The Devil Colony

Chapter 25

May 31, 2:55 P.M.

Arizona desert

"What you're doing violates both state and federal law," Nancy Tso said.

Painter ignored her threat as he used a dagger to dig out the last of the mortar that sealed the slab of sandstone over the blowhole.

Nancy Tso stood, fists on her hips, at the edge of the field of petroglyphs carved into the chasm floor. Kowalski guarded her, holding the ranger's pistol in his hand. Earlier, he'd relieved the woman of her sidearm before she knew what was happening.

"I'm sorry, Nancy," Hank Kanosh said. "We're trying to be as careful as we can."

Proving this, Hank picked out a broken chunk of mortar from the spiral artwork on the slab, flicked it clear, and gently brushed fine sand from the moon-and-star symbol in the center.

Kawtch sniffed after the tossed bit of mortar, as if this were a game.

Painter continued to scrape and dig, sweating under the sun, his exposed neck burning. After another five minutes, the plate began to vibrate under his palm.

Hank felt it, too. "You must've gotten it loose. The air blowing up from below is starting to rock the slab."

Painter agreed. He worked around the edges, on his knees, and searched until he found a decent-sized gap where he could wedge the knife blade under the rock's lip. The block's edges angled inward, like a rubber stopper. He pushed down on the dagger's hilt and pried the stone up slightly. It was about four inches thick, too heavy for Hank to lift on his own.

He lowered it and waved to Kowalski. "Give me a hand with this."

"What about her?" Kowalski thumbed toward the park ranger.

Painter sat back on his heels. He needed the woman's cooperation, which meant he needed to be honest with her, to let her know the gravity of the situation. "Ranger Tso, I'm sure you've heard about the volcanic eruptions up in Utah and over in Iceland."

The angry creases around Nancy's eyes and the hard set to her mouth did not relax. She just glared at him.

"What we're searching for here is related to both of those disasters. Many people have died, and many more will die, too, unless we get answers. Answers that may lie below."

She shook her head, scoffing. "What are you talking about?"

Hank answered, "The Anasazi. We happen to have evidence that the volcanic activity today is directly related to the destruction that gave rise to the Sunset Crater and the annihilation of the Anasazi in the area. I can't go into much further detail, except that the symbols we showed you-the moon and star carved into the slab's petroglyph-are clues to that tragedy."

"If we're going to save lives," Painter pressed, "we have to keep moving."

She stared from Painter to Hank and back again. Finally, she sighed, the deep creases fading-somewhat. "I'll give you both a little latitude. For now. But be careful." She held out her hand toward Kowalski. "Can I have my weapon back?"

Painter studied her, reading her body language, trying to judge if this was a ruse to regain her pistol. She seemed sincere, but ultimately they couldn't keep watching their backs.

"Do it," he instructed Kowalski.

Kowalski looked like he was going to refuse, but he finally flipped the gun around and offered the grip to the ranger. She took the weapon, held it for a long moment as they all waited, then promptly holstered it.

She waved Kowalski forward. "C'mon. I'll help you."

With Painter prying the stone up, it took all three to grip the exposed edge and pull the stone cork out of its hole. Balancing the slab up on its edge, Kowalski rolled it to the chasm wall and leaned it there.

"Satisfied?" he asked Nancy, brushing his hands on his pants.

She refused to respond and turned to the hole. Painter fished out a flashlight from his pack and pointed it down. The beam illuminated a wide shaft, angled steeply as it dropped away.

"They're steps," she said, awed.

Steps was a generous term. Carved into the rock were distinct footholds, not much larger than would hold a toe or heel. Still, it was better than nothing. They wouldn't need ropes.

Kowalski joined them, leaning over the opening. "Phew." He waved a hand in front of his face. "Stinks."

Hank nodded. "Sulfur. And warm. Unusual for a blowhole."

Must be some geothermal activity below...

A disconcerting thought, but they had no choice except to continue.

He turned to Nancy. "Would you mind waiting here? If we're not out within two hours, radio for help."

She nodded.

"But please give us those two hours," he stressed, fearing that as soon as they were gone, she'd call her friends at the park service.

"I gave you my word," she said. "I'll keep it."

With his tail tucked between his legs, Kawtch backed away from the hole. The smell and strangeness must have spooked the dog. Painter couldn't blame him.

Hank held out his dog leash toward the ranger. "Could you keep an eye on Kawtch, too, while you wait?"

"I don't think I have much choice. He's not going down there. Probably the smartest of all of us."

