Scattered Graves

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    To Hubert Connor

    ACKNOWLEDGMENTS A special thanks to Anne Bohner, Kristen Weber, and Robbie.

Chapter 1
    Diane Fallon studied the Neanderthal child staring at her from his perch. His chubby face didn’t look all that different from his modern Homo sapiens cousins. He was smiling shyly at her from atop a boulder out side the rock shelter, his plump little fingers grasping the surface of the rock.
    ‘‘Will you lookee here...’’
    For a fraction of a second Diane was startled, as if the resin figure of the Neanderthal had suddenly come to life. She smiled to herself and turned to see a lanky kid, she guessed about thirteen years old, looking wide-eyed at the Neanderthal exhibit. Behind him stood Sheriff Bruce Canfield of Rose County and an older man she did not know.
    The sheriff was holding a cardboard file box, the kind with a lid and handholds on the sides. His widebrimmed sheriff’s hat sat on top of the box. Canfield was a large man in his late fifties with a full head of dyed brown hair. He was wearing his khaki sher iff’s uniform and Diane thought he looked a little sheepish.
    She hadn’t heard them come in, with all the noise created by the staff working on the dioramas for the new human-evolution exhibits.
    ‘‘Hello, Diane,’’ said the sheriff. ‘‘Sorry to barge in here like this.’’ He set the box on a nearby table. ‘‘This here’s Arlen Wilson and his grandson Henry. Arlen has a farm out in the county.’’ The sheriff’s booming voice echoed across the room, and several exhibit preparers glanced their way, then back at their work.
    Arlen Wilson, the grandfather, was a man who looked to be in his sixties. He was taller than the sheriff by an inch or two. He had a ruddy complexion, white thinning hair, and the beginnings of a beer belly hang ing over his belt. He and his grandson both were dressed in worn jeans, short-sleeved plaid shirts, and baseball caps.
    ‘‘Nice meeting you,’’ Arlen said. He took off his cap and grinned broadly as he shook her hand.
The teen, Henry, was not as tall as his grandfather. He was close to Diane’s five nine and about as lean as she was. From the broad grin on his boyish face, Diane surmised he was happy to be here in the museum.
‘‘I heard you was doing something to the primate room.’’ Henry turned to his grandfather. ‘‘Lookit how real they are.’’
Diane was afraid Henry was going to reach out and touch them, as she was often tempted to. He looked at each small scene in turn—the child on the boulder, a man making stone tools, a Neanderthal burial. On another pass, his gaze finally saw the little girl in the back of the cave hiding behind a rock, peering out at the other child. Henry grinned.
‘‘She playing hide-and-seek?’’ he asked.
‘‘Maybe,’’ said Diane. ‘‘That’s for you to decide. We’re trying to make each exhibit tell small stories, but you have to supply some of the plot from what you see.’’
‘‘Wouldja look at the way he’s staring right at us,’’ the kid said, pointing to the child on the boulder.
‘‘Each scene has one figure making eye contact with the visitor,’’ said Diane.
‘‘I like that,’’ said Henry. ‘‘It makes them look so alive, like they’re watching you.’’
‘‘The artists have just finished a Cro-Magnon,’’ said Diane, ‘‘one of the oldest modern humans. He looks at you out of the corner of his eye as he stands side ways to you. It’s an odd sensation, but fun.’’ Diane smiled at Henry before she turned back to the sheriff, glad to see that the new exhibit was getting a good review.
‘‘What can I do for you?’’ She eyed the box sitting on the table.
Henry, who was leaning rather far into the di orama, spoke up before the sheriff had a chance to answer.
‘‘Tell me, what do you think happened to them? Did we kill them off, or did they marry with us and disappear, or did the weather get them?’’
‘‘I didn’t know you’re interested in Neanderthals, Henry.’’ The sheriff chuckled.
‘‘We watch a lot of those shows,’’ said his grandfa ther. ‘‘The ones on PBS and the Discovery Channel.’’
‘‘I