THERE WAS NO SUCH THING as a dead man's curse.
In the murky twilight of two hundred feet of silty water,
Daniel Burke felt like arguing the point as he squinted
through his mask, searching for the ribs of the sixteenth-
century Basque galleon on the ocean floor.
This recovery expedition had been cursed with everything
from bad organization to shoddy safety practices, and the
fact that Daniel knew he was only here to give it some
legitimacy with the inevitable press orgy didn't help. He
should have said no when the Society for the Preservation
of Antiquities had approached him. He should have told
them that water wasn't his element — he belonged in the
desert, where layers of sandstone and petrified ash
yielded their secrets as reluctantly as a beautiful woman,
where caves and hills whispered to him of long-lost
civilizations.
But no. The Society had promised him enough money to fund
his next trip to Asia Minor, and he, like any dope, had
fallen for it.
If the Society's information was correct, the master of
the whaling ship had been the first European to set foot
on the shores of the New World. Not Columbus.
Not Cabot or Cartier. But a wily Basque captain who had
seen the money that could be made out of whale oil from
the dangerous waters off the Atlantic coast of Canada.
Daniel had no idea how many trips the ship had made before
those waters had claimed her, but the success of this
expedition and maybe even his own reputation were waiting
on the results.
Not to mention the kid's father.
The reason he was down here on an emergency rescue mission.
Ian MacPherson was a nineteen-year-old archaeology student
swabbing decks in exchange for the SPA's exclusive right
from the Canadian government to study the site. The fact
that the kid's father was a high-ranking Canadian cabinet
minister was the reason the Society had its permit — and
Ian. The dumb-ass had swiped some diving equipment and
gone over the side alone this morning, and some fifteen
minutes had passed before anyone had noticed. Daniel was
going to haul him back aboard by the scruff of his neck
and ship him back to his father on the chopper.
As soon as he found him. "I got not'ing forty feet from
the site." The transmitter in Daniel's ear clicked as Luc
Pinchot reported in from his left.
"Moi non plus," said the diver on his right.
"Another ten feet," Daniel said. "He has to have gone in
to look at the site. He'll be here somewhere."
"The currents 'ere are pretty mean," Luc said. "E could
have been swep' to de nort'."
"One can only hope." Daniel's voice was grim. The little
weasel was going to wish he'd been washed up on the
Newfoundland rocks after Daniel got through with him. The
untimely death of the cabinet minister's son was not the
kind of publicity he needed right now.
A freak current cleared the silt for a split second — just
long enough for him to see a flash of yellow neoprene in
the beam of his lamp. "Straight ahead, twenty feet," he
snapped. "Looks like our boy got himself into trouble."
The three divers put a little steam on and silt boiled
around them as they surrounded Ian the Idiot. Somehow he'd
managed to get his right foot caught between two heavy
timbers — and was held down like a ferret in a leg trap.
"AND THEN WHAT HAPPENED?"
Jah-Redd Jones, former NBA basketball star, Oscar nominee,
and now the latest king of the talk-show hosts, leaned
forward and his studio audience took a collective breath
in anticipation.
Daniel brushed at his jeans and work boots and gave a
modest smile that hid the disgust that hadn't quite faded,
four months later.
"We worked his foot loose and got him up to the surface.
But not before we discovered that the galleon had been
used for more than just transporting whale oil." He
grinned at the camera, drawing out the suspense, milking
the extra second for all it was worth. "I figure the
captain was an opportunistic kind of guy — because when an
English ship blundered across its path, probably blown off
course by a storm, he took the opportunity to relieve it
of some of its cargo. Which in this case happened to be
cases of Flemish wine and about fifty gold guineas."
The audience gasped and even Jah-Redd, pro that he was,
sat back on the interviewer's couch with a big goofy
grin. "Daniel Burke, man, there's a reason they call
you 'the real Indiana Jones.'Folks, can't you see this as
a movie? Huh?"
The studio audience burst into applause, the women in the
front row whistling and stamping as if Daniel were an
exotic dancer and they wanted to tuck bills in his G-
string.
Daniel masked a sigh and held the grin between his teeth.
His reputation was what brought in the funding. The fact
that it was more of a media creation than reality didn't
make it any less useful. Besides, there was a curvy woman
in the front row and he'd bet a hundred bucks she'd be
waiting at the street door when he left after his segment.
While the audience clapped, he toyed with a few
interesting possibilities.
"So tell me," Jah-Redd said, leaning on his elbows and
clasping his hands under his chin, "is it true that the
Canadian government gave you the Order of Canada for
saving Ian MacPherson's life?"
