The Devil Colony

Chapter 23

May 31, 10:12 A.M.

Flagstaff, Arizona

"Shouldn't be much farther," Hank Kanosh said from the backseat.

Lost in thought, Painter stared out the window at the passing scenery of the high desert. The midday sun had beat the landscape into shades of crimson and gold, broken by patches of sagebrush and stands of prickly yucca trees.

Kowalski sped along Highway 89. They were headed northeast out of Flagstaff, having landed in Arizona only fifteen minutes ago after a short hop in a private charter from an airfield outside of Price, Utah. Their destination-Sunset Crater National Park-lay forty minutes from the city.

"We're looking for Fire Road 545," Hank said. The professor's dog sat at the other end of the SUV's bench seat, his nose glued to the glass after he'd spotted a wild hare bounding away from the highway. The dog was now on high alert. "The fire road's a thirty-five-mile loop off the highway that passes through the park and a slew of ancient Pueblo ruins. Nancy Tso will meet us at the visitors' center near the park's entrance."

Their contact, Nancy Tso, was a Navajo woman, but also a National Park Service ranger. Earlier, Hank had made a few discreet calls, channeling through his contacts, and discovered the names of those who knew the region the best. On the flight here, Painter had read up as well as he could about the area. They all had. Kat had sent reams of information from D.C., but Painter preferred firsthand knowledge. The plan was to interview the guide, to see what they could learn.

Still, Painter had a hard time focusing. He had heard from Kat about the events in Iceland, listened to radio reports as news coverage of the volcanic eruptions spread. The entire archipelago south of Iceland's main coast was steaming and quaking. In addition to the one on the island, two submarine volcanoes had begun to boil the seas, spewing lava along the seabed and building steadily higher.

A giant volcanic plume was headed for Europe. Airports were already grounding planes. Gray, though, had gotten out ahead of it. He was already in the air, winging his way back to Washington with the prize in hand: an old journal belonging to the French scientist Archard Fortescue.

But would it shed any light on their predicament?

"There's the exit," Hank said, leaning forward and pointing.

"I see it," Kowalski said sourly. "I'm not blind."

Hank slipped back into his seat. They were all getting testy from lack of sleep. Silence settled over the vehicle as they took the exit off the highway and drove onto a two-lane road. There was no mistaking their destination as they continued the last few miles.

Sunset Crater appeared ahead of them. The thousand-foot-tall cinder cone rose above islands of pine and aspen. The cratered mountain was the youngest and least eroded cinder cone of the San Francisco volcanic fields. Over six hundred volcanoes of different shapes and sizes spread outward from here, most of them dormant, but beneath this chunk of the Colorado Plateau, magma still simmered close to the surface.

As they drove, Painter imagined the earthquakes and lava bombs that must have shaken the region a thousand years ago. He pictured the storm of flaming cinders and swirling clouds of burning ash, setting fire to the world, turning day to night. In the end, the ash field covered eight hundred square miles.

As they drew closer, the singular feature of this cratered mountain-in fact, the reason it had earned its name-became apparent. In the sunlight, the crown of the cone glowed a ruddy crimson, streaked and pooled with splashes of brilliant yellow, purple, and emerald, as if the view of the crater were forever frozen at sunset. But Painter had read enough to know there was nothing magical about this effect. The coloring came from a violent spewing of red oxidized iron and sulfur scoria that had settled around the cone's summit during its last eruption.

From the backseat, Hank offered a less geological viewpoint. "I've been reading the Hopi legends about this place. This was a sacred mountain to the Indians of this region. They believed angry gods once destroyed an evil people here with fire and molten rock."

"That doesn't sound like a legend," Painter said. "It pretty much matches the story told by Jordan's grandfather-and for that matter, even the history of the place. The volcano erupted here around 1064 AD, about the same time that the Anasazi vanished."

"True. But what I find most interesting is that the same Hopi legend goes on to warn that the people who died here are still here, that they remain as spiritual guardians of the place. Which, of course, makes me wonder what still needs guarding here."

Painter stared at the red cone, pondering the same mystery. Jordan Appawora's grandfather had hinted that something lay hidden here, something that could shed light on the ancient people, the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev -Hank's mythical lost tribe of Israelites.

Kowalski pointed ahead as they passed through the gates of the national park. "Is that our lady?"

Painter sat straighter. A slim young woman climbed out of a white Jeep Cherokee equipped with a blue light bar on top. She wore a starched gray shirt with a badge affixed to it, along with green slacks, black boots, and a matching service belt, including a holstered sidearm. As she stepped clear of the vehicle, she pulled on a broad-brimmed campaign hat and crossed toward the passenger side of their vehicle once it came to a stop.

