Faye Longchamp 01 - Artifacts

of bed on Sunday morning, she stumbled over a stack of papers. She had almost forgotten the newspaper articles about Abigail Williford’s disappearance. Now that the government was off her back for the moment, she had time to read them.
    She began with the earliest articles, which uniformly read: “Teenage Heiress Missing.” Several of the newspapers printed special midweek editions, to avoid being scooped by their competitors who published on more fortuitous schedules.
    As the weeks passed, the focus had shifted away from looking for a missing person or waiting for a ransom note. There were stories of human chains slogging through swamps, pictures of the girl’s widowed father looking utterly alone, advertisements promising a sizeable reward for word of her whereabouts.
    Bloodhounds were given Abigail’s dainty silk slippers to sniff. Known ne’er-do-wells were brought in for questioning. As always in these cases, it was shocking to realize that, within twenty-four hours of a violent crime, investigators could list a few dozen people currently walking free whom they considered capable of a crime of any magnitude. And, it being 1964, a disproportionate share of those under suspicion were black men.
    Faye’s heart broke when she read that a young Douglass Everett was questioned repeatedly. His only crime was being employed by Abigail’s father, who vigorously supported Douglass’ claims of innocence. With no evidence and no support from the victim’s father, who also happened to be the most powerful man in Micco County, the sheriff wasn’t able to hold Douglass. But Faye was transfixed by a blurry newspaper photo of Douglass and a young deputy who would become Sheriff Mike McKenzie.
    They were standing eyeball-to-eyeball, and Douglass was conspicuously not giving Deputy McKenzie the deferential gaze expected from black men. Deputy McKenzie was glaring at Douglass with the ferocity of a man who believes he is faced with a beast capable of slaying a fragile young girl.

Chapter 11
    Nguyen considered himself a professional artifact poacher. He didn’t mess around with peddling trinkets to hobbyists. Nguyen only worked for people who knew who the serious collectors were. His shadowy boss must be one of them since he had unloaded some powerfully expensive pieces.
    The very fact that Nguyen was on tiny little Water Island signified that big things were afoot. Few non-archaeologists knew or cared that some of the very first Americans, known today as the Clovis culture, had spread all the way to Florida, and nobody knew that they’d been in this particular spot. So nobody would miss the spear points and bones that he was shipping to customers all over the world.
    And there were more riches to be reaped under the Gulf’s blood-warm waters. Not far from the beach where he stood lay a shipwreck reputed to be filled with uncommon treasure, and he’d found it. Retrieving those riches would be tricky, but with specialized diving gear, another diver, and a well-manned vessel to provide surface support, he’d have plenty of time to empty the wreck before the water cooled for the winter.
    After fifteen years in the business, Nguyen had little fear of being caught, especially out here halfway to Timbuktu, but there was an additional layer of safety in this job. Wally said some chick, a real amateur, was working these islands. If the Feds started poking around, it would be easy to set her up to take the fall for their crimes. Nguyen felt it was always wise to have an emergency plan.
    Because she was such a convenient part of that plan, Nguyen was willing to allow the amateur to continue burrowing for scraps in the sand for a while longer, but only as long as she stayed away from his dig site. If she came within binocular range of it, he would permanently remove her from the picture by any means necessary. There was that much money to be made.

    “Listen closely,” Magda said to a room that echoed with the racket of shuffling feet, whispered conversations, and giggles. Teaching freshmen was hard enough, but these guys weren’t even freshmen yet. They were eighteen-year-old prospective archaeology majors, fresh out of high school, and this Monday morning lecture was the opening salvo of the university’s week-long orientation program. Her assignment was to deliver an orientation speech that would enflame their desire to learn. It was probably not a good idea to tell them the truth, but, every year, she did it