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    Heresy
    Heresy
    Heresy
    Ebook327 pages4 hours

    Heresy

    By Dan Baldwin

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    About this ebook

    Dr. Ashley "Ash" Hayes is driven to prove that America was explored by Europeans well before Columbus - a quest that is heresy to the members of her northwest Louisiana academic community. Her quest is interrupted by the disappearance of a friend who has headed into the hills and swamps in search of Native American treasure. She drops everything to help find her friend and is aided by the missing man's brother, a tall and handsome transplanted Apache. The search is complicated by a series of grisly murders which are connected to the brother's disappearance. They find the brother, the killer and someone far more deadly. They also find romance, the treasure and a profound mystery. But will Ash survive to tell the story?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDan Baldwin
    Release dateJul 12, 2017
    ISBN9781370528912
    Heresy
    Author

    Dan Baldwin

    Dan Baldwin is the author of westerns, mysteries, thrillers, short story collections and books on the paranormal. He is the winner of numerous local, regional, and national awards for writing and directing film and video projects. He earned an Honorable Mention from the Society of Southwestern Authors writing competition for his short story Flat Busted and  a Finalist designation from the National Indie Excellence Awards for Trapp Canyon and Caldera III – A Man of Blood. Baldwin received a Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Awards for Sparky and the King. Bock’s Canyon earned the Winner designation in the 2017 Best Book Awards. Baldwin’s paranormal works are The Practical Pendulum – A Swinging Guide, Find Me as told to Dan Baldwin, They Are Not Yet Lost and How Find Me Lost Me – A Betrayal of Trust Told by the Psychic Who Didn’t See It Coming. They Are Not Yet Lost earned the Winner designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition. How Find Me Lost Me won the Winner designation in the Best Book Awards 2017 competition and the Finalist designation in the New Mexico-Arizona Book Competition.

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      Book preview

      Heresy - Dan Baldwin

      The god looked down on the world of men—figuratively and literally. Living above them, he held the creatures in contempt, especially the monsters disguised as men. He hated descending to their level, but the terrible work must continue for he was a god of vengeance. He breathed deeply the rarified air above mankind, sucking a mosquito down his throat. Descending at last, he breathed heavily again. The smell of the earth below made him sneeze. Then, the god of all gods wiped the snot on his work shirt and entered the world of men.

      Chapter One

      Professor Ashley Ash Hayes had no desire to commit heresy. She had no professional death wish, yet whenever a new trail through the history of Native Americans opened up, she could not help taking the path regardless of the personal danger. The road to a potential professional downfall had directed her summer vacation to Arizona’s mysterious and deadly Superstition Mountains. She pulled her gaze from the wild, rocky landscape outside the old Jeep. It’s such a violent environment... yet so beautiful.

      Travis Holland, a mid-forties-and-graying man with a big smile grinned at her from the back seat. Are you saying violence is beautiful, Ash? His deep tan and the wrinkles around his grey eyes were the result of many happy, hard years digging up the past and bringing it back into the light of day and knowledge. Like Ashley, he was wearing loose-fitting khakis, a long-sleeved work shirt and a brightly-colored bandana to protect his neck. His baseball cap bore the logo of a local archaeological club, The Apache Junction Diggers.

      The third member of the party, Randolph Randy North, was a college student with long curly hair bound into a pony tail by a worn strip of leather. His baggy Wal-Mart fatigues disguised a thin frame. His young face reflected scorn and boredom. He remained silent as he drove them along the dusty, washboard Peralta Road east of Phoenix.

      Ashley glanced back at Holland. Arizona is more than beautiful. It’s overpowering. The rugged desert was vastly different from the gentle rolling hills, pine forests and easy flowing bayous of her home ground back in Louisiana. She glanced at the driver and pointed to a massive cactus being swallowed by the dust and gravel swirling up behind the Jeep’s big tires. You grow ‘em tall, don’t you? A su-ger-row, right?

      "Sa-whar-o," North said, his tone just shy of condescending.

