Straighthorn pushed through the tunnel entrance with another
man before him. The white-caped warrior was bleeding badly from a belly wound. When Straighthorn saw Redcrop, he cried, “No!”
The youth’s reaction was instinctive. He clubbed the captive in the head. A pumpkin made that hollow sound when dropped from a height. The warrior jerked and collapsed in a heap, and Straighthorn ran to Redcrop.
“Redcrop?” He fell to his knees and gathered Redcrop into his arms.
“Redcrop!”
All the pain in the universe might have been in that wounded voice.
Browser glanced at Redcrop and read her dilated pupils, fixed now in death. She seemed to wilt in Straighthorn’s arms.
“Oh, gods, no!” Straighthorn cried.
Futility filled Browser. He slammed his fists into the stone floor, and his skull felt as if it might split wide open.
Straighthorn cradled Redcrop in his arms, rose, and started toward the round hole of daylight on the far side of the cavern. “I have to get you out of here.”
She hung limply, a dead weight. The blood that leaked down her arms splashed onto the floor in crimson stars.
Browser took his war club back from Catkin, handed her the one from the dead warrior, and surveyed the room. Ten Hawks lay to one side, curled into a fetal ball, blood soaking his white cape.
“Redcrop,” Catkin said. “She saved us.”
“You’re not saved,” Springbank wheezed through his blood-clotted windpipe. “Shadow’s coming with the rest.”
Browser staggered. “The other warriors from Aspen village?” “Join us, Browser,” Springbank said, his voice insidious. “You’re one of us. The blood of the First People runs in your veins!”
Browser swallowed hard. He couldn’t speak.
“We
will
destroy the katsinas,” Springbank gasped. “That was the
true
vision.” The old man’s clothing scraped as he slid down the wall, his eyes seeming to lose focus. “The true vision …” He coughed weakly. “Think, Browser. When did this begin?” Without waiting for an answer, he said, “With the coming of the katsinas. They came, and within a generation, the First People were hunted down and killed. Forced to run and hide. All we need to do is destroy the katsinas, and the Straight Path Nation will rise … from the ashes … like gods from Spider Woman’s web.”
Springbank slumped sideways, his body tumbling like a sack of old bones. He lay there, unmoving, with bloody drool leaking from the corner of his mouth onto the stone.
Catkin blinked at Browser with wonder-filled eyes. “Springbank is one of the First People?”
Browser rubbed his face, and found it sticky with blood. He nodded. “Yes.”
They heard voices echoing from the mouth of the tunnel. Browser cocked his head. From the sounds of scuffing feet, and the rustle of clothing, it was a large party.
“Shadow?” Catkin asked. “Those other warriors he was talking about?”
“Gods, we don’t have much time.” Browser fought to pull his thoughts together. “Come on. Our only chance is to get Straighthorn and run. We’ll come back, but with all of our warriors. Then we’ll clean out this witch’s nest once and for all.”
Catkin carefully backed away.
“And”—he blinked against the splitting headache—“I’m not good for another fight. The run is going to be hard enough.”
Catkin ducked out into the light.
Browser winced at the pain as he bent down and uncurled the old man’s hands. He pried the turquoise wolf from his leathery grip. He took two steps toward the opening, and turned. The old man’s white hair resembled a glistening blur of snowflakes, but his eyes were pits of darkness.
Springbank seemed to be smiling at him, a gloating smile, as if he knew something …
Browser was raising the war club, ready to go back and cave in the old man’s head, when laughter could be heard in the tunnel. Close now.
Browser staggered for the mouth of the cave. The daylight seemed to burn right through his eyes and into his brain.
Catkin was shouting, “Straighthorn, let’s go! Hurry!”
“No! I won’t leave her!”
Catkin gripped Straighthorn’s arm, dragged him to his feet, and shouted in his face, “She’s
dead
! Leave her or you will be, too!”
She flung Straighthorn into a shambling trot and raced after him, shoving him hard. He kept screaming and batting at her with his
fists, but Catkin fended off every blow and drove him ahead of her with the handle of her war club.