"No." Daniel brought his wandering thoughts back to
business. "There was talk, but it's hard to take a medal
for doing what you'd do for any member of your crew." And
saving a kid from his own stupidity isn't worth a
medal. "The divers with me helped get him free, and that's
when we discovered the gold. It was in a strong-box
directly under where Ian was trapped. His struggles to get
free had disturbed the silt that covered it."
Jah-Redd appealed to the audience. "Save a person's life,
find a buried treasure, all in a day's work. How many
people would like a job like that?" The audience applauded
again.
"I'd like a man like that!" hollered the curvy woman, and
Daniel mentally awarded himself a hundred bucks.
"Not married, huh?" Jah-Redd cocked a knowing eyebrow in
Daniel's direction. "Girlfriend, significant other, rows
of willing concubines?"
Daniel had a flash of memory — a wide and sensuous mouth,
long-lashed eyes, sun-streaked brown hair spread on red
sandstone — and covered the mental lapse with a laugh.
"None of the above. Not too many women will tolerate a pot
hunter, even when we clean up nice. We spend half the year
in remote locations and the other half holed up in dark
offices writing research papers about them. Not the best
conditions to nurture a relationship, I'm afraid."
"By pot hunter I take it you don't mean the green leafy
stuff." The audience laughed along with its host.
"How did you get started, er, pot hunting?"
"Did you ever dig holes in the backyard as a kid, hoping
to get to Australia?"
Jones nodded. "Now I just take Qantas and let them do all
the work."
Daniel smiled while the audience cracked up. "Well, I just
never stopped digging. After my folks were killed when I
was six, I went to live with my godparents. I found a
Native American artifact in their yard in the burbs when I
was twelve, and I knew then I wanted to be an
archaeologist. So I went to the University of Chicago,
then did postgrad work at the University of New Mexico,
specializing in the work of a particular Anasazi potter.
From there I assisted in a couple of Central American
digs, and that of course led to Argentina and —"
"The Temecula Treasure."
"Right."
On the screen above them, a clip began to play from the
documentary PBS had done last year on his discovery of a
trove of gold artifacts. Audience members who hadn't seen
it yet gasped. He couldn't blame them. He'd done the same
when he'd realized that, instead of finding pottery, he'd
stumbled on a grave belonging to a much later
civilization — one that believed the dead needed jewelry
in the afterlife. Spectacular jewelry.
"Did you get to keep any of it?" Jah-Redd wanted to know.
Daniel shook his head. "It belongs to the Argentinian
government, of course. We had six months to study it all
before our permit expired and we turned everything over."
But not before he'd published the second of two
groundbreaking papers that had made his name in the
academic world and clinched the funding that made his
projects possible.
Beautiful funding. Nonacademic funding that took him all
over the world and satisfied his itch to get his fingers
into every stratum of soil this planet had to offer. That
was his real passion. Discovery. It was the media that had
latched on to a couple of lucky finds and branded him with
this adventurer persona. After the Newsweek article,
someone had even sent him a fedora and a leather whip,
which had sent the archaeology department's assistant into
gales of laughter and made him the butt of half disgusted,
half admiring jokes for months afterward. The other
faculty members might gripe in private about his
celebrity, but no one complained when it was grant-writing
time and the money poured in.
Jah-Redd had returned to the subject of women, prompted,
no doubt, by the screaming in the front row. "It's hard to
believe that a man like you — you're what, twenty-eight?
Thirty? — wouldn't have someone important in his life,
though," his host said with mock gravity. On the screen,
still shots of three actresses appeared. "Indiana Jones
loved three women over the years of the movies. Which one
would be most like your ideal? The tomboy adventurer with
the broken heart, the blond bombshell or the seductress?"
Daniel laughed while the audience waited, the expectant
silence punctuated by blatant come-ons and even a boob
flash — mercifully unseen by the studio cameras — from the
front row.
Again, her face drifted through his mind's eye, laughing
down at him from some impossible rock out-cropping while
she trusted her life to bits of metal jammed in where
metal was never meant to go.
"I'd have to say my ideal woman would have the brains and
adventurous spirit of Marion Ravenwood, the loyalty of
Short Round, and the sexual curiosity of Dr. Elsa
Schneider. But of course, a woman like that already
exists — I believe you snapped her up for yourself, Jah-
Redd."
The audience laughed and applauded, and while Jones
announced they were cutting to commercial, Daniel sat
motionless while memory attacked him.
Because a woman like that did exist.
And he'd chased her out of his life long ago.