine sips her tea. “So what made him suddenly dig at the mill site this month? Finding that mysterious map?”
“Yeah. I was vague in the article, because the guy who found it didn’t want to be named.”
Nadine gives me a look that says she fully expects me to take her into my confidence. When I hesitate, she says, “It’s in the vault.”
“Okay. Six weeks ago—just as the county started tearing down the old factory in anticipation of the Chinese deal going through—old Bob Mortimer, the antique dealer, came into possession of some books from the attic of a local antebellum home. Folded into one he found some papers. Three sheets were early nineteenth-century maps that turned out to be hand-drawn by a guy named Benjamin L. C. Wailes.”
“The famous historian mentioned in your story.”
“Right. The first geologist in this part of Mississippi. Wailes’s maps are like the Bible of archaeology in this region.”
“And this new map showed what, exactly? Indian mounds?”
“Yes, but also the concentric semicircular ridges Buck had heard about. Plus some depressions that might be holes for wooden posts, like Mayan stelae. Posts oriented into a Woodhenge, a huge circle for astronomical observations.”
“Like Stonehenge?”
“Exactly like that. Or Cahokia, a similar site up in Illinois. Anyway, as soon as Buck saw the map, he intuited the whole history of the place. He figured a succession of tribes had built over the original earthwork of that first Neolithic culture, because the site was so good. And once Buck saw that Wailes map, nothing was going to stop him from digging.”
“And a week ago, the county conveniently finished tearing down the old factory. Even the parking lot, right?”
“Yep. Of course, no one was going to give him legal permission to dig there. The Chinese won’t either, once all the papers go through.”
“And soon there’ll be a billion-dollar paper mill sitting on top of it. So he did it guerrilla style.” Nadine smiles with fond admiration. “Who bailed him out of jail? I’m guessing you.”
“I should have left him there. Maybe he’d still be alive.”
She sips her tea and checks on the French tourists. “So why hasn’t the state come in and roped off the site?”
“Normally they would. But that mill—plus the interstate and the new bridge to service it—is going to transform all of southwest Mississippi. It’s like the Nissan plant going to Canton. The goddamn governor is going to be out there in an hour blessing the ground. Trump’s commerce secretary is flying in for a photo op, for God’s sake. In a perfect world, MDAH would have shut it down yesterday, if not over the weekend. Buck’s case was very strong. As I wrote in the article, a lot of archaeologists believe Poverty Point was a pre-pottery culture. That its builders only used carved stone bowls obtained from other tribes. But the potsherds Buck found help support the theory that Poverty Point was the original pottery-making center of the Lower Mississippi Valley. There’s no tempering material mixed into the clay of the fragments he found. He also found drilled beads that match Poverty Point artifacts, as well as what are called Pontchartrain projectiles. He had no doubt about what he’d discovered. But a boatload of academics could be hired to refute his assertions. So. While the Department of Archives and History may have the legal power to act in this situation, we live in the real world.”
Nadine laughs. “You call Mississippi the real world?”
“Sadly, yes. The only thing that could change the equation is bones. And that’s what Buck went back last night to find.”
She looks confused. “I thought Buck died in the river.”
I shake my head. “Quinn told me he went back to the mill site last night.”
“You think he was killed there, then dumped upstream?”
“We found his truck at Lafitte’s Den, half an hour ago.”
“We?”
“Denny Allman. My drone pilot.”
Nadine shakes her head. “I know that kid. Reads way over his age level.” The bell on the front door rings, but Nadine only glances in that direction. “So who would have caught Buck at the mill site? There aren’t lights out there anymore, right? It’s Bumfuck, Egypt.”
“The night after I ran my story about Buck, somebody posted guards out there. They patrol all night.”
“Who?”
“Maybe the Chinese? Maybe the county. I don’t know yet.”
“You think security guards killed him?”
I shrug. “Seems unlikely, and risky, but who knows? That could explain the body being moved. Guards at the mill site would have to explain how he died.”
Nadine purses her lips, pondering all I’ve told her. “Tell me why finding bones would make such a difference.”
I’m about to answer when a short man wearing a coat and tie steps up into the banquette. He’s about sixty, and he’s holding a James Patterson novel, but he’s staring intently at me. He looks oddly familiar (as have hundreds of people I’ve seen since getting back to town), but I can’t place him. Then Nadine says, “Hello, Dr. Bortles.”
He gives her a tight smile but keeps his eyes on me. “Do you remember me, Mr. McEwan?”
“Sure,” I tell him, racking my memory for anything to add. “You’re the … dentist, right?”
“Orthodontist. I came over because I was very disheartened to read your story on Buck Ferris’s recent digging by the river.”
Oh boy. Here it comes. “The Watchman prints the news, Dr. Bortles.”
He
