The Scorpion's Tail

by Douglas Preston

  More precious than valuable. What the hell did that mean?

  She lay in the darkness, trying hard to recall what exactly Jesse had said about this thing—whatever it was—his great-grandfather had left behind. In my great-grandfather’s time, most people would have thought his precious item fit only to line a birdcage with. But over the years it’s gained value. Maybe a lot of value. Even if Pertelote is still the only one who can enjoy it.

  At least, that was as best she could remember. Jesse—it was still hard to process the fact he was dead—had had an annoying way of rarely saying anything directly…Everything was an ironic digression, or a rambling allusion to that aborted English major he was so proud of…

  Now she wished she’d paid more attention to his digressions. Lining a birdcage? And who was Pertelote?

  Pertelote. That rang a bell. He’d said that word before—the last time she’d been out with him at the ranch. She thought back to that earlier conversation—the one that ended so abruptly with him ordering her off his property. He’d talked about expensive Swiss watches, other stuff she couldn’t remember without consulting her notes. But that wasn’t what was gnawing at her. It had been something said, she felt sure, early in the conversation, during the first time he opened up.

  The residual effects of my education. She remembered him saying that. And something else: I’ve named lots of things on this old ranch after bits of English literature.

  But who the hell was Pertelote?

  Then she remembered. As they were sitting on the front porch, a hen had cackled, and Gower had brightened and smiled. “Pertelote! Way to go! There’s my supper.”

  There’s my supper.

  I can tell all the hens by their cackles.

  I’ve named lots of things on this old ranch after bits of English literature.

  In an instant, Corrie was out of bed.

  In ten minutes, she was dressed and in her car.

  At 2 AM she was pulling into the Gower Ranch.

  She turned off her lights and killed the engine, sitting in the car, waiting for the dust to settle and her night vision to take effect. Except for the crime scene tape, and the missing door on the toolshed—the old structure gaping wide, as if it had lost a tooth—the place didn’t look all that different than it had the night before, when she’d arrived to find all the lights off.

  When she was sure she had the scene to herself, she picked up her flashlight, checked to see that her weapon had a round in the chamber, then got out of the car.

  Keeping her flashlight off, moving by the light of the moon, Corrie ducked under the tape, walked past first the house, then the toolshed—more crime scene tape—and approached the henhouse. All remained silent, and nothing moved in the darkness. She drew a little nearer, then stopped again.

  She’d never been close to a chicken coop before and had only the vaguest idea of how they operated—mostly from watching Foghorn Leghorn cartoons. It was a miniature shed-like structure, shingled, with a peaked roof, one tiny window, and a door with a ramp. She turned on her light and let it play briefly over the latched main door, the henhouse itself, and the chicken run beyond. What she particularly noticed was the odor. For the first time, she understood why chickenshit was such an offensive term.

  …Even if Pertelote is still the only one who can enjoy it…

  So maybe whatever it was was hidden in the henhouse. Nothing else fit. The structure didn’t look as if the police or anyone else had given it any attention. It was her only lead, and Corrie was going to check it out. She owed that, at least, to Jesse.

  Taking a deep breath, she lifted the wooden latch and stuck her head in through the door, shining her light around again. The opposing walls were lined with nesting boxes, about half of them full, with more hens sleeping on perches. Six or seven pairs of beady eyes swiveled toward her accusingly, and there was a spasm of unhappy, nervous cackling.

  “I don’t much like this either, ladies,” Corrie said as she scanned the interior. Which one was Pertelote?

  One hen, the closest one on the right, seemed larger and less cowed than the others, and her nesting box appeared to have seen the heaviest use. Corrie guessed she had a personality to match her bulk; she could imagine her as Jesse’s favorite. She reached into the straw beneath the hen and received an outraged squawk and a peck on the wrist for her trouble.

  “Hey!” She’d had no idea how hard those fuckers could peck. Nevertheless, she had enough time to feel chicken wire beneath the bed of straw. Nothing hidden there.

