A Change of Worlds

Book 5 of the Killian Kendall Mysteries

By Josh Aterovis
Copyright 2026

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Chapter 11

Fletcher was waiting for us at the door when we got back to the house, tension set in his lined face. One look at our expressions and he knew it hadn't gone well.

"What happened?" he asked as we all trooped into the living room.

"Things just went from bad to worse," Lily explained. "I was definitely the wrong person to send."

"I never should've gone either," Jacy added quietly. His face was impassive, but his eyes were filled with guilt and shame.

Fletcher's jaw clenched, and he made a visible effort to relax it. "We can play the blame game later. Just tell me what happened."

"I lost my temper. Healy and I got into an argument." Lily's voice was filled with self-disgust. "I accused him of mismanaging the excavation." Fletcher sighed and rubbed his face wearily. "Our little peace summit went downhill from there. I ended up suggesting he was actually the one stealing the artifacts so he wouldn't have to return them to us."

"You what?" Fletcher yelped.

"Then I discovered their latest find was a burial," Jacy said, "and that's when I punched him." He stood stiffly in front of Fletcher like a soldier awaiting his punishment.

Fletcher simply stared at him in disbelief. "This is bad," he muttered, lowering himself onto the couch.

"I...I don't know what came over me," Jacy said miserably. He sounded as if he might burst into tears at any second.

"I do," I spoke up.

They all turned to look at me.

"The spirits were extremely angry. I don't think I've ever felt rage like that. It almost overwhelmed me. I had to use all my strength just to keep it from taking over my own emotions. Is it possible that, even though neither of you is sensitive to the spirit world, the rage crept into your own emotions, especially since you were already angry to begin with?"

"Not just possible, but likely," Fletcher agreed. "I should have seen this coming."

"How could you?" Lily asked. "You can't blame yourself."

"I've not been open to the spirits lately. They've become too demanding, and there was nothing I could do," he explained. "If I'd been listening, I would have realized they were angry, and maybe I would have known better than to send the two of you into the thick of things. They've grown increasingly powerful since the excavation began. Having their graves disturbed would only stir them up even more."

"Well, what's done is done." Lily shrugged, pragmatic as ever. "The question now becomes, what do we do about it? I'm pretty sure we destroyed all hope of having any kind of civil working relationship with Healy."

"We have two choices," Fletcher decided after a few moments of thought. "We can either call off the excavation, or we can let someone else take over as the liaison between the tribe and the archaeologists. Of course, that's assuming they still want to continue. Either way, we need to hold a purification ceremony at the site or the spirits may take matters into their own hands."

"What do you mean?" Jacy asked sharply.

"The White Man will never be alone. Let him be just and deal kindly with my people, for the dead are not powerless. Dead, I say? There is no death, only a change of worlds."

A chill ran down my spine at those words. "Is that a quote?" I asked in the silence that followed.

"It's attributed to Chief Seattle, from a speech given in 1855."

"Are you saying they could cause physical harm?"

"It's possible."

"But there's a ritual of some sort, a ceremony that would keep them from doing that?"

Fletcher shrugged. "It might help, or it might not. The idea is to purify the site of negative energy and evil spirits. That might let the ancestors rest. Or if there is something more going on, it might not."

"That's all outside my area of expertise, so I'll leave it to you," Lily interjected. "Maybe we can get back to the physical world for now, and you can worry about the metaphysical later. As far as the excavation goes, if it does continue, who would we get to be the liaison? I mean, it's not exactly a job for Wallace, and I can't see Eldora doing it."

"I think Hollis would be perfectly capable. He is the chief of the tribe, after all."

"Maybe we should consider calling it off altogether," she countered. "I know I've been one of the most outspoken proponents for the project, but after everything that's happened, I just don't trust Healy."

"You don't like him," Fletcher said matter-of-factly. "Neither do I, but that doesn't mean he isn't a good scientist. He made a bad decision in not alerting us right away about the looting. Then again, perhaps we made a bad decision in not letting him know we were going to hire an investigator."

