Thunderhead

Lincoln Child dedicates this book to his daughter, Veronica, and to the Company of Nine.

Douglas Preston dedicates this book to Stuart Woods.

Acknowledgments

Lincoln Child wishes to thank Bruce Swanson, Bry Benjamin, M.D., Lee Suckno, M.D., Irene Soderlund, Mary Ellen Mix, Bob Wincott, Sergio and Mila Nepomuceno, Jim Cush, Chris Yango, Jim Jenkins, Mark Mendel, Juliette Kvernland, Hartley Clark, and Denis Kelly, for their friendship and their assistance, both technical and otherwise. Thanks also to my wife, Luchie, for her love and unstinting support. And I would especially like to acknowledge as an inspiration my grandmother Nora Kubie. Artist, novelist, archaeologist, independent spirit, biographer of Nineveh excavator Austen Henry Layard, she instilled in me from a very early age twin loves for writing and archaeology. She worked on excavations as far away as Masada and Camelot, and as close as her own New Hampshire backyard. Although she passed away ten years ago, during the writing of Thunderhead in particular she was never far from my thoughts.

Douglas Preston would like to offer his appreciation to the following people: Walter Winings Nelson, horseback riding companion across a thousand miles of deserts, canyons, and mountains, seeking the Seven Cities of Gold; Larry Burke, captain of the Emerald Sun, for hosting a memorable expedition up Lake Powell; Forrest Fenn, who found his own lost city; the Cottonwood Gulch Foundation of New Mexico; and Tim Maxwell, director of the Office also like to thank my wife, Christine, and my children Selene, Aletheia, and Isaac. I want to thank once again those two who can never receive enough thanks, my mother and father, Dorothy and Jerome Preston.

We would like to thank Ron Blom and Diane Evans at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory for their help with an article of Douglas Preston’s explaining how space-borne radar is used in locating ancient trails. We offer them our apologies for creating the unpleasant and wholly fictitious character of Leland Watkins. No such persons as Leland Watkins or Peter Holroyd work, or have worked, at JPL. We would also like to express our great appreciation to Farouk El-Baz, director of the Center for Remote Sensing at Boston University, for his help with the technical aspects of remote sensing the earth from space; and we thank Juris Zarins, the archaeologist who discovered the lost city of Ubar in Saudi Arabia.

Our deep appreciation goes out to Bonnie Mauer, who read the manuscript not once but several times and offered excellent advice. Thanks also to Eric Simonoff, Lynn Nesbit, and Matthew Snyder, for their continued assistance, counsel, and encouragement. Special thanks to Mort Janklow for sharing a surprising and very moving personal anecdote in connection with our story. And to Clifford Irving, for his advice on the manuscript, as well as Kim Gattone, for so kindly assisting with some of the technical aspects of rock climbing. At Warner, we would like to thank Betsy Mitchell, Jaime Levine, Jimmy Franco, Maureen Egen, and Larry Kirshbaum for believing in us. Thanks also to Debi Elfenbein.

We hasten to add that any outrages commited in the name of anthropology and archaeology within the pages of Thunderhead are fictitious and exist wholly within the authors’ imaginations.

1

THE FRESHLY PAVED ROAD LEFT SANTA FE and arrowed west through piñon trees. An amber-colored sun was sinking into a scrim of dirty clouds behind the snowcapped Jemez Mountains, drawing a counterpane of shade across the landscape. Nora Kelly guided the rattletrap Ford pickup along the road, down chamisa-covered hills and across the beds of dry washes. It was the third time she had been out here in as many months.

As she came up from Buckman’s Wash into Jackrabbit Flats—what had once been Jackrabbit Flats—she saw a shining arc of light beyond the piñons. A moment later, her truck was speeding past manicured greens. A nearby sprinkler head winked and nodded in the sun, jetting water in a regular, palsied cadence. Beyond, on a rise, stood the new Fox Run clubhouse, a massive structure of fake adobe. Nora looked away.

The truck rattled over a cattle guard at the far end of Fox Run and suddenly, the road was washboard dirt. She bounced past a cluster of ancient mailboxes and the crude, weatherbeaten sign that read RANCHO DE LAS CABRILLAS. For a moment, the memory of a summer day twenty years before passed through her mind: once again she was standing in the heat, holding a bucket, helping her father paint the sign. Cabrillas, he’d said, was the Spanish word for waterbugs. But it was also their name for the constellation Pleiades, which he said looked like water skaters on the shining surface of a pond. “To hell with the cattle,” she remembered him saying, swabbing thick letters with the paintbrush. “I bought this place for its stars.”

The road turned to ascend a rise, and she slowed. The sun had now disappeared, and the light was draining fast out of the high desert sky. There in a grassy valley stood the old ranch house, windows boarded up. And beside it, the frowsy outlines of the barn and corrals that were once the Kelly family ranch. No one had lived here in five years. It was no great loss, Nora told herself: the house was a mid-fifties prefab, already falling apart when she was growing up. Her father had spent all his money on the land.

Pulling off the road just below the brow of the hill, she glanced toward the nearby arroyo. Somebody had surreptitiously dumped a load of broken cinderblocks. Maybe her brother was right and she should sell the place. Taxes were going up, and the house had long ago passed the point of no return. Why was she holding on to it? She couldn’t afford to build her own place there—not on an assistant professor’s salary, anyway.

She could see the lights coming on in the Gonzales ranch house, a quarter mile away. It was a real working ranch, not like her father’s hobby ranchito. Teresa Gonzales, a girl she’d grown up with, now ran the place by herself. A big, smart, fearless woman. In recent years, she’d taken it upon herself to look after the Kelly ranch, too. Every time kids came out to party, or drunken hunters decided to take potshots at the place, Teresa rousted them and left a message on the answering machine at Nora’s townhouse. This time, for the past three or four nights, Teresa had seen dim lights in and around the house just after sunset, and—she thought—large animals slinking about.

Nora waited a few minutes, looking for signs of life, but the ranch was quiet and empty. Perhaps Teresa had imagined the lights. In any case, whoever or whatever it was seemed to have left.

She eased the truck through the inner gate and down the last two hundred yards of road, parked around back, and killed the engine. Pulling a flashlight out of the glove compartment, she stepped lightly onto the dirt. The door of the house hung open, held precariously by a single hinge screw, its lock cut off long ago with bolt cutters. A gust swept through the yard, picking up skeins of dust and moving the door with a restless whisper.

She flicked on the flashlight and stepped onto the portal. The door moved aside at her push, then swung back stubbornly. She gave it an annoyed kick and it fell to the porch with a clatter, loud in the listening silence. She stepped inside.

The boarded windows made the interior difficult to make out, yet even so it was clearly a sad echo of her memory of the house she grew up in. Beer bottles and broken glass lay strewn across the floor, and some gang member had spray-painted a tagline on the wall. Some of the boards covering the windows had been pried away. The carpet had been ripped up, and sofa cushions sliced in half and tossed about the room. Holes had been kicked in the drywall, along with liberal pepperings from a .22.

Perhaps it wasn’t that much worse than the last time. The rips on the cushions were new, along with the ragged holes in the wall, but the rest she remembered from her previous visit. Her lawyer had warned her that in its present condition the place was a liability. If a city inspector ever managed to get out here, he would immediately condemn it. The only problem was, tearing the thing down would cost more than she had—unless, of course, she sold it.

She turned from the living room into the kitchen. Her flashlight beam swept over the old Frigidaire, still lying where it had been overturned. Drawers had recently been removed and strewn about the room. The linoleum was coming up in big curls, and someone had hastened the process, peeling off strips and even ripping up floorboards to expose the crawlspace underneath. Vandalism is hard work, she thought. As her eyes roved over the room again, something began to nag at the back of her mind. Something was different this time.

She left the kitchen and began to climb the stairs, kicking aside wads of mattress ticking, trying to bring the thought into focus. Sofa cushions sliced, holes punched in walls, carpeting and linoleum ripped up. Somehow, this fresh violence didn’t seem quite as random as it had in the past. It was almost as if someone was looking for something. Halfway up the darkness of the stairwell, she stopped.

Was that the crunch of glass underfoot?

She waited, motionless in the dim light. There was no sound but the faint susurrus of wind. If a car had driven up, she’d have heard it. She continued up the stairs.

It was even darker up here, all the windowboards still in place. She turned right on the landing and shone the flashlight into her old bedroom. Again she felt the familiar pang as her eyes moved over the pink wallpaper, now hanging in strips and stained like an old map. The mattress was one giant packrat’s nest, the music stand for her oboe broken and rusted, the floorboards sprung. A bat squeaked overhead, and Nora remembered the time she’d been caught trying to make a pet out of one of them. Her mother had never understood her childish fascination for the creatures.

