She leaped for the third pole and climbed, arms and legs protesting, toward the third shelf and the hole leading to the redoubt at the top of the tower. Moments later she was onto the ledge. From the small room beyond, Sloane reached out a hand to help her in.
Crouching beneath the low ceiling, Nora swept her flashlight around the room. It was tiny, perhaps four by six feet. Above her head, a small ragged hole led up onto the roof of the tower. A disarticulated skeleton lay in a heap against one wall. Her heart sank as she saw there were no stones, no weapons—nothing they could use to defend themselves except a few useless bones.
But they still had the gun.
Shielding the flashlight, Nora leaned back out into the cool dark shaft of the tower. Two bobbing red eyes reflected the feeble beam: it was on the second ladder again, and coming inexorably closer.
She shrank back into the redoubt and looked at Sloane. A pale face stared back at her, drawn with fear and tension. Beneath it, the necklace of micaceous beads gave off a faint golden sheen. Nora cupped her hand over the light. A part of her could not fully comprehend what was happening: stuck here, with the woman who had caused the death of her friends, while a creature out of nightmare was climbing toward them. She shook her head, trying to clear it.
“How many bullets?” she whispered, shining the veiled light toward Sloane.
Mutely, Sloane held up three fingers.
“Listen,” Nora went on, “There’s no time left. I’ll turn off the light, and we’ll wait here in the opening. When it’s close, I’ll aim the beam, and you fire. Okay?”
Sloane suppressed a cough, nodded urgently.
“We’ll only have time for one shot, maybe two. Make them count.”
She snapped off her light, and together they moved toward the opening of the redoubt. As Nora inched out cautiously, she became acutely aware of every sense: the cool air rolling up from the darkness of the tower, the hard metal of the flashlight in her hand, the smell of dust and decay from the redoubt.
And the sound of scrabbling claws on wood, growing closer, ever closer.
“Get ready,” she whispered.
She waited a moment, then another, then she snapped on the light.
And there it was below her, terrifyingly close. With an involuntary cry, she took in the petrifying image: musky wolfskin; feral eyes; tortured, howling mask.
“Now!” she cried, even as the roar of the gun drowned out her voice.
In the faint beam, she saw the skinwalker jerk to one side, pelt flying wildly about him.
“Again!” she shouted, fighting to keep the dwindling pinpoint of light on the twisting figure. There was another blast, superimposed by a muffled howl from below. As the light guttered out Nora saw the figure crumple in on itself and fall away, swallowed by the well of darkness.
She dropped the useless flashlight into the gulf and listened. But there was nothing: no groan, no rasping intake of breath. The faint glowing rectangle of doorway far below them betrayed no movement, no twisted shadow.
“Come on!” Sloane said, pulling her back into the redoubt and urging her toward the hole in the ceiling. Grasping the adobe framework, Nora pulled herself up onto the roof. She backed away from the opening as Sloane came up behind, gasping and coughing.
Here, far above the ruins of Quivira, it was cool, with a faint breeze. The dome of the alcove was only a few feet above her head, a rough, fractured surface. Nora stood motionless, exhausted. There was no parapet on the tower; the roof ended in open space. Beyond it, the city lay stretched out below her feet. The moon was struggling to show itself behind an expanse of fast-scudding rainclouds, and there was the whisper of rain. The pale illumination, waxing and waning, gave the roomblocks, towers, and plazas a fleeting spectral glow. Moist air brushed her cheek, stirred her hair. She heard a faint flutter of wings, a low wind in the valley. Somewhere out in that valley lay Smithback’s body.
She turned quickly toward Sloane. The woman was kneeling at the opening in the roof, gun drawn, staring intently downward. Nora came over, and together they waited in tense silence. But no sound or movement came from the darkness below.
At last, Sloane stood and backed away. “It’s over,” she said.
Nora nodded absently, still staring into the dark cavity, her thoughts clouded, her mind troubled.
For what seemed several minutes, they stood motionless, overwhelmed by the furious emotion of the chase. Then, at last, Sloane snugged the gun into her belt.
“So what now, Nora?” she asked huskily.
Nora looked up at her, slowly, uncomprehending.
“I just saved your life,” Sloane went on slowly. “Isn’t that going to count for something?”
Nora could not bring herself to speak.
“It’s true,” Sloane said. “I saw that storm. So did Black. But I didn’t lie about the weather report. You gave me no choice.” There was a sudden flash of anger in the almond eyes. “You were willing to abandon everything, keep the glory to yourself—” A sudden racking cough cut short the sentence. Nora could see Sloane fighting to keep her voice calm.
“I’m not proud of what I did,” she went on. “But it had to be done. People have died for far lesser causes than this. The true wrong was yours: walking away, ready to deprive the world of the most glorious pottery ever made by man.”
“Pottery,” Nora repeated.
“Yes. The Sun Kiva was full—is full—of black-on-yellow micaceous pottery. It’s the mother lode, Nora. You didn’t know it. You didn’t even suspect it. But I knew.”
“I knew there was no gold in that kiva.”
“Of course there wasn’t. Neither one of us ever really believed that. But all those ancient reports weren’t totally fabricated—not really. It was a translational blip.”
Sloane leaned forward. “You know the value of black-on-yellow micaceous. No intact examples have ever been found. That’s because they’re all here, Nora. They were the true treasure of Anasazi. And they’re more than just pots. I’ve seen them. The designs are unique—they tell, in pictographic form, the entire history of the Anasazi. That’s why they were made and hoarded here, and nowhere else: knowledge is power. They hold the answers to all the great mysteries of southwestern archaeology.”
For a moment, Nora froze at these words. The horror and danger were forgotten as she thought of the magnitude of such a discovery. If this is true, she thought, then it makes all of our other discoveries seem like . . .
And then Sloane coughed, drawing the back of her hand across her mouth. The climb seemed to have drained all the energy from her: she seemed pale, her breathing rapid. Instantly, Nora returned to the present. The sickness is coming on her, she thought.
“Sloane, the entire back of the city—especially the Sun Kiva—is full of fungal dust,” she said.
Sloane frowned, as if doubting she had heard correctly. “Dust?”
“Yes. That’s what killed Holroyd. The skinwalkers are using it for corpse powder.”
Sloane shook her head impatiently. “What are you doing—trying to distract me with bullshit? Don’t change the subject. I’m talking about the greatest discovery of the century.”
Sloane fell silent for a moment. Then she began again. “You know, we could keep the mistaken weather report between ourselves. We could forget about what happened to Aragon, forget the storm. This find is bigger than all that.” She looked away. “You can’t possibly understand what it means to me—what it would have meant to me—to be the sole discoverer. To have my name go down in history beside Carter and Wetherill. If it weren’t for me, we would have left this place, the pottery undiscovered, ripe for looting by—”