If it is within your power, let the great ruins of Quivira lie undisturbed and unknown. It is a place of evil; I know that now, even from my own brief exploration. It may well be the cause of my death, though I do not understand why. Perhaps some knowledge is better left alone, to die and return to the earth, just as we do.
I have just one request to make each of you. Skip, please don’t drink. It runs in the family, and, I promise you, you won’t be able to handle it. I could not. And, Nora, please forgive your mother. I know that in my absence, she may blame me for what has happened. When you are grown, forgiveness will be difficult for you. But remember that, in a way, she was right to blame me. And—in her own way—she has always loved you deeply.
This is a beautiful place to die, children. The night sky is filled with stars; the stream splashes below; a coyote is sounding in a distant canyon. I came here for riches, but the sight of Quivira changed my mind. In fact, I left no mark of my passage there. And I have taken one thing only from it, and that was meant for you, Nora, as proof your father really found the fabled city. For it was there that I learned, for the first time, that I had left my real, my true successes—the two of you—far behind in Santa Fe.
I know I have not been a great father, or even a good father, and for that I am truly sorry. There is so much I could have done as a father that I didn’t. So let my last act as a father be to tell you this: I love you both. And I will love you always, forever and ever, from eternity to eternity. My love for you burns brighter than all the thousands of stars that carpet the sky above my head. I may die, but my love for you never will.
Dad
Nora fell silent and closed her eyes. For a moment, the entire canyon seemed to drop into reverential silence. Then she looked up, shut the notebook, and carefully placed it on the ground beside her father. She turned and gave Smithback a tearful smile.
Then the four of them made their way down the faint path, to the waiting horses and home.
Authors’ Note
The archaeology of this story is speculative in places. However, it is grounded in fact. The history of the Anasazi, the mystery of the Chaco collapse and the abandonment of the Colorado Plateau, the long-sought evidence of a Mesoamerican connection, the use of radar to locate prehistoric roads—as well as the cannibalistic and witchcraft practices described herein—are based on actual research findings. In addition, one of the authors, Douglas Preston, has traveled and lived among southwestern Indian peoples, as recounted in his nonfiction work Talking to the Ground.
The authors made use of information from a number of other publications, the most important of which include: Clyde Kluckhohn, Navaho Witchcraft; Blackburn and Williamson, Cowboys and Cave Dwellers; Basketmaker Archaeology in Utah’s Grand Gulch; Crown and Judge, eds.,Chaco and Hohokam: Prehistoric Regional Sytems in the American Southwest; Kathryn Gabriel, Roads to Center Place: A Cultural Atlas of Chaco Canyon and the Anasazi; James McNeley, Holy Wind in Navajo Philosophy; David Roberts, In Search of the Old Ones; George Pepper, Pueblo Bonito; Hester, Shafer, and Feder, Field Methods in Archaeology; Lynne Sebastian, The Chaco Anasazi; Levy, Neutra, and Parker, Hand Trembling, Frenzy Witchcraft, and Moth Madness; Mauch Messenger, ed., The Ethics of Collecting Cultural Property; Chris Kincaid, ed., Chaco Roads Project, Phase I: A Reappraisal of Prehistoric Roads in the San Juan Basin; Tim D. White, Prehistoric Cannibalism at Mancos 5MTUMR=3246; Christy Turner, Man Corn: Cannibalism and Violence in the Prehistoric American Southwest; and Farouk El-Baz, “Space Age Archaeology,” Scientific American, August 1997.
It should be noted that the Nankoweap tribe is wholly fictitious, as is the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. The witchcraft practices and beliefs described herein are not intended to negatively depict or portray the beliefs of any existing culture. All the characters, events, and most of the places portrayed in this novel are also entirely fictitious products of the authors’ imaginations.
* * *
More
Douglas Preston
and Lincoln Child!
Please see below for a
bonus excerpt from
The Ice Limit
a Warner Book
available wherever
books are sold
* * *
Kalahari Desert, June 1, 6:45 pm
Sam McFarlane sat cross-legged in the dust of the Kalahari desert. The evening fire, built of twigs on bare ground, cast a trembling net of shadows over the thorn scrub surrounding the camp. The nearest settlement lay one hundred miles behind his back.