She moved across the hall to her brother’s room, also a wreck. Not so different from his current place. But over the smell of ruin, she thought she detected the faintest scent of crushed flowers in the night air. Strange—the windows are all shuttered up here. She moved down the hall toward her parents’ bedroom.

This time, there was no mistaking it: the faint tinkle of broken glass from below. She stopped again. Was it a rat, scuttling across the living room floor?

She moved silently back to the top of the landing, then paused. There was another sound from below: a faint thud. As she waited in the darkness, she heard another crunch, sharper this time, as something heavy stepped on broken glass.

Nora exhaled slowly, a tight knot of muscle squeezing her chest. What had begun as an irritating errand now felt like something else entirely.

“Who is it?” she called out.

Only the wind answered.

She swung the flashlight beam into the empty stairwell. Usually, kids would run at the first sight of her truck. Not this time.

“This is private property!” she yelled in her steadiest voice. “And you’re trespassing. The police are on their way.”

In the ensuing silence, there came another footpad, closer to the stairwell.

“Teresa?” Nora called again, in a desperate hope.

And then she heard something else: a throaty, menacing sound that was almost a growl.

Dogs, she thought with a sudden flood of relief. There were feral dogs out there, and they’d been using the house as a shelter. She chose not to think about why this was somehow a comforting thought.

“Yah!” she cried, waving the light. “Get on out of here! Go home!”

Again, silence was the only reply.

Nora knew how to handle stray dogs. She stomped down the stairs, speaking loudly and firmly. Reaching the bottom, she swept the beam across the living room.

It was empty. The dogs must have run at the sound of her approach.

Nora took a deep breath. Even though she hadn’t inspected her parents’ bedroom, she decided it was time to go.

As she headed for the door, she heard another careful footstep, then another, excruciatingly slow and deliberate.

She flashed her light toward the sounds as something else registered: a faint, breathy wheeze, a low, monotonous purring mutter. That same scent of flowers wafted through the heavy air, this time stronger.

She stood motionless, paralyzed by the unfamiliar feeling of menace, wondering if she should switch off the flashlight and hide herself or simply make a run for it.

And then out of the corner of her eye she saw a huge, pelted form racing along the wall. She turned to confront it as a stunning blow landed across her back.

She fell sprawling, feeling coarse fur at the nape of her neck. There was a maniacal wet growling, like the slavered fighting of rabid hounds. She lashed into the figure with a vicious kick. The figure snarled but relaxed its grip slightly, giving Nora a moment to wrench free. Just as she jumped up, a second figure slammed into her and threw her to the ground, landing atop her. Nora twisted, feeling broken glass digging into her skin as the dark form pinned her to the ground. She glimpsed a naked belly, covered with glowing spots; jaguar stripes; claws of horn and hair; a midriff, dank and matted—wearing a belt of silver conchos. Narrow eyes, terrifyingly red and bright, stared at her from grimy slits in a buckskin mask.

“Where is it?” a voice rasped in her face, washing her in the cloyingly sweet stench of rotten meat.

She could not find the voice to reply.

“Where is it?” the voice repeated, crude, imperfect, like a beast aping human speech. Vicelike claws grasped her roughly around the neck and right arm.

“What—” she croaked.

“The letter,” it said, claws tightening. “Or we rip your head off.”

She jerked in sudden fevered struggle, but the grip on her neck grew stronger. She began to choke in pain and terror.

Suddenly, a flash of light and a deafening blast cut through the darkness. She felt the grip slacken, and in a frenzy she twisted free of the claws. She rolled over as a second blast ripped a hole in the ceiling overhead, showering her with bits of lathe and plaster. She scrambled desperately to her feet, shards of glass skittering across the floor. Her flashlight had rolled away, and she spun around, disoriented.

“Nora?” she heard. “That you, Nora?” Framed in the dim light of the front door, a plump figure was standing, shotgun hanging forward.

“Teresa!” Nora sobbed. She stumbled toward the light.

“You okay?” Teresa asked, grabbing Nora’s arm, steadying her.

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Outside, Nora sank to the ground, gulping the cool twilight air and fighting down her pounding heart. “What happened?” she heard Teresa ask. “I heard noises, some kind of scuffle, saw your light.”

Nora simply shook her head, gasping.

“Those were some hellacious-looking wild dogs. Big as wolves, almost.”

Nora shook her head again. “No. Not dogs. One of them spoke to me.”

Teresa peered at her more closely. “Hey, your arm looks bitten. Maybe you’d better let me drive you to the hospital.”

“Absolutely not.”

But Teresa was scanning the dim outlines of the house, eyebrows knitted. “They sure did leave in a hurry. First kids, now wild dogs. But what kind of dogs could vanish so—”

“Teresa, one of them spoke to me.”

Teresa looked at her, more searchingly this time, a skeptical look creeping into her eyes. “Must’ve been pretty terrifying,” she said at last. “You should’ve told me you were coming out. I’d have met you down here with Señor Winchester.” She patted the gun fondly.

Nora looked at her solid figure, her rattled but capable face. She knew the woman didn’t believe her, but she didn’t have the energy to argue. “Next time I will,” she said.

“I hope there won’t be a next time,” said Teresa gently. “You need to either tear this place down, or sell it and let someone else tear it down for you. It’s becoming a problem, and not just for you.”

“I know it’s an eyesore. But I just hate to think of letting it go. I’m sorry it’s caused trouble for you.”

“I would’ve thought this might change your mind. Want to come in for a bite of something?”

“No thanks, Teresa,” Nora said as firmly as she could. “I’m all right.”

“Maybe,” came the reply. “But you better get a rabies shot anyway.”

Nora watched as her neighbor turned onto the narrow trail that headed back up the hill. Then she eased into the driver’s seat of her truck and locked all the doors with a shaking hand. She sat quietly, feeling the air move in and out of her lungs, watching Teresa’s dim form merge slowly with the dark bulk of the hillside. When at last she felt in full control of her limbs, she reached for the ignition, wincing at a sudden stab of pain in her neck.

She turned over the engine, unsuccessfully, and cursed. She needed a new vehicle, along with a new everything else in her life.

She tried it again, and after a sputtering protest the engine coughed into life. She punched off the headlights to conserve the battery and, slouching back against the seat, gently pumped the accelerator, waiting for the engine to clear.

To one side, a flash of silver winked briefly. She turned to see a huge shape, black and furred, bounding toward her against the last twilight in the western sky.

Nora slammed the old truck into gear, punched on the headlights, and gunned the engine. It roared in response and she went fishtailing out of the yard. As she careened through the inside gate, she saw with consummate horror that the thing was racing alongside her.

She jammed the accelerator to the floor as the truck slewed across the ranch road, spraying mad patterns of dirt, whacking a cholla. And then, the thing was gone. But she continued to accelerate down the road to the outer gate, wheels pounding the washboard. After an unbearably long moment, her headlights finally picked up the outer cattle guard looming from the darkness ahead, the row of old mailboxes nailed to a long horizontal board beside it. Too late, Nora jammed on the brakes; the truck struck the cattle guard and was airborne. She landed heavily and skidded in the sand, striking the old board. There was the crunch of splintering wood and the boxes were flung to the ground.

She sat in the truck, breathing hard, dust smoking up around her lights. She dropped into reverse and gunned the engine, feeling panic as the wheels dug into the deep sand. She rocked twice before the truck stalled.

In the glow of the headlights, she could see the damage. The row of ranch mailboxes had been a rickety affair to begin with, and they had recently been supplanted by a shiny new set of post office boxes that stood nearby. But she could not back up: there was no choice but to go forward.

She jumped out and, glancing around for any sign of the figure, moved around to the front of the truck, picked up the rotten, abandoned mailboxes, and dragged them aside into the brush. An envelope lay in the dirt, and she grabbed it. As she turned to step back into the truck, the headlights caught the front of the envelope. Nora froze for a moment, gasping in surprise.

Then she shoved it in her shirt pocket, jumped into the truck, and peeled back onto the road, careening toward the distant, welcoming lights of town.

2

THE SANTA FE ARCHAEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE stood on a low mesa between the Sangre de Cristo foothills and the town of Santa Fe itself. No affiliated museum opened its doors to the public, and classes were limited to invitation-only graduate seminars and faculty colloquiums. Visiting scholars and resident professors outnumbered students. The campus sprawled across thirty acres, its low adobe buildings almost invisible among the walled gardens, apricot trees, tulip beds, and rows of ancient, blossom-heavy lilacs.

The Institute was devoted almost exclusively to research, excavation, and preservation, and it housed one of the finest prehistoric southwestern Indian collections in the world. Wealthy, reserved, and much wedded to its traditions, it was looked on with both awe and envy by professional archaeologists across the country.

Nora watched the last of her students leave the low-ceilinged adobe classroom, then gathered her notes and slotted them into an oversized leather portfolio. It was the final class of her seminar, “The Chaco Abandonment: Causes and Conditions.” Once again, she was struck by the unusual attitude of students at the Institute: quiet, respectful, as if unable to believe their good fortune in being granted a ten-week resident scholarship.