"I hate to be insensitive," I interrupted, "but speaking of the investigation, do you still want me to continue looking into this?"

"Why wouldn't we?" Fletcher asked. "Nothing has changed. We still don't know who is looting the site. After today's revelation, we have even more reason to find this person, in case they have taken something from the graves. That would explain the ancestors' anger, after all."

"Well, to be honest, I don't have much to go on at this point. So far, I've run into three theories about the possible identity of the looter. Lily and Wallace have both accused the archaeologists, Healy suspects someone from the tribe, and Elyse Pike suggested it might be a private collector."

"You can't take Wallace seriously," Lily said. "What's more, we don't really have any reason to suspect someone on the archaeological team either. I was just speaking in the heat of the moment. I definitely don't like Healy, but I rather doubt he'd steal from his own excavation. Mismanage it, absolutely. But steal?"

"I should look into the archeologists, just to be thorough. It doesn't have to be Healy. It could be anyone on his team. Of course, that whole situation is going to be a lot more difficult now."

Lily and Jacy both looked like chastised children, which hadn't been my intention, so I quickly moved on.

"What about the tribe? I know that's not something you'd want to believe..."

"I wouldn't put it past Wallace," Lily said quickly.

I turned to Fletcher for his reaction. He wore a thoughtful expression. "If Gordon Wallace convinced himself that he was doing it for the greater good of the tribe, it could be something he'd do. I don't think he'd sabotage the excavation for purely malicious reasons, though. He has his flaws, but he's not especially mean-spirited."

"Ha!" Lily scoffed. "He treats Jacy like dirt."

"That really doesn't have that much to do with Jacy," Fletcher said. "Wallace behaves toward Jacy that way because he's threatened by him."

"Threatened by me?" Jacy repeated in disbelief.

"He's always had a rivalry of sorts with me. Gordon was raised Catholic by his father, so he's very uncomfortable with my spirituality." He grinned. "Rituals, ceremonies, and spirits are fine as long as they stay within the confines of the church. Go outside it, though, and you're dealing with the devil. He sees things very narrowly. He's never liked the amount of respect and political power I hold within the tribe. Plus, my being gay hasn't won me any points either. Now that I'm getting older and my health is failing, he foresaw my influence waning. When Jacy came along, however, he represented the continuation of my influence. It's natural for Wallace to feel threatened by that."

"That doesn't make him any less mean," Lily countered.

"Is there anyone else in the tribe you'd suspect?" I attempted to steer the conversation back on course.

"Not really," Fletcher said. "To be honest, most of them don't care enough one way or the other to go to that length. So few are really interested in our heritage and culture. We've become too westernized."

"Maybe it's time I spoke to the council members, preferably individually." I wasn't looking forward to it, particularly — especially Wallace — but I would have to do it sooner or later.

Fletcher nodded. "We can help you set that up."

"Great. What about the idea of the looter being a private collector?"

"I suppose that's possible. They're pretty plentiful around these parts. Most of the ones I know collect purely as a hobby, though. I don't think any of them take it that seriously. Now, Donald Thompson does have an extensive collection. He's shown it to me a few times and it's museum quality, but as far as I know he found all his artifacts on his own farm."

"How do you feel about that?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"About people collecting artifacts?" I nodded. "Well, I guess it depends on a couple of things — their attitude for one. If they collect because they have a real interest in our culture, I can hardly find fault with them. On the other hand, if they're only collecting curiosities, then I have a little problem. It's one thing to walk into someone's house and see a tasteful collection of arrowheads." He gestured around the room to his own collection. "It's something else entirely to walk in and see your ancestor's skull glaring at you from the mantle."

"That's really happened?" I was astonished.

