Not human—or so I believed. I figured a hawk had snatched something warm and furry that, in its death throes, was alerting its kindred to hide. Rabbits can rival operatic sopranos in volume. I had heard them often enough with Jake, who liked hunting in the Everglades. I looked up, thinking I might find the hawk. No . . . only vultures adrift on a molten sunset. The lighting feathered trees with lace while the sky descended, joining clouds with mist and smoke from distant fires. Daytime vanished in a gray haze. My eyes were still in photographer mode. Had I looked an instant later, I would have missed the abrupt transition from daylight to dusk. I also wouldn’t have seen dust from a vehicle that was leaving or approaching the house. Driving fast, too, on the gravel road. That gave me a start because I was standing between two fresh dig sites where signs warned Federal Antiquities Site. Access Prohibited. I grabbed my bag, bundled the tripod under my arm, and ducked beneath the rope in a hurry.
