Thunderhead

by Douglas Preston

  Skip licked his lips. This was going to be worse than he ever imagined. “Could I get a cup of coffee before we start?”

  “Nope. No food or drink allowed in the lab. Tomorrow, come early and help yourself to coffee in the staff lounge. And that reminds me.” She pointed a thumb at the nearest wastebasket.

  “What?”

  “Your gum. In there, please.”

  “Can’t I just stick it under the desk?”

  Rowling shook her head, unamused. Skip leaned over and spat out his gum.

  Rowling passed over a box of disposable gloves. “Now put these on.” She tugged on a pair herself, then placed one of the artifact bags between them and unsealed it carefully. Skip peered inside, curious despite himself. The sherds came in a variety of patterns and colors. Some were badly weathered, others still quite fresh. A few were corrugated and blackened with cooking smoke. Many were too small to clearly determine what kind of designs had been painted on them, but some were large enough to make out motifs: wavy lines, series of diamonds, parallel zig-zags. Skip remembered collecting similar sherds with his father. Back when he was a kid, it had been okay to do that. Not anymore.

  The lab technician removed a sherd from the bag. “This is Cortez black-on-white.” She laid it gingerly on the table and her fingers moved back into the bag and withdrew another sherd. “And this is Kayenta black-on-white. Take a careful note of the differences.”

  She put the sherds into two clear plastic containers, then drew another sherd from the bag. “What’s this?”

  Skip scrutinized it. “It looks like the first one you drew out. Cortez.”

  “Correct.” Rowling put the sherd into the first plastic bin, then drew out another sherd. “And this one?”

  “It’s the other. Kayenta.”

  “Very good.” Rowling placed the sherd into the other bin, then drew out a fifth sample from the bag. “And how about this?” There was a slightly sardonic expression on Rowling’s face, a faint challenge. It looked almost like the second sherd, but not quite. Skip opened his mouth to say Kayenta, then closed it again. He stared, reaching deep into his memory.

  “Chuska Wide Banded?” he asked.

  There was a sudden pause, and for a moment Rowling’s face lost its assurance. “How in the world—?”

  “My father liked potsherds,” said Skip, a little diffidently.

  “That’s going to help us a lot,” she said, her voice warming. “Maybe Nora was right. Anyway, you’ll find all sorts of good things in here: Cibola ware, St. John’s Polychrome, Mogollon Brownware, McElmo. But see for yourself.” She reached across the table and pulled over a laminated sheet. “This shows you samples of the two dozen or so styles you’re likely to find from the Ponderosa Draw site. Separate them by style, and put any questionable sherds to one side. I’ll come back and check on your progress in an hour or so.”

  Skip watched her leave, then sighed deeply and turned his attention to the overstuffed Baggie. At first, the work seemed both boring and confusing, and the heap of questionable sherds began to pile up. But then, almost imperceptibly, he grew more sure in his identification: it was instinctive, almost, the way the shape, condition, even composition of the sherds could speak as loudly as the design itself. Memories of long afternoons spent with his father, pacing over some ruin in the middle of nowhere, came back with a bittersweet tang. And then, back at the house, poring over monographs, sorting and gluing the sherds onto pieces of cardboard. He wondered what had become of all their painstaking collections.

  The lab was quiet except for the occasional keytaps of the young technician in the far corner. Skip started when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “So?” Rowling asked him. “How’s it going?”

  “Has it been an hour?” Skip asked. He sat up and looked at his watch. The headache was gone.

  “Just about.” She peered into the bins. “Good heavens, you’ve worked your way through two bags already.”

  “Does that make me teacher’s pet?” Skip asked, massaging his neck. In the distance, he heard a rap at the laboratory door.

  “Let me look over your work first, see how many mistakes you’ve made,” Rowling replied.

  Abruptly, a high, tremulous voice rang out on the far side of the room: “Skip Kelly? Is there a Skip Kelly here?”

