Thunderhead

by Douglas Preston

  “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.