Kowalski let out a low whistle of appreciation.

"I don't think your girlfriend back in D.C. would approve of that," Painter warned.

"We got an agreement. I'm allowed to look, just not touch."

Painter should have scolded him for his behavior, but in the end he couldn't disagree with the man's assessment of the park ranger. Still, as striking as the ranger was, she didn't hold a candle to Lisa. He had spoken to his girlfriend an hour ago, assuring her that everything was okay. She had hurried to Sigma command, joining Kat as this situation escalated.

As the park ranger reached their car, Painter rolled down his window. She leaned toward his door. Her skin was a coppery mocha, her eyes a dark caramel, framed by long black hair done up in a braid down her back.

"Ranger Tso?" he asked.

She checked the front and back seats. "You're the historians?" Her voice was rife with skepticism as she eyed Painter and Kowalski.

It seemed her instincts were as refined as her looks. Then again, park rangers had to wear a lot of hats, juggling duties that varied from overseeing national resources to thwarting illegal activities of every sort. They were firemen, police officers, naturalists, and historical preservationists all rolled up into one-and all too often, psychiatrists, too, as they did their best to protect the resources from the visitors, the visitors from the resources, and the visitors from one another.

She pointed to a neighboring lot. "Park over there. Then tell me what this is all really about."

Kowalski obeyed. As he turned into the parking lot, he glanced to Painter and mouthed the word wow .

Again, Painter couldn't disagree.

In short order, they were all marching down a trail, gravel grinding underfoot. As it was midweek and midday, they had the path to themselves. They climbed toward the crater, passing through a sparse pine forest, along a route marked as LAVA FLOW TRAIL. Wildflowers sprouted in the sunnier stretches, but most of the path was crumbling pumice and cinders from an ancient flow. They passed a few spatter cones, known as hornitos or "little ovens" in Spanish, marking where old bubbles of lava burst forth, forming minivolcanoes. There were also strange eruptions from cracks-called "squeeze-ups"-where sheets of rising lava hardened and curled into massive flowerlike sculptures. But the main attraction was the cone itself, climbing higher and higher before their eyes. Up close, the mineral show was even more impressive as the lower slope's dark gray cinders rose up into a spectacular display of brilliant hues, reflecting every bit of sunlight.

"This looped trail is only one mile long," their guide warned. "You have my attention for exactly that length of time."

Painter had been making tentative, vague inquiries, learning mundane tidbits that were getting them nowhere. He decided to cut to the quick.

"We're looking for lost treasure," he said.

That got her full attention. She drew to a stop, her hands settling to her hips. "Really?" she asked sarcastically.

"I know how that sounds," Painter said. "But we've been following the trail of a historical mystery that suggests something was hidden here long ago. Around the time of the eruption... maybe shortly thereafter."

Nancy wasn't buying it. "This park has been scoured and searched for decades. What you see is what you get. If there's something hidden here, it's long buried. The only things under our feet are some old icy lava tubes, most of them collapsed."

"Icy?" Kowalski asked, wiping his brow. He'd already soaked through his shirt as the day had grown hot, and the trail offered little shade.

"Water seeps through the porous volcanic rock into the tubes," Nancy explained. "Freezes during winter, but the natural insulation and lack of air circulation in the narrow tubes keeps the ice from melting. But just so you know, those tubes were mapped both on foot and by radar. There's nothing but ice down there." She began to turn away, ready to head back to the parking lot. "If you're done wasting my time..."

Hank raised a hand, stopping her, but his dog tugged him to the side of the trail. Nancy had insisted that the professor use a leash inside the park, and Kawtch was clearly not happy about it-especially now that they'd stopped. The dog sniffed the air, apparently still looking for that wild hare.

"We're pursuing an alternate hypothesis regarding the disappearance of the Anasazi," Hank said. "We have a lead that the volcanic eruption here might be the cause of-"

She sighed, fixing Hank with a hard stare. "Dr. Kanosh, I know your reputation, so I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I've heard every crackpot theory about the Anasazi. Climate change, war, plague, even alien abduction. Yes, there were Anasazi who lived here, both the Winslow Anasazi and the Kayenta Anasazi, but there were also Sinagua, Cohonina, and other tribes of the ancient Pueblo people. What's your point?"