"Oh, yes. It's also considered disrespectful, to say the least, to take grave items. Now, Don Thompson, the man I spoke of earlier, he's one of the good kind of collectors. He farms a lot of land and most of it was native villages at one time. I think he gets a better crop of artifacts than he does of corn. In many ways, he's preserved a pretty hefty chunk of our history by collecting. Otherwise, most of it would have been destroyed by years of plowing."

"Where would I find Mr. Thompson?"

"He lives right up the road. If you want to talk to him, I can give him a call and let him know you're coming. We go way back."

"That would be great."

Fletcher stood up and walked into the kitchen.

"I'm sorry I didn't warn you about the spirits," I apologized to Lily and Jacy. "I tried to, but by the time I caught up to you, you were already at the clearing."

"No, I'm the one who's sorry," Lily said. "If we'd been paying attention to you the way we should have, we would have noticed that you'd dropped behind. If we had, maybe the whole scene would have ended differently. All I could think about was getting to the site and confronting Healy."

Jacy nodded miserably. "I feel really responsible for screwing up your investigation. Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"You didn't screw it up. It was screwed the second Elyse Pike recognized me."

"No, it was screwed even before that," Lily inserted dryly. "It started when I insisted you pretend to be a reporter. If I'd just let you do it your way, none of this would have happened."

I shrugged. "It's pointless to sit here now and play what-might-have-been. For all we know, Healy would have reacted exactly the same way if I'd shown up yesterday and told him I was a private investigator. Like you said earlier, what's done is done, and we just have to move forward from here."

"Do you still think you can figure out who the thief is?"

"I can try. I can't promise anything. It would have been a lot easier with access to the site and the cooperation of the archaeological team. Fortunately, there are other avenues left to explore, so we'll have to see how it goes. And who knows, maybe I can still get Professor Healy to work with me."

"I wouldn't hold my breath on that one," Lily growled.

Fletcher came back into the room. "Well, Don is home, and he said for you to feel free to come right over. He loves an excuse to show off his collection."

I asked for directions to the Thompson farm, which I entered into my GPS on my phone. I was about to climb into my car when Jacy called out from the front door and came loping across the yard.

"I meant what I said inside," he said when he reached my side. "I want to help with the investigation."

I remembered Fletcher's fears about Jacy's involvement and decided a vague answer might be best under the circumstances.

"I really appreciate that, Jacy, but I honestly can't think of anything you can do right now."

"If you do think of something, you'll let me know?"

"Sure," I answered automatically.

"Good. I'm going to hold you to that." He paused, then continued. "I also wanted to apologize for what happened in the forest."

"That wasn't your fault."

"It kind of was, at least in part. Even though I can't sense the spirits the way you and Fletcher can, I should have known I'd still be vulnerable to them. If I'd been prepared, they wouldn't have affected me the way they did."

"Prepared?"

"I should have taken the time to center myself, maybe even hold a smudging."

"A what?"

"Smudging? It's a Native American tradition. You burn sacred herbs so the smoke will purify you and drive away evil spirits. Plus, I could have blocked them if I'd been aware. You can too, you know. Or you could, if you knew how."

"I could?"

"Yes. Like I've told you before, I'd be happy to help you understand your gifts more. I know yours and mine are different, but anything I don't understand I'm sure Fletcher will help you with."

I nodded. "Yeah, I could definitely use the help."

Jacy broke into a wide smile. "Great. Just let me know when you want to get together."

I returned his smile a little more tentatively. Why did I feel as if we'd just agreed to a date?

"Soon. I'd better go see Mr. Thompson now."

The Thompson farm turned out to be a two-story white frame house with jaunty red shutters, surrounded by a collection of outbuildings like a little village. All the buildings were well maintained, evidenced by fresh coats of paint and sparkling windows. I parked next to a brand new Dodge pickup.

Before I was halfway to the porch, the front door opened to reveal an older man in jeans and a plaid shirt, who greeted me with a warm smile. "You must be the young fella Fletcher Snyder just called about," he said, holding out a hand. "I'm Don Thompson. And you must be...Kendall Killian?"