  Skip glanced up. It was the young technician, looking very nervous. And easing past him, Skip could see the source of his nervousness: a large man in a blue uniform. The man walked partway toward Skip, the gun, baton, and handcuffs on his belt clinking slightly, then stopped. He hooked his hands in his belt with a slight smile. The room had fallen silent.

  “Skip Kelly?” he asked in a low, calm baritone.

  “Yes,” said Skip, going cold, his mind racing through a dozen possibilities, all of them unpleasant. That asshole neighbor must have complained. Or maybe it’s that woman with the dachshund. Christ, I only ran over its back leg, and—

  “Could I speak with you outside, please?”

  In the solemn darkness of the anteroom, the man flipped open an ID wallet and aimed it in Skip’s direction. “I’m Lieutenant Detective Al Martinez, Santa Fe Police Department.”

  Skip nodded.

  “You’re a hard man to reach,” Martinez said in a voice that managed to be both friendly and neutral at the same time. “I wonder if I could have a bit of your time.”

  “My time?” Skip managed to say. “Why?”

  “We’ll get to that at the station, Mr. Kelly, if you don’t mind.”

  “The station,” Skip repeated. “When?”

  “Let’s see,” said Martinez, glancing first at the floor, then at the ceiling, then back at Skip. “Right about now would be nice.”

  Skip swallowed. Then he nodded toward the open laboratory door. “I’m at work right now. Can’t it wait until later?”

  There was a brief pause. “No, Mr. Kelly,” the policeman replied. “Come to think of it, I don’t believe it can.”

  21

  * * *

  SKIP FOLLOWED THE POLICEMAN OUT OF THE building to a waiting car. The detective was enormous, with a neck like a redwood stump; yet his movements were light, even gentle. Martinez stopped at the passenger side and, to Skip’s surprise, held the door open for him. As the car pulled away, Skip glanced in the rearview mirror. He could see a pair of white faces framed by the open door of the Artifactual Assemblages building, watching motionlessly, dwindling at last to invisibility.

  “My first day on the job,” Skip said. “Great impression.”

  They pulled through the gates of the compound and began to accelerate. Martinez slipped a stick of gum out of his breast pocket and offered it to Skip.

  “No thanks.”

  The detective folded the stick into his own mouth and began to chew, muscles in his jaw and neck working slowly. The irregular form of the La Fonda Hotel loomed on his right. Then they passed the plaza and the Palace of the Governors, Indians selling jewelry under the portal, the sunlight glinting off the polished silver and turquoise.

  “Am I going to need a lawyer?” Skip asked.

  Martinez chewed his gum diligently. “I don’t think so,” he said, “’Course, you’re welcome to one if you want.”

  The car moved past the library and pulled around behind the old police building. Several Dumpsters sat in front, filled with broken pieces of drywall.

  “Renovating,” Martinez explained as they entered a lobby draped in plastic. The lieutenant stopped at a desk and took a folder offered by a uniformed woman. He led Skip along a hallway smelling of paint, down a flight of stairs. Opening a scratched door, he ushered Skip in. Beyond lay a bare room, devoid of furniture except for three wooden chairs, a desk, and a dark mirror.

  Skip had never been in such a place before, but he’d seen enough television to instantly recognize its purpose. “This looks like some kind of interrogation room,” he said.

  “It is.” Martinez took a seat with a protest of wood. He laid the folder on the t
able and offered Skip a chair. Then he pointed to the ceiling. Skip glanced up to see a lens, pointed almost insolently at him. “We’re going to videotape you. Okay?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes. If you say no, the interview will be over, and you’ll be free to go.”

  “Great,” said Skip, starting to get up.

  “Of course, then we’d have to subpoena you, and you’d spend money on that lawyer. Right now, you’re not a suspect. So why don’t you just relax and answer a few questions? If at any time you want a lawyer or want to terminate the interview, you can. How does that sound?”

  “Did you say suspect?” Skip asked.

  “Yes.” Martinez looked at him with uninformative black eyes. Skip realized the man was waiting for an answer.

  “Okay,” he said, sighing mightily. “Roll ’em.”