Hank stood up to her disdain. As an Indian who practiced Mormonism, he was no doubt well accustomed to dealing with ridicule. "Yes, I know that, young lady." His voice took a professorial tone, practically browbeating the young woman. "I'm well versed in the history of our people. So don't dismiss what I'm saying as some peyote-fueled fantasy. The Anasazi did vanish from this region suddenly and swiftly. Their homes were never reoccupied, as if people feared moving into them. Something happened to that tribe-starting here and spreading outward-and we may be on the trail of an answer that could change history."

Painter let this little war play out. Nancy's face flushed-but he suspected it was more from shame than from anger. Painter had been raised enough of an Indian to know it was rude to talk harshly to an elder, even one from a different tribe or clan.

She finally shrugged. "I'm sorry. I don't see how I can help you. If you're looking for more information on the Anasazi, maybe you shouldn't be looking here but over at Wupatki."

"Wupatki?" Painter asked. "Where's that?"

"About eighteen miles north of here. It's a neighboring national park."

Hank elaborated. "Wupatki is an elaborate series of pueblo ruins and monuments, spread over thousands of acres. The main attraction is a three-story structure with more than a hundred rooms. The park is named after that place. Wupatki is the Hopi word for 'tall house.' "

Nancy added, "We Navajo still call it Anaasazi Bikin ."

Hank translated, glancing significantly at Painter. "That means 'House of the Enemies.' Archaeologists believe it was one of the last Anasazi strongholds before they vanished out of the region."

Painter stared up at the brilliant cinder cone. According to the tale told by Jordan's grandfather, the birth of this volcano was the result of a theft by a clan of the Anasazi, a mishandling of a treasure not unlike what had recently happened up in the Utah Rockies. He eyed the massive cone. Had a great settlement once stood here? Had it been destroyed, buried under ash and lava? And what about the survivors? Had they been hunted down and slaughtered? Painter remembered Hank's one-word description.

Genocide.

Maybe they were looking in the wrong place.

Painter reached into his shirt pocket and removed the slip of paper that Jordan Appawora had given to him. The kid's grandfather had said it would guide them to where they needed to go. He unfolded it and showed the pair of symbols to the park ranger.

"These markings may be tied to what we came seeking. Have you ever seen them?"

She leaned over, doubt fixed on her face. But as she studied the sketch of a crescent moon and five-pointed star, her eyes got huge. She glanced up to him.

"Yes," she said. "I know these symbols. I know exactly where you can find them."

12:23 P.M.

San Rafael Swell

Kai raced after Jordan through Buckhorn Wash. He rode a black four-wheel all-terrain vehicle while she pursued him in a white one. She kept low, swerving right and left, looking for a break so she could pass him, eating too much of his dust. The screaming whine of the two engines echoed off the cliffs to either side as they sped along the bottom of the wash, following an old off-road trail.

The Swell's two thousand square miles of public land had little restrictions against ATV use. Over the years, enthusiasts had carved hundreds of miles of trails that crisscrossed the region. A part of Kai railed against such abuse of the land, especially as a Native American.

But she was also young, needing an escape.

After sending her e-mail to John Hawkes, she had repeatedly checked for a response. A half hour later, still with no answer, she could no longer sit by herself in a dark room. She had to get out, clear her head. She found Jordan still sitting on the porch. With a conspiratorial glint in his eye, he showed her what he had discovered in a shed behind one of the pueblos. Iris and Alvin had reluctantly handed over the keys to the ATVs, with firm instructions to stick to the flat dirt roads.

They had- for about twenty minutes, until both felt capable enough for more of a challenge.

Ahead of her, Jordan whooped as he wheeled around a sharp turn in the wash, skittering a bit in the loose talus. Coming out of the curve, he fishtailed his bike. Kai grinned madly, hunkered down, and hit her throttle. She shot past him as he foundered, close enough to give him the finger.

He laughed and hollered at her back. "This ain't over!"

She smiled and raced along the trail, bumping over smaller rocks, going airborne across a small dip. She landed on all four tires, jarring her teeth. Still, the grin never left her face.

At last the wash petered out, and the mountain trail joined the dirt road again. She braked, sliding to a stop.

A second later, Jordan joined her, expertly skidding sideways to come to rest beside her. That bit of fancy maneuvering made her wonder if he'd been coddling her during the race.

Still, when he tugged off his helmet and goggles, the pure joy and exhilaration that she saw in his eyes mirrored her own. With half his face pasted with road dust, he looked like a raccoon.

She imagined that she looked no better.