Stepping out of the cool darkness into the sunlight, she walked slowly along the graveled path. The Pueblo Revival buildings of the campus, with their organic sloping walls and projecting vigas, were painted a warm rust color by the morning light. A thunderhead was developing over the mountains, dark beneath but topped with a spreading crown of brilliant white. As she glanced up to look at it, a sharp pain lanced one side of her bruised neck. She reached to massage it as a dark shadow seemed to come across the sun.

Passing the parking lot, she traced a circuitous route toward the rear of the campus, turning at last down a flagstone walk columned with lombardy poplars and old Chinese elms. The walkway ended at a nondescript building whose small wooden sign read simply RECORDS.

Nora showed her badge to the guard, signed in, and went down the hall to a low doorway, stopping at the cement steps that led down into the gloom. Down to the Map Vault.

She tensed for a moment, the darkness of the stairs bringing back another unwanted memory of the evening before. Again, she felt the broken glass stabbing into her skin, the tightening claws, the sickly sweet smell . . .

She shook the memory away and started down the narrow steps.

The Institute’s collections contained innumerable priceless artifacts. Yet nothing on campus, or in its extensive collections, was as valuable, or as guarded, as the contents of the Map Vault. Although the vault contained no treasure, it housed something far more valuable: the location of every known archaeological site in the Southwest. There were more than three hundred thousand such sites, from the most insignificant lithic scatter to huge ruins containing hundreds of rooms, all carefully marked on the Institute’s U.S.G.S. topographical map collection. Nora knew that only the tiniest fraction of these sites had ever been excavated; the rest lay slumbering under the sand or hidden in caves. Each site number corresponded to an entry in the Institute’s secure database, containing everything from detailed inventories to surveys to digitized sketches and letters—electronic treasure maps leading to millions of dollars worth of prehistoric artifacts.

How strange, Nora had always thought, that such a place would be guarded by Owen Smalls. Resplendent in beat-up leathers, heavily muscled, Smalls always looked like he had just returned from a harrowing expedition to the farthest corners of the earth. Very few who met the man realized he was an Eastern boy from a wealthy family, a summa cum laude graduate of Brown University, who if placed out in the desert would be dead or lost—or both—within the hour.

The steps ended at a metal door with a small casement window, a red light glowing above it. Nora dug into her bag, extracted her security card, and inserted it into the slot. When the light turned green, she heaved the door open and stepped inside.

Smalls occupied a fanatically neat little office outside the vault itself, overlooking the reading area. He rose as he saw her enter, placing a book carefully on his desk.

“Dr. Kelly,” he said. “Nora, right?”

“Morning,” Nora said as casually as possible.

“Haven’t seen you around for a while,” Smalls replied. “Too bad. Hey, what’d you do to your arm?”

Nora glanced briefly at the bandage. “Just a scratch. Owen, I need to look at a couple of maps.”

Smalls squinted back. “Yeah?”

“In the C-3 and C-4 quadrants of Utah. Kaiparowits Plateau.”

Smalls continued scrutinizing her, shifting his weight, sending a creak of leather echoing through the room. “Project number?”

“We don’t have a project number yet. It’s just a preliminary survey.”

Smalls placed two giant, hairy hands on the desk and leaned over them, looking at her more intently. “Sorry, Dr. Kelly. You need an approved project number to look at anything.”

“But it’s just a preliminary survey.”

“You know the rules,” Smalls replied, with a disparaging grin.

Nora thought fast. There was no way that Blakewood, the Institute’s president and her boss, would assign a project number based on the meager information she could give him. But she remembered working on a project in a different part of Utah, two years before. The project was still current, if a bit moribund—she had a bad habit of not finishing things up. What was the damn project number?

“It’s J-40012,” she said.

Small’s bushy eyebrows raised.

“Sorry, I forgot it was just assigned. Look, if you don’t believe me, call Professor Blakewood.” She knew her boss was at a conference in Window Rock.

Smalls turned to the computer on his desk and rapped at the keys. After a moment, he looked up at Nora. “Seems to be approved. C-3 and C-4, you said?” He resumed his typing, the keys ludicrously small in his hands. Then he cleared the screen and stepped away from the desk.

Nora followed as he stepped up to the vault and swung the door open. “Wait here,” he said.

“I know the routine.” Nora watched as he stepped into the vault. Inside, bathed in pitiless fluorescent light, lay two rows of metal safes, locked doors across their tops. Smalls approached one, punched in a code, and lifted its door. Hanging within the safe were countless maps, sandwiched in layers of protective plastic.

“There are sixteen maps in those quadrants,” Smalls called out. “Which ones do you want to see?”

“All of them, please.”

Smalls paused. “All sixteen? That’s eight hundred eighty square miles.”

“As I said, it’s a survey. You can always call Professor—”

“Okay, okay.” Holding the maps by the edges of their metal rails, Smalls stepped out of the vault, nodding Nora toward the reading area. He waited until she sat down, then gently placed the maps on the scarred surface of the Formica table. “Use those,” he said, indicating a box of disposable cotton gloves. “You’ve got two hours to complete your study. When you’re done, let me know and I’ll replace the maps and let you out.” He waited while she donned a pair of gloves, then grinned and returned to the vault.

Nora sat at the table as he shut first the safe, then the vault, and returned to his office. You’ll know when I’m done, she thought to herself. The “reading area” consisted of a large table with a single chair, placed in clear view of Smalls’s glass-windowed office. It was a cramped, exposed space. Not at all suitable for what she had in mind.

She took a deep breath, flexed her white-gloved fingers. Then, carefully, she spread the maps out on the table, the plastic crackling as she aligned them along their edges. The sequence of 7.5-minute maps—the most detailed U.S. Geological Survey maps made—covered an exceedingly remote area of southern Utah, framed by Lake Powell to the south and east and Bryce Canyon to the west. It was almost entirely Bureau of Land Management country: federal land that, in effect, nobody had any use for. Nora had a good idea of what the area was like: slickrock sandstone country, bisected by a diagonal—trending maze of deep canyons and escarpments, sheer walls, and barren scabland.

It was into this desolate triangle, sixteen years before, that her father had disappeared.

She remembered with painful vividness how, as a twelve-year-old, she had pleaded to go along with the searchers. But her mother had given a brusque, dry-eyed refusal. And so she spent two tormented weeks, listening for news on the radio and poring over topographical maps. Maps just like this one. But no trace was ever found. Then her mother instituted proceedings to have him declared legally dead. And Nora had never looked at a map of the area since.

Another deep breath. This would be the hard part. Making sure her back was to Owen Smalls, Nora slid two fingers into her jacket and removed the letter—the letter she had never allowed from her person since she found it, just nightmarish hours before.

The envelope was discolored and brittle, addressed faintly in pencil. And there, as she had in the glow of the headlights the previous night, she read the name of her mother, dead six months, and the address of the ranch that had been abandoned for five years. Slowly, almost unwillingly, she moved her gaze to the return address. PADRAIC KELLY, it confirmed in the generous, loopy hand she remembered so well. Somewhere west of the Kaiparowits.

A letter from her dead father to her dead mother, written and stamped sixteen years ago.

Slowly and carefully, in the fluorescent silence of the Map Vault, she removed the three sheets of yellowed paper from the envelope and smoothed them beside the maps, shielding them from Small’s view with her body. Again, she glanced at the strangest things of all: the fresh postmark and POSTAGE DUE stamp, showing the letter had been mailed from Escalante, Utah, only five weeks before.

She brushed her fingers along the soiled paper, over the red POSTAGE DUE notice and the badly faded ten-cent stamp. The envelope looked as if it had been wet, and then dried. Perhaps it had been found floating in Lake Powell, swept down the canyons in one of the flash floods the area was famous for.

For perhaps the hundredth time since she first read the letter the night before, she found herself forced to squash a surge of hope. There was no way her father could still be alive. Obviously, somebody had found the letter and mailed it.

But who? And why?

And, more frighteningly: was this the letter the creatures in the abandoned ranch house were after?

She swallowed, throat painfully dry. It had to be; there was no other answer.

A loud squeak shattered the silence as Smalls shifted in his chair. Nora started, then slipped the envelope beneath the nearest map. She turned to the letter.

Thursday, August 2 (I think), 1983

Dearest Liz,

Although I’m a hundred miles from the nearest post office, I couldn’t wait to write you any longer. I’ll mail this first thing when I hit civilization. Better yet, maybe I’ll hand-deliver it, and a lot more besides.

I know you think I’ve been a bad husband and father, and maybe you’re right. But please, please read this letter through. I know I’ve said it before, but now I can promise you that everything will change. We will be together again, Nora and Skip will have their father back. And we will be rich. I know, I know. But, dear heart, this time it’s for real. I’m about to enter the lost city of Quivira.