With matters settled, Painter made a quick call to Sigma command, letting Kat and Lisa know the situation here. Once this was done, he ducked and climbed down into the passageway, careful to plant the heel of his boot into each carved hold. He didn't want to go sliding down to oblivion. He led the way, pointing his flashlight. Kowalski manned the rear with another light.

The tunnel continued down a long way. After several minutes, the hole to the surface shrank to a tiny sunlit dot far behind them. Ahead, the way grew hotter, the air more foul. Painter's eyes and nostrils burned, an unpleasant sensation that was only exacerbated by the steady wind blowing in his face. He didn't know how much farther they could go before they'd have to turn back.

"We must be deep beneath the mesa," Hank estimated. "At least a hundred feet. Feel the walls. The rock has changed from sandstone to the limestone that underlies most of the Colorado Plateau here."

Painter had noted the change, too. How far down does this go?

Kowalski must have wondered the same. He sucked loudly on the tube to his water pouch, then spat it out and swore. "If we come across a guy with hooves, carrying a pitchfork, we haul ass out of here, right?"

"Or even sooner than that," Hank said, coughing on the bad air.

Still, Painter trudged onward, until a steady hissing and gentle roaring reached his ears. The beam of his light revealed an end to the tunnel.

Finally.

"Something up ahead," he warned.

He continued more cautiously, crossing the last few yards, and pushed out into a cavity that was both wondrous and terrifying in its beauty. He moved out of the way so that the others could join him.

Kowalski swore as he stepped out.

Hank covered his mouth, offering up a small, "Dear God..."

The tunnel emptied into a large cavern, tall enough to house a five-story apartment building. Overhead, the roof was perfectly domed, as if the chamber had been formed out of a bubble in the limestone. Only this bubble had cracked long ago.

To the left, a wide fracture high up the wall allowed a river to gush forth, pouring down into the cavern in a turgid fall-but it was not a river of water . From the crack, black mud boiled and flowed, popping and spewing a sulfurous steam, as it ran thickly downward. It pooled into a great lake that filled half of the cavern, fed additionally from a dozen trickles weeping out of smaller fissures in the wall. The pool then emptied into a gorge that split the cavern. Down that chasm, a river of seething mud, bubbling and roiling, swept past, until it vanished down a dark gullet on the far side.

"Amazing," Hank said. "An underground river of mud. This must be one of the geothermal arteries flowing all the way through the Colorado Plateau from the San Francisco range of volcanic peaks."

But they weren't the first ones to discover this giant artery.

An arched bridge, built of long, narrow slabs of sandstone, all mortared together, spanned the steaming gorge. The pattern and design were readily identifiable as the handiwork of the ancient Pueblo Indians.

"How did anyone build that down here?" Kowalski asked.

Hank answered, "The old tribes of this region were phenomenal engineers, capable of constructing extensive and complex homes halfway up sheer cliffs. This bridge would be easy for them to make. Still, they must have hand-carried each of those thin slabs down here."

The professor's eyes went glassy-either from the sting in the air or from imagining such an engineering feat. Hank moved forward. A jumble of broken rock littered the cavern floor, but some ancient hand had cleared a path to the bridge long ago.

Painter followed, knowing the professor's goal. A similar path threaded from the far side of the span to a tunnel opening in the opposite wall. It seemed that their journey through this subterranean world wasn't over yet.

As they approached the bridge, the heat spiked to a blistering degree. The air grew nearly impossible to breathe as its sulfur content swelled. The only reason they'd made it this far was that the continuing breeze sweeping through the cavern flushed the worst of the toxins up the shaft behind them.

"Do you think it's safe to cross?" Kowalski asked, hanging back with Hank, who looked equally uneasy.

"This bridge has stood here for centuries," Painter said, "but I'll go first. Alone. If it looks okay, I'll have you follow one at a time."

"Be careful," Hank said.

Painter intended to be. He stepped to the edge of the bridge. He had a good view down into the chasm. Mud bubbled and spat, splattering the limestone walls to either side of the gorge. It would be instant death to fall down there.

With little choice, he placed one foot on the span, then the other. He stood for a breath. Seemed solid enough, so he took another step then another. He was now over the gorge's edge. Hearing sandstone grating slightly, settling a bit under his weight, he waited, swallowing his fear. Sweat trickled in streams down his back. His eyes watered and itched.

"Are you okay?" Kowalski called.

Painter lifted an arm, acknowledging that he was fine, but he feared calling out. This was foolish, of course. He continued onward, step by step, until finally he reached the far side and happily leaped to solid ground.

