“This one’s new,” she assured him. “A Cessna. A single-engine job, hardly worth collecting. No respectable historical archaeologist would want one.”
“I remember you saying once you never met an airplane you didn’t like.”
“You didn’t see this one.” Or the pilot’s dead, staring eyes either, she thought, repressing a shudder.
“Okay, Nick, I know that tone of yours. Let’s talk about your dig.”
“It’s not bad as far as collectibles go,” she said, deciding to withhold news of her latest discovery until he could see it for himself. “The new site that we started today looks promising, but time’s running out. After my students leave, I may stay on here by myself for a while.”
“It’s a long shot anyway, Nick. Most personal artifacts don’t survive a fire big enough to wipe out an entire town.”
“Hold it, Elliot,” Nick said, suddenly realizing that news of her involvement with an airplane had somehow crossed the state line into New Mexico. “Let’s backtrack a moment. How the hell did you hear about the plane crash anyway?”
“It must have been on the radio, because it was relayed to me by one of your admiring colleagues. The one who loves you so dearly at Berkeley.”
“You’re joking. Ben Gilbert’s supposed to be on sabbatical, though the word is he’s really hiding out from the university’s latest sexual harassment suit.”
“Nevertheless, he called me. He said he couldn’t get through to you.”
Nick groaned.
“He reminded me that even when you’re working for my department at the moment, you still belong to him.”
“So?”
“He doesn’t want you getting involved in anything that might discredit his department at Berkeley,” he replied dryly.
“What about you, Elliot? How do you feel?”
“Hey, I’m only the messenger. But I know men like Gilbert. He likes to keep people under his thumb, so he can make them squirm. But all that squirming stops, of course, when they get tenure. Which means the longer he can stall your promotion, the happier he’ll be.”
“He’ll have to give it to me when I publish my work on Ophir and the Benson sisters.”
“I can get you tenure here in Albuquerque anytime you say the word.”
As the recognized expert on the Anasazi Indian culture, Elliot’s word was law in some places. His name on a paper lent instant credibility. And his last publication had included Nick’s name as coauthor. That alone would have assured her tenure at most universities. But at Berkeley she had Ben Gilbert to contend with, and she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of quitting.
“You only stay at Berkeley because you’re so damned stubborn,” Elliot said, reading her thoughts.
“Come on, Dad, you know how it would be. The moment I joined your staff, the screams of nepotism would start. The fact that I did all the dirty work on that last paper would be lost in the backbiting.”
“I’ll tell you what. I feel like getting my hands dirty right now. Why don’t I join you out there in Arizona?”
“Swell,” she said dryly. “I’m sure Ben Gilbert would love that. I can hear him saying, ’Nick’s father had to come to her rescue.’ ”
“He won’t even know I’m there. Besides, I’m bored stiff. I need some field work.”
“One thing I’ll say about this place, Elliot. It’s your kind of country. Your Anasazi would have loved Ophir. It’s surrounded by desert. There’s virtually no water. There’s only one road in, and that’s little better than a rut.”
“Is that a formal invitation?”
“My students are leaving the day after tomorrow anyway. After that, I could use some help.”
“I’m on my way,” he said. “In the meantime, I want your promise that you’re not getting involved in anything extracurricular. Don’t give a man like Gilbert any ammunition to use against you.”
“I told you before, the airplane’s a Cessna and so new it’s boring.”
“Remind me,” Elliot said. “Was your mother right? Am I to blame for this obsession? Who bought you your first model plane?”
“You did. It was a 1926 Ford Trimotor.”
“At least a plane that old comes under the heading of historical archaeology.”
Sometimes Nick wondered if her father agreed with those conservative archaeologists who considered her branch of the business little better than bin diving.
“Come to think of it,” she said, unable to resist goading Elliot, “that Cessna I found could be a rare model. One of a kind maybe. In that case, maybe I ought to go back for another look. Maybe I’ve discovered a kind of elephant’s graveyard for Cessnas.”
“All right, Nick, you’ve made your point. I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t have your best interests at heart. Somebody has to look after you.”
“I’m not my mother.”
“Whoa. I never said you were.”
Nick suddenly realized she was gripping the phone hard enough to make her arm shake.
“Me and my big mouth,” Elliot said.
“Thank God I’m not one of your students anymore.”
“You’re right about that,” he said. “I’d probably have to flunk you.”
“I love you, too,” she said.
As she hung up, Nick wondered if she should have mentioned that she was leaving the dig for an appointment with John Gault.
Chapter 6
Nick was late. The new site had shown great promise, and it had been an effort of will to tear herself away from the dig.
She hit the brakes at the sight of the steel-haired stranger walking with his back to her on the highway shoulder. Her pickup truck fishtailed and showered the man with gravel, forcing him to jump clear.
“John Gault?” she asked.
“I used to be.” He coughed as the dust settled. “Now I just might be dead.”
“Sorry I didn’t catch you at the airport. They said you’d started walking.” She smiled at him. “I’m Nick Scott.”