      Ash thought, He probably even sleeps with his nose in the air.

      From the back, Holland said, Overpowering, yes... Arizona has that effect on people. Your bayou country affects me the same way.

      This is my first trip out to your corner of the West," she said.

      Most people either love it or just plain hate it.

      I love it.

      North said, It’s still a place of violence. He was doing his best, consciously or not, to dampen everyone’s spirit. His failure only provided additional motivation to continue. We got volcanoes on top of volcanoes, earthquakes, floods and storms that’ll blow you right off the face of the earth. He was just old enough to know something of the world, yet far too young to have much experience with it. He seemed to equate a sour disposition with worldliness.

      Ash said, We know a little bit about big wind where I come from, too.

      His head seemed to sink into his shoulders. "Just remember, esta berida es peligroso."

      I’m not up on my Spanish, Ash said.

      North looked as if he had gained a point, and his head popped back up. It means this trail is dangerous. You better believe it.

      Ashley turned back to Holland. You don’t have many foothills out here, do you? I mean, your mountains just shoot straight up out of the ground.

      We call them sky islands, Ash. And you’re more right than you know. This land is a product of massive volcanic activity. Fifteen million years ago it really was shooting right up from the ground. The road narrowed as the Jeep descended through a wash and back up again. Ash noted with some surprise that a shallow film of water was flowing through the baking sands. It sparkled lime green with algae in the August sun. She thought briefly of home and the deep-green vegetation, tree-covered hills, and water that flowed in every direction through river and bayou, creek and stream, swamp, marsh, lake, lagoon, pond, puddle and back yard. The contrast was beyond dramatic. It was radical.

      The old Jeep crawled around a rutted turn in the road and came to a stop in a wide, unpaved parking lot at the base of a canyon. Welcome to the famous Superstition Mountains, Holland said.

      North couldn’t resist putting in his dour two cents. I’d say infamous.

      One hand forming a shade above her eyes, Ash looked up and guessed the top ridge line to be about 4,000 feet, an awesome site to a flatlander. A dusty red Pontiac LeMans was the only reception committee. I see we’re not the only crazy ones.

      Holland slapped his hat on his hand and pulled it on his head. The Superstitions were made for the insane. You’re going to love it. He smiled as he handed her a small backpack. Especially Charley Boy’s Rock. That’s where the petroglyphs are.

      She raised her arms to the mountain. Please don’t let this be another wild goose chase. Praying to the Thunder God? Holland asked.

      The who?

      Every once in a while you’ll hear deep thunder out here, even in the brightest day. The Apaches believe a god of thunder protects the Superstitions.

      North’s nose tilted upward again. The Thunder God is nothing but an earthquake fault. It runs right through the heart of the mountains. He shouldered his backpack and looked to Holland. I’ll meet you at Fremont Saddle. He turned and stalked up the trail. Holland helped Ashley adjust her pack. It held two gallons of water in plastic jugs, a first aid kit, energy bars, and her camera, perfect gear for a long day hike into the desert. She pulled a wadded gray felt mass from her pocket, shook it and popped it on her head. Once the hat took full shape, she pulled it down and straightened out the brim.

      How far, Professor?

      Holland grinned. Oh, up the hill, down the hill, around the corner and then there’s another hill or two. Another corner. We’re looking at about ten hours there and back.

      She glanced at her watch. Six o’clock.

      You’ll have plenty of time for your pictures, Ash.

      The duration of the hike did not overly concern her. She’d managed on her own in the wilderness for days, although all that experience was back in the lush east. The desert-mountain environment was a new experience.

      Still not too late to head back and rent a couple of horses, Holland said. Nah. My budget is about squeezed dry. Besides, the only way to see new country is on foot.