He looked around at the wizened figures squatting on their heels around the fire, naked except for dusty breechclouts, their alert eyes gleaming. San Bushmen. It took a long time to gain their trust, but once gained, it was unshakable. Very different, McFarlane thought, from back home. In front of each San lay a battered, secondhand metal detector.
The San remained immobile as McFarlane rose to his feet. He spoke slowly, awkwardly, in their strange click language. At first, there were some snickers as he struggled with the words, but McFarlane had a natural affinity for languages, and as he continued they fell back into respectful silence.
At the conclusion of his speech, McFarlane smoothed out a patch of sand. Using a stick, he began to draw a map. The San squatted on their heels, craning their necks to look at the drawing. Slowly, the map took shape, and the San nodded their understanding as McFarlane pointed out the various landmarks. It was the Makgadikgadi Pans that lay north of the camp: a thousand square miles of dry lakebeds, sand hills, and alkali flats, desolate and uninhabited. In the deep interior of the Pans, he drew a small circle with his stick. Then he stabbed the stick in the center of the circle and looked up with a broad smile.
There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the lonely sound of a ruoru bird across the distant flats. The San began talking among themselves in low voices, the clicks and clucks of their language like the rattling of pebbles in a stream. A gnarled old figure, the headman of the band, pointed at the map. McFarlane leaned forward, straining to understand the rapid speech. Yes, they knew the area the old man said. He began to describe trails, known only to the San, that crossed the remote area. With a twig and some pebbles, the headman began marking where the seeps were, where the game was, where edible roots and plants could be found. McFarlane waited patiently.
At last, quiet again settled on the group. The head man spoke to McFarlane, more slowly this time. Yes, they were willing to do what the white man wanted. But they were afraid of the white man’s machines, and they also did not understand this thing the white man was looking for.
McFarlane rose again, pulled the stick out of the map. Then he took a small, dark lump of iron from his pocket, no bigger than a marble, and placed it in the hole left by the stick. He pushed it down and concealed it with sand. Then he stood, picked up his metal detector, and snapped it on. There was a brief, high-pitched whine. Everyone watched in nervous silence. He took two steps away from the map, turned, and began walking forward, making low sweeps over the ground with the detector. As it swept over the buried lump of iron, there was a squawk. The San jumped backwards in alarm and there was a burst of rapid talk.
McFarlane smiled, spoke a few words, and the San crept back into their seating places. He turned off the metal detector and held it toward the headman, who took it reluctantly.
McFarlane showed him how it turn it on, and then guided him, in sweeping motions, over the circle. A second squawk sounded. The headman flinched but then smiled. He tried it again, and again, his smile growing broader, his face breaking into a mass of wrinkles. “Sun‘a ai, Ma!gad‘i!gadi !iaad‘mi,” he said, gesturing to his band.
With McFarlane’s patient help, each San Bushman in turn picked up a machine and tested it on the hidden iron nugget. Slowly, the apprehension was replaced by laughter and speculative discussion. Eventually McFarlane raised his hands, and all sat down again, each with his machine in his lap. They were ready to begin the search.
McFarlane took a
leather bag from his pocket, opened it, inverted it. A dozen gold Krugerrands fell into his outstretched palm. The ruoru bird began its mournful call again as the last light died from the sky. Slowly and with ceremony, he gave a gold coin to each man in turn. They took them reverently, with paired hands, bowing their heads.
The headman spoke again to McFarlane. Tomorrow, they would move camp and begin the journey into the heart of the Makgadikgadi Pans with the white man’s machines. They would look for this big thing the white man wanted. When they found it, they would return. They would tell the white man where it was . . .