"Killian Kendall," I corrected as I shook his hand.

"Ah! I was close!"

I laughed. "Close enough."

"Fletcher said you wanted to see my collection of Indian stones."

"Yes, and I'd like to ask you a few questions too, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind, but I may not have all the answers. Come on in. No need to stand out here jawing in the yard."

He led me inside, where we were met by a beaming woman I assumed to be Mrs. Thompson. She was short, and almost as wide as she was tall.

"This is my wife, Helen," he stated, confirming my guess. "This is the private investigator Fletcher just called about."

"Can I get you anything to drink?" she asked me.

"No, thank you. I'm fine."

"Please don't take offense, but you look awful young to be a private investigator," she said, still beaming. "You remind me of one of our grandchildren. Doesn't he look a little like Benjamin, Don?"

Mr. Thompson scrutinized me for a few seconds, then shook his head dismissively. "I don't see it except they're both blond-haired and blue-eyed. You always think everybody looks like somebody you know. Come on, Killian, my collection is in here."

With a nod in Mrs. Thompson's direction, I followed her husband through a formal living room into a wood-paneled den that was clearly Mr. Thompson's domain. The front entry and the living room had been decorated with Victorian furniture and floral-patterned fabrics, whereas this room was definitely masculine. A brown leather sofa sat against one wall with a low coffee table crouched in front of it, heel marks scarring its surface. A huge TV faced the couch. A newspaper lay folded on the seat of a worn but comfortable-looking chair in the corner. An antique roll-top desk stood in the opposite corner with a ladder-backed chair pushed up under it. A glass-fronted bookshelf took up part of one wall.

All the rest of the wall space was covered with shadow-box frames filled with arrowheads, spear points, and a myriad of other stone tools. It made Fletcher's collection look modest in comparison.

"You found all of these?" I asked in amazement.

He chuckled. "Sure did. But you have to realize I started looking when I was younger than you are now."

I approached the wall for a closer look. "Where did you find them?"

"Every one of 'em came from right here on this farm. We own a coupla hundred acres. Some of it's wooded, but we farm a fair bit of it. I've lived here all my life. I was born in this house. My granddaddy built it, then when he died he passed it on to his son, my father. He had no interest in farming, but it was all I ever wanted to do, so I got the place when I was old enough." He chuckled again. "By then, my daddy was happy enough to give it up, let me tell you. 'Course, farming ain't like it used to be, but we do well enough."

I thought again about the condition of the house and other buildings.

"How'd you find them all? Did you dig?"

"I never dug for a one of 'em. They're all what the professionals call surface finds. That means they were lying in plain sight on the ground, usually in fields after the spring plowing and a good rain had settled the dust. Washes 'em right to the top. I just walk around and pick 'em up. It's good thinking time. Very relaxing."

As I moved down the wall, I grew more and more impressed. Fletcher hadn't exaggerated when he'd called this a museum-quality collection. "I don't know much about artifacts really, but all this must be worth quite a bit."

"Well, I've never had it looked at by professionals, but I suppose it is. And this isn't even the good stuff."

He walked over to the roll-top desk and took out a cardboard box, which he set on the coffee table. I moved closer as he began to pull out beautiful stone tools. When he'd lined everything up on the table, he selected a small propeller-like object and held it out to me.

I looked it over while he watched me eagerly. It had a hole drilled through the center of the cool, highly polished stone.

"What do you think that is?" he asked me, his eyes sparkling.

"I don't have a clue."

"Guess!"

"A propeller?"

He laughed. "Nope, I don't suppose they'da had much use for a propeller back then, and the hole goes the wrong way for that ta work anyways. That's a stone used as a balance weight on an atlatl spear-thrower."

He picked up another item and held it out to me. "How about this?"

I traded the balance stone for the new object and inspected it. I was just as stumped on this one. It was about four inches long and shaped like an elongated spinning top, but what they could have used it for, I had no idea.

"A top?" I ventured cautiously.