He reached to his water bottle and upended it over his head, washing the worst away, then took a long drink. She watched his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. With a shake of his hair, he smiled at her, making the hot day just that much warmer.

"How about two out of three?" he asked, nodding toward another trail.

She laughed and had to turn away a bit shyly.

Still, it felt so good.

"Maybe we should be heading back," she said, and pulled out her cell phone to check the time. "We've been out two hours."

She hadn't realized how long it had been. Time had passed swiftly as the pair raced through the Swell, stopping every now and again to check out some set of petroglyphs or to poke their heads in one of the old mines that pocked the canyons.

Jordan looked a little crestfallen but agreed. "I suppose you're right. If we're gone much longer, Iris and Alvin will be sending out a search party. Besides, I could use some lunch... that is, as long as it's not more of those roasted pi on nuts."

"Toovuts," she reminded him.

He nodded appreciatively. "Well done, Ms. Quocheets. Going native Paiute on me, are you?" He bumped a fist against his chest. "Does a brave proud."

She pretended to swing her helmet at him.

He dodged back. "Okay, I surrender!" he said with a wolfish grin. "Back we go."

They took a more sedate pace for the return trip, sticking to the road, ambling along in no particular hurry, squeezing out every last moment together. At last they reached the circle of small pueblos. They sidled over to the shed, parked the vehicles, and climbed off.

As she took a step, her legs wobbled a bit, still vibrating from the ride. Jordan caught her arm, his fingers tightening much too hard. She turned, ready to shake him off, but his face had gone all tense.

He drew her back into the shadows of the shed.

"Something's not right here," he whispered, and pointed. "Look at all the fresh tire tracks."

Now that he'd pointed it out, she realized that the sandy dust was all cut up with multiple treads. But where were the vehicles? She suddenly was too aware of how silent it was, as if something were holding its breath.

"We need to get out of here..." he started.

But before they could take a step, they saw men in desert combat gear come sweeping out of the shadows behind the pueblos on the far side, spreading wide. Kai's heart climbed into her throat, choking her. She instantly knew that this assault was her fault, knew how the enemy had found her.

The e- mail...

Jordan tugged her around-only to find a monstrously tall blond figure, also dressed in khaki camouflage, standing before him. The man lashed out with a rifle, punching the butt into Jordan's face.

He dropped to his knees with a cry that sounded more surprised than pained.

"Jordan!"

The attacker turned and leveled his rifle at Kai's chest. His words were gruff, his manner frighteningly cold. "Come with me. Someone would like a word with you."

11:33 A.M.

Flagstaff, Arizona

Standing at the foot of the towering structure, Hank Kanosh appreciated its name. Wupatki. It certainly was a tall house .

The ruins of the ancient pueblo climbed three stories, constructed of flat slabs of red Moenkopi sandstone, quarried locally and mortared together. An amazing feat of engineering, it climbed high and spread outward into a hundred rooms. A part of the pueblo also included the remains of an old masonry ballpark and a large circular community room.

He imagined how all of this must have once looked. In his mind's eye, he put the thatched and beamed roof back in place. He rebuilt walls. He pictured corn, beans, and squash growing in the neighboring washes. He then populated the place with Indians from various tribes: Sinagua, Cohonina, and of course, the Anasazi. The different tribes were known to live in relative peace with one another.

Standing beside the ruins with Kawtch at his side, Hank stared at a view that had changed little from ancient times. Wupatki had been built on a small plateau overlooking a vast distance, revealing the breadth of the tabletop mesas that encompassed the high desert, the brilliant beauty of the Painted Desert to the east, and the snaking green path of the Little Colorado River.

It was a picturesque spot.

Still, a dark mood settled over him as he studied the dusty ruins. Why did these ancient people leave? Were they driven out, slaughtered? He pictured blood splashing the red walls, heard the screams of children and women. It was too much. He had to turn away.

Down at the foot of the ruins, Painter and his partner wandered near the community amphitheater. The group, led by Nancy Tso, had traveled the short distance from Sunset Crater National Park, but they were still waiting for the ranger to get permission for an overland hike. It was forbidden to stray from the public areas of the park here without guidance. The more remote ruins and monuments-close to three thousand of them-were considered too fragile, as was the desert's ecosystem, for sightseeing.

Once Nancy received permission, she would guide them herself to where she had seen the symbols Painter had shown her, the mark of the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev, the People of the Morning Star. Hank's blood pounded harder at the thought of them. Could they possibly be one of the lost tribes of Israel, as described in the Book of Mormon?

