Thunderhead

by Douglas Preston

  “What are anvil abrasions?” Nora asked.

  “A very specific kind of parallel scratch mark, made when the head is laid on a flat rock and another rock is brought down on it to break open the brainpan. You normally see it on animal skulls whose brains have been extracted for food.”

  From the corner of her eye, Nora saw that Smithback was furiously taking notes.

  “There’s more,” Aragon said. “Many of the bones show this.” He picked up a smaller bone with the forceps and turned it to the light. “Take a look at the broken ends with this loup.”

  Nora examined it under magnification. “I can’t see anything unusual, except maybe for this faint sheen on the broken ends, as if they used the bone for scraping hides.”

  “Not scraping hides. That sheen has been called ‘pot polish.’”

  “Pot polish?” Nora whispered, the coil of fear growing tighter within her.

  “It only occurs to bones that have been boiled and stirred in a rough ceramic pot for a long time, turned around and around.” And then he added, unnecessarily: “It’s how you make soup.”

  Aragon reached again for the coffee pot and found it empty.

  “Are you saying they were cooking and eating people?” Holroyd asked.

  “Of course that’s what he’s saying,” Black snapped. “But I’ve found no evidence of human bones in the trash mound. Though it was filled with animal bones that had clearly been consumed for food.”

  Aragon did not respond.

  Nora looked away from him, turning her gaze out over the canyon. The sun was rising above the rimrock, gilding the clifftops while leaving the valley below in Magritte-like shadow. But the beautiful canyon now filled her with apprehension.

  “There’s something else I should mention,” Aragon said in a low voice.

  Nora looked back. “More?”

  Aragon nodded to Sloane. “I don’t believe the tomb you found was a burial at all.”

  “It seemed like an offering,” Nora heard herself say.

  “Yes,” said Aragon. “But even more than that, it was a sacrifice. From the marks on the skeletons, it seems the two individuals had been dismembered—butchered—and the cuts boiled or roasted. The cooked meats were probably arranged in those two bowls you found. There were bits of a brown, dusty substance lying with the bones: no doubt those were the mummified pieces of meat that had retracted and fallen off the bone.”

  “How revolting,” Smithback said, writing eagerly.

  “The individuals were also scalped, and their brains extracted and made into a kind of—how does one say it?—a compote, a mousse, spiced with chiles. I found the . . . the substance placed inside each of the skulls.”

  As if on a macabre cue, the cook emerged from his tent, fastidiously zipped up the flap, then approached the fire.

  Black shifted restlessly. “Enrique, you’re the last person I would have suspected of jumping to sensational conclusions. There are dozens of ways bones could be scratched and polished other than cannibalism.”

  “It is you who use the term ‘cannibalism,’” Aragon said. “I’ll keep my conclusions to myself for the moment. I am merely reporting what I’ve seen.”

  “Everything you’ve said has hinted at that conclusion,” Black bellowed. “This is irresponsible. The Anasazi were a peaceful, agrarian people. There’s never been any evidence of cannibalism.”

  “That’s not true,” Sloane said in a low voice, leaning suddenly forward. “Several archaeologists have theorized about cannibalistic practices among ancient Native Americans. And not only among the Anasazi. For example, how do you explain Awatovi?”

  “Awatovi?” Black repeated. “The Hopi village destroyed in 1700?”

  Sloane nodded. “After the villagers of Awatovi were converted to Christianity by the Spanish, the surrounding Indian towns massacred them. Their bones were found thirty years ago, and they bear the same kind of marks Aragon found here.”

  “They may have been facing a period of starvation,” said Nora. “There are plenty of examples of starvation cannibalism in our own culture. And anyway, this is far from Awatovi, and these people are not related to the Hopi. If this was cannibalism, it was ritualized cannibalism on a grand scale. Institutionalized, almost. A lot like—” She stopped and glanced at Aragon.

  “A lot like the Aztecs,” he said, finishing the sentence. “Dr. Black, you said Anasazi cannibalism is impossible. But not Aztec cannibalism. Cannibalism not for food, but as a tool of social control and terror.”