  Martinez nodded to someone behind the one-way glass, then turned back to Skip. “Please state your name, address, and birthdate.” They rapidly went through the preliminaries. Then Martinez asked:

  “Are you the owner of an abandoned ranch house beyond Fox Run, address Rural Route Sixteen, Box Twelve, Santa Fe, New Mexico?”

  “Yes. My sister and I own it together.”

  “And your sister is Nora Waterford Kelly?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what are the whereabouts of your sister at the moment?”

  “She’s on an archaeological expedition to Utah.”

  Martinez nodded. “When did she leave?”

  “Three days ago. She won’t be back for a couple of weeks, at least.” Once again, Skip began to stand. “Does this have to do with her?”

  Martinez make a suppressing motion with one palm. “Your parents are both deceased, correct?”

  Skip nodded.

  “And you are currently employed at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute.”

  “I was until you showed up.”

  Martinez smiled. “And how long have you been employed by the Institute?”

  “I told you in the car. This was my first day.”

  Martinez nodded again, more slowly this time. “And prior to today, where were you employed?”

  “I’ve been job hunting.”

  “I see. And when were you last employed?”

  “Never. Not since I graduated from college last year, anyway.”

  “Do you know a Teresa Gonzales?”

  Skip licked his lips. “Yeah. I know Teresa. She was our neighbor out at the ranch.”

  “When did you last see Teresa?”

  “God, I don’t know. Ten months ago, maybe eleven. Shortly after I graduated.”

  “How about your sister? When did she last see Ms. Gonzales?”

  Skip shifted in his chair. “Let’s see. A couple of days ago, I think. She helped Nora out at the ranch.”

  “You mean Nora, your sister?” Martinez asked. “Helped her how?”

  Skip hesitated. “She was attacked,” he said slowly.

  Martinez’s neck muscles stopped working for a moment. “Care to tell me about it?”

  “Teresa used to call my sister when she heard noises at the old place. Vandals, kids, that kind of stuff. Lately there’s been a lot of messing around over there; she’s called my sister several times. Nora went over about a week ago. Said she was attacked. Teresa heard the racket, came over with a shotgun, scared them off.”

  “Did she say anything more? A description of the attackers?”

  “Nora said . . .” Skip thought for a moment. “Nora said it was two people. Two people, dressed up as animals.” He decided not to mention the letter. Whatever was going on here didn’t need any more complications.

  “Why didn’t she come to us?” Martinez asked at last.

  “Can’t say for sure. Going to the police really isn’t her style. She always wants to do everything for herself. I think she was concerned it might delay her expedition.”

  Martinez seemed to ponder something. “Mr. Kelly,” he began again. “Can you account for your whereabouts over the last forty-eight hours?”

  Skip stopped short. Then he sat back, took a deep breath. “Except for showing up at the Institute this morning, I was at my apartment all weekend.”

  Martinez consulted a piece of paper. “2113 Calle de Sebastian, number two-B?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you see anybody during that time?”

  Skip swallowed. “Larry, at Eldorado Liquors, saw me Saturday afternoon. My sister phoned me late Saturday night.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Well, my neighbor called me three or four times.”

  “Your neighbor?”

  “Yeah. Reg Freiburg, in the apartment next door. Doesn’t like loud music.”

  Martinez sat back, running his fingers through his close-cropped black hair. He stayed silent for what seemed like a long time. At last he sat forward. “Mr. Kelly, Teresa Gonzales was found dead last night at your ranch house.”

  Suddenly, Skip’s body felt strangely heavy. “Teresa?”

  Martinez nodded. “Every Sunday afternoon, she gets a delivery of feed for the farm animals. Last Sunday, she didn’t answer the door. The man noticed the animals hadn’t been fed, and that her dog was locked in the house. When she still didn’t answer the next morning, he got worried and called us.”

  “Oh, my God.” Skip shook his head. “Teresa. I can’t believe it.”