"Nope!" he crowed gleefully. "That was a trick question. Nobody really knows what these things are, not even the bigwigs at the Smithsonian. Everybody has a different opinion. Some say it's a plumb bob, some say a net weight, some say it's a pendant. I say it's a divining stone, but who knows who's right?"

We played the guessing game a few more times, in each case with the same result. I would guess incorrectly, and Mr. Thompson would delight in telling me the object's real purpose.

"How did you learn all this?" I asked him after the fifth round of his little game.

"I bought some books and read up on them. I wanted to know more about what I was finding. There are a lot of people out there who collect Indian artifacts, you know."

"That's actually why I came to see you."

"Well, like I told Fletcher, I'd do whatever I can to help."

"Did he explain the situation?"

"Not in any detail, but I heard they had some stuff stolen at that archaeology dig they've got going on his property."

"Where'd you hear that?" I asked, suddenly very interested.

He thought for a second. "I think Helen may have told me. She hears all the gossip around these parts."

I made a mental note to talk to Mrs. Thompson before I left. "Her information is solid. The Pomocatan tribe arranged for an archaeological team from Pemberton University to mount an excavation on Fletcher's property. The Snyders suspect someone is looting the site, and I've been hired to look into it."

"I don't really see how I can help with that." His eyes grew wide. "They don't think I had something to do with it, do they?"

"Oh no," I quickly assured him. "Fletcher knows you have an impressive collection, and he thought you might possibly know some collectors who are less scrupulous than you."

"Well now, I don't like to talk behind people's backs."

"I can understand that, Mr. Thompson, and if all I was looking for was idle gossip, it would be different. You knew Fletcher was in the hospital, right?"

"Yes. We heard he had another heart attack."

"He did, but what brought on that heart attack was an assault by the person we believe to be the looter."

"He was attacked?"

"He walked out to the excavation during the night, and someone struck him on the head. Fletcher collapsed, and his assailant fled, leaving Fletcher there to die. If his grandson Jacy hadn't gone looking for him, he might not have survived."

Mr. Thompson shook his head. "Right in our own backyard, practically. Well, that puts a different spin on things." He thought a moment before slowly beginning to speak. "I don't show my collection much these days. I'm doing it for you as a favor to Fletcher. I used to show it to just about anyone interested, especially other collectors. I guess I was showing off a bit.

"Then things got a little ugly. A few people decided they wanted to horn in on my territory. All my property is posted no trespassing, but after I showed them my collection, I found a coupla fellas in my fields. Folks in these parts put a high store on private property, so it bothered me to find those guys going behind my back that way — not to mention that they were stealing from me.

"Now, one of 'em was a young man, not much more'n a kid, so I can understand. I had a talk with him, and he apologized, and that was the end of it. The other one, well, he was old enough to know better. I had a talk with him too, but it didn't do any good. I've had to chase him off my land more than a coupla times."

"Do you think he would steal from the excavation?"

"I hate to suggest such a thing, but if he'd steal from me, what's to keep him from stealing from somebody else?"

"Can you tell me his name?"

"Virgil McClain."

Mr. Thompson gave me directions to the man's home, which I jotted down.

"Is there anyone else?"

He thought for another minute, then shook his head.

I pulled out my card and handed it to him. "You've been a big help. If you happen to remember anything else, please give me a call."

"I'll do that."

"Thank you. And thank you for allowing me to see your collection. It really was a pleasure. It's quite impressive."

He smiled. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. It was nice to show it off again to someone who appreciated it. My grandkids are sick to death of my lectures."

I laughed.

"You laugh, but they really are. Not a single one of my kids or their kids has any interest in the collection. I decided last year that I was leaving it all to the Pomocatan tribe when I go. Had it written up in my will and everything. The tribe doesn't know it yet, though, so I'd take it kindly if you kept it between the two of us."

