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soil conditions? Jesus, they couldn’t be much better. We may have some hitches with this Dolan. The girl lawyer’s pretty firm on that. Small-town politics at play here. We need some big guns to get his cooperation. Campbell wants to call a town meeting.”
    Callie glanced wistfully at the pizza parlor before she made the turn to head out of town to the motel. “I drafted you for that.”
    “When?”
    “Sooner the better. I want to set up an interview with the local TV late afternoon.”
    “It’s early for the media, Callie. We’re just gathering ammo. You don’t want to break the story before we’ve outlined strategy.”
    “Leo, it’s midsummer. We’ve only got a few monthsbefore we’ll have to pack it in for the winter. Media exposure puts the pressure on Dolan. He doesn’t step back and let us work, he refuses to donate the finds or pushes to resume his development, he comes off as a greedy asshole with no respect for science or history.”
    She pulled into the motel’s lot, parked and, shifting the phone again, grabbed her pack.
    “There’s not that much you can tell them.”
    “I can make a little seem like a lot,” she said as she climbed out and went to the back of the Rover to pull out her duffel.
    With that slung over her shoulder, she pulled out her cello case. “Trust me on this part, and get me a team. I’ll take the students, use them for grunts until I see what they’re made of.”
    She yanked open the door of the lobby, stepped up to the desk. “I need a room. Biggest bed you got in the quietest spot. Get me Rosie,” she said into the phone. “And Nick Long if he’s available.” She dug out a credit card, set it on the counter. “They can bunk at the motel just outside of town. I’m checking in now.”
    “What motel?”
    “Hell, I don’t know. What’s this place called?” Callie asked the desk clerk.
    “The Hummingbird Inn.”
    “No kidding? Cute. Hummingbird Inn, on Maryland Route Thirty-four. Get me hands, eyes and backs, Leo. I’m going to start shovel tests in the morning. I’ll call you back.”
    She disconnected, shoved the phone in her pocket. “You got room service?” she asked the clerk.
    The woman looked like an aged little doll and smelled strongly of lavender sachet. “No, honey. But our restaurant’s open from six A . M . to ten P . M . every day of the week. Best breakfast you’ll get anywhere outside your own mama’s kitchen.”
    “If you knew my mother,” Callie said with a chuckle, “you’d know that’s not saying much. You think there’s a waitress or a busboy who’d like to earn an extra ten bybringing a burger and fries, a Diet Pepsi to my room? Well done on the burger. I’ve got some work that can’t wait.”
    “My granddaughter could use ten dollars. I’ll take care of it.” She took the ten-dollar bill and handed Callie a key attached to a huge red plastic tag. “I put you ’round back, room six-oh-three. Got a queen bed and it’s quiet enough. Probably take about half an hour for that hamburger.”
    “Appreciate it.”
    “Miss . . . ah . . .” The woman squinted at the scrawled signature on the check-in card. “Dunbock.”
    “Dunbrook.”
    “Dunbrook. You a musician?”
    “No. I dig in the dirt for a living. I play this”—she jiggled the large black case—“to relax. Tell your granddaughter not to forget the ketchup.”
    A t four o’clock, dressed in clean olive-green pants and a khaki-colored camp shirt, her long hair freshly shampooed and drawn back in a smooth tail, Callie once again pulled to the shoulder of the site.
    She’d worked on her notes, had e-mailed a copy of them to Leo. On her way back, she’d dropped by the post office to express-mail him her undeveloped film.
    She slipped on little silver earrings with a Celtic design and had spent ten very intense minutes on her makeup.
    The camera crew was already setting up for the remote. Callie noted Lana Campbell was there as well, clutching the hand