Skeleton Dance

especially here in the south of France, rather than on Africa, where the remains are so much more ancient. I think I'm finally beginning to see why.'

'Well, of course,” Gideon said. “It's pretty tough finding a three-star restaurant in the Rift Valley. I thought you figured that out a long time ago.” He reached an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close to kiss her soft, fragrant hair, and then they fell silent, walking hand in hand through the near-deserted streets.

When they came to the hotel, Julie started in but Gideon tugged her along. “Not yet, I want to show you something.'

'In the dark?'

'I'm equipped,” he said, taking out a pocket flashlight and flicking it on.

He led her to an unlit, nondescript alley that turned toward the cliffside half-a-block beyond the hotel, at the end of which, aided by the flashlight, they threaded their way between a couple of parked cars and pushed through a rusted, unlocked, waist-high metal gate, ducking their heads—or at least Gideon had to duck his—to enter a small, shallow abri, one of several that dimpled the base of the cliffs here, one beside the other. The next one over held a propane tank; the one after that, considerably larger, formed the rear wall of the Hotel Cro-Magnon. The one in which they stood, however, the smallest of the three, held nothing at all.

Julie looked around, puzzled. “This is what you wanted to show me?'

Gideon smiled. “Yes.” He shone the flashlight onto a weathered marble plaque bolted to the stone immediately above the opening.

Ici furent decouverts en 1868 les hommes de Cro-Magnon par Francois Berthoumeyrou.

Julie's lips moved as she worked her way through the French. “Here . . . something . . . discovered in . . .” Her eyes widened. “Gideon, is this actually the original Cro-Magnon Man cave? This little place?'

That was exactly what it was, he told her, pleased with her reaction. They were on hallowed historic (or prehistoric) ground. It had been right there, right beneath their feet in that unremarkable, little-visited cavelet, that three thirty-millennia-old skeletons of a type never before seen in prehistoric burials had been uncovered by workmen during the construction of the Les Eyzies railway station across the road; the very place, so to speak, where modern humankind had made its entrance onto the anthropological stage.

'Wow,” said Julie with something gratifyingly close to awe. “It sends goosebumps down your back, doesn't it?” She smiled at him. “Did you bring that flashlight all the way from home just so you could show me this place in the dark?'

He shrugged. “It doesn't weigh anything.'

'You're a romantic, you know that?'

'Of course. I thought that was why you married me.'

'You know, maybe it was at that.'

'Gideon,” she said on the short walk back to the hotel, “do you think my French is good enough to let me get anything out of that Neanderthal-Cro-Magnon symposium you were telling Lucien about?'

'You don't need French. It's in English.'

'English? How come?'

The Institut de Prehistoire, he explained, was funded jointly by the Universite du Perigord and the Chicago- based Horizon Foundation, and was by charter composed of both French and American scholars. Bilingual fluency was required for appointment, and papers and symposia might be in either language. This particular one was to be videotaped for use in American universities and would therefore be conducted in English.

'That's great,” she said. “I'll plan on going, then.'

'Good, but I have to tell you, if it's more goosebumps you're after, forget it. It's likely to be pretty dry stuff.'

'That's okay,” she said, standing on tiptoe to nuzzle at his earlobe as he turned the key to their room. “I have other sources for goosebumps.'

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Chapter 7

* * * *

Inasmuch as the session wasn't scheduled until 2 p.m., however, they decided to take the morning off and relax. In the afternoon, while Julie attended the symposium, Gideon would finish up with the bones.

So for a few hours they acted like tourists. They had a leisurely breakfast in their room in the ivy-covered Hotel Cro-Magnon, which was every bit as rustic and pretty an inn as Gideon had remembered. Afterward, they strolled along the street, chatting about nothing in particular and looking in shop windows, but mostly simply passing the time together, peacefully, pleasantly, without event or object. A sort of jet-lag-decompression time.

They were heading into a cafe for a coffee stop when Gideon spotted a familiar figure coming diagonally across the street toward them, somewhat in the manner of a soft-bodied sea creature undulating over the ocean floor.

'Here comes Jacques Beaupierre,” Gideon said.

Julie stared. “That's the director of the Perigord Institute of Prehistory? The old gentleman who just walked right in front of that truck?'

It was true, and it was typical. The plump, balding Beaupierre had just ambled directly across the path of a