Remember Nora’s school report on Coronado, and his search for Quivira, the fabled city of gold? I helped her with the research. I read the reports, the legends of some Pueblo Indian tribes. And I got to thinking. What if all the stories Coronado heard were true? Look at Homer’s Troy—archaeology is full of legends that have turned out to be fact. Maybe there was a real city out there, untouched, containing a fabulous treasure of gold and silver. I found some interesting documents that gave an unexpected hint. And I came out here.

I didn’t really expect to find anything. You know me, always dreaming. But, Liz, I did find it.

Nora turned to the second page, the crucial page. The writing grew choppy, as if her father had grown breathless with excitement and could barely take the time to scribble the words.

Coming east from Old Paria, I hit Hardscrabble Wash past Ramey’s Hole. I’m not sure which side canyon I took—on a whim, mostly—maybe it was Muleshoe. There I found the ghostly trace of an ancient Anasazi road, and I followed it. It was faint, fainter even than the roads to Chaco Canyon.

Nora glanced at the maps. Locating Old Paria beside the Paria River, she began sweeping the nearby canyon country with her eyes. There were dozens of washes and small canyons, many unnamed. After a few minutes her heart leaped: there was Hardscrabble, a short wash that ran into Scoop Canyon. Scanning the area quickly, she found Ramey’s Hole, a large circular depression cut by a bend in the wash.

It went northeast. It exited Muleshoe Canyon, I’m not exactly sure where, on an old trail pecked into the sandstone, and I crossed maybe three more canyons in the same way, following ancient trails. I wish I had paid more attention, but I was so excited and it was getting late.

Nora traced an imaginary line northeast from Ramey’s Hole, still following Muleshoe. Where had the trail jumped out of the canyon? She took a guess and counted three canyons over. This brought her to an unnamed canyon, very narrow and deep.

I traveled the next day upcanyon, veering northwest, sometimes losing the trail, sometimes finding it again. It was very tough going. The trail jumped to the next canyon through a kind of gap. This, Liz, was where I got lost.

Breathing quickly, Nora traced the unnamed canyon, traveling across a corner of the next map and into a third, miles of deadly desert travel for every inch her finger moved. How far would he have gone that day? There was no way of knowing until she saw the canyon herself. And where was this gap?

Her finger came to a stop amid a welter of canyons, spread over almost a thousand square miles. Frustration welled within her. The directions in the letter were so vague, he could have gone anywhere.

The canyon split, and split again, God knows how many times. Two days I went up. This is unbelievably remote canyon country, Liz, and when you’re in the bottom of a canyon you can’t see any landmarks to orient yourself. It’s almost like hiking in a tunnel. Despite the maddening twists and turns, it somehow had the feel of an Anasazi road to me. But only when I reached what I call the Devil’s Backbone, and the slot canyon beyond, was I sure.

She turned to the final page.

You see, I’ve found the city. I know it. There is a damn good reason why it remained unknown, when you see how fiendishly they hid it. The slot canyon led to a very deep, secret canyon beyond. There’s a hand-and-toe trail leading up the rock face here to what must be a hidden alcove in the cliffs. It’s weathered, but I can still see signs of use. I’ve seen trails like this below cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde and Betatakin, and I’m certain this one also leads to a cliff dwelling, and a big one. I’d try the trail now, but it’s exceptionally steep and growing dark. If I can make it up the face without technical climbing gear, I’ll try to reach the city tomorrow.

I have enough food for a few more days, and there is water here, thank God. I believe I must be the first human being in this canyon in eight hundred years.

It is all yours if you want it. The divorce can be reversed and the clock turned back. All that is past. I just want my family.

My darling Liz, I love you so much. Kiss Nora and Skip a million times for me.

Pat

That was it.

Nora carefully slipped the letter back into its envelope. It took longer than it should have, and she realized her hands were shaking.

She sat back, filled with conflicting feelings. She had always known her father was a pothunter of sorts, but it shamed her that he would consider looting such an extraordinary ruin for his own private gain.

And yet she knew her father wasn’t a greedy man. He had little interest in money. What he loved was the hunt. And he had loved her and Skip, more than anything else in the world. She was sure of that, despite everything her mother had said.

She gazed once again over the expanse of maps. If the ruin was really as important as he made out, it must also be unknown. Because she could see from the maps that nothing remotely like it had been marked. The closest human habitation seemed to be an extremely remote Indian village, marked NANKOWEAP, that was at least several days’ journey away at the far edge of the tangle of canyons. According to the map, there weren’t even any roads to the village; just a pack trail.

The archaeologist in her felt a surge of excitement. Finding Quivira would be a way to vindicate her father’s life, and it would also be a way to learn, finally, what had happened to him. And, she thought a little ruefully, it wouldn’t hurt her career, either.

She sat up. It was clearly impossible to determine where he had gone by looking at the maps. If she wanted to find Quivira, and perhaps solve the mystery of her father’s disappearance, she would have to go into that country herself.

Smalls looked up from his book as she leaned into his office. “I’m done, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied. “Hey, it’s lunchtime, and once I lock up I’m going to grab a burrito. Care to join me?”

Nora shook her head. “Got to get back to my office, thanks. I’ve got a lot of work to do this afternoon.”

“I’ll consider that a raincheck,” Smalls said.

“Too bad we live in the desert.” Nora went out the door to the sound of harsh laughter.

As she climbed the dark stairs, the bandage pulled against her arm, reminding her once again of the previous evening’s attack. She knew that, logically, she should report it to the police. But when she thought of the investigation, the disbelief, the time it would all take, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Nothing, nothing, could interfere with what she had to do next.

3

MURRAY BLAKEWOOD, PRESIDENT OF the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute, turned his shaggy gray head toward Nora. As usual, his face bore a look of distant courtesy, hands loosely folded on the rosewood table, eyes steady and cool.

The lighting in the office was soft, and the walls were lined with discreetly lit glass cases, filled with artifacts from the museum’s collection. Directly behind his desk was a seventeenth-century gilded Mexican reredos, and on the far wall was a first-phase Navajo chief’s blanket, woven in the “Eyedazzler” pattern—perhaps one of only two of its kind still in existence. Normally, Nora could hardly tear her eyes from the priceless relics. Today she didn’t spare them a glance.

“Here is a map of the area,” she said, pulling a 30-by-60-minute quadrangle map of the Kaiparowits Plateau from her oversized portfolio and smoothing it in front of Blakewood. “See, I’ve marked the existing sites along here.”

Blakewood nodded, and Nora took a deep breath. There was no easy way to do this.

In a rush she said, “Coronado’s city of Quivira is right here. In these canyons west of the Kaiparowits Plateau.”

There was a silence, then Blakewood leaned back in his chair, speaking in a gently ironic tone. “There were a couple of steps missing there, Dr. Kelly, and you lost me.”

Nora reached into her portfolio and brought out a photocopied page. “Let me read you this excerpt from one of the Coronado expedition reports, written around 1540.” She cleared her throat.

The Cicuye Indians brought forward a slave to show the General, who they had captured in a distant land. The General questioned the slave through interpreters.

The slave told him about a distant city, called Quivira. It is a holy city, he said, where the rain priests live, who guard the records of their history from the beginning of time. He said it was a city of great wealth. Common table service was generally of the purest smoothed gold, and the pitchers, dishes and bowls were also made of gold, refined, polished and decorated. He called the gold “acochis.” He said they despised all other materials.

The General questioned this man as to where the city lay. He replied that it was many weeks’ travel, through the deepest canyons and over the highest mountains. There were vipers, floods, earthquakes and dust storms in that distant country, and none who traveled there ever returned. Quivira in their language means “The House of the Bloody Cliff.”

She returned the sheet to her portfolio. “Elsewhere in the report, there’s a reference to ‘ancient ones.’ Clearly that would be the Anasazi. The word anasazi means—”

“Ancient enemies,” said Blakewood gently.

“Right,” Nora nodded. “Anyway, ‘House of the Bloody Cliff’ would imply that it’s some kind of cliff dwelling, undoubtedly in the redrock canyon country of southern Utah. Those cliffs shine just like blood when it rains.” She tapped the map. “And where else could a large city be hidden except in those canyons? Moreover, this area is famous for its flash floods, which come up out of nowhere and scour the whole place clean. And it lies over the Kaibab Volcanic Field, which creates a lot of low-level seismic activity. Every other place has been carefully explored. This canyon country was a stronghold of the Anasazi. This has got to be the place, Dr. Blakewood. And I have this other narrative that says—” Nora stopped as she saw Blakewood beginning to frown.

“What evidence do you have?” he asked.

“This is my evidence.”

“I see.” Blakewood let out a sigh. “And you want to organize an expedition to explore this area, funded by the Institute.”

