He got out of the car and closed the door behind him. “Stay,” he told Teddy Bear. It was an unnecessary command: even though the windows were rolled all the way down, the dog would never have been able to squeeze his bulk through them.
The entrance to the house was a huge set of eighteenth-century zaguan doors. Pulled from some hacienda in Mexico, I’ll bet, Skip thought as he approached. Clutching a book under one arm, he searched for a doorbell, found nothing, and knocked.
Almost immediately the door opened, revealing a long hallway, grandly appointed but dimly lit. Beyond it he could see a garden with a stone fountain. In front of him stood Ernest Goddard himself, wearing a suit whose muted colors seemed to match the hallway beyond almost exactly. The long white hair and closely trimmed beard framed a pair of lively but rather displeased blue eyes. He turned without a word and Skip followed his gaunt frame as it retreated down the hall, hearing the click of his own heels on the marble.
Passing several doors, Goddard at last ushered Skip into a large, two-story library, its tall rows of books clad in dark mahogany shelves. A spiral staircase of ornate iron led to a second-story catwalk, and to more books, row upon row. Goddard closed and locked a small door on the far side of the room, then pointed Skip toward an old leather chair beside the limestone fireplace. Taking a seat opposite, Goddard crossed his legs, coughed lightly, and looked enquiringly at Skip.
Now that he was here, Skip realized he had no idea exactly how to begin. He fidgeted with unaccustomed nervousness. Then, remembering the book beneath his arm, he brought it forward. “Have you heard of this book?” he asked.
“Heard of it?” murmured Goddard, a trace of irritation in his voice. “Who hasn’t? It’s a classic anthropological study.”
Skip paused. Sitting here, in the quiet confines of the library, what he thought he had discovered began to seem faintly ridiculous. He realized the best thing would be to simply relate what had happened.
“A few weeks ago,” he said, “my sister was attacked at our old farmhouse out past Buckman Road.”
“Oh?” said Goddard, leaning forward.
“She was assaulted by two people. Two people wearing wolfskins, and nothing much else. It was dark, and she didn’t get a very good look at them, but she said they were covered with white spots. They wore old Indian jewelry.”
“Skinwalkers,” Goddard said. “Or, at least, some people playing as skinwalkers.”
“Yes,” said Skip, relieved to hear no note of scorn in Goddard’s voice. “They also broke into Nora’s apartment and stole her hairbrush to get samples of her hair.”
“Hair.” Goddard nodded. “That would fit the skinwalker pattern. They need bodily material from an enemy in order to accomplish their witching.”
“That’s just what this book says,” Skip replied. Briefly, he recounted how it had been his own hair in the brush, and how he had been the one who almost died when his brakes failed so mysteriously.
Goddard listened silently. “What do you suppose they wanted?” he asked when Skip had finished.
Skip licked his lips. “They were looking for the letter Nora found. The one written by my father.”
Goddard suddenly tensed, his entire body registering surprise. “Why didn’t Nora tell me of this?” The voice that had previously expressed mild interest was now razor-sharp with irritation.
“She didn’t want to derail the expedition. She figured she needed the letter to find the valley, and that if she got out of town fast and quietly, whoever or whatever it was would be left behind.”
Goddard sighed.
“But that’s not all. A few days ago, our neighbor, Teresa Gonzales, was murdered in the ranch house. Maybe you heard about it.”
“I recall reading something about that.”
“And did you read that the body was mutilated?”
Goddard shook his head.
Skip slapped Witches, Skinwalkers, and Curanderas with the back of his hand. “Mutilated in just the way described in this study. Fingers and toes sliced off, the whorl of hair on the back of the head scalped off. A disk of skull cut out underneath. According to this book, that’s where the life force enters the body.” He paused. “Nora’s dog disappeared while she was in California. After reading this book, I searched the woods behind her townhouse. I found Thurber’s body. His paws had been cut off. Front and back.”
Goddard’s blue eyes flashed. “The police must have questioned you about the murder. Did you tell them any of this?”
“No,” Skip said, hesitating. “Not exactly. Well, how do you think they’d react to a story about Indian witches?” He put the book aside. “But that’s what they were. They wanted that letter. And they were willing to kill for it.”
Goddard’s look had suddenly gone far away. “Yes,” he murmured. “I understand why you’ve come. They’re interested in the ruins of Quivira.”
“They vanished just about the time the expedition left, maybe a day or two later. Anyway, I haven’t seen or heard any sign of them since. And I’ve been keeping a close eye on Nora’s apartment. I’m worried they may have followed the expedition.”
Goddard’s drawn face went gray. “Yesterday we lost radio contact.”
A feeling of dread suddenly gripped Skip’s heart. This had been the one thing he didn’t want to hear. “Could it be equipment trouble?”
“I don’t think so. The system had redundant backups. And according to your sister, that imaging technician, Holroyd, could have rigged a transmitter out of tin cans and string.”
The older man rose and walked to a small window set among the bookshelves, gazing out toward the mountains, hands in his pockets. A quietness began to gather in the library, punctuated by the steady ticking of an old grandfather clock.
“Dr. Goddard,” Skip blurted suddenly, unable to contain himself any longer. “Please. Nora’s the only family I’ve got left.”
For a moment, Goddard seemed not to have heard. Then he turned, and in his face Skip could see a sudden, iron resolve.
“Yes,” he said, striding to a telephone on a nearby desk. “And the only family I’ve got left is out there with her.”