  She ducked back out the main door, checking her wrist with her flashlight. It looked like she’d been hammered with a nail set. There was no way she was going to get pecked again.

  The henhouse was, essentially, on a low frame of stilts, with wooden latticework running around beneath, presumably to keep out predators. Kneeling, Corrie shined her light through the latticework, precipitating another chorus of fretful complaint. Beneath each nest was a litter tray, and—judging by the contents—someone had been delinquent in cleaning them.

  “Thanks, Jesse,” Corrie muttered. Taking a deep breath, she squeezed her throbbing hand through the lattice, located Pertelote’s litter tray, and—gingerly but thoroughly—sieved its contents between her fingers. The result was disgusting and without evident result.

  “Jesus!” Corrie turned her face to one side, trying not to gag. Was this just another half-baked deduction of hers, some crazy hope that her conversations with Gower—and his death—were not in vain? If Morwood saw her now…She pulled her befouled hand out of the litter tray with a curse. And as she did, the tray shifted ever so slightly in its casing.

  Corrie paused. Then, grasping the near end of the tray, she pulled, pushed, then lifted.

  It was the lifting that did it. The end of the tray moved up about an inch, and Corrie quickly felt beneath. Something was affixed there, protected by a second tray. It was too dark to identify for sure, but it felt like folded canvas. It would not fit through the latticework, and rather than risk damaging it, she raised the entire section of lattice and pulled it out from beneath.

  She spent the next few minutes washing her hands in Jesse’s wrecked kitchen. Then—flashlight and the mysterious discovery in her lap—she sat out on Jesse’s front porch and took out her cell phone, preparing to make a call.

  Fingers on the touchpad, she hesitated a long moment. And then she shoved the phone back into her pocket, walked briskly to her car, got in, put the bundle carefully on the passenger seat, and drove off into the night.

  45

  THEY HAD LOADED two horses into a trailer at dawn, at the home of Espejo’s parents, and then they had driven two hours northward through the mountains of the Mescalero reservation, on a maze of dirt roads that went from bad to worse, until the road ended at a tiny settlement called Muleshoe. It appeared to be abandoned. As they unloaded the horses, Nora could see the mountain range of Sierra Blanca looming above them, nearly twelve thousand feet high, covered with snow. They mounted up and set off, following a trail that wound through fir-clad foothills.

  Being on the back of a horse reminded Nora of the dig she’d directed in May in the Sierra Nevada of California. She and her team had discovered and excavated a nineteenth-century campsite from the ill-fated Donner Party. While that had ultimately been a traumatic experience, to say the least, she loved riding, and being on a horse again was a pleasure. The landscape they were passing through, cathedral stands of Douglas firs alongside a burbling creek, was inspiring, and the air was fragrant with the scent of pine and wild geraniums. Espejo was a silent rider, which Nora appreciated. She had ridden with people who liked to talk, and being on horseback, that meant turning around in the saddle and shouting back and forth, which for her spoiled the experience.

  But when her thoughts turned to the quixotic journey itself, she wondered what the hell she was doing. Despite the best that Adelsky could do, the work at Tsankawi had fallen behind and there was no covering it up. She’d had to ask Wein
grau for yet another day off, and this time the president had not seemed pleased. She’d questioned Nora rather pointedly about what, exactly, she was doing for the FBI now. Nora found herself evading and hedging and explaining. She had to admit to herself that she’d been so drawn into the case that she was losing perspective. On top of that, the trip was a wild-goose chase. It was crazy to think Nantan was still alive. They were going to find nothing more than the remnants of his camp, if that, and maybe his bones. Watts was right: she was becoming too emotionally involved in the investigation. Corrie was a bit green, and could be a pain, but she was perfectly capable of handling things without Nora’s continued help.