“That’s right. I would be happy to write the grants.”

Blakewood looked at her. “Dr. Kelly, this”—he gestured to the map—“is not evidence. This is the sheerest kind of speculation.”

“But—”

Blakewood held up his hand. “Let me finish. The area you describe is perhaps a thousand square miles. Even if it contained a large ruin, how do you propose to find it?”

Nora hesitated. How much should she tell him? “I have an old letter,” she began, “that describes an Anasazi road in these canyons. I believe the road would lead to the ruin.”

“A letter?” Blakewood’s eyebrows elevated.

“Yes.”

“Written by an archaeologist?”

“Right now, I’d rather not say.”

A shadow of irritation crossed Blakewood’s face. “Dr. Kelly—Nora—let me point out a few practical matters here. There’s not enough evidence, even with this mysterious letter of yours, to justify a survey permit, let alone an excavation. And as you pointed out yourself, the area’s known for extremely severe summer thunderstorms and flash floods. Even more to the point, the Kaiparowits Plateau and the country to its west encompasses the most complicated canyon system on the planet.”

The perfect place to hide a city, Nora thought to herself.

Blakewood stared at her briefly. Then he cleared his throat. “Nora, I’d like to give you some professional advice.”

Nora swallowed. This wasn’t how she had envisioned the conversation developing.

“Archaeology today isn’t like it was a hundred years ago. All the spectacular stuff has been found. Our job is to move more slowly, assemble the little details, analyze.” He leaned toward her. “You always seem to be looking for the fabulous ruin, the oldest this or biggest that. None of that exists anymore, Nora, even around the Kaiparowits Plateau. There have been archaeological survey parties in that area at least half a dozen times since the Wetherills first explored those canyons.”

Listening, Nora struggled to keep her own doubts at bay. She herself knew there was no way to be certain whether her father actually reached the city. But there was no mistaking the tone of certainty in his letter, or the high flood of his triumph. And there was something else: something always present now in the back of her mind. Somehow, those men—those creatures—that attacked her in the farmhouse had known about the letter. That meant they, too, had reason to believe in Quivira.

“There are many lost ruins in the Southwest,” she heard herself say, “buried in sand or hidden under cliffs. Take the lost city of Senecú. That was a huge ruin seen by the Spanish that has since disappeared.”

There was a pause as Blakewood tapped a pencil on the desktop. “Nora, there’s something else I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,” he said, the look of irritation more plain now. “You’ve been here, what, five years?”

“Five and a half, Dr. Blakewood.”

“When you were hired as an assistant professor, you realized what the tenure process involved, correct?”

“Yes.” Nora knew what was coming.

“You will be up for review in six months. And frankly, I’m not sure your tenure will be approved.”

Nora said nothing.

“As I recall, your work in graduate school was brilliant. That is why we brought you on board. But once you were hired, it took you three years to finish your dissertation.”

“But Dr. Blakewood, don’t you remember how I got tied up at the Rio Puerco site—?” She stopped as Blakewood raised his hand again.

“Yes. Like all of the better academic institutions, we have a scholarship requirement. A publishing requirement. Since you brought up the Rio Puerco site, may I ask where the report is?”

“Well, right after that, we found that unusual burned jacal on the Gallegos Divide—”

“Nora!” Blakewood interrupted, a little sharply. “The fact is,” he went on in the ensuing silence, “you jump from project to project. You have two major excavations to write up in the next six months. You don’t have time to go chasing some chimera of a city that existed only in the imagination of the Spanish conquistadors.”

“But it does exist!” Nora cried. “My father found it!”

The look of astonishment that came across Blakewood did not sit well on his normally placid face. “Your father?”

“That’s right. He found an ancient Anasazi road leading into that canyon country. He followed it to the site, to the very hand-and-toe trail leading up to the city. He documented the entire trip.”

Blakewood sighed. “Now I understand your enthusiasm. I don’t mean to criticize your father, but he wasn’t exactly the most . . .” His voice trailed off, but Nora knew the next word was going to be reliable. She felt a prickling sensation move up her spine. Careful, she thought, or you could lose your job right here and now. She swallowed hard.

Blakewood’s voice dropped. “Nora, were you aware that I knew your father?”

Nora shook her head. A lot of people had known her father: Santa Fe had been a small town, at least for archaeologists. Pat Kelly always had an uneasy relationship with them, sometimes providing valuable information, other times digging ruins himself.

“In many ways he was a remarkable man, a brilliant man. But he was a dreamer. He couldn’t have been less interested in the facts.”

“But he wrote that he found the city—”

“You said he found a prehistoric hand-and-toe trail,” Blakewood broke in. “Which exist by the thousands in canyon country. Did he write that he actually found the city itself?”

Nora paused. “Not exactly, but—”

“Then I’ve said all I’m going to say on this expedition—and on your tenure review.” He refolded his old hands, the fine pattern of wrinkles almost translucent against the burnished desktop. “Is there anything else?” he asked more gently.

“No,” Nora said. “Nothing else.” She swept her papers into the portfolio, spun on her heels, and left.

4

NORA SCANNED THE CLUTTERED APARTMENT with dismay. If anything, it was worse than she remembered. The dirty dishes in the sink looked as unwashed as when she’d seen them a month before, tottering so precariously that no additional plates could be added, the lower strata furred in green mold. Sink full, the apartment’s occupant had apparently taken to ordering pizzas and Chinese food in disposable cartons: a tiny pyramid rose from the wastebasket and trailed onto the nearby floor like a bridal veil. A flood of magazines and old newspapers lay on and around the scuffed furniture. Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” played from speakers barely visible behind piles of socks and dirty sweatshirts. On one shelf stood a neglected goldfish bowl, its water a murky brown. Nora glanced away, unwilling to look too closely at the bowl’s occupants.

There was a cough and a sniff from the apartment’s inhabitant. Her brother, Skip, slouched on the decomposing orange couch, propped his dirty bare feet up on a nearby table and looked over at her. He still had little bronze curls across his forehead and a smooth, adolescent face. He’d be very handsome, Nora thought, if it weren’t for the petulant, immature look to his face, his dirty clothes. It was hard—painful, really—to think of him as grown up, his physics degree from Stanford barely a year old, and doing absolutely nothing. Surely it was just last week she’d been babysitting this wild, happy-go-lucky kid with a brilliant knack for driving her crazy. He didn’t drive her crazy anymore—just worried. Sometime after their mother’s death six months ago, he’d switched from beer to tequila; half a dozen empty bottles lay scattered around the floor. Now he drained a fresh bottle into a mason jar, a sullen look on his inflamed face. A small yellow worm dropped from the upended bottle into the glass. Skip picked it out and tossed it into an ashtray, where several other similar worms lay, shriveled now to husks as the alcohol had evaporated.

“That’s disgusting,” Nora said.

“I’m sorry you don’t value my collection of Nadomonas sonoraii,” Skip replied. “If I’d appreciated the benefits of invertebrate biology earlier, I’d never have majored in physics.” He reached over to the table, pulled open its drawer, and removed a long, flat sheet of plywood, handing it to Nora with a sniff. One side of the board had been set up in imitation of a lepidopterist’s collection. But instead of butterflies, Nora saw thirty or forty mescal worms, pinned to its surface like oversized brown commas. Wordlessly, she handed it back.

“I see you’ve done some interior decorating since the last time I came by,” Nora said. “For example, that crack is new.” She nodded at a huge gash that traveled from floor to ceiling along one wall, exposing ribs of plaster and lath.

“My neighbor’s foot,” Skip said. “He doesn’t like my taste in music, the philistine. You ought to bring your oboe over sometime, make him really mad. So anyway, what made you change your mind so fast? I thought you were going to hold on to that old ranch until hell froze over.” He took a long sip from the mason jar.

“Something happened there last night.” She reached over to turn down the music.

“Oh yeah?” Skip asked, looking vaguely interested. “Some kids trash the place or something?”

Nora looked at him steadily. “I was attacked.”

The sullen look vanished and Skip sat up. “What? By who?”

“People dressed up as animals, I think. I’m not sure.”

“They attacked you? Are you all right?” His face flushed with anger and concern. Even though he was the younger brother, resentful of her interference and ready to take offense, Skip was instinctively protective.

“Teresa and her shotgun came along. Except for this scratch on my arm, I’m fine.”

Skip slouched back, the energy gone as quickly as it had arrived. “Did she drill the bastards with lead?”

“No. They got away.”

“Too bad. Did you call the cops?”

“Nope. What could I say? If Teresa didn’t believe me, they certainly wouldn’t. They’d think I was nuts.”

“Just as well, I guess.” Skip had always distrusted policemen. “What do you suppose they wanted?”

Nora didn’t reply immediately. Even as she’d knocked on his door, she’d still been debating whether or not to tell him about the letter. The fear of that night, the shock of the letter, remained with her constantly. How would he react?