Impatient and done exploring, he hiked down to the others, drawing a sullen Kawtch along by his leash. He spotted Nancy Tso heading the same way from the visitors' center.

Reaching the group first, he found Kowalski amusing himself with one of the other unique features of the pueblo. He stood before what appeared to be a raised fire pit, newly constructed of mortared flagstone. But the square pit in the center was not meant to hold a fire.

The big man leaned over the opening. He had to hold on to the Stetson he'd bought for the hike to keep it from blowing off of his head. A stiff breeze blew up from below, coming out of the pit.

"It's cool," Kowalski sighed. "Like air-conditioning."

Painter stood by the information sign. "It's a blowhole."

Hank nodded. "It's the opening to a breathing cavern system. It's dependent on atmospheric pressure. When the day's hot as it is now, it exhales the cool air trapped below. In the winter, when it's cold, it inhales. It can get to blowing up to thirty miles per hour. Archaeologists believe this is one of the reasons the pueblo was established here. Blowholes, which were considered to be openings to the underworld, were held sacred by the ancient people, and as you mentioned, it doesn't hurt that it offers some natural air-conditioning in the summer."

Painter read from the posted sign. "Says here that back in 1962, excavations below found pottery, sandstone masonry, even petroglyphs down there."

Hank understood the interest he could see on Painter's face. On the drive here, Nancy Tso had told them where she'd seen the moon and star symbols drawn by Jordan's grandfather. They were part of some petroglyphs found deep in the desert, near one of the many unmarked pueblo ruins out there.

"It also says here," Painter continued, "that the size, depth, and complexity of the cavern system below have never been fully determined."

"That's not necessarily true," Nancy Tso said, interrupting. She crossed down the last of the path and joined them, noting their attention. "Newer studies that have been published within the last couple of years suggest the limestone cavern system under this plateau may be around seven billion cubic feet in size, stretching for miles underground."

Painter studied the blowhole. The opening was sealed with a locked grate. "So if someone wanted to hide something from prying eyes-"

Nancy sighed. "Don't start that again. I agreed to show you where I saw those symbols. That's all I'm going to do. Then you're all clearing out." She checked her watch. "Park closes at five o'clock. I plan on being out of here by then."

"So you got permission for us to explore?" Hank said.

She slapped some permit forms against her thigh. "It's a good two-hour hike."

Kowalski straightened and seated his Stetson more firmly on his head. "Why can't we just take that Cherokee of yours? It's got four-wheel-drive, doesn't it? We could be there in under ten minutes, shorter if I drive."

She looked aghast at the suggestion.

Painter did, too, but Hank suspected it was for a very different reason. Painter's partner had little regard for speed regulations-or common road courtesy, for that matter.

"Let's get some rules straight at the outset," Nancy said, and held up a finger. "First rule. LNT. Leave no trace. That means what you carry in you carry out. I've arranged for backpacks and water. It's all inventoried and will be checked when we return. Is that understood?"

They nodded. Kowalski leaned toward Painter and whispered. "She's even hotter when she's mad."

Luckily, Nancy didn't hear this-or at least she pretended not to. "Second, we tread carefully. That means no hiking poles. They've been proven to be too destructive to the fragile desert ecosystem. And last, no GPS units. The park service doesn't want the exact locations of the unmarked ruins mapped electronically. Are we clear?"

They all nodded. Kowalski only grinned.

"Then let's get moving."

"Where are we going?" Painter asked.

"To a remote pueblo ruin called Crack-in-the-Rock."

"Why's it called that?" Kowalski asked.

"You'll see."

She led them to the spot where their gear was stacked. Hank pulled on a backpack. It came equipped with a CamelBak water pouch and a supply of PowerBars and bananas.

Once everyone was ready, Nancy set off into the desert, moving at a hard pace, apparently determined to shave some minutes off her two-hour estimate. It certainly was no sightseeing trip. The group marched in a row, following behind her, passing through fields of sagebrush, Mormon tea, saltbush, and princess plume. Lizards skittered out of their way. Hares leaped in great bounds. At one point, Hank heard the coarse rattling complaint of a hidden diamondback and pulled Kawtch closer. His dog knew snakes, but Hank wasn't taking any chances.

They also passed some of the park's other monuments: tumbled piles of sandstone marking a small pueblo, a ring of stones from a prehistoric pit house, even the occasional Navajo hogan or sweathouse. But their destination-one of the towering mesas-lay much farther out, a hazy blip on the horizon.