      The strenuous effort would be worth it if Charlie Boy Rock lived up to Holland’s descriptions. He had sent her several accurate drawings and a few fuzzy photographs of the site: a large, rectangular outcropping at the base of a cliff near a permanent spring deep in the heart of the Superstition range. The rock was covered with the doodles and dreams of the centuries: spirals and geometric shapes, animal forms, men with bows and arrows, Spanish mining symbols, Anglo dates and names, and the ubiquitous John Loves Honey. She was most interested in the doodles. If the lines and circles represented what she suspected, young Ashley Maud Hayes would embark on a journey to shake up the archaeological world, or at least a sizable territory within it. It was a big if. In the meantime she had to keep her mouth shut and her controversial ideas to herself as much as possible. The territory she would be invading was well-guarded by powerful, well-entrenched forces. North was right about one thing. Esta berida es damn peligroso.

      North... does he know?

      No, Ma’am. He’s just making a few extra brownie points and buttering up his archaeology professor.

      Her voice carried an edge. Let’s keep it that way.

      He’s a pain, Ash, but he’s got a good mind.

      And a bad attitude.

      Let’s go. He started across the lot toward a wooden Tonto National Forest Service sign that read Peralta Trailhead. She caught up quickly. I didn’t mean to sound so sharp. Sorry, she said.

      Don’t know what you’re talking about, Ash.

      They stepped onto the narrow, rocky trail and immediately started climbing. The light yellow rock quickly became a rugged, deep-purple mass, vast hallways of deadly confusion. The trail, carved by animal and human steps through the centuries, was a jumble of light gray stones and boulders, a hot, white strip outlined by a wild variety of light-green desert plants. They walked slowly, partly because of the rising heat and partly to avoid an ankle-spraining, exploration-busting stumble and fall.

      Holland grabbed at a chunk of rock fracturing off a large wall next to the trail. It came away with little effort. Watch your step and your hand holds. This volcanic stuff isn’t very dependable. He tossed it down the ravine.

      As they hiked on, Ashley glanced at the trail frequently. Snakes?

      Too hot for them on the trail. By mid-afternoon, temperature’s going to hit a hundred and ten. The ground surface will hit a hundred and thirty. Watch the shadows and be careful where you sit. Diamondbacks like shade for the same reason we do. About half an hour into the trek a movement caught her attention. North popped up from some low creosote bushes, glanced in their direction and moved on. When she and Holland reached a turn at a wide space in the trail, she saw North’s hiding spot, a low pink rock about the size and shape of a comfortable living room lounge chair. It was low to the ground and facing the east ridge above the trail.

      I call it J. Edgar’s Throne, Holland said. He sat down and pretended to nod off.

      What? Why?

      Every Halloween the ghost of J. Edgar Hoover sits here to ambush Apaches.

      She smiled. Because they were reds, right? Ashley grinned, shook her head and moved into the lead. They followed a fairly straight, upward course next to a dense patch of trees and shrubs guarding a steep wash below and to their left. No one else, save North, was on the trail. Holland called for a rest stop and water break every half-hour. He kept Ash laughing in spite of the heat and the grind of an uphill climb on shifting gravel.

      Ashley grinned. You sweat less than any fat boy I ever hiked with. Neither one had broken a real sweat. Back in the Deep South they’d have been soaked.

      It’s our humidity, or the lack of it rather. You’re sweating as much as ever, maybe more. It just evaporates before it can bead up. Gets a lot of people in trouble out here. That’s why that backpack of yours sloshes so much.

      Thoughts of water brought back images of the frog strangler Louisiana downpour in which she had first met Travis Holland. He’d flown to Shreveport from Arizona State University to attend the annual conference on the Caddo Indians, a southeastern tribe with southwestern interests, trading well into the territory of the pueblos of New Mexico and Colorado. They had inhabited much of the land that would become Louisiana, Arkansas, Oklahoma and Texas until the advancing European culture forced other arrangements in the 1830s. Ash was fascinated by their culture. During a dig in central Arizona, Holland had found several copper artifacts bearing distinctly southeastern designs. A little research indicated the possibility of a Caddo influence. If true, the Caddo trade network extended farther west than anyone had so far speculated. He had wanted to prove or disprove the theory immediately and figured the Caddo Conference was the most logical place to begin his research. Luck rode with him. Ashley, a conference leader that year, volunteered to drive in late arrivals. Holland was the only one and they hit it off immediately.