Relieved, he leaned down, resting his hands on his knees.

"Should we follow?" Hank yelled.

Painter merely lifted an arm and waved them over.

In short order, they all crossed and made it safely to the far side. After a moment to collect themselves, they headed toward the dark tunnel, leaving the muddy caldera behind them.

Once they reached the mouth of the passageway, they were rewarded with a cold breath blowing out of the tunnel. The air had a mineral tang, but it was a welcome respite from the sulfurous burn of the cavern.

Kowalski held a hand to the breeze. "Where's this coming from?"

"Only one way to find out." Painter led the way again.

Hank offered a more detailed answer as they headed down. "The cavern system must extend much farther underground. For a cave to breathe like this, it takes a great volume of cold air below." He pointed behind him. "That hot cavern is drawing the chilled air upward, and the breeze continues from there to the surface, flushing that heat upward and out."

Painter remembered the volume estimate of the cavern system beneath Wupatki's blowhole. Seven billion cubic feet. He sensed that this was bigger. But how far down would they have to go?

The tunnel continued deeper, turning steeper in some spots, almost flat in others. But it never turned upward. The way also grew steadily colder. After another ten minutes of hiking, a pearly sheen of ice began to coat the walls, reflecting the beam of Painter's flashlight. He remembered Nancy's story of the icy lava tubes that lay beneath the cone of the Sunset Crater. The same phenomenon was happening here.

Soon, even their footing became more treacherous. Kowalski took a hard fall and cursed loudly. The breeze blew stronger, the icy chill burning Painter's cheeks as readily as the sulfuric heat had some minutes ago.

"Is it just me," Kowalski asked as he picked himself up, "or is anyone else thinking of the phrase when hell freezes over ?"

Painter ignored him as his light revealed the end of the tunnel at last. He hurried forward, half skating on the slick surface. He slid into another cavern and stopped once again at the entrance, stunned by what he saw before him.

Kowalski whistled sharply.

Hank gaped in awe. "We've found them."

Painter knew what he meant.

They'd found the Anasazi.

4:14 P.M.

"It's almost like watching a video game, n'est-ce pas? " Rafael asked.

He sat in the rear cabin of a surveillance helicopter-one of two aircraft borrowed at some expense from a private militia group who spent time patrolling the Mexican border for "narco-terrorists." With heavily tinted bulletproof windows and engines idling, the two helicopters sat in the desert about a mile from the mesa.

The rear cabin of Rafe's craft was equipped with two captain's chairs that swiveled easily between a bench seat on one side and an entire wall of equipment, including digital recorders, DVD players, a bank of three LCD monitors, all of it tied into microwave receivers and cameras bristling on the outside.

On the center LCD monitor, a jangling view revealed a team climbing up a crack in the mesa's side, aiming for the ruins on top. The feed came from Bern's helmet-mounted camera, allowing Rafe to once again monitor the assault.

He turned his chair to face Kai Quocheets, who sat on the bench seat beside one of Bern's teammates. She stared sullenly back at him with her arms crossed in front of her. Clearly still furious about his betrayal, she hadn't said a word since they'd left the pueblos after the shooting of the two elderly Hopi natives. He felt a bit bad about that. He admitted to himself now that it had been a feckless act on his part, one beneath him, but he'd been sore from the ride to the pueblos and already in a foul temper over how the old woman had resisted his interrogation. He now truly believed the elderly pair knew nothing.

A waste.

And if the young woman hadn't been so obstinate, he might have thrown her a bone, but instead he let her sulk.

So be it.

He turned around and faced the monitors. Bern's team had reached the mesa's top and circled to where the satellite feed had last spotted Painter Crowe's team vanishing down another chute on the far side. The resolution had not been good enough to reveal anything more.

It hadn't been hard to track the director of Sigma to this location. A few calls, a few interviews, and it was over, especially after Painter's group posted trail permits with the National Park Service office. No names had been mentioned-but then again, how many three-man teams of hikers were headed into the deep desert with a dog ? Descriptions were matched, and through the Saint Germaine family's contacts in the scientific community, Rafe was able to gain access to a geophysical satellite and monitor the desert around the Crack-in-the-Rock pueblo.

After that, they had flown in from the unpopulated north side of the park. Once within a mile of the mesa, Bern's team had off-loaded and headed out across the desert on foot.

Rafe leaned closer to the screen.

"Where is that chiant uncle of yours now?" he whispered to the monitor.