To help with the passage of time and to distract himself from the burn of the sun, Hank walked beside Painter. "The moon and the star," he said. "I've been thinking about that symbol and the name for the tribe. Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev ."

"The People of the Morning Star."

Hank nodded. "The morning star that shines so brightly in the eastern skies at dawn is really the planet Venus. But Venus is also called the evening star because it shines brilliantly at sunset in the west . Many ancient astrologers figured this connection out. That's why the crescent moon is often associated with the morning star." He swung his arm in a low arc from east to west. "The two horns of the moon represent the star's rise in both the east and the west, connecting them together."

"Okay, but what are you getting at?"

"This particular pairing of moon and star is an ancient symbol, one of the oldest in the world. It speaks to man's knowledge of his place in the universe. Some religious historians believe the Star of Bethlehem was in fact the morning star."

Painter shrugged. "The symbol's also found on the flags of most Islamic countries."

"True, but even Muslim scholars will tell you that the symbol has nothing to do with their faith. It was in fact co-opted from the Turks." Hank waved this all away. "But the symbol's reach goes much further back. One of the earliest attestations of this paired symbol goes back to the lands of ancient Israel. From the Moabites, who were relatives of the Israelites according to the Book of Genesis-but who also had ties to the Egyptians."

Painter held up a hand, stopping him from elaborating in more depth. "I get it. The symbol may further support your conjecture that these ancient people came from Israel."

"Well, yes, but-"

Painter pointed toward the horizon, toward the distant mesa. "If there are any answers, hopefully we'll find them out there."

12:46 P.M.

San Rafael Swell

What have I done?

Kai stood still, dull with shock, in the middle of the Humetewas' main room. Iris sat in a chair by the hearth, her tears bright in the firelight, but the old woman kept her face hard. Her fingers clenched the arms of her chair as she looked at her husband. Alvin was lying on his back across the pine table, stripped to his boxers. His thin chest rose up and down, much too rapidly. Blistered red welts marked his ribs. The reek of burned flesh filled the room.

A large- boned black woman stoked the fire. A second iron poker rested in the flames. Its tip was of the same shape as Alvin's blisters. The shadowy woman didn't even look up as Kai was dragged into the room.

Behind her, the giant blond soldier who'd captured them threw Jordan to the floor in the corner. With his wrists tied behind his back, he could not brace himself against his fall, but he twisted enough to hit the ground with his shoulder and skid up against the wall.

The other occupant of the room was seated at the head of the table. He stood up, pushing on a cane. Kai thought he was an older man-maybe it was the cane, or the ultraconservative suit, or the frailness that seemed to emanate from him. But as he thumped around the table, she saw that his face was smooth, unblemished, except for a dark stubble of beard, as artfully groomed as the sharp lines of his dark hair. He could be no older than his midthirties.

"Ah, there you are, Ms. Quocheets. My name is Rafael Saint Germaine." He glanced to his watch. "We expected you much sooner and had to start without you."

The man waved his cane over Alvin's body. The old man flinched, which tore the hole in Kai's heart even wider.

"We've been trying to ascertain the whereabouts of your uncle, but Alvin and Iris have been most uncooperative... despite the tender ministrations of my dear Ashanda."

The woman by the fire glanced up.

At the sight of her face, Kai's insides went slippery and cold. The woman, apart from her large size, looked ordinary enough, but as her eyes glinted in the firelight, Kai noticed that they were unfathomably empty, a mirror for whoever looked into them.

The crack of the cane on the floor drew her full attention. "Back to business." The man named Rafael waved for his torturer to remove the hot iron. "We still need an answer."

Kai stumbled forward to the table. "Don't!" she blurted out. It came out as a half sob. "They don't know where my uncle went!"

Rafael's eyebrows rose. "That's what the Humetewas have been claiming, but how can I believe them?"

"Please... my uncle never told them. He didn't want them to know. Only I know."

"Don't tell them," Iris said, hoarse with anger and grief.

The man named Rafael searched the beams overhead and sighed. "Such melodrama."

Kai ignored Iris and kept her focus on the man with the cane. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything." She found her voice again. "But not until you let the others go... all of them. Once they're safely gone, I'll tell you where my uncle went."

Rafael seemed to weigh this offer. "While I'm sure you're an honest and forthright person, Ms. Quocheets, I'm afraid I can't take that chance." He waved the black woman closer to Alvin. "Mouths have a tendency to be harder to pry open without good leverage. It's all a matter of basic physics, of action and reaction."