  “What’s your point?” Black said. “This is America, not Mexico. We’re digging an Anasazi site.”

  “An Anasazi site with a ruling class? An Anasazi site protected by a god with a name like Xochitl? An Anasazi site that features royal burial chambers, filled with flowers? An Anasazi site that may or may not display signs of ritual cannibalism?” Aragon shook his head. “I also did a number of forensic tests on skulls from both the upper and lower set of bones in the Crawlspace. Differences in cranial features, variations in incisor shoveling, point to the two groups of skeletons as being from entirely different populations. Anasazi slaves beneath, Aztec rulers above. All the evidence I’ve found at Quivira demonstrates one thing: a group of Aztecs, or rather their Toltec predecessors, invaded the Anasazi civilization around A.D. 950 and established themselves here as a priestly nobility. Perhaps they were even responsible for the great building projects at Chaco and elsewhere.”

  “I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous,” Black said. “There’s never been any sign of Aztec influence on the Anasazi, let alone enslavement. It goes against a hundred years of scholarship.”

  “Wait,” Nora said. “Let’s not be too hasty to dismiss it. Nobody’s ever found a city like this before. And that theory would explain a lot of things. The city’s strange location, for one thing. The annual pilgrimages you discovered.”

  “And the concentration of wealth,” Sloane added, in a low, thoughtful voice. “Maybe trade with the Aztecs has been the wrong word all along. These were foreign invaders, establishing an oligarchy, maintaining power through religious ritual and sacrificial cannibalism.”

  As Smithback began to ask a question, Nora heard a distant shout. In unison, the group turned toward the sound. Roscoe Swire was running down the canyon, bashing and stomping crazily through the brush as he approached camp.

  He came to a frantic stop before them, still dripping wet from the slot canyon, breathing raggedly. Nora stared at him in horror. Bloody water dripped from his hair, and his shirt was stained pink.

  “What is it?” she asked sharply.

  “Our horses,” Swire said, gasping for air. “They’ve been gutted.”

  32

  * * *

  NORA RAISED HER HANDS TO SILENCE THE immediate explosion of talk. “Roscoe,” she said, “I want you to tell us exactly what happened.”

  Swire sat down near the fire, still heaving from his scramble through the slot canyon, oblivious to a nasty gash on his arm that was bleeding freely. “I got up around three this morning, just as usual. Reached the horses about four. The cavvy had drifted over to the northern end of the valley—looking for grass, I figured—but when I reached them, I found they were all lathered up.” He stopped a moment. “I thought maybe a mountain lion had been after them. A couple were missing. Then I saw them . . . what was left of them, anyway. Hoosegow and Crow Bait, gutted like . . .” His face darkened. “When I catch the sons-a-bitches that did this, I’ll—”

  “What makes you think humans did it?” Aragon asked.

  Swire shook his head. “It was done all scientific. They slit open the bellies, pulled out the guts, and—” He faltered.

  “And?”

  “Sort of made them into a display.”

  “What?” Nora asked sharply.

  “They unwound the guts and laid them out in a spiral. There were sticks with feathers, shoved into the eyes.” He paused. “Other stuff, too.”

  “Any tracks?”

 
“No footprints that I could see. Must’ve all been done from the backs of horses.”

  At the mention of the spirals, the feathers shoved into the eyes, Nora had gone cold. “Come on,” she heard Smithback say. “Nobody could do all that from the back of a horse.”

  “There ain’t no other explanation,” Swire snapped. “I told you, I saw no footprints. But . . .” He paused again. “Yesterday evening, when I was about to leave the horses for the night, I thought I saw a rider atop the hogback ridge. Man on a horse, just standing there, looking down at me.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?” Nora asked.

  “I thought it was my imagination, a trick of the setting sun. Can’t say I expected to see another horse atop that goddamned ridge. Who’d be way the hell out here?”

  Who indeed? Nora thought, desperation rising within her. Over the past several days, she’d grown certain she had left the strange apparitions from the ranch house far behind. Now that certainty was fading. Perhaps they’d been followed, after all. But who could have had the skill, or the desperate resolve, to track them across such a harsh and barren landscape?