“They wanted a letter,” she said at last.

“What kind of letter?”

“I think it was this one.” Carefully, she pulled the yellowed envelope from her breast pocket and laid it on the table. Skip bent over it, and then with a sharp exhalation picked it up. He read in silence. Nora could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen, the faint sound of a car horn, the rustle of something moving in the sink. She could also feel her own heart pounding.

Skip laid the letter down. “Where did you find this?” he asked, eyes and fingers still on the envelope.

“It was near our old mailbox. Mailed five weeks ago. They put up new mailboxes but our address wasn’t included, so I guess the mailman just stuck it in the old box.”

Skip turned his face to her. “Oh, my God,” he said weakly, eyes filling with tears.

Nora felt a pang: this was what she’d been afraid of. It was a burden he didn’t need right now. “I can’t explain it. Somebody found it somewhere, maybe, and dropped it in the mail.”

“But whoever found it would also have found Dad’s body—” Skip swallowed and wiped his face. “You think he’s alive?”

“No. Not a chance. He would never have abandoned us if he were alive. He loved us, Skip.”

“But this letter—”

“Was written sixteen years ago. Skip, he’s dead. We have to face that. But at least now we have a clue to where he might have died. Maybe we can find out what happened to him.”

Skip had kept his fingers pressed to the envelope, as if unwilling to relinquish this unexpected new conduit to his father. But at these last words, he suddenly removed his hand and leaned back on the couch. “These guys who wanted the letter,” he said. “Why didn’t they look in the mailbox?”

“I actually found it in the sand. I think it might have blown out—the mailbox door was missing. And those old boxes looked like they hadn’t been used for years. But I really don’t know for sure. I kind of knocked them down with my truck.”

Skip glanced back at the envelope. “If they knew about the farmhouse, you suppose they also know where we live?”

“I’m trying not to think about that,” Nora replied. But she was. Constantly.

Skip, more composed now, finished the last of his drink. “How the hell did they find out about this letter?”

“Who knows? Lots of people have heard the legends of Quivira. And Dad had some pretty unsavory contacts—”

“So Mom said,” he interrupted. “What are you planning to do?”

“I figured—” Nora paused. This was going to be the hard part. “I figured the way to find out what happened to him would be to find Quivira. And that will take money. Which is why I want to put Las Cabrillas on the market.”

Skip shook his head and gave a wet laugh. “Jesus, Nora. Here I’ve been living in this shithole, with no money, begging you to sell that place so I could get my feet on the ground. And now you want to blow what nest egg we’ve got looking for Dad. Even though he’s dead.”

“Skip, you could always get your feet on the ground by finding a job —” Nora began, then stopped. This wasn’t why she came here. He sat on the sofa, shoulders hunched, and Nora found her heart melting. “Skip, it would mean a lot to me to know what happened to Dad.”

“Look, go ahead and sell the place. I’ve been saying that for years. But don’t use my share of the money. I’ve got other plans.”

“To mount an archaeological expedition might take a little more than just my share.”

Skip sat back. “I get it. So the Institute won’t fund anything, right? Can’t say I’m surprised. I mean, it says here he never saw the city! He’s all worked up over a trail. There’s a leap of faith in this letter, Nora. You know what Mom would say about this?”

“Yes! She’d say he was just dreaming again. Are you saying it, too?”

Skip winced. “No. I’m not siding with Mom.” The scornful tone had been stung from his voice. “I just don’t want to lose a sister the way I lost a father.”

“Come on, Skip. That’s not going to happen. In the letter, Dad says he was following an ancient road. If I can find that road, it would be the proof I need.”

Skip pushed his feet to the floor, elbows on his knees, a scowl on his face. Suddenly he straightened up. “I’ve got an idea. A way that maybe you can find that road, without even going out there. I had a physics professor at Stanford, Leland Watkins. Now he works for JPL.”

“JPL?”

“The Jet Propulsion Laboratory at Cal Tech. It’s a branch of NASA.”

“How’s that going to help us?”

“This guy’s been working on the shuttle program. I read about this specialized radar system they have that can see through thirty feet of sand. They were using it to map ancient trails in the Sahara Desert. If they can map trails there, why not in Utah?”

Nora stared at her brother. “This radar can see old roads?”

“Right through the sand.”

“And you took a class from this guy? You think he still remembers you?”

Skip’s face suddenly became guarded. “Oh, yeah. He remembers me.”

“Great! So call him up and—”

Skip’s look stopped her. “I can’t do that,” he said.

“How come?”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“Why not?” Nora was discovering that a lot of people didn’t like Skip.

“He had this really cute girlfriend, a graduate student, and I . . .” Skip’s face colored.

Nora shook her head. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

Skip picked up the yellow mescal worm and rolled it between finger and thumb. “Sorry about that. If you want to talk to Watkins, I guess you’re going to have to call him yourself.”

5

NORA SAT AT A WORKTABLE IN THE Institute’s Artifact Analysis Lab. Lined up in front of her, beneath the harsh fluorescent light, were six bags of heavy-mil plastic bulging with potsherds. Each was labeled RIO PUERCO, LEVEL I in black marker. In one of the nearby lockers, carefully padded to eliminate “bag wear,” were four more bags marked LEVEL II and yet another marked LEVEL III: a total of one hundred and ten pounds of potsherds.

Nora sighed. She knew that, in order to publish the report on the Rio Puerco site, every sherd had to be sorted and classified. And after the sherds would come stone tools and flakes, bone fragments, charcoal, pollen samples, even hair samples; all patiently waiting in their metal cages around the lab. She opened the first bag and, using metal forceps, began placing artifacts on the white table. Glancing up at a buzzing light, she could see a corner of white cloud scud past the tiny barred window far above her head. Like a damn prison, she thought sourly. She glanced at the nearby terminal, blinking the data entry screen into focus.

TW-1041

Screen 25

SANTA FE ARCHAEOLOGICAL INSTITUTE

Context Recording / Artifact Database

Site No

Area/Section

Plan No

Accession No

Coord

Provenance

Recorded by

Site Book Ref

Grid Square

Context Code

Lev/Stratum

Trinomial Desig

Excav Date

Lev Bag Of

Artifact Description (4096 chars max)

CONFIDENTIAL—DO NOT DUPLICATE

She understood precisely why this kind of statistical research was necessary. And yet she couldn’t help but feel that the Institute, under Murray Blakewood’s guidance, had become shackled by an obsession with typology. It was as if, for all its vast collections and reservoir of talent, the Institute was ignoring the new developments—ethnoarchaeology, contextual archaeology, molecular archaeology, cultural resource management—taking place outside its thick adobe walls.

She pulled out her handwritten field logs, tabulating the artifacts against the information she entered into the database. 46 Mesa Verde B/W, 23 Chaco/McElmo, 2 St. John’s Poly, 1 Soccoro B/W . . . Or was that another Mesa Verde B/W? She hunted in the drawer for a loup, rummaging unsuccessfully. Hell with it, she thought, placing it to one side and moving on.

Her hand closed over a small, polished piece of pottery, evidently the lip of a bowl. Now this is more like it, she thought. Despite its small size, the fragment was beautiful, and she still remembered its discovery. She’d been sitting beside a thicket of tamarisk, stabilizing a fragile basket with polyvinyl acetate, when her assistant Bruce Jenkins gave a sudden yelp. “Chaco Black-on-Yellow Micaceous!” he’d screeched. “God damn!” She remembered the excitement, the envy, that the little fragment had generated. And here it was, sitting forlorn in an oversized Baggie. Why couldn’t the Institute devote more energy to, say, learning why this fantastic style of pottery was so rare—why no complete pots had ever been found, why nobody knew where it came from or how it was made—instead of ceaselessly numbering and cross-tabulating, like accountants of prehistory?

She stared at the potsherds spread out in a dun-colored line. With a sudden movement, she pushed away from the desk and turned toward the phone, dialing information.

“Pasadena,” she said into the phone. “The Jet Propulsion Laboratory.” It took one external and two internal operators to learn that Leland Watkins’s extension was 2330.

“Yes?” came the voice at last, high-pitched and impatient.

“Hello. This is Nora Kelly, at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute.”

“Yes?” the voice repeated.

“Am I speaking to Leland Watkins?”

“This is Dr. Watkins.”

“I’d like a moment of your time,” Nora said, talking quickly. “We’re working on a project in southeastern Utah, looking at ancient Anasazi roads. Would it be possible for you—”

“We don’t have any radar coverage in that area,” interrupted Watkins.

Nora took a deep breath. “Is there any way we might cooperate in getting some radar coverage? You see—”

“No, there is no way,” said Watkins, his voice growing nasal in irritation. “I’ve got a list a mile long of people waiting for radar coverage: geologists, rain forest biologists, agricultural scientists, you name it.”

“I see,” said Nora, trying to keep her voice even. “And what about the application process for such coverage?”