  By noon, they were well above ten thousand feet. The trail petered out, and the creek had turned into a runnel of water through a series of high alpine meadows filled with fall wildflowers. The Sierra Blanca peaks were closer now, rising above them like a wall. They finally emerged from the tree line on a beautiful grassy ridge. At the top, a sprawling view of the White Mountain Wilderness came into view, mountains beyond mountains as far as the eye could see. She doubted there were any other human beings within twenty miles—unless, of course, Nantan was still alive.

  Here Espejo halted. Nora rode up beside him.

  He pointed. “See those steep parallel canyons down there? Escondido Spring is supposed to be in the middle one, maybe five miles down.”

  “Doesn’t look passable by horse.”

  “From what little I remember of Nantan telling me about this place, it isn’t. We’ll ride as far as we can.”

  He eased his horse forward, and they descended the far side of the ridge, the horses cautiously picking their way. The human trail had long vanished, but the horses instinctively followed a web of elk trails that led back down through broad meadows into the mouth of the canyon. Gradually the land became steeper and rockier, the walls closing in.

  “We’d better continue on foot,” said Espejo.

  They got off their horses, and Espejo, instead of tying them up, hobbled both of them and put a bell around the neck of one, turning them loose to graze in the meadow. When he was done, he looked at her. “Well, you’re on your own now.”

  Although he’d already said as much, Nora had only half believed him. “You’re really not coming?”

  “This is where I stop. You just keep going down the canyon. It’s probably no more than a mile or two to Ojo Escondido.”

  Nora shouldered her pack and set off down the ravine. Soon the granite walls had closed in tight, creating a gloomy, claustrophobic atmosphere. There was no stream in the bottom, only a dry bed of rocks with scattered brush, with some battered tree trunks washed down in flash floods. It was getting on toward afternoon, and Nora wondered if they were going to make it back to the horse trailer by dark. At least, she mused, it would be the night of the full moon.

  The terrain got rougher still, and in a few places the canyon became so tight Nora could almost span the walls with her arms. And then, quite abruptly, the walls opened up into a spacious grassy hollow, perhaps a hundred yards across, shaded with massive cottonwood trees, their leaves backlit like stained glass in the slanting light. A small pool, crowded with willows and greenery, indicated a spring at the base of the cliffs. Beyond the spring, against the far wall of the canyon, stood a rough log cabin, a small outbuilding, a privy, and a sheep corral. There was no sign of life.

  Nora stopped, heart in her throat. Was this it? It couldn’t be more hidden or remote, and it looked abandoned. It amazed her that a man as old as Nantan had lived long enough to build the cabin and outbuildings. She suddenly feared what she might find in the cabin. But there was no turning back now.

  “Hello!” she called, her voice echoing and re-echoing from the soaring canyon walls.

  Silence.

  “Nantan Taza?”

  Still no answer.

  She approached the cabin cautiously. The door was ajar. She paused, then knocked.

  No answer.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  She pushed open the door with a creaking sound and stepped inside. It was dim, and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. It was the simplest one-room cabin imaginable, built of logs chinked with mud, with a dirt floor, stone fireplace, rudimentary table, chair, some flat rocks for plates—and a rough wooden bunk in the far corner. It took a few moments for Nora to realize that a man was lying among the dirty animal skins. He was of almost unfathomable age, his hair long and white, in striking contrast to the dark brown face. Nora felt her heart pounding. Was he dead or alive?

  “Mr. Taza?”

  The head slowly turned toward her, and a withered hand rose, making a faint gesture for her to come over. She approached in silence and stood over the bed, taking off her backpack and placing it on the floor.

  The old man gazed at her. “Who…?”

  Nora tried to formulate her thoughts. The man looked so withered, so moribund, she was stunned he was still alive. “I’m Nora Kelly.”

  “Why have you come?”

  “I’m an archaeologist.” She hesitated. “James Gower’s body was found,” she blurted. “I excavated it.” She stopped.

  The expression on his face changed in a way she couldn’t quite identify. “How did you find me?”

  “Your friend Nick Espejo guided me. He’s still a few miles up the canyon. He didn’t want to break his promise to you. I’m alone.”