  “That’s dry sandy country,” Swire was saying, the dark uncertain look replaced with a new resolve. “They can’t hide a track in it forever. I just came in here to tell you I’m going after them.” He stood up abruptly and went into his tent.

  In the ensuing silence, Nora could hear the rattle of metal, the sound of bullets being pushed into chambers. A moment later he reemerged, rifle slung behind his back, revolver buckled around his waist.

  “Wait a minute, Roscoe,” Nora said.

  “Don’t try to stop me,” Swire said.

  “You can’t just rush off,” she replied sharply. “Let’s talk about this.”

  “Talking to you only causes trouble.”

  Bonarotti walked wordlessly to his cabinet and began loading a small sack with food.

  “Roscoe,” Sloane said, “Nora’s absolutely right. You can’t just head off like—”

  “You shut your mouth. I’m not going to have a bunch of goddamn women telling me what to do with my own horses.”

  “Well, how about a goddamn man, then,” said Black. “This is foolhardy. You could get hurt, or worse.”

  “I’m done with discussion,” Swire said, accepting the small sack from Bonarotti, tying it into his slicker, and throwing it over his shoulder.

  As Nora watched him, her fear and shock at this new development suddenly turned to anger: anger at whatever was bent on disturbing a dig that had begun so successfully; anger at Swire for behaving so truculently. “Swire, stand down!” she bellowed.

  There was a breathless hush in the little valley. Swire, momentarily taken aback, turned to face her.

  “Now look,” Nora went on, aware that her heart was hammering in her rib cage and that her tone was uneven, “we have to think this through. You can’t just run off without a plan and go kill someone.”

  “I’ve got a plan,” came the answer. “And there’s nothing to think about. I’m gonna find the bastard that—”

  “Agreed,” Nora said, cutting off Swire’s words. “But you’re not the person to do it.”

  “What?” Swire’s expression turned to one of scornful disbelief. “And just who else is going to do it for me?”

  “I am.”

  Swire opened his mouth to speak.

  “Think for a minute,” Nora went on quickly. “He, or they, or whatever, killed two horses. Not for food, not for sport, but to send a message. Doesn’t that tell you something? What about the rest of the horses? What do you think is going to happen to them while you set out on your lynching party? Those are your animals. You’re the only person who knows enough to keep them safe until all this is resolved.”

  Swire pursed his lips and smoothed a finger over his mustache. “Someone else can watch the horses while I’m gone.”

  “Like who?”

  Swire didn’t answer for a moment. “You don’t know the first thing about tracking,” he said.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Anyone who grew up on a ranch knows something about tracking. I’ve looked for plenty of lost cows in my day. I may not be in your league, but you said it yourself: out here in sandy country, there’s no great trick to it.” She leaned toward him. “The fact is, if somebody has to go, I’m the only choice. Aaron, Sloane, and Enrique’s work is essential here. You’re vital to the horses. Luigi’s our only cook. Peter isn’t an experienced enough rider. And besides, he’s necessary for communications.”

  Swire looked at her appraisingly, but remained silent.

  Black turned to Nora. “This is insane. You, alone? You can’t go, you’re the expedition director.”

  “That’s why I can’t ask anybody else to do this.” Nora looked around. “I’ll only be gone a day, overnight at the most. Meanwhile, you, Sloane, and Aragon can make decisions by majority consent. I’ll find out who did this, and why.”

  “I think we should simply call the police,” Black said. “We have a radio.”

  Aragon burst out in a sudden, uncharacteristic laugh. “Call the police? What police?”

  “Why not? We’re still in America, aren’t we?”

  “Are we?” Aragon murmured.

  There was a brief pause. Then Smithback spoke up, surprisingly quiet and firm. “It’s pretty obvious that she can’t go alone. I’m the only person who can be spared from the dig. I’ll go with her.”

  “No,” Nora said automatically.

  “Why not? The trash mound can spare me for a day. Aaron over here hasn’t been getting nearly enough exercise lately. I’m not a bad horseman and, if necessary, I’m not a bad shot, either.”