He watched Bern climb with the effortless grace of a true athlete, moving from stone to stone, carrying a heavy pack with a rifle ready at his shoulder. Rafe found his left hand rubbing his thigh in envy. He forced his fingers to curl into a fist. The best he could hope for in life was to live vicariously through others. As he was doing now. If he stared hard enough, blocked out other stimuli, he could be Bern for short periods of time.

His second-in-command slipped to the front of his team, assuming the point position. Bern was not one to let a subordinate take a risk he himself wasn't willing to face. He edged over a pile of crumbling bricks, part of an ancient wall, and reached a hidden chute. Before he entered, a hand rose into view. Bern gave silent signals. Rafe interpreted them, repeating the hand signals on his knee.

Move quiet. On my mark. Go.

From the corner of his eye, he caught Kai's reflection in one of the dark monitors as she shifted forward, trying to get a better look. She might act the disinterested, estranged niece, but Rafe noted how her breathing quickened whenever she overheard him talking about her uncle.

Or whenever he mentioned their other captive.

The boy- Jordan Appawora-was in the other helicopter, parked twenty yards away, a bit of insurance for Kai's continued cooperation.

On the screen, Rafe could see Bern sliding carefully down the chute, ready for any contingency. He imagined the burning sensation of the sun on his face, the tightness in his chest as he restricted his breathing, the tension in his back and arms as he handled the heavy rifle.

Bern reached a turn in the chute and took a split-second peek into a blind chasm. That's all the time that was required. There was an advantage to having a partner sitting on your shoulder. Rafe brought up the image again and froze it on his screen to study it more closely.

The chasm's rock walls were wildly decorated with petroglyphs, but he found only a single living figure standing in the tight space. A woman, likely the park ranger who acted as a guide for Painter Crowe's team. She stood with her back to the camera, holding a leash, staring down a hole in the ground.

Ah, so that's where you went...

Rafe sighed. "You're not going to make this easy, are you, mon ami ?"

He lifted the radio to his lips. "Bern, looks like we must do this the hard way. We'll have to make it personal in order to draw our quarry out."

Rafe caught Kai's reflection again as he gave the order.

"Take down the guard. We're coming in."

On the screen, Bern popped around the corner with his weapon raised.

The ranger must have heard something and started to turn. Bern's rifle jerked silently on the screen, and the woman crumpled to the ground.

Kai gasped behind him.

Rafe reached to the other captain's chair and found Ashanda's hand. She had been sitting silently, a dark statue, almost forgotten, but never far from his heart. He gave her fingers a squeeze.

"I'm going to need your help."

4:20 P.M.

From the edge of the cavern, Hank stared at the frozen tomb of the Anasazi, preserved for centuries deep underground. He struggled to understand what he was seeing.

It can't be...

Thick blue ice coated the walls, flooded the floors, and formed massive icicles that dripped like stalactites from the arched roof. Across the way, embedded half into the ice, stood a village frozen in time. The tumbled blocks of ancient pueblo homes climbed four stories high, stacked into a ragged pile, all draped and barred by more flows of ice. It was Wupatki reborn, only larger. But the residents here hadn't fared any better. Blackened, mummified bodies sprawled frozen in the ice, looking as if they'd been washed from their homes. Clay pots and wooden ladders lay cracked and buried, mostly to one side of the cavern, along with tangles of blankets and woven baskets preserved in frost.

"There must have been a flash flood through here," Painter said, pointing to the other tunnels that ran into and out of the cavern. "Drowned everyone, then froze over again."

Hank shook his head. "First, their people died in fire... then by ice."

"Maybe they were cursed," Kowalski said with unusual somberness.

Maybe they were.

"Are you sure they're Anasazi?" Painter asked.

"From what I can tell from the clothing, along with the architecture of the buildings and the unique black-on-white markings on the pottery, these poor people were some clan of the Anasazi."

Hank stepped forward to bear witness. "These must have been the last survivors, those who escaped both the volcanic eruption and the slaughter. They must have fled Wupatki, tried to start a new home here, hidden away underground, the entrance protected by the small citadel above."

"But who sealed the entrance?" Painter asked. "Why did they mark it with the moon-and-star symbol of the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev ?"

"Maybe a neighboring tribe who was helping to hide this last bastion of the clan. They sealed it with a gravestone, engraving it with the mark of those who they believed brought such punishment down upon these people. A warning to others against trespass."

Painter checked his watch. "Speaking of which, we should explore what we can, then head back up."