Thank you, Catkin. Thank you.
Gods, now, if Browser could just make it back to Longtail village without collapsing. If the White Moccasins didn’t chase them down. If … if …
M
AUREEN WORKED ON THE NEXT OF THE CAREFULLY pedestaled bones: a child’s radius and ulna that ended in a fragile calcined mess. Sylvia had already photographed it, mapped it in, and taken the provenience.
Maureen uncapped the diluted polyvinyl acetate that Dale had brought her, and carefully painted the mixture onto the bones. The tang of acetone carried on the cool morning wind. As an undergraduate, before she’d understood the effects of acetone, she’d cooked a lot of brain cells cleaning specimens.
The rattling of the aluminum ladder alerted her to Dale’s long body as he climbed down into the kiva. She watched him pick his careful way across the floor to where Maureen recapped the PVA jar. His gray hair and mustache shone, as if freshly washed.
He cleared his throat. “Um, Sylvia, would you mind going down to the trailer and making me a pot of coffee? If you could fill my thermos, I would appreciate it.”
Sylvia tucked brown hair behind her ears and gave Dale a measuring glance. “Sure, Dale. I’m on it.” She stood and knocked the dirt from the knees of her jeans. “Probably take me a while.”
“Thank you,” Dale told her warmly, and watched as Sylvia clattered up the ladder and disappeared over the kiva rim.
“What’s up?” Maureen asked.
Dale sighed and retrieved a big plastic bucket. He turned it over to use as a seat and leaned close to Maureen’s ear. “Tell me about these dreams William is having. I almost jumped out of my skin when he yelled last night. You’ve been staying in the trailer; has this happened before?”
Maureen wiped her hands on her black Levi’s. “Dale, you need to ask Dusty, not me.”
Dale pushed his fedora back on his head. “So. This is a recurring nightmare?”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Dale frowned. “It’s something tied to 10K3, isn’t it? That’s why he’s so sure this site is related?”
“Regardless of the dream, I think he’s right,” Maureen answered.
Dale looked thoughtful. “The dating is correct, the pottery is the same design. We have another trephined skull. But you can’t dismiss coincidence. It isn’t that unlikely that people in a similar time would have similar pottery motifs. But …”
Maureen stiffened at his hesitation. “This is completely off the record. No matter what you tell me, it’s between us.”
Dale’s gaze held hers. “I’ve spent a good deal of time with the people here. When you’re around the Native people long enough, you learn to respect their beliefs. And, in my years, I’ve seen some pretty curious things.”
Maureen pointed and asked, “How are your knees?”
“The damn things hurt,” he admitted, eyes widening. “How do you know—ah, William, of course.” He shook his head. “I wish I’d never gone up there. But I was young and White.”
“You’re still White.”
“Not as much as I used to be,” he answered and smiled.
Maureen released his hand and rose.
Dale looked up at her. “Where are you going?”
Maureen gazed up at the crystal blue sky, then propped her hands on her hips. “To make a phone call. Dusty needs more than either you or I can give him. He won’t make the call himself, so somebody has to do it for him.”
As she walked for the ladder, Dale called, “Don’t tell me you believe in witchcraft?”
She shook her head. “No. But Dusty does.”
She ran up the rungs, a new spring in her steps, and started across the planks. To either side, the ruins of Pueblo Animas lay in mounded desolation, only the round ring of the kiva and Dusty’s single rectangular room opened in the rubble.
She waved to Dusty as she passed him. He was bent over a screen, one foot propped in the back dirt as he sorted through bits of rock and root mass for ceramics and other artifacts.
Her route took her directly to the Bronco, where she opened the
door and dug the cell phone out of the center console. She flipped the cover open and watched the display come to life. Four bars of power, that ought to be enough. She punched in the number and waited through two rings.
At the voice prompt, she said: “I would like the number for Chaco Culture National Historical Park. Maggie Walking Hawk Taylor, please.”
