Noctuidae Read Online Free Page A

amendment —And Pete’s not a looter. He’s not looking for Indian artifacts. He’s only looking for Spanish gold . . . or maybe Spanish armor.
    Sue-Min’s voice came clipped as she answered, precise as a laser —Pothunters, treasure seekers, metal detectorists . . . they’re all the same. They trash sites, remove artifacts from their context, erase their provenience, leave them with no connection to their origin, and ruin any data. They destroy our national heritage.
    Ron was down on one knee, unpacking items she mostly thought unnecessary—why had he brought four bags of unpopped popcorn? He did not look up. Pete meanwhile continued crisscrossing the cave floor, electronic wand angled down around 45 degrees. He swept it in short arcs to either side and ahead, ignoring Sue-Min and Ron.
    —You know how I hate these guys, and now you drag me out in the middle of nowhere with one? I’m telling you, if he really finds anything I’m shutting him down the second he moves to break the ground!
    She had no idea how she’d do any such shutting down unless perhaps Ron backed her up, but thin as Pete’s chances were of finding Spanish gold, things would probably never come to that.
    Pete doubled back. Apparently he struck out so far. Beelined toward their bedroll till Ron requested he hold.
    —Whasamatter, Bro?
    —Can you maybe leave off with that thing till morning? Any gold here isn’t going anywhere before then. Night’s coming down and we should all crash now, get an earlier start than we did today, you know?
    Pete shot back a puzzled look and shrugged. He flicked a switch on the detector and let the hand that held it drop to his side, turned and stepped back to his pack to begin spreading his own bedroll.
    The cave held no wood except a few dusty twigs, so they built no fire. Instead they chatted across the gap between the sleeping bag islands where they sat, passing Ron’s half empty flask back and forth as they spoke. Their prospects for tomorrow, their luck in finding the cave, the strange pattern of the rocks they’d passed. Then Ron changed the topic altogether —When you get down to it those ranchers were decent guys, you know? Real all-Americans, really. I mean, what could be more American than cattle ranchers living down a canyon in Arizona?
    Sue-Min hung her head, said nothing, which was fast becoming her routine when Ron was wrong, so she was surprised when Pete replied —Dude, those ranchers were fucking assholes . Their story about the bulls was . . . bullshit, and you know it. And don’t tell me you didn’t see how that one guy was checking out your girlfriend.
    Sue-Min was shocked she agreed with Pete for once, but still she held her tongue.
    —Duuude. Ron’s answer was forced and artificial, hands palms up on his knees in a phony Buddha pose. —Dude. You’re just projecting. They’re all right.
    —Ha! Canyon dwelling inbred weirdoes . . . we’ll all be lucky if they’re not burying your truck somewhere with their backhoe right this minute.
    Ron shook his head. —Chill, man. We’ll be fine.
    That was it for the conversation, and as the Jack Daniels in the flask was already exhausted, they tugged off their hiking boots, crawled into their sleeping bags, and slipped into sleep, one by one.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Sue-Min woke to a mass crushing her midsection and a beefy hand clamped hard over her mouth. The cave was dark but the reek of sweat and Polo over the low aroma of rock dust told her at once it was Pete. Who the hell even slathers cologne on for a backpacking hike? She sought to struggle but her legs were trapped in the sleeping bag and Pete knelt on her arms so all she could do was thump her knees bluntly against his back through the padding of the bag. She torqued her neck, tried to scan to the sides, but the burly home builder increased his pressure and pinned her head in place. What the fuck was going on? Where was Ron? How could