The poker lowered toward Alvin's cheek. Its iron tip glowed a smoldering red, smoking and softly hissing.

Rafael leaned both hands on his cane. "This particular scar will be much harder to hide. That is, of course, if he lives."

Kai had to stop this. There was only one option. In order to buy some time and keep them from torturing Alvin, she had to tell them the truth.

She opened her mouth, but Jordan spoke first.

"Keep me prisoner!" he called from the floor. "If you need Kai's cooperation, you can use me as leverage. But please let the Humetewas go."

Kai latched onto that chance. "He's right. Do that, and I'll talk."

"My dear, you'll talk whether we release Iris and Alvin or not."

"But it will take longer," Kai pressed. "Maybe too long."

She turned and matched gazes with Iris, trying to absorb the old woman's strength. If need be, Kai would resist for as long as possible, do her best to convince the interrogators that they would only waste precious time in torturing Alvin and Iris, that they could get what they needed much faster by letting the old couple go.

She turned back to Rafael and let that determination shine forth. He stared back at her. She dared not flinch.

After several long breaths, Rafael shrugged. "Well played and argued, Ms. Quocheets." He pointed his cane at the blond soldier. "Gather up the Humetewas, pile them onto one of those ATVs, and send them off into the canyons."

"I want to watch," Kai said. "To make sure they're safe."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

In a matter of minutes, Iris and Alvin sat atop the white ATV. Alvin was too weak from his abuse to drive, so he rode behind his wife. Iris nodded to Kai, in that single gesture both thanking her and telling her to be careful.

Kai returned the nod, passing back the exact same message to Iris.

Thank you... and be careful.

Iris revved the throttle and took off. The pair trundled down a wash and quickly vanished around a turn in the canyon.

Kai remained standing outside the pueblo. She watched the trail of dust get farther and farther away, winding deep into the badlands.

Rafael stood on the porch in the shade. "I believe that should satisfy you."

Kai turned and let out a rattling sigh. She stared at the man and at the dark shadow of the woman who was hovering behind his shoulder. Any lie Kai told would be punished-and it would fall upon Jordan's shoulders to bear the brunt of that abuse. But if she cooperated, she knew her captors would keep them alive.

To be used as leverage with Painter.

As the bastard had said, it was only basic physics.

"My uncle flew to Flagstaff," she finally admitted. "They were heading to Sunset Crater National Park."

And she quickly told him why-just to be fully convincing.

As she finished, Rafael looked disconcerted. "Seems they know much more than I expected..." But he quickly shook it off. "No matter. We'll deal with it."

He leaned on his cane and turned to the open doorway. He spoke to the tall blond soldier. "Bern, radio your sniper. Tell him to take his shots and haul back to the helicopter."

Sniper?

Kai took two steps toward the porch.

Iris and Alvin.

Rafael turned to her. "I said I'd let them go," he explained. "I just didn't say how far I'd let them go."

Off in the distance, a sharp crack of a rifle echoed.

Soon followed by a second.

1:44 P.M.

Flagstaff, Arizona

Painter stared up at the top of the mesa. He sucked deeply from the tube connected to his CamelBak water bottle. After two blistering hours in the heat, he'd come to believe that they'd never reach this mesa, that it would continue to retreat from them forever, like some desert mirage.

But here they were.

"Now what?" Kowalski asked, fanning his face with his Stetson. He'd become a walking sweat stain.

"The pueblo's up top," Nancy said.

Kowalski groaned.

Painter craned his neck. He saw no way up.

"Over here," she directed, and headed around the base of the mesa to where a crumbling trail ran up its side.

As they followed her, Painter noted large swaths of rock art along the cliff faces: snakes, lizards, deer, sheep, fanciful human figures, and geometric designs of every shape and design. The petroglyphs appeared to be two types. The more common was formed as the darker "desert varnish" of the surface stone was chipped or scraped away to reveal the lighter stone beneath. Others were formed by drilling hundreds of tiny holes into the soft sandstone, outlining figures or sunlike spirals.

Painter followed behind Hank, noting the professor scanning the same cliffs, likely looking for the star and a moon of his lost Israelites.

At last, after climbing a good way up, they reached a broken chute in the cliff face, the eponymous crack in Crack-in-the-Rock pueblo. The opening was narrow, but the sandstone was worn smooth by rain and wind.

"It's a short climb up from here," Nancy promised.

She led the way, sliding into the chute and climbing up the boulder-strewn path. As the crack split its way to the top of the mesa, Kowalski cursed under his breath. He had to squeeze through sideways a few times to get past some old choke stones that partially blocked their way.