“THERE’S A CAR COMING,” SYLVIA CALLED AS SHE CARRIED Dale’s thermos of hot coffee back to the kiva.
Dusty stretched his back muscles and propped his elbows on the lip of the pit. “Who is it?”
Sylvia squinted out at the dust on the road. “Blue Mercedes. I think it’s the pygmy.”
Dale narrowed one eye disapprovingly. “You mean Mr. Wirth?”
“Right.”
Dusty jumped out of his pit and walked over to stand beside Dale. Steve crawled out behind him, his black face painted with streaks of tan dirt. They both wore faded jeans, but Dusty’s red flannel contrasted sharply with Steve’s denim shirt. The Mercedes sped up the dirt road, trailing a cloud of dust.
Sylvia added, “He’s got somebody in the car with him.”
Steve wiped his forehead on his blue sleeve. “His wife?”
“Hard to tell.”
The Mercedes pulled up in front of the pueblo. The people inside waited for the dust to clear, then got out.
Sylvia let out a low whistle. “Wow. I’ll bet those silk suits cost over a thousand bucks each.”
“Fifteen hundred,” Dusty guessed. He shoved his cowboy hat back on his head, revealing a thin line of mud where his sweat had mixed with the dust.
Peter Wirth’s pale gray suit was shiny enough to blind the average person. The other man, tall, with dark hair, wore a cream-colored suit with a black-and-gray striped tie. They both had on reflective sunglasses.
Dusty brushed the caked dirt off his hands and morosely said, “Time to take a break. Why doesn’t everybody grab something cold to drink.”
Steve said, “I’ll get it. Sylvia, what do you want?”
“A Pepsi, thanks.”
“Sure. Dr. Robertson? Dusty? Can I get you something?”
Dale said, “Sylvia just brought me a thermos of fresh coffee, but thank you anyway, Steve.”
“Dusty, what about you?”
Dusty shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll get my own later, Steve.”
“Okay, I’ll be back.” He walked for the ice chests sitting in the shade outside the camp trailer.
Dusty studied the two men. Wirth’s white hair didn’t move an inch, despite the fact that the wind had picked up. He must really want to keep that pygmy-mannequin look today. The other man stopped frequently to pick up a potsherd, or a flake, then lay it down very gently, before continuing on up the hill.
As Wirth closed in, Sylvia leaned over and whispered to Dusty, “Tell them we’re from Earth and mean them no harm.”
Dusty adjusted his sunglasses. “It’s not them I’m worried about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, check out the guy in back. What do you make of him?” Sylvia’s gaze took him in from head to toe. “For what his shoes alone cost, I could pay for my entire college education. I wager Italian mob.”
Dale scratched his wrinkled chin. “I wager he’s another investment banker.”
“Yeah, well,” Sylvia granted, “same thing.”
Dusty crossed his arms and waited.
As Wirth came up the rubble slope, he called, “Hello, Stewart, Dr. Robertson, how are you? How is everything coming along?”
Sylvia cupped a hand to her mouth and yelled, “We dug up about forty burned babies, a cannibalized old woman, and just yesterday we found a secret passageway to hell.”
Dale sighed as Wirth gave her an irritated glare.
“Good day, Peter,” Dale said, and stepped forward to shake Wirth’s hand.
Dusty examined the other man as he came up and stood to Dusty’s left. Sadness filled his eyes, as though he sensed the pain that lingered in the walls of Pueblo Animas. A curious ability for an investment banker.
“Good day, Doctor,” Wirth said to Dale. “Just what did the young lady mean?”
Dusty saw Sylvia’s mouth open and shot her a warning glance. Wirth smelled like the perfume department at Penney’s. No telling what she might say at a moment like this.
Dusty smiled. “Actually, Sylvia gave you a good description, Mr. Wirth. All except for the part about the passageway to hell. The tunnel is collapsed so we don’t know for sure where it leads.”
Wirth took off his sunglasses and looked Dusty straight in the eyes. “You’ve found that many dead children?”