He rubbed his face. “I hope you’re a better archaeologist than you are a driver. You scared the hell out of me.”
“I missed you, didn’t I? Now, get in and we’ll grab something to eat before we start back to Ophir.”
Once in the truck, he took a hard look at her with startling blue eyes. “My wife had red hair like yours,” he said finally.
“And the rest of me?” she said rather tartly.
He squinted, creating a maze of crow’s-feet that made him appear sad rather than old. “The rest of you is a lousy driver.” He sighed and looked away, staring out at the bleak desert landscape.
“I really am an archaeologist, in case that’s what you’re wondering.”
He turned back to her and his smile took twenty years off. “Friends,” he said, offering his hand.
As soon as she shook it, his smile faded. Even so, she thought he looked remarkably calm for a man who’d just lost his grandson.
“Tell me about the crash,” he said. “Has anything changed since we spoke on the phone?”
She’d been thinking about how to answer that question since the moment she left Ophir. Judging by the NTSB’s reaction to her eyewitness account, she’d probably be better off censoring her comments to this man.
Nick shook her head without taking her eyes from the road. “Nothing’s changed. The Feds are everywhere, and no one else is welcome.”
“That sounds like standard procedure to me. Do they have any indication of what caused the crash?”
“Nothing’s been said to me.”
“Pilot error,” he said. “That’s the easy way out. It’s also the usual ruling when nothing else shows up.”
Two minutes later she pulled off the highway and into the Burger Barn’s gravel parking lot. Half a dozen pickups were there ahead of them. In Berkeley, the place would have looked like a fashionable 1950s replica. Out here, its Formica counter and chrome stools showed the wear and tear of original equipment.
&nbs
p; One of the locals moved down a stool to make room for them at the counter. As soon as they’d ordered burgers and drinks, Nick said, “Was that your Cessna 340 I saw landing a few minutes ago?”
Gault nodded. “I’m impressed. Most people don’t know one plane from another.”
“I used to build models as a kid. Mostly military, though. The older ones are my favorites.”
“What war?”
“World War Two.”
Gault sighed. “My war. Now tell me what’s happening in Ophir.”
“Do you know anything about the place?”
He shook his head.
“It’s a ghost town,” she explained, “or on the verge anyway. I’m on a dig there with some students from the University of New Mexico. The town is built at the mouth of a narrow canyon. Your grandson’s plane went down about a mile inside that canyon. Bad luck really. There’s plenty of flat desert country surrounding the Mescaleros. I was in that canyon looking for an Indian site when the plane came down.”
“You got there before the fire?”
“That’s right.”
“And Matt was dead?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” Nick said, then decided to hell with it, self-censorship wasn’t for her. “There’s was something strange about his body, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“His skin was very red, and looked swollen.”
“How close were you?”
“I touched him.” She closed her eyes, seeing the cockpit again. “I suppose it could have been a reflection from the red gas cans.”
He grabbed her wrist. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The back seat was stacked full of red plastic gas containers.”
“That can’t be right.” He shook his head. “Matt would never do something that stupid, or that dangerous.”
Nick pulled free of his grasp. His grip was strong and left angry red marks on her skin.
“Sorry,” he said when she gingerly rubbed her wrist.
“Nothing’s broken,” she replied tartly.
Gault dug into his wallet and extracted a photograph. “I want to make sure we’re talking about my grandson.”
Nick studied the snapshot of the young man carefully. He was handsome and had John Gault’s startling blue eyes, though the last time she’d seen them, they’d been dull and flat. The Matt in the photo was lean, muscular, and tanned, a far cry from the body in the Cessna. Still, it was definitely the same man.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That’s the man I saw in the cockpit.”
Their food arrived, but Gault ignored it. “You said you saw gas cans, is there anything else?”
“Yes. Like I told you on the phone, I heard a helicopter.”
“But not the engine of Matt’s Cessna?”
“I heard only the helicopter,” she said firmly, watching his face for signs of disbelief. When she saw nothing, she added, “I suppose you think I’m imagining things.”
“I didn’t say so, did I?”
“But are you thinking it?”
“I’ll tell you when I am, Miss Scott.”
“Why would a helicopter be anywhere near a ghost town?” he continued.
“I’ve seen them before, usually out near the mesa.”
“I thought you said Ophir was in the Mescaleros?”
“It’s called Mesa d’Oro. It’s to the west of Ophir on the desert floor. It’s kind of a landmark, the highest point in the area. I’m told there used to be some kind of military installation out there.”
“I saw it flying in,” he said. “I had to detour around it because it’s in a no-fly zone.”
“They tell me the restriction dates from World War Two, and that there’s nothing out there now.”
“Then why is it still on the map?”
She shrugged, took a bite of her burger, and chewed thoughtfully. Finally, she decided to push her credibility to the limits. “I saw a shadow pass over the cliff face just before the crash. I don’t think it was the Cessna, however. There was something wrong about it.”
He pretended to concentrate on his burger, but she caught him watching her in the mirror behind the counter. At best, he probably figured she’d been out in the sun too long. At worst, God knows what he thought. And she couldn’t blame him for labeling her as a nut case. It made no sense, seeing shadows and hearing a helicopter when it was a single-engine Cessna she’d found.