      Sorry about the rain, she had said. You get much in Phoenix?

      About 13 inches a year.

      Welcome to Louisiana, Professor. We’ve had that much since breakfast. She had taken him under her wing, protecting him from the overly-possessive bloodsuckers wanting to drain him of knowledge and the stuffed-shirts who wanted to tell him exactly how wrong he was about whatever he was discussing. Later, she provided him with copies of documents and articles from her extensive personal files. Whenever anything interesting came her way, she made a point of sending a copy to him at ASU. They corresponded once or twice a year, always regarding some interesting archaeological development, and had formed a comfortable Christmas-card friendship.

      Quietly but with force, Holland said, Freeze!

      Ashley heard a loud buzzing and looked around for the large, unseen dragonfly. The buzzing came from the shadow of a barrel cactus. A rattler was hogging the road about three yards ahead. She had been so lost in thought that she had forgotten her own number-one survival rule: Don’t be stupid. She approached the snake slowly and carefully used her walking stick to edge it down into the ravine. It crawled away and quickly disappeared in a desperate search for another cool spot.

      Thanks, she said.

      It wouldn’t have killed you, but you would have spent the night with a barf bag and missed out on Charley Boy’s Rock. Let’s keep our eyes on the road, eh? He quickly scooted around her, carefully eyeing the spot where the rattler had left the trail. Ashley glanced around. Behind and well below was an arresting view of a light green valley. Above and to the west, jagged volcanic rock formations jutted into the air in a confusion that mimicked order. Row after row of deep purple spires looked like ancient soldiers who had been frozen in single file, then cracked and weathered by the winds of age. Locals called them hoodoos. She looked up ahead to a ridge line, which she assumed was Fremont Saddle, where they would begin their descent into the canyons of the western Superstitions.

      They reached a wide area of golden, yellow and pinkish rock and began traversing a series of switchbacks leading up to a cloudless blue sky. Holland almost giggled as they approached the ridge. He took her hand. Close your eyes and follow me, and don’t look till I tell you.

      Okay, but no surprises.

      Surprise is our stock in trade out here, but you’ll like this one. His grip was firm as he led her up. She could easily tell when they reached the relatively level area of the narrow saddle. Ten more paces, Ash. Finally he stopped. Okay, look.

      Ashley opened her eyes and looked north into natural grandeur and massive intimidation. A narrow canyon cut through the rock to a wide vista that extended a hundred miles or more to a hazy horizon. All the colors of an artist’s palette, muted then painted with a wide brush, shimmered in the desert heat. Sizable mountains miles away appeared as small outcroppings of rock in the desert floor. In the middle of it all, dominating everything, was Weaver’s Needle, a shaft of solid rock. Its eastern end rose straight up, and it fell off at a steep angle on the western end, like an ancient knife cutting through the belly of heaven.

      There ought to be a soundtrack, Ashley said.

      Holland nodded. Every time I come here, it’s still a ‘wow’ moment. He dropped his backpack and pulled hers off her shoulders. You’re looking at an optical illusion, you know. You’re really seeing three peaks instead of one. Looking at it from east or west, especially the west, you’d swear it’s a colossal statue of an eagle taking wing."

      They sat down in the hot shade for a brief rest. The hike had taken less than an hour and a half and she wasn’t even winded. Still, Ashley could tell that a number of rarely-used leg muscles were going to exact painful revenge for the uphill excursion.

      North wandered in from some rocky confessional or private urinal. It’s the Indians’ Vatican. We should respect it. I’ll meet you at the water hole. He started down the trail into East Boulder Canyon.

      Ashley shook her head. Correct me if I’m wrong, but earlier he seemed less than respectful of Indian beliefs.

      Only the ones that don’t fit his personal theories, Holland said. He’s going to make a hell of an archaeologist someday.

      She took a few swallows of water, placed the jug into the pack and zipped it shut. If his colleagues don’t hang him first.