But they all finally made it topside, exiting from the crack into a room of the pueblo itself. They stepped clear and out onto the open mesa. The jumble of ruins here was not as impressive as those that they had seen back at Wupatki, but the view made up for it. It overlooked the Little Colorado River and offered vistas for hundreds of miles in all directions.

"One of the theories about this place," Nancy said, putting on her guide voice, "is that this was a defensive outpost. If you look at this shield wall along the edge of the mesa, there are small angled holes, perhaps for shooting arrows, but others have suggested this might have been an ancient observatory used by shamans, especially as some of the holes in the wall angle up ."

But such theories were not why they'd made the long trek.

"What about the petroglyphs you mentioned?" Painter asked, staying on task. "Where are they?"

"Follow me. We don't normally take anyone this way. The path is dangerous, steep, full of slippery talus. A wrong step and you could go sliding to your death."

"Show us," Painter said, undaunted.

Nancy headed to a pile of rock where a wall had collapsed long ago. They had to climb over the rubble to reach what appeared to be another crack or chute. This one headed down. The footing was indeed treacherous. Rocks slid under Painter's boots. He had to pin his hands to either side of the crack to keep from losing his balance. It didn't help that Hank's dog danced between them with all the ease of a mountain goat, stopping to mark the occasional stone or bit of weedy brush.

"Kawtch!" Hank yelled. "I swear if you bump me again..."

Nancy had agreed to let Hank unleash his dog, but only for as long as they were on top of the mesa. Apparently everyone was regretting this decision now-except for Kawtch himself. He lifted his leg again, then vanished below.

This new chute was narrower and longer than the crack they had passed through earlier. Even if they moved with care, it took some time to traverse, but finally they reached the bottom. Rather than breaking through to the outside, the group ended up within a high-walled chasm, open to the sky overhead, but offering no way out.

Hank stared around, his mouth hanging open. "Amazing."

Painter had to agree. Great sprawling displays of petroglyphs covered the walls on both sides, every square inch of them. They were almost too dizzying to look at.

But their guide, having been here before, was more impatient than impressed.

"What you came to see is over here," Nancy said, and led them to a smooth section of the stone floor. "This is the other reason we don't let anyone down here. Can't have them walking all over this masterpiece."

Rather than scratching into the wall, the artist here had used a different canvas: the floor of the chasm.

Again it was a riotous panoply of prehistoric art-but in the center, wrapped around by one of the ubiquitous spirals, was a distinct crescent moon and five-pointed star. There was no mistaking it. The design was identical to the one drawn by Jordan's grandfather.

Painter lifted a foot, ready to cross the field of art. He looked to Nancy, who tentatively nodded.

"Just be careful."

Painter headed out. Hank followed with Kawtch, but Kowalski stayed with Nancy, making plain where his true interest lay. Reaching the piece of art, Painter knelt beside it. Hank assumed the same position on the far side of the display. They studied the work together.

Including the spiral wrapped around it, the singular piece of art had to be a full yard across. The ancient artist used both techniques that they had seen demonstrated elsewhere. The moon and star had been scraped out of the rock, but the spiral was composed of thousands of pinkie-sized drill holes.

Kawtch sniffed at the surface-at first curious, but then his hackles rose. He backed away, sneezing in apparent irritation.

Hank and Painter stared at each other. Painter leaned down first, putting his nose close to the art. Hank did the same.

"Do you smell anything?" Painter asked.

"No," he answered, but there was still an edge of excitement in his voice.

Then Painter felt it, too-the smallest brush against his cheek, like a feathery kiss. He sat back and held his palm over the petroglyph, over the small drill holes.

"You feel that, right?" Painter asked.

"A breeze," Hank said. "Coming up from below through the holes drilled in the spiral."

"There must be a blowhole under here. Same as at Wupatki."

Painter leaned over and gently brushed his hand across the surface of the art. Some of the fine rock dust billowed up as it passed over the drill holes, but that wasn't his goal. He was clearing it for another reason.

He ran his fingertips along the edges of the petroglyph, then reached to Hank's hand, urging the professor to do the same.

"Feel this," Painter said, and drew one of Hank's fingers along a seam that circled the piece of art.

Shock filled the professor's voice. "It's been mortared in place."

Painter nodded. "Someone sealed this blowhole with a slab of sandstone. Like a manhole cover over a sewer."

"But they left holes so the caverns below could still breathe ."

Painter's eyes locked on Hank's. "We must get down there."