“What kind of models did you make?” he said.
“Pardon?”
“The ones you built as a child.”
“What you’re really asking me is the same thing that agent was getting around to. Am I crazy? Well, Mr. Gault, if I remember correctly, a Cessna 182, the kind that crashed out in Sulphur Canyon, is also known as a Skylane. It’s powered by a two hundred and thirty horsepower Continental engine. A flat six, I believe.”
His mouth dropped open wide enough to make her laugh. “To answer your question, World War Two models were my favorite. I built dozens of them.”
“I flew one of them,” he said. “A B-24 Liberator.”
“When?”
“Early days, late forty-three and early forty-four.”
“You don’t look that old.” She felt embarrassed as soon as the words left her mouth.
“I feel a hundred and six,” he said and laughed.
“I’ve always wanted to fly in one of those bombers,” she said.
“Would you settle for a guided tour on the ground when all this is over?”
“You mean you actually have one?” she asked, trying to contain her excitement.
He nodded. “Of course, the Lady-A doesn’t fly these days, but she’s as beautiful as ever, and she’s in my hangar at the Salt Lake airport.”
“I may just take you up on that offer. I’m researching life in Ophir at the moment, and I still need background material on a couple of its pioneering sisters. The best source of that information is at the Genealogy Library in your hometown.”
He handed her his business card. “All you have to do is call me.”
“In the meantime,” Nick said, “I think we’d better get started. The road to Ophir’s no picnic.”
Chapter 7
Nick sighed with relief the moment the turnoff to Ophir came into view. Road work on the narrow WPA bridge leading out of Mescalero had delayed them nearly an hour. Any longer and she and Gault would have been driving in the dark, not something to be taken lightly when tackling the last few miles of the rutted dirt track that led to the badlands around Ophir.
Her arms ached from fighting the pickup’s suspension on the washboard road. Her head throbbed from squinting against the glare of the setting sun.
Road dust had seeped into every nook and cranny of the pickup. Her mouth felt gritty from it. Next to her, John Gault had acquired a patina as red as the dusty desert soil.
Nick squirmed, feeling sticky all over. More than anything, she longed for a shower and a cold beer. Probably Gault felt the same.
The man was impossible to read. His arms were folded across his chest, his eyes invisible behind dark aviator’s glasses. He wore his leather flight jacket despite the heat and hadn’t said a word for miles, not since they’d turned off the potholed asphalt that masqueraded as a state highway. After that, his gaze had locked on the great mesa to the west. Its red rock rose two thousand feet from the center of an arid plain like an inflamed, upthrust molar.
“Stop here,” he commanded, suddenly breaking his silence as she negotiated the turn. He got out of the truck to stare at Mesa d’Oro.
“I’ve seen choppers out there a few times,” she said.
He grunted. “Do you have any binoculars?”
“In the glove compartment.”
He pocketed his dark glasses. Then, for the next few minutes, he stood beside the truck and focused the binoculars on the mesa barely visible in the fading light, while Nick slapped dust from her jeans and wo
rk shirt.
“Anything?” she asked when he finally returned the glasses to her.
He shook his head and got back in the truck. Surprisingly, Nick discovered that she was disappointed. They drove the rest of the way in silence.
The minute they parked in front of the Emporium, the screen door banged open and Zeke Moyle stepped out to greet them.
“You missed the excitement,” he said as soon as he was within speaking range. “The Feds brought in a whirlybird to haul away some of the pieces, and the body too.”
“I don’t understand,” Nick said. “They can’t have finished their investigation so soon?”
“Yep. Pilot error, they told me.”
Gault lunged forward and caught hold of Moyle’s shirt with both hands. Gault’s agility surprised her. She’d rarely seen a man move like that. Neither had Moyle, judging by the startled look on his face.
The force of Gault’s assault had Moyle backing up on tiptoe.
“What else did they tell you?” Gault growled.
Wide-eyed, Moyle shook his head. It was still shaking when he banged into the Emporium’s sun-blackened clapboard siding. Moyle had to be twenty years younger than Gault and a good twenty pounds heavier, but he made no attempt to escape the older man’s grip. Instead, Moyle appeared to dangle there against the siding, like a bug pinned to a collection board.
Nick grabbed one of Gault’s arms but couldn’t budge it.
“I asked you a question,” Gault said through clenched teeth. His tone sent a shiver down Nick’s spine.
Moyle shook his head in denial. “They didn’t tell me anything else. Ask them, if you don’t believe me. They’re still out in the canyon poking around in the ashes.”
“Please,” Nick said. “Let him go.”
Slowly, Gault’s head turned toward her. His eyes, the ones Moyle had been looking into, staggered her. In that instant, she knew he wasn’t a man to be underestimated. She knew the look of obsession well; she’d seen it often enough on her father’s face when he was homing in on some new discovery involving his beloved Anasazi Indians. Her mother, too, had worn such a look during her darker moods.
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