The old man suddenly darted his eyes to the sky in alarm. The others did the same as McFarlane watched, his brow creasing in puzzlement. Then he heard it himself: a faint, rhythmic throbbing. He followed their gaze to the dark horizon. Already the Bushmen were on their feet, bird-like, apprehensive. There was rapid, urgent talk. A cluster of lights, faint but growing brighter, rose in the distant sky. The throbbing sound grew stronger. The pencil-like beam of a spotlight stabbed downward into the scrub.
With a soft cry of alarm, the old man dropped the Krugerrand and disappeared into the darkness. The rest followed suit. Instantly, it seemed, McFarlane was left alone, staring into the still darkness of the brush. He turned wildly as the light grew in intensity. It was coming straight for the camp. And now he could see it was a big Blackhawk helicopter, its rotors tearing up the night air, running lights winking, the oversized spotlight racing across the ground until at last it fixed him in its glare.
McFarlane threw himself into the dust behind a thornbush and lay there, feeling exposed in the brilliant light. Digging a hand into his boot, he pulled out a small pistol. Dust whipped up around him, stinging his eyes as the desert bushes gyrated maniacally. The helicopter slowed, hovered, and descended to an open area at one side of the camp, the backwash blowing a cascade of sparks form the fire. As the chopper settled, a lightbar on its roof lit up, bathing the area in an even harsher glare. The rotors powered down. McFarlane waited, wiping dirt from his face, keeping his eyes on the helicopter’s hatch, gun at the ready. Soon it swung open, and a large man stepped out, alone.
McFarlane peered through the thorny scrub. The man was dressed in khaki shorts and a cotton bush shirt, and a Tilley hat sat on his massive shaven head. There was something heavy swinging in one of the short’s oversized pockets. The man began walking toward McFarlane.
McFarlane slowly rose, keeping the bush between himself and the chopper, training his gun on the man’s chest. But the man seemed unconcerned. Although he was in shadow, silhouetted by the chopper’s takedown lights, McFarlane thought he saw the man’s teeth gleaming in a smile. He stopped five paces away. He had to be six foot six, at least—McFarlane was not sure he had ever seen anybody quite as tall before.
“You’re a difficult man to find,” the man said.
In the deep, resonant voice McFarlane heard nasal traces of an East Coast accent. “Who the hell are you?” he replied, keeping the gun leveled.
“Introductions are so much more pleasant after the firearms have been put away.” “Take the gun out of your pocket and toss it in the dirt,” said McFarlane.
The man chucked and withdrew the lump: it was not a gun, but a small thermos. “Something to keep out the chill,” he said, holding it up. “Care to share it with me?”
McFarlane glanced back at the helicopter, but the only other occupant was the pilot. “It took me a month to gain their trust,” he said in a low voice, “and you’ve just scattered them all to hell and gone. I want to know who you are, and why you’re here. And it better be good.”
“It’s not good, I’m afraid. Your partner, Nestor Masangkay, is dead.”
McFarlane felt a sudden numbness. His gun hand slowly dropped. “Dead?”
The man nodded.
“How?”
“Doing just what you’re doing. We don’t really know how.” He gestured. “Shall we move by the fire? I didn’t expect these Kalahari nights to be so nippy.”
McFarlane edged toward the remains of the fire, keeping the gun loosely by his side, his mind full of conflicting emotions. He noticed, distantly, that the backwash of the chopper had erased his sand map, exposing the little nugget of iron.
“So what’s your connection to Nestor?” he asked.
The man did not answer right away. Instead, he surveyed the scene—the dozen metal detectors scattered willy-nilly by the fleeing San, the gold coins lying in the sand. He bent down and picked up the brown fingernail of iron, hefted it, and then held it up to his eye. Then he glanced up at McFarlane. “Looking for the Okavango meteorite again?”
McFarlane said nothing, but his hand tightened on the gun.
“You knew Masangkay better than anybody. I need you to help me finish his project.”
“And just what project was that?” McFarlane asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve said all I can say about it.”
“And I’m afraid I’ve heard all I want to hear. The only person I help anymore is myself.”
“So I’ve heard.”
McFarlane stepped forward quickly, the anger returning. The man raised a pacifying hand. “The least you can do is hear me out.”