      Don’t knock him too much. If we get stranded we might have to eat him.

      He’s too sour for my tastes. She continued staring at Weaver’s Needle. Holland stood up and climbed into his pack. Ashley followed. Damn, that’s a sight, she said. A slight smile tickled the corners of her lips. There’s something else, Travis.

      What?

      That’s rude!

      Holland laughed. Yeah. Some of those spiritual Indians North keeps harping on had a special name for it.

      What? said Ashley, waiting for the ancient words, mystical and holy.

      I’ve forgotten the exact phrase, but in Apache it means horse penis. Laughing at history, archaeology, and themselves, the two hikers stepped into the canyon, into a place of legend and lies, and the wildest country in the entire wild, wild west.

      Chapter Two

      In spite of Holland’s jibes about penis envy, Ashley kept staring at Weaver’s Needle. As they descended past its western slope, the once invisible north and south wings of the eagle began to spread. She had never seen anything quite like it and couldn’t avert her eyes from the ever-changing peak. About three hours after leaving the trailhead they encountered the meager frame of Randy North resting beneath a small stand of cottonwoods along a dry creek bed. Holland called another water break, using the opportunity to continue the enlightenment of Ashley concerning the local history. North remained sullen, but the strenuous exercise and the wide open spaces seemed to have mellowed him, or at least worn him down. Still, he never missed an opportunity to jab Ashley with a comment on some aspect of Native American culture, usually at the expense of the Anglo culture that found, followed and conquered it. Sometimes I imagine myself as an Apache out here, picking off the Peraltas one by one, he said.

      Except for the road sign that had led them in, Ashley had never even heard the name, but the young man’s statement was revealing. North was a wannabe Indian. Ashley had studied wilderness survival as part of her job and knew well how to live off the land. Noting North’s clumsy gait, his soft hands, and his self-assured hostility, she estimated that left on his own he would come to a bad end rather quickly. The land, and those who roam it, would live off him. He seems to know the trails, but he doesn’t know the land. She looked at Holland, purposefully ignoring the student. Who were the Peraltas?

      Now there’s a story!

      Tell, pray tell, she said.

      In a nutshell, so goes the legend, they were a Mexican family given huge land grants when this was all part of Mexico. They mined gold throughout Arizona until the U.S. took over back in the 1840s. They made one last run to get as much of the shiny stuff out as possible before the Anglos moved in. A small army of miners and soldiers came back, loaded up and headed south. Man, that must have been a sight. His eyes sparkled as his mind seemed to pick up a direct channel into the past. Imagine—soldiers, miners, laborers, cooks, hired guns, horses, pack mules, dogs.... As he continued, Ashley’s imagination tuned in the same channel. They marched right up this trail, over the saddle and down into the desert where they ran into all the Apaches in the world. They chased the entire party back into the Superstitions. They fought a running battle for three days through this. He gestured in a wide Arc at the hot and hostile environment around them, ideal territory for Apache-style, hit-and-run guerilla warfare. She shuddered at the thought of fighting in such extreme conditions, running out of food and water, bullets, friends and hope, all while running for your life. They finished off the last group a couple of miles from here at a place we like to call The Massacre Grounds.

      Ashley’s attention returned to the present at the sight of a slight movement a few yards down the trail. Company.

      The hiker approached with confidence, caution and an obvious hostile suspicion. He was wearing faded, worn blue jeans, a long-sleeved plaid shirt, and an old cowboy hat aged by sweat into a greasy camouflage pattern. He looked as much a part of the mountains as rock. Ashley stared with a faint grin. How old is this guy? An old 50? A young 75?

      The man nodded. Kind’a hot to be out on the trail, ain’t it? He stopped several yards away and gave them a once-over.

      Ashley paid equal attention to the long-barrel .38 revolver and survival knife hanging on his belt. She also noticed an ancient map pouch complete with compass pocket. It was stuffed to the point of bursting at its weathered seams.

      Holland smiled. His voice was friendly and open, he said, We’re just out taking in the sights.

      Beautiful country, Ashley

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