  “Why have you come?” the old man repeated. His voice was little more than a slow whisper of wind.

  “I was hoping,” she said, “that you might tell your story. And…” She hesitated.

  The cabin went silent.

  Nora’s instincts told her the old man was waiting for something—but for what, exactly, she didn’t know. Her eyes strayed to the backpack, propped up next to her. And then, suddenly, she understood.

  Corrie would be furious. Nora might even be charged with a crime. But now—as Nora struggled with a decision that, on some level, she’d known since the trek began that she would face—the importance of such things seemed to fade away under the old man’s gaze.

  As she struggled with uncertainty, the old man closed his eyes. “I knew, someday, this would happen.”

  At last—before she could change her mind—Nora unzipped her pack and took out the box. She unbuckled it, lifted out the medicine bundle, and held it out to him.

  The old man’s eyes opened, then grew wide. He reached out with both hands, and she put the bundle in them. He held it for a moment, then reverently placed it on the bed beside him and tucked it close, almost like a child might grasp a teddy bear. His gaze moved from the bundle back to her. “I’ve been waiting for a messenger. All these years, I’ve been waiting. I never thought…it would be someone like you.”

  “A messenger?”

  “Yes. I’ve been punished with long life because I would not tell the story…But you’ve come, and now I know it is time.”

  He raised his hand and pointed across the room. “Bring me that wooden chest.”

  She rose and brought over a small wooden box, hand-adzed and pegged, with an ill-fitting cover.

  “Open.”

  She did so. There were two items in the box: an object wrapped in buckskin, and a parfleche-like envelope made of rawhide.

  “Open,” he repeated.

  Untying the leather thongs, she unwrapped the buckskin, revealing a heavy gold pocket watch, with engravings of constellations visible on its worn cover. The parfleche opened to expose an ancient sheet of parchment. On it was an Apache drawing of four horses with riders.

  “Those are now yours,” he said.

  Staring at them, Nora’s mouth went dry. “What are they?”

  A long silence ensued while he closed his eyes again and took several long, deep breaths.

  “I will tell you what it is you came to hear,” he said. “And then—then I can finally go.”

  46

  SITTING AT HER kitchen table as afternoon turned to evening, Corrie Swan
son carefully laid out the piece of tinfoil she’d prepared on returning home the night before. She pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, opened the evidence box, and took out—yet again—the piece of parchment and the bundle it had been wrapped in and placed them side by side on the table. She moved a bright light over to it and picked up her magnifying glass.

  The wrapping was an old-fashioned oilcloth, stiff with age. She had spread it out, looking for writing or designs. Though it had been hard to see through the dirt and stains of the years, it appeared to be free of any marks.

  Now she turned her attention to the parchment. It was stiff and square, about eight inches on a side, and was covered with ancient lettering. Age had turned it a dark honey color. Three of its edges looked old and worn, but the fourth had been cut at a more recent date: under the glass she could see marks of a knife scoring back and forth in the parchment. The faded old lettering on that side had been cut off—clearly, this had once been a larger document divided in half.

  She turned the parchment over and examined the other side. On it was a picture, drawn in color with what looked like crayons. Areas here and there were filled in with watercolor. It, too, had been cut. The section on her half showed two indigenous people wearing leggings, galloping, one on a black-and-white spotted horse and the other on a roan. They both carried bows and were chasing a cavalry officer, who was fleeing from them on horseback. The drawing had a childlike simplicity and clarity of exposition: every detail had been painstakingly rendered, including streaks of paint on the Indians’ faces, the bridles and reins, and the cavalry soldier’s uniform. It was lively and engaging and, despite the passage of years, still remarkably fresh.

  On the other hand, the strange lettering on the other side—which she didn’t recognize but assumed was Spanish—looked very much older, so faded as to be barely legible. There were crossings-out and blots of ink that made her think it had been written in haste. The script was indecipherable to her. It was even hard to make out individual letters among all the curlicues and flourishes.