Hank heard the disappointment in his voice. He must have been hoping to discover more than just an icy graveyard. They spread out, careful where they stepped. Hank was not ready to examine any of the bodies. He took out his own flashlight and set about searching the lowest levels of the pueblo.

He had to crack through fangs of icicles that blocked the door to squeeze inside. He found another body, that of a child, which had been washed into a corner like so much refuse. A tiny clawed hand stuck out of the ice, as if asking to be rescued.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered, and pushed on to a room farther back.

Frost and ice covered everything, reflecting the beam of his flashlight with a certain macabre beauty. But beneath that bright sheen lay only death.

As he searched deeper, he had a vague destination in mind, the true heart of the pueblo, a place to pay his respects. Ducking through a doorway, he stepped into an atrium-like space in the center of the tumble of rooms. Terraces led up, festooned in runnels of ice. He imagined children playing there, calling to one another, mothers scolding, kneading bread.

But he had to look only farther up to dash such musings. Massive ice stalactites pointed menacingly down at him from the roof. He pictured them fracturing and falling, spearing him clean through, punishing him for his intrusion into this haunted space.

But the dead gods of these people had other plans for this trespasser.

His gaze focused upward, Hank missed seeing the hole until it was too late. His right leg dropped into it. He screamed in surprise as he crashed through the manhole-sized opening. He scrabbled for the sides, losing his flashlight, but it was no help. Like a skater falling through thin ice, he could find no grip.

He dropped, plunging feetfirst, expecting to die.

But he fell only about the length of his body-then his boots hit solid ice. He stared down. The only thing that saved him from a broken neck, or at least a broken leg, was that the chamber he'd fallen into was half filled with ice. He reached down and picked up his flashlight, then stared up at the hole.

Painter called to him. "Hank!"

"I'm okay!" he shouted back. "But I need some help! I fell down a hole!"

As he waited for rescue, he swept his light around the chamber. The room was circular, lined by mortared bricks. He slowly realized he'd fallen into the exact place that he'd been hoping to find.

Some god, he was sure, was laughing with dark amusement.

He searched around. Small niches marked the wall, about at the level of the flooded ice. Normally the alcoves would be halfway up the chamber's sides. A glint drew his attention to the largest niche, reflecting his light.

No... how could this be?

Shadows danced across the ice floor. He swung his light up and saw Painter and Kowalski peering down at him.

"Are you hurt?" Painter asked, out of breath, clearly concerned.

"No, but you might want to hop down here yourself. I'm not sure I should be touching this."

Painter frowned, but Hank waved, urging him down.

"Okay," Painter conceded, and turned to his partner. "Kowalski, go secure a rope and toss it down to us."

After the big man left, Painter twisted around and dropped smoothly into the ice-flooded chamber. "So what did you find, Doc?"

Hank waved to encompass the chamber. "This is a kiva, a spiritual center of an Anasazi settlement. Basically their church." He pointed his beam up. "They built them in wells like this. That hole we both dropped through is called a sipapa; to the Anasazi it represented the mythical place where their people first emerged into the world."

"Okay, why the religious lesson?"

"So you'd understand what they worshipped here, or at least preserved as some sort of token to the gods." He swung his light to the large alcove. "I think this object may be what the thieves stole from the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev- what led to the Anasazi's doom."

5:06 P.M.

Painter stepped closer to the alcove, adding the shine of his own flashlight to the professor's. Not that the object needed any better illumination. It shone brightly, without a speck of tarnish, just a thin coating of ice.

Amazing...

Within the niche stood a gold jar, about a foot and a half tall, topped by the sculpted head of a wolf. The tiny bust was perfectly detailed, from the tipped-up ears to the furry scruff of mane. Even the eyes looked ready to blink.

Moving his light down, he recognized a familiar writing inscribed across the front of the jar in precise and even rows.

"It's the same writing found on the gold tablets," Painter said.

Hank nodded. "That must be proof that this totem once belonged to the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev, don't you think? That the Anasazi stole it from their cache."

"Maybe," Painter mumbled. "But what about the container itself? Am I wrong, or does it look like one those vases used by ancient Egyptians to hold the organs of their dead?"

"Canopic jars," Hank said.

"Exactly. Only this one has a wolf's head."

"The Egyptians adorned their bottles with animals from their native lands. If whoever forged this jar did so in North America, then a wolf makes sense. Wolves have always been powerful totems here."

"But doesn't that ruin your theory about the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev ? Aren't they supposed to be the lost tribe of Israel from the Book of Mormon?"