  The lieutenant shifted in his chair, eyes on Skip. “When we went out there, we found her bed unmade, clothes set out. The dog was terrified. It looked like something had gotten her up in the middle of the night. But there was no sign of her on the property, so we decided to visit the neighboring ranches. Your place was our first stop.” He took a slow breath. “We saw movement inside. Turned out to be dogs, fighting over something.” He stopped, pursed his lips.

  But Skip barely heard this. He was thinking of Teresa, trying to remember the last time he’d seen her. He and Nora had gone out to the house to pick up a few things to decorate her apartment. Teresa had been outside in her yard, seen them, and waved her enthusiastic wave. He could see her still, jogging down the path to their house, brown careless hair flapping and dancing in the breeze.

  Then his eyes fell upon the single folder lying in the center of the desk. GONZALES, T. was written along one side. The glossy edge of a black-and-white picture peeked from beneath one corner of the folder. Automatically, he reached out for it.

  “I wouldn’t,” Martinez said. But he made no move to stop him. Skip lifted the edge, exposing the photograph; then froze in horror.

  Teresa was lying on her back, one leg across the other, left hand thrown up as if to catch an errant football. At least, Skip thought it was Teresa, because he recognized the room as their old kitchen: his mother’s ancient stove stood in the top right-hand corner of the picture.

  Teresa herself was less recognizable. Her mouth was open, but the cheeks were missing. Through gaps in the ruined flesh, teeth fillings gleamed hollowly in the light of the camera’s flash. Even in the black-and-white photograph, Skip saw that the skin was an unnatural mottled shade. Several parts of Teresa were missing: fingers, a breast, the meaty part of a thigh. Small black marks and ragged lines dotted her body: evidence of unhurried sampling by animals approaching satiation. Where Teresa’s throat had once been was now just emptiness, a ruined cage of bone and gristle, surrounded by ragged flesh. Congealed blood ran away in a horrific river toward a long hole in the scarred floorboards. Pattering away from the river of blood were countless small marks Skip realized were paw prints.

  “Dogs,” Martinez said, gently removing Skip’s hand and closing the folder.

  Skip’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. “I’m sorry?” he croaked.

  “Stray dogs had been working on her body for a day or so.”

  “Was she killed by dogs?”

  “We thought so at first. Her throat had been torn out with a large bite and there were claw and bite marks over the b
ody. But the coroner’s initial examination found definitive evidence that it was a homicide.”

  Skip looked at him. “What kind of evidence?”

  Martinez rose with an easy affability that seemed incongruous with his words. “An unusual kind of mutilation to the fingers and toes, among other things. We’ll know a lot more when the autopsy is completed this afternoon. Meantime, please do three things for me. Keep this to yourself. Don’t go near the farmhouse. And most important of all: stay where we can find you.”

  He ushered Skip out of the room and down the hall without another word.

  22

  * * *

  AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING, THE expedition was uncharacteristically silent. Nora felt a mood of doubt. All too clearly, Black’s comments from the night before had made their mark.

  They proceeded northwest, up a harsh, brutal canyon destitute of vegetation. Even at the early hour, heat was rising from the split rocks, making them look airy and insubstantial. The unwatered horses were irritable and difficult to control.

  As they continued, the canyon system grew increasingly complex, branching and rebranching into a twisted maze. It continued to be impossible to get a GPS reading from the canyon floor, and the cliffs were so sheer that Sloane could not have climbed to the top to take a reading without putting herself in danger. Nora found she was spending as much time consulting the map as traveling. Several times they were forced to backtrack out of a blind canyon; other times, the expedition had to wait while Nora and Sloane scouted ahead to find a route. Black was uncharacteristically silent, his face sick with a combination of fear and anger.

  Nora struggled with her own doubts. Had her father really gone this far? Had they taken a wrong turn somewhere? A few swales and scatterings of charcoal were visible here and there, but so faint and infrequent as to be background noise; they could easily be the result of wildfires. There was a new thought now she barely dared to consider: what if her father had been delirious when he wrote the letter? It seemed impossible for anyone to have successfully navigated this labyrinth.