"No problem, Mr. Thompson. I know they hope to open a museum someday. I'm sure they'd be honored to include your collection." He nodded happily. "Do you think I could have a word with your wife before I leave?"

He looked surprised. "Helen? Why would you need to talk to her?"

"Earlier you mentioned she'd heard about the thefts, and I'm curious to know where she heard it from. No one was supposed to know about them outside the tribe and the archaeologists."

He shook his head. "Good luck. That woman protects her sources more fiercely than any reporter I've ever seen, and she has a network to rival the CIA. Let's go see where she is."

We found Mrs. Thompson puttering around in the kitchen. She certainly didn't look like the Deep Throat of the local gossip underworld. She was more like Hollywood's version of the perfect grandmother, but I, of all people, should know how deceiving appearances could be.

"Killian wanted to speak to you before he left," Mr. Thompson said. "I'll be in my den putting away my artifacts. Just give a holler before you go, Killian."

Mrs. Thompson beamed at me. "He's so worried about his collection these days. He keeps his nicer pieces locked in a safe. He got them out just for you after Fletcher called. Did you change your mind about something to drink? I have lemonade."

"No, thank you. Actually, I had a question for you concerning my investigation."

She looked positively elated at the thought. "Oh, please feel free to ask me anything!"

"Mr. Thompson mentioned you had heard that items were being stolen from the excavation on Fletcher Snyder's property." She nodded merrily in agreement. "I was wondering where you heard that."

"Oh dear," she chirped. "As much as I'd like to help you, I can't reveal my sources!"

"It could be very important."

"Well, maybe if you convince me I should tell you," she smiled coquettishly.

I realized she thought of all this as a game. I had to make her realize the gravity of the situation. "Mrs. Thompson, Fletcher Snyder suffered a heart attack because this looter assaulted him and left him to die. No one outside the tribe was supposed to know about the thefts. In fact, no outsider was supposed to know there was even a dig going on. It would be very helpful if you could tell me where you heard about them."

The smile dropped from her face, along with all her color. She became so ashen that for a moment I was afraid I'd gone too far.

"I...I didn't know it was so serious," she said. "I heard it from Pamela Morgan."

"I don't know her. Do you have any idea where she learned about it?"

"I would imagine from her mother, Celia Vessey."

"Miss Vessey from the tribal council?"

"That would be her."

I pondered her revelation for a moment, surprised that someone from the tribe would leak such sensitive information.

"Is it serious that she told me?"

"Not really," I assured her. "I was just curious about where the information had originated. Knowing it most likely came from Miss Vessey removes any thought of malice or suspicion. Thank you for helping. I'm sorry if I upset you."

"Oh no! You were just doing your job. I should have learned by now that gossip isn't always as harmless as it seems."

"I gave Mr. Thompson my card. If you think of anything else or hear something you feel might be helpful in catching this person, please give me a call. You can be one of my sources."

That brought a small smile back to her cherubic face. "I certainly will."

"Oh, and I'd appreciate it if you kept the information about Fletcher Snyder being attacked between the two of us. It's not common knowledge at this point, and I'd like it to remain that way as long as possible."

She nodded, her expression somewhat shamefaced. I felt bad for implying she was a gossip, but I needed to make sure the information stayed as close as possible. You never knew when something someone shouldn't know might tip his or her hand. Of course, if Pamela Morgan was leaking tribal business to outsiders, it would only be a matter of time before others knew about Fletcher's attack — at least, if Miss Vessey told her about it.

I called to Mr. Thompson, and I once again thanked them both for their assistance.

Driving back to my office, I thought about what I had learned. I had the name of another collector to interview, and I had discovered that Miss Vessey's daughter was something of a gossip. Not much really, but the smallest fact can turn out to be the key to the whole investigation. At the first chance, I'd write up detailed notes of my conversations while they were still fresh on my mind.

My next step would be to speak to the other council members. I wasn't looking forward to facing down Miss Vessey about her daughter's loose lips. I was looking forward to speaking to Gordon Wallace even less.

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