"No, it doesn't dash my theory." Excitement rose in the professor's voice. "If anything, it supports it."

"How so?"

Hank pressed his hands to his lips, trying to control his elation. He looked ready to fall to his knees. "According to our scriptures, the gold plates that John Smith translated to compose the Book of Mormon were written in a language described as reformed Egyptian. To quote Mormon chapter nine, verse thirty-two. 'And now, behold, we have written this record according to our knowledge, in the characters which are called among us the reformed Egyptian, being handed down and altered by us, according to our manner of speech . ' "

Hank turned to face Painter. "But no one's ever actually seen that writing," he stressed, "because the original golden plates vanished after John Smith translated them. They were said to have been returned to the angel Moroni. All we know about this writing is that it was supposed to be a derivation of Hebrew, a variant that evolved since the time the tribe left the Holy Lands."

"Then why call it Egyptian at all? Reformed or otherwise."

"I believe the answers are here." Hank pointed. "We know the tribes of Israel had complicated ties to Egypt, a mixing of ancestries. As I told you before, the earliest representation of the moon-and-star symbol goes back to the ancient Moabites, who shared bloodlines with both the Israelites and the Egyptians of the time. So when the lost tribe came to America, they must have had a heritage with a foot in each world. Here is that very proof, a pure blending of Egyptian culture and ancient Hebrew. It must be preserved."

Painter reached for the jar. "On that we can agree."

"Careful," Hank said.

The base of the vessel was lodged a couple of inches into the ice, but that was not what worried the professor. They'd all seen what happened when someone mishandled artifacts left behind by the Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev .

"I think it should be okay," Painter said. "It's been frozen for centuries."

Painter remembered Ronald Chin's contention that the explosive compound needed warmth to keep it stable, or extreme heat to destroy it. It only destabilized when it got cold . Still, he held his breath as he reached toward the wolf's-head lid. He lifted it free, cracking through a thin scrim of ice, then shone his flashlight down inside.

He let out the breath he'd been holding. "Just as I thought. It's empty."

He passed the cap to Hank, then set about breaking the jar loose from the ice. With a few sharp tugs, it came free.

"It's heavy," he said as he replaced the cap. "I wager this gold is the same nano-dense material as the plates. The ancients must've used the metal to insulate their unstable compound."

"Why do you think that?"

"The denser the metal, the better it retains heat. It might take longer to warm, but once this gold heats up, it would retain its warmth for a longer span of time. Such insulation would act like an insurance policy in case there were any sudden variations in temperature. It would also allow them additional time to get the substance from one heat source to another."

Hank shook his head at such ingenuity. "So the gold helped these ancient people stabilize their compound."

"I think this jar might have been one of their unused containers. But considering what happened at Sunset Crater, the Anasazi must have also stolen one that was full ." Painter turned the jar over in his hands. "And look at this. On the opposite side of the jar."

Hank moved closer, standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

Inscribed on the back was a detailed drawing of a landscape: a winding creek, a steep mountain fringed by trees, and in the middle of it all, something that looked like a small erupting volcano.

"What do you make of it?" Painter asked.

"I don't know."

Before they could ponder it further, a rope fell heavily, coming close to knocking the jar out of Painter's hands.

"Careful, Kowalski!" he called up.

"Sorry."

Painter stepped under the opening and lifted the jar with both arms. "Come take this!"

Kowalski gladly took the prize and held it at arm's length, letting out an appreciative whistle. "At least we found some treasure! Makes my bruised ass feel less sore."

With a bit of effort, Painter and Hank climbed out of the kiva, and they all worked their way free of the frozen pueblo. Once out in the open cavern, Painter packed the gold jar, accepting the burden for the return trip, wrapping it next to the plates Kai had stolen. His pack had to weigh something like sixty or seventy pounds. He did not look forward to the long climb back to the sun, but there was no choice.

"We should head up before Nancy calls in the cavalry."

As he turned to the tunnel, a dark shape came flying out the opening and shot past his legs, almost knocking him off his feet. Hank stumbled back in fear-then suddenly recognized a familiar friend.

"Kawtch?" the old man blurted out, surprised.

The dog hugged the professor's legs, circling and circling, whining deep in his throat. The leash still hung from his collar, tangling up Hank's feet. He dropped to a knee to calm his dog.

"Must've run away from Nancy," Hank said.

"I think it's worse than that." Painter pointed his flashlight down at the ice. A dark crimson streak skittered across the surface, left behind by the dragging leash.

Blood.