Maybe. Perhaps. Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Time to admit she’d found nothing. She stood up. Time to go.
As she did so, her eye fell on the two magazine covers, framed on the wall across from her. The frames looked rough and handmade, like some her own father had made to decorate their trailer. The illustrated covers had been shellacked into place, the varnish now brown and cracking.
She walked over to them. Once again, her mind went back to her mother’s trailer in Medicine Creek. She had put some pretty tacky things on the walls, too—but nothing quite so tacky as this. One of the covers was an ancient issue of Arizona Highways, surely the most boring periodical known to man, with a blackand-white picture of Sunset Crater. She recognized the volcanic formation from slides of a trip to the Grand Canyon her class had taken in eighth grade. But not her. Corrie’s mother, of course, had nixed the idea as too expensive. God forbid she should run out of money for booze and Kools …
The other frame contained a 1936 cover from the Saturday Evening Post. Its banner informed Corrie it was an illustrated weekly founded by Benjamin Franklin, and that it cost five cents. The painting splashed across the cover was probably a scene from some Western yarn within: a man on horseback, rounding a bend in a high prairie trail to see a tiger rattlesnake perched menacingly atop an abandoned .50-90 Sharps buffalo rifle.
At least this picture promised some action. Corrie took it down, curious to see the framing work close up. As she did so, her fingers touched something attached to the back.
She turned it over. On the back was a piece of paper, held to the frame by cellulose tape almost as age-stained as the varnish.