“I haven’t even heard your name, and frankly, I don’t want to. Thanks for bringing me the bad news. Now why don’t you get back in your chopper and get the hell out of here.”
“Forgive me for not introducing myself. I’m Palmer Lloyd.”
McFarlane began to laugh. “Yeah, and I’m Bill Gates.”
But the big man wasn’t laughing—just smiling. McFarlane looked closer at his face, really studying it for the first time. “Jesus,” he breathed.
“You may have heard that I’m building a new museum.”
McFarlane shook his head. “Was Nestor working for you?”
“No. But his activities recently came to my attention, and I want to finish what he started.”
“Look,” said McFarlane, shoving the gun into his waistband. “I’m not interested. Nestor Masangkay and I parted ways a long time ago. But I’m sure you know all about that.”
Lloyd smiled and held up the thermos. “Shall we talk about it over a toddy?” Without waiting for an answer, he settled himself by the fire—white-man style, with his butt in the dust—unscrewed the cap, and poured out a steaming cup. He offered it to McFarlane, who shook his head impatiently.
“You like hunting meteorites?” Lloyd asked.
“It has its days.”
“And you really think you’ll find the Okavango?”
“Yes. Until you dropped out of the sky.” McFarlane crouched beside him. “I’d love to chitchat with you. But every minute you sit here with that idling chopper, the Bushmen are getting farther away. So I’ll say it again. I’m not interested in a job. Not at your museum, not at any museum.” He hesitated. “Besides, you can’t pay me what I’m going to make on the Okavango.”
“And just what might that be?” Lloyd asked, sipping the cup himself.
“A quarter million. At least.”
Lloyd nodded. “Assuming you find it. Subtract what you owe everyone over the Tornarssuk fiasco, and I imagine you’ll probably break even.”
McFarlane laughed harshly. “Everyone’s entitled to one mistake. I’ll have enough left over to get me started on the next rock. There’s a lot of meteorites out there. It sure beats a curator’s salary.”
“I’m not talking about a curatorship.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
“I’m sure you could make a pretty good guess. I can’t talk about particulars until I know you’re on board.” He sipped at the toddy. “Do this one for your old partner.”
“Old ex-partner.”
Lloyd sighed. “You’re right. I know all about you and Masangkay. It wasn’t entirely your fault, losing the Tornarssuk rock like that. If anyone’s to blame, it’s the bureaucrats at the New York Museum of Natural History.”
“Why don’t you give up? I’m not
interested.”
“Let me tell you about the compensation. As a signing bonus, I’ll pay off the quarter million you owe, get the creditors off your back. If the project is successful, you’ll get another quarter million. If it isn’t, you’ll have to settle for being debt free. Either way, you can continue at my museum as director of the Planetary Sciences Department—if you wish. I’ll build you a state-of-the-art laboratory. You’ll have a secretary, lab assistants, a six-figure salary—the works.”
McFarlane began to laugh again. “Beautiful. So how long is this project?”
“Six months. On the outside.”
McFarlane stopped laughing. “Half a million for six month’s work?”
“If we’re successful.”
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“Why me?”
“You knew Masangkay: his quirks, his work patterns, his thoughts. There’s a big mystery lingering over what he was doing, and you’re the man who can solve it. And besides, you’re one of the top meteorite hunters in the world. You’ve got an intuitive sense about them. People say you can smell them.”
“I’m not the only one out there.” The praise irritated McFarlane: it smelled of manipulation.
In response, Lloyd extended one hand, the knuckle of the ring finger raised. There was a wink of precious metal as he turned it in McFarlane’s direction.
“Sorry,” McFarlane answered. “I only kiss the ring of the Pope.”
Lloyd chuckled. “Look at the stone,” he said.
Peering more closely, McFarlane saw that the ring on Lloyd’s finger consisted of a milky gemstone, deep violet, in a large platinum setting. He recognized it immediately. “Nice stone. But you could have bought it from me wholesale.”
“No doubt. After all, you and Masangkay are the ones that got the Atacama tektites out of Chile.”
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