Faye Longchamp 01 - Artifacts

could have walked ashore as easily as she could walk to them. She let the gooey muck ringing the island suck the boots right off her feet and strode into the water.
    Faye ran hard through the thigh-deep water until she hit a deep spot and plunged in over her head, driving saltwater into her sinuses. Aiming for the patch of water that was the greenest and therefore the deepest, she struck out swimming, using a flailing, slapping stroke in a futile attempt to minimize contact with the shallow bottom.
    She swam until her knees scraped bloody on the sand, then she stood up and ran again. She had repeated this cycle three times before she reached the boat and dragged herself aboard. By this time, Anthony Perez and his cameraman had been standing in the muck for at least five minutes, filming every step of her race through the water and across the sand. They waited, ready to record her moment of discovery.
    Faye disappointed them by finding the boat empty.

Chapter 4
    Faye and Magda hunkered on the floor of the airless equipment shed, hiding from the media. Faye wiped the sweat off her neck and scanned the shelves. “You know there’s a laptop computer and a couple of data loggers missing.”
    “Of course. I inventoried the shed as soon as you found Sam and Krista’s boat. Either they stole the equipment, planning to sell it and run off with the money—”
    “Not likely,” Faye interjected. “They’ve been trusted with far more expensive equipment in the past.”
    Magda bristled. “They’re good kids. They wouldn’t steal.”
    “Well, you suggested it.”
    Magda spoke with her hands when she was nervous, a dangerous habit in such close quarters. “I didn’t suggest it seriously. I was just getting to the point. Someone else took the equipment. Sam and Krista may have gotten in the way of a petty thief.”
    Faye gave a small nod. “So what’s our plan?”
    “The Marine Patrol has been called,” Magda said. “If the kids are floating in the Gulf, they can surely find them better than we can.”
    “Their parents?”
    Magda pressed her lips together and nodded. “And the sheriff.”
    “What’ll he do?” Faye asked. “He’ll search the island, but we can do that. We should be doing that now.”
    “It’s a small island. If they were here—”
    “They could be here, out of sight somewhere. The island is small, but it’s overgrown. They could be hurt, right now, and we’re not looking for them.”
    Galvanized, Magda said, “Yes. We can find them. What is archaeology if it isn’t the science of finding hidden things? You and your crew can search the eastern half of the island. I’ll take my crew west. Let’s use the hill as a dividing line.”
    Faye nodded and took a first aid kit off the shelf.
    Magda smeared a gob of sunscreen over her peeling and freckled nose—field archaeology is not an optimal career for a fair-skinned strawberry blonde—and the familiar activity seemed to help her reassume her familiar, cocky persona.
    “A steak dinner says my team finds them,” Magda asserted.
    “Steak? At Wally’s?” Faye asked.
    “Better than Wally’s. Lots better than Wally’s.”
    Faye said, “Then you’re on,” and they plunged outside into a hungry pack of reporters.
    The students in Faye’s charge were calm, considering the circumstances, yet she felt that their composure would evaporate the second she displayed any emotion that wasn’t ice-cool. They accepted her as a leader because Magda did. Faye was still amazed every time she found the skills to function in that capacity. Apparently she’d always had them, but Magda was the only person who’d ever noticed.
    Faye divided her side of the island into three sectors and sent a pair of students to search each one. They fanned out from where she stood, atop the highest point. Her breathing controlled, Faye turned one step at a time until she had spun completely around.
    Where were they? Faye was a finder, the winner of every childhood Easter egg hunt. For lack of a better idea, she decided to start in the area scheduled for excavation that morning. Neat rows of orange plastic surveyor’s flags gridded over that piece of ground, evidence that Sam and Krista had been there. Faye walked among the flags like a slalom skier in slow motion, looking for a clue or at least a little inspiration.

    Anthony Perez was enjoying his notoriety as the only journalist, on an island overpopulated by journalists, who had gotten footage of Faye’s