“About forty. Most of them are under the age of five, including several infants, but I can’t give you an official minimum or maximum until we’ve fully analyzed the remains. In kivas like this, we often find a lot more skulls than bodies, or vice versa.”
Wirth said something to his companion in a language Dusty didn’t understand, then turned back to Dusty. “And you really found an old woman who’d been eaten?”
“Well, we can’t say that for certain. She was butchered. That is, the flesh was carved from her bones with stone tools, but whether or not somebody threw a little salt on it …”
Wirth turned to the unknown man again and rattled off something. Dusty assumed the language to be Arabic. Middle Eastern, at least.
As though he needed privacy, Wirth took his partner by the arm and led him a short distance away to continue the conversation in private.
Steve returned with drinks. He handed Sylvia her Pepsi and asked, “What’s going on?” Sweat had cut lines in the dust that coated his dark skin. He used his sleeve to wipe his forehead.
Sylvia whispered, “I think the curtain’s going up on the great and powerful Oz.”
Steve’s black bushy brows lowered. He looked around the site. “I didn’t see Toto run by. Who’s pulling the curtain back?”
“The guy with ten-thousand-dollar shoes,” Sylvia replied.
Dale cocked his ear to the bankers’ conversation. “Hmm,” he said. “Hebrew.”
Dusty’s brows arched. “Really? What are they saying?”
Dale listened for a few seconds. “Well, they’re talking very low,
and I haven’t dug in Israel in forty years, but I think Wirth just said
kesef
, which means money.”
Dusty watched the men going back and forth, their voices rising and falling. “You mean they’re haggling over the price?”
“I would say so, yes.”
“How much are they up to?”
Dale listened, then shook his head. “Bigger numbers than I ever needed to know to buy a falafel and a bottle of Gold Star.”
Dusty looked at the ground and shook his head. The very idea of haggling over the price of forty dead children left him nauseated. To him, Pueblo Animas was a great American tragedy, like the Gettysburg battlefield, or the Sand Creek Massacre site; it should be treated with reverence and used to teach people the horrors of war. A sour taste rose into his mouth, and Sylvia gave him a worried look, as though she knew exactly what he was feeling.
To lessen the tension, he sucked in a deep breath, smiled, and said, “Yeah, well, speaking of big numbers. When I was digging in Mexico, they only taught us to count to twenty. They were afraid we Americans would get arrested if we had to count to twenty-one.”
Sylvia’s mouth quirked. “What are we discussing? Imaginary numbers?”
Dusty spread his arms as wide as he could. “Yes, but it’s a really big imaginary number.”
Steve looked around Sylvia with an incredulous expression. “Even after that event with big Bob Deercapture? I thought you left half of your number sticking to the side of his truck.”
“Not half,” Sylvia replied. “It was more like a circumcision. You know, a little foreskin—”
“Okay, Sylvia,” Dusty said. “Nobody needs
that
many details. I can’t—”
“Looks like the bargaining is over,” Dale interrupted, and jerked his head toward the bankers.
Wirth shook hands with his friend, and they both walked forward smiling.
Wirth said, “Dr. Robertson, William Stewart, I’d like you to meet Moshe Alevy.”
Dale shook first, then Dusty offered his hand, and Alevy gave it a hearty shake.
To Wirth, Dusty said, “Does he speak English?”
“No, but he’ll learn.” Wirth put a hand on Alevy’s broad shoulder. “He’s the new owner of this parcel of land. He will likely be spending a good deal of time in the United States.”
Dusty’s smile faded. He could feel the crash coming. “What do you mean, the new owner?”
Wirth smiled warmly, as though proud of himself. “Well, we have to sign the papers, of course, but in a week or so, he will be.”
Wirth and Alevy shook again, both grinning like cats with freshly killed birds.
Dusty said, “Uh, Mr. Wirth, could I speak with you for a moment? Alone.”
Wirth looked at Dale, and when Dale shrugged, he gestured toward his Mercedes. “If you can do it in five minutes, Stewart. Mr. Alevy and I have a meeting with our attorneys in Farmington later this afternoon.”