“We’re backed up two years with applications. And I’m too swamped to talk to you about it. The shuttle Republic is in orbit right now, as you probably know.”

“It’s rather important, Dr. Watkins. We believe—”

“Everything’s important. Now, will you excuse me? Write if you want that application.”

“And the address—?” Nora stopped as she realized she was talking to a dial tone.

“Arrogant prick!” she shouted. “I’m glad my brother boned your girlfriend!” She slammed the phone into its cradle.

Then she paused, staring speculatively at the phone. Dr. Watkins’s extension had been 2330.

Reaching again, she slowly and deliberately dialed a long-distance number. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “Give me extension 2331, please.”

6

WITH A HEAVY SIGH, PETER HOLROYD SETTLED himself on the old tractor-style seat, turned the right handgrip to retard the spark advance, and kicked the engine into ferocious life. He sat for a minute, letting the motorcycle warm up. Then he dropped into first, turned out of the complex into the California Boulevard traffic, and headed west toward Ambassador Auditorium. A thin haze hung over the San Gabriel Mountains. As usual, his eyes—raw from a long day of poring over massive computer screens and false-color images—smarted in the ozone. Free of the purified atmosphere of the complex, his nose began to run freely, and he hawked a generous blob of phlegm onto the blacktop. A small plastic image of the Michelin tire mascot had been glued to the gas tank, and he reached down to rub its fat belly. “O God of California traffic,” he intoned, “grant me safe passage, free of rain, loose gravel, and tight drivers.”

Ten blocks and twenty minutes later, he nosed the old motorcycle south, heading for Atlantic Boulevard and his Monterey Park neighborhood. Traffic was easier here, and he shifted into third for the first time since starting the engine, letting the wind blow away the heat of the cylinders beneath him. His thoughts returned once again to the persistent archaeologist who had kept him on the line for such a long time that morning. In his mind, he saw a dumpy, mousy-looking academic with chopped-off hair and no social graces. He had promised nothing except a meeting. A meeting far from JPL, of course—if Watkins got even a whiff of extracurricular dealings, he’d be in deep shit. But these hints of a lost city had intrigued him more than he wanted to admit. Holroyd hadn’t had much luck with women, and the thought that one—mousy or not—was willing to drop everything and drive all the way from Santa Fe to meet with him was flattering. Besides, she’d promised to pay for dinner.

After a brief, easy run, the streets grew more congested and aggressively urban. Another three blocks, another three lights, and he nosed up onto the sidewalk beside a row of four-story buildings. Pulling a brown bag from beneath the bungee cord on the rear fender, he craned his neck up toward his apartment. Ancient yellow curtains twitched limply in the hot, fitful breeze. They were a bequest of a previous tenant and had never felt air conditioning. Snorting again, Holroyd angled across the street and headed toward the intersection, where the sign for Al’s Pizza glowed against the gathering dusk.

He glanced around and slid into his usual booth, enjoying the chill air of the restaurant. The traffic had made him late, but the place was still empty. Holroyd tried to decide whether he felt disappointed or relieved.

Al himself came over, a small, impossibly hirsute man. “Good evening, professor!” he cried. “Nice night, eh?”

“Sure,” said Holroyd. Over Al’s hair-matted shoulder, he could see a small television, its grainy image struggling through a film of grease. It was always tuned to CNN, and the sound was always off. There was an image of the shuttle Republic, showing an astronaut floating upside down, tethered by a white cord, the magnificent blue orb of Earth as a backdrop. He felt a quick familiar feeling of longing and turned back to Al’s cheerful face.

Al slapped the table with a floury hand. “What tonight? We’ve got good anchovy pizza, coming out in five minutes. You like anchovy?”

Holroyd hesitated a moment. Probably she’d thought better of making such a long trip; after all, he hadn’t exactly been encouraging on the telephone. “I love anchovies,” he said. “Bring me two slices.”

“Angelo! Two slices anchovy for the professor!” Al cried as he swept back behind the counter. Holroyd watched him walk away, then reached for the paper bag and dumped the contents onto the tabletop. A notebook, two blue high-lighters, and paperback copies of The White Nile, Aku Aku, and Lansing’s Endurance fell out. With a sigh, he fanned the pages of Endurance, located the paper clip, and settled back.

He heard the familiar squeal of the pizza parlor door and caught a glimpse of a young woman struggling through, lugging a large portfolio case. She had unusual bronze-colored hair that broke in waves over her shoulders, and penetrating hazel eyes. Her body was slim, and as she dragged the case through the door he couldn’t help but notice a shapely rear. She turned and he looked up quickly, guiltily, only to be arrested by her face: smart, restless, impatient.

This couldn’t be her.

The woman glanced up and the hazel eyes met his. He quickly shut the book and smoothed a hand over his hair, made unruly by the motorcycle ride. The woman walked straight toward him, dumped her portfolio on the table, and slid into the far side of the booth with a cool rustle of her long legs. She brushed back the copper-colored hair. Her skin was tan, and he noticed a scattering of freckles along the bridge of her nose.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you Peter Holroyd?”

He nodded. And experienced a moment of panic. This was not the frowsy scholar he’d expected: this woman was lovely.

“I’m Nora Kelly.” She extended her hand.

Holroyd hesitated a moment. Then he put the book down and shook the proffered hand. The fingers were cool and unexpectedly strong.

“Sorry to corner you like this. Thanks for meeting with me.”

Holroyd tried a smile. “Well, your story was interesting. But a little vague. I’m interested in hearing more about this lost city in the desert.”

“Well, I’m afraid it has to be vague for the time being. You can understand the need for secrecy.”

“Then I’m not sure what I can do for you,” Holroyd said. “It’s like I told you on the phone. All those requests have to go through my boss.” He hesitated. “I’m just here to learn a little more.”

“Your boss would be Dr. Watkins. Yes, I talked to him, too. Real nice guy. Modest, too. I like that in a man. Too bad he couldn’t spare me more than nine seconds.”

Holroyd began to laugh, then quickly stifled himself. “So what’s your position at the Institute?” he asked, shifting in the booth.

“I’m an assistant professor.”

“Assistant professor,” Holroyd repeated. “And you’re the one in charge of the expedition? Or is there someone else?”

The woman gave him a penetrating look. “I’m kind of at the same level you are. Fairly low down on the totem pole, not really in control of my own destiny. This,” she patted her portfolio, “could change all that.”

Holroyd wasn’t sure if he should be offended. “So when exactly do you need the data? It might speed things up if the Institute’s president contacted my boss directly—he’s always impressed by big names.” He mentally kicked himself for sounding a disparaging note about his boss. You never knew when something like that might find its way back, and Watkins was not the forgiving type.

She leaned toward him. “Mr. Holroyd, I’ve got a confession to make. I’m not working right now with the complete support of the Institute. The fact is, they won’t even consider an expedition to find this city until I bring them proof. That’s why I need your help.”

“Why are you so interested in finding this city?”

“Because it could be the greatest archaeological discovery of our time.”

“And how do you know that?”

Al appeared, bearing two huge slices of pizza dense with anchovies. He slid them under Holroyd’s nose. A salty aroma wafted upward.

“Not on the portfolio!” the woman cried. Taken aback by the sudden tone of command, Al scooped the slices onto a neighboring table, apologizing profusely as he backed away.

“And bring me an iced tea, please!” she called after him, then turned back to Holroyd. “Look, Peter—can I call you Peter?—I didn’t drive all the way here to waste your time on some dime-a-dozen digsite.” She drew closer, and Holroyd caught a faint clean scent of shampoo. “Ever hear of Coronado, the Spanish explorer? He came into the Southwest in 1540, looking for the Seven Cities of Gold. A friar had gone north years before, looking for souls to save, and he returned with a huge, drilled emerald crystal and stories of lost cities. But when Coronado himself came northward, he found only the mud pueblos of the Indian tribes of New Mexico, none of whom had gold or wealth. But at a place called Cicuye, the Indians told him about a city of priests, called Quivira, where they ate from plates of gold and drank from golden goblets. Of course, this drove Coronado and his men into a frenzy.”

The tea came, and she cracked the plastic seal from the cap and took a sip. “Some of the natives told him Quivira was way to the east, in present-day Texas. Others said it was in Kansas. So Coronado and his army went eastward. But when he got to Kansas, the Indians said Quivira was far to the west, in the country of the Red Stones. Eventually, Coronado returned to Mexico, a broken man, convinced he’d been chasing a chimera.”

“Interesting,” Holroyd said. “But it doesn’t prove anything.”

“Coronado wasn’t the only one to hear these stories. In 1776, two Spanish friars, Escalante and Dominguez, traveled westward from Santa Fe, trying to blaze an overland route to California. I’ve got their report here somewhere.” She dug into her portfolio, retrieved a creased sheet of paper, and began reading.