44
THAT NIGHT, A SOFT BUT STEADY RAIN drummed on the tents of the Quivira expedition, but when morning came the sky was a clear, clean, washed blue, without a cloud in sight. After a long and restless night during which she’d split the guard duty with Smithback, Nora was grateful to step out into the cool morning world. The birds filled the trees with their calls, and the leaves dripped with water that caught and fractured the bright rays of the rising sun.
As she emerged from her tent, her boots sunk into soft wet sand. The creek had risen, she could see, but only slightly—these first rains had been soft enough to soak into the sand without running off. But now the ground was saturated. They had to get out of the canyon before another hard rain, if they didn’t want to be trapped by rising water . . . or, God forbid, something worse.
She glanced toward the row of packed equipment, arranged the night before for transport out of the canyon. They were only taking the minimum they needed to get back to Wahweap Marina—food, tents, essential equipment, documentary records. The rest was being cached in an empty room in the city.
Uncharacteristically, Bonarotti was up early, tending the fire, the espresso pot just signaling its completion with a brief roar. He looked up as Nora came over, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Caffé?” he asked. Nora nodded her thanks as he handed her a steaming cup.
“Is there really gold in that kiva?” Bonarotti asked in a quiet voice.
She eased herself down on the log and drank. Then she shook her head. “No, there isn’t. The Anasazi didn’t have any gold.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Nora sighed. “Trust me. In a century and a half of excavations, not one grain of gold has been found.”
“But what about Black? What he said?”
Nora shook her head again. If I don’t get them out of there today, she thought, I’m never going to get them out. “All I can tell you is, Black’s wrong.”
The cook refilled her cup, then turned back to his fire, silent and dissatisfied. As she sipped her coffee, the rest of the camp began to stir. As they approached, one at a time, it was clear to Nora that the tension of the previous day had not gone away. If anything, it had increased. Black took a seat by the fire and hunched over his coffee, his face dark and inflamed. Smithback gave Nora a tired smile, squeezed her shoulder, then retreated to a rock to scratch quietly in his notebook. Aragon looked distant and absorbed. Sloane was the last to appear. When she did, she refused to meet Nora’s eyes. A resolute silence gripped the camp. Nobody looked like they had slept.
Nora realized she had to establish a momentum, keep things moving toward departure, not allow anyone time to brood. She finished her cup, swallowed, cleared her throat. “This is how it’s going to work,” she said. “Enrique, please secure the medical gear we’ll need. Luigi will pack up the last of the food. Aaron, I want you to climb to the top of the rim and get a weather report.”
“But the sky is blue,” protested Black, with a distasteful look at the dangling ladder.
“Right here, it’s blue,” said Nora. “But the rainy season has started, and this valley drains off the Kaiparowits. If it’s raining there, we could get a flash flood just as sure as if it were raining directly on top of us. Nobody goes through the slot canyon until we get the weather report.”
She looked at Sloane, but the woman hardly registered that she had heard.
“If it’s clear,” Nora continued, “we’ll make the final preparations to leave. Aaron, after you get the weather report, I want you to seal the entrance to the Sun Kiva. You broke into it—you leave it just as you found it. Sloane, you and Smithback will take the last of the drysacks up to the caching spot. As soon as Aaron gets the weather report, I’ll take a load out through the canyon, then make sure the site is secure.”
She looked around. “Is everyone clear on their duties? I want us out of here in two hours.”
Everyone nodded but Sloane, who sat with a dark, unresponsive look on her face. Nora wondered what would happen if, at the last minute, she refused to go. Nora felt sure that Black wouldn’t stay behind—deep down, he was too much of a coward—but Sloane was another matter. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Nora thought.
Just as she was rising, a flash of color caught her eye: Swire, emerging from the mouth of the slot canyon and coming down the valley. Something about the way he was moving toward them filled her with dread. Not more horses, please.
Swire sprinted across the creek and into camp. “Someone got Holroyd’s body,” he said, fighting to catch his breath.
“Someone?” Aragon asked sharply. “Are you sure it wasn’t animals?”
“Unless an animal can scalp a man, cut off his toes and fingers, and drill out a piece of his skull. He’s lying up there in the creek, not far from where we put him.”
The group looked at one another in horror. Nora glanced at Smithback and could tell from his expression that he, too, remembered what Beiyoodzin had said.
“Peter . . .” Nora’s voice faltered. She swallowed. “Did you go on to check the horses?” she heard herself ask.
“Horses are fine,” said Swire.
“Are they ready to take us out?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then we have no more time to waste,” Nora continued, standing up and placing her cup on the serving table. “I’ll take that load out through the slot canyon, and pick up Peter’s body on the way. We’re just going to have to pack it out on one of the horses. I’ll need someone to give me a hand.”
“I’ll help,” said Smithback quickly.
Nora nodded her thanks.
“I will go, too,” said Aragon. “I would like to examine the corpse.”
Nora glanced at him. “There are things here that you need to do—” The sentence went unfinished as she saw the significant look on his face. She turned away. “Very well. We could use a third hand with the body. And listen, all of you: stay in pairs. I don’t want anyone going anywhere alone. Sloane, you’d better go with Aaron.”
Nobody moved, and she glanced around at the faces. The tension that had drawn her nerves tight as a bowstring—the fear and revulsion she felt at the thought of Peter’s body, broken and violated in death—suddenly coalesced into exasperation.
“Damn it!” she cried out. “What the hell are you waiting for? Let’s move!”