  “There’s something else to think about,” Aragon said. “You said these killings were meant to send a message. Have you thought about the other possibility?”

  Nora looked at him. “And what’s that?”

  “That the killings were done to lure people away from camp, where they could be dealt with individually? Perhaps this man on the ridge showed himself to Swire deliberately.”

  Nora licked her lips.

  “Another reason for me to go,” Smithback said.

  “Now hold on,” came the cold voice of Swire. “Aren’t we forgetting about the Devil’s Backbone? Three of my horses are already dead, thanks to that goddamn ridge.”

  Nora turned to him. “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “You said you saw a rider atop the ridge the other day. And obviously, people got into the outer valley on horseback last night. There’s no other way in save over the ridge. I’ll bet they used unshod horses.”

  “Unshod?” Smithback asked.

  Nora nodded. “A horse without shoes would have surer footing on a narrow trail like the Devil’s Backbone. Iron on stone is like a skater on ice. But the keratin of a horse’s hoof would grip the stone.”

  Swire was still staring at her. “I’m not letting my horses get their hooves all chewed up out in that bad country.”

  “We’d tack the shoes back on once we get to the bottom of the ridge. You’ve got farrier’s tools, don’t you?”

  Swire nodded slowly.

  “All I’m going to do,” she continued, “is try to find out who did this, and why. We can let the law take care of it when we get back to civilization.”

  “That’s just what I’m afraid of,” said Swire.

  “Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison for murder?” Nora asked. “Because that’s exactly what will happen if you go out there and shoot somebody.”

  Swire did not reply. Wordlessly, the cook turned on his heel and entered his tent. A moment later, he emerged with his weapon, a box of bullets, and a leather holster. He handed them to Nora. Strapping the holster around her waist, Nora opened the heavy gun, spun the cylinder, and closed it again. Ripping the top off the box of bullets, she poured its contents into one hand and rapidly shoved them into the bullet loops. Then she dropped the empty box into the fire and turned toward
Swire.

  “We’ll take care of it,” she said evenly.

  33

  * * *

  SKIP PAUSED AT THE METAL DOOR TO ELMO’S Auto Shoppe, pausing a moment to build up a full head of righteous indignation. The metal, quonset-hut garage lay baking in the heat at the long sad end of Cerrillos Road, an ugly strip of fast-food restaurants, used automobile dealerships, and malls south of town. Beyond Elmo’s stretched nothing but bulldozed flat prairie, decorated with billboards, FOR LEASE and WILL BUILD TO SUIT signs—the expanding edge of Santa Fe’s uncontrolled growth.

  Skip set the expression on his face and pushed through the door, pulling Teddy Bear behind him on a short, thick leather leash. In the farthest bay, perched high atop the hydraulic lift, sat his Fury, tires drooping mournfully. It was a great deal sandier than it had been the day before.

  Beneath it stood the proprietor of Elmo’s Auto Shoppe, a tall, gangly man in faded dungarees and torn T-shirt. The shirt was liberally stained with oil, and it sported an oversized Rolling Stones tongue, jutting salaciously from dewlap lips. The shirt formed an appropriate reflection of Elmo’s own pendulous lips and doleful expression.

  “Why’d you have to bring that with you?” Elmo whined, nodding at the dog. “I’m allergic to dog hair.”

  Skip opened his mouth to deliver his speech and Elmo raised his clipboard in protest. “Broken rocker assembly,” he began quickly, licking a long, grease-sodden finger and folding the pages on his clipboard back as he spoke. “Emergency brake trashed. Hub bent. You’re looking at, oh, five, six hundred at least. Plus the tow from the third fairway.”

  “Like hell I am!” Skip dragged Teddy Bear forward and paced angrily in the shadow of his car, forgetting his carefully crafted speech. “I had this in here for an oil change and tuneup just three weeks ago. Why the hell didn’t you tell me the brakes were going?”

  Elmo turned his lachrymose face toward Skip. His droopy eyes always looked on the verge of weeping. “I checked that invoice already. There was nothing wrong with the brakes.”