Thunderhead

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