Our Paiute guides took us through difficult country, by what seemed to us a perverse route, northward instead of westward. When we remarked upon this, the response was that the Paiutes never traveled through the country to the west. Asked the reason, they became sullen and silent. Halfway through our journey, near the Crossing of the Fathers on the Colorado River, half of them deserted. It was never clear from the rest exactly what lay to the west that caused such strong emotion. One spoke of a great city, destroyed because the priests there had enslaved the world, and tried to usurp the power of the sun itself. Others hinted darkly of a slumbering evil which they dared not awaken.

She replaced the sheet of paper. “And that’s not all. In 1824, an American mountain man by the name of Josiah Blake was captured by Ute Indians. In those days, exceptionally brave captives were sometimes offered a choice between death or joining the tribe. Blake naturally joined the tribe. He later married a Ute woman. Utes are nomadic, and at certain times of the year they would venture deep into the Utah canyon country. Once, in a particularly remote area west of the Escalante, a Ute pointed toward the setting sun and mentioned that in that direction lay a ruined city of fabulous wealth. The Utes never ventured any closer, but they gave Blake an engraved turquoise disk that had supposedly come from the city. When he finally got back to white civilization ten years later, he swore that one day he would find this lost place. Eventually, he went back to look for it and was never seen again.”

She took another sip of tea and placed the bottle carefully beside the portfolio. “Today, people assume these are all just myths, or maybe lies told by the Indians. But I don’t think it was either a myth or a lie. The location of the lost city is too consistent across all of the stories. I believe the reason nobody has ever found this city is because it is hidden in the most remote section of the lower 48. Like other Anasazi cities, it was probably built high up on a cliff, in an alcove or under an overhang. Or perhaps it’s simply been buried in drifting sand. And that’s where you come in. You’ve got what I need, Peter. A radar system that can pinpoint the city.”

Despite himself, Holroyd found himself drawn into the story and its promise of adventure. He cleared his throat, searching for a note of reasonableness. “Excuse me for saying it, but this is rather a long shot. First of all, if the city is hidden, no radar could see it.”

“But I understand your Terrestrial Imager can see through sand as well as clouds and darkness.”

“That’s correct. But not rock. If it’s under a ledge, forget it. Second—”

“But I don’t want you to find the city itself. Just the road leading up to it. Here, look at this.” She opened her portfolio and pulled out a small map of the Southwest, overlain with several thin, straight lines. “A thousand years ago, the Anasazi built this mysterious road system, connecting their large cities. These are the roads that have been mapped. Each one leads to or from a major city. Your radar could surely see those roads from space. Right?”

“Maybe.”

“I have an old report—a letter, actually—that states there is a similar road leading into this warren of canyons. I’m certain it leads to the lost city of Quivira. If we could trace that road on a satellite image, we’d know where to look.”

Holroyd spread his hands. “But it’s not that simple. There’s the waiting list. I’m sure Watkins must have told you about that, he loves to talk about it. There’s two years’ worth of applications for—”

“Yes, he told me all about that. But who actually decides what the radar examines?”

“Well, the imaging applications are prioritized by urgency and date of receipt. I take the pending jobs, and—”

“You.” Nora nodded in satisfaction.

Holroyd fell silent.

“I’m sorry.” Nora said suddenly. “Your dinner’s getting cold.” She replaced the map in her portfolio as Holroyd gathered up the congealing slices of pizza. “So it would be a simple matter to, say, push one of the applications to the top of the queue?”

“I suppose.” Holroyd sank his teeth into the pizza, barely tasting it.

“See? I fill out an application, you move it to the top of the pile, and we get our images.”

Holroyd swallowed hard. “And just what do you think Dr. Watkins, or the boys at NASA, would think of my ordering an orbit change for the space shuttle just so it could fly over your area? Why should I help you with this? I’d be risking my ass—I mean, my job.”

Nora looked at him. “Because I think you’re more than just some bean-counting drone. Because I think you’ve got the same kind of fire in your gut that I’ve got. To find something that’s been lost for centuries.” She gestured at the table. “Why else would you be reading these books? Each one of them is about discovering the unknown. Finding Quivira would be like discovering those cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde. Only greater.”

Holroyd hesitated.

“I can’t,” he said after a moment, in a very quiet voice. “You’re asking for the impossible.” He realized with a thrill of fear that, for an instant, he’d actually been considering how he could help her. But the whole idea was crazy. This woman had no proof, no credentials, nothing.

And yet he found himself unaccountably drawn in by her, by her passion and excitement. He had been to Mesa Verde as a child. The memory of those vast silent ruins still haunted him. He looked around, trying to collect his thoughts. He glanced at Nora, gazing back at him expectantly. He’d never seen hair quite that color, a burnished coppery sheen, almost metallic. Then his view moved back to the little image on the television screen of the Republic floating in space.

“It’s not impossible,” Nora said in an undertone. “You give me the application, I fill it out, and you do what you have to do.”

But Holroyd was still staring at the image: the shining ivory shuttle drifting through space, the stars hard as diamonds, the earth endless miles below. It was always like that. The excitement of discovery that he had longed for growing up, the chance to explore a new planet or fly to the moon—all those dreams had withered in a cubicle at JPL, while he watched someone else’s adventure unfold on a dirty monitor.

Then he realized with a start that Nora had been staring at him. “When did you join JPL?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject.

“Eight years ago,” he said, “right out of graduate school.”

“Why?”

He stopped, surprised by the bluntness of the question. “Well,” he said, “I always wanted to be part of the exploration of space.”

“I bet you grew up wanting to be the first man on the moon.”

Holroyd blushed. “I was a little late for that. But I did have dreams of going to Mars.”

“And now they’re up there, orbiting the earth, and you’re sitting here in a greasy pizza parlor.”

It was as if she had read his mind. Holroyd felt a surge of resentment. “Look, I’m doing just fine. Those guys wouldn’t be up there if it weren’t for me and others like me.”

Nora nodded. “But it’s not quite the same thing, is it?” she said softly.

Holroyd remained silent.

“What I’m offering is a chance for you to be part of what might be the greatest archaeological discovery since King Tut.”

“Yeah,” said Holroyd. “And my part would be to do for you just what I do for Watkins: crunch some data and let someone else run with it. I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”

But the woman never took her hazel eyes from his. She was silent, and it seemed to Holroyd that she was making some kind of private decision.

“Maybe I can offer you more than that,” she said at last, her voice still low.

Holroyd frowned sharply. “Like what?”

“A place on the expedition.”

Holroyd felt his heart accelerate. “What did you say?”

“I think you heard me. We’ll need a remote sensing and computer specialist. Can you handle communications gear?”

Holroyd swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Then he nodded. “I’ve got gear you’ve never even dreamed of.”

“And how are you set for vacation? Could you take two, maybe three weeks off?”

“I’ve never taken a vacation,” Holroyd heard himself say. “I’ve got so much time accrued, I could leave for six months and still get paid.”

“Then that’s it. You get me the data, and I get you on the expedition. I guarantee it, Peter, you won’t be sorry. It’s an adventure you’d remember for the rest of your life.”

Holroyd glanced down at the woman’s hands, tapered and beautiful, clasped together expectantly. He had never met anyone so passionate about something. He realized he was having a hard time catching his breath.

“I—” he began.

She leaned forward quickly. “Yes?”

He shook his head. “This is all too sudden. I have to think about this.”

She looked at him, appraisingly. Then she nodded. “I know you do,” she said softly. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Here’s the number of the friend’s apartment where I’m staying. But, Peter, don’t think too long. I can only stay a couple of days.”

But Holroyd barely heard her. He was putting something together in his head. “I’m not necessarily saying I’ll do it, you understand,” he said in a lower tone. “But here’s how it could work. You wouldn’t need to put in a request. The shuttle’s devoting the last three days of the mission to radar sweeps, sixty-five orbits at varying latitudes. There’s this mineral exploration company that’s been wanting a sweep of some areas of Utah and Colorado. We’ve put them off for a while now. I could fit them into the lineup. Then I’d extend their run slightly to get the areas you need. The only thing you’d have to do is put in a purchase request as soon as the data is downloaded from the shuttle. Normally the data is proprietary for a couple of years, but the right kind of academic requests can get around that. I’d lead you through the red tape when the time comes.”

“A purchase request? You mean I have to pay?”

“It’s very expensive,” said Holroyd.

“What are we talking here? A couple of hundred bucks?”

“More like twenty thousand.”

“Twenty thousand dollars! Are you crazy?”

“Sorry. That’s something not even Watkins can control.”

“Where the hell am I going to get twenty thousand dollars?” Nora exploded.

“Look, I’d be arranging an alteration in the orbit of a United States spacecraft for you. That’s bad enough. What else do you want me to do, steal the damn data?”

There was a silence.

“Now there’s an idea,” said Nora.