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 anywher
e.
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 Anasa
zi 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.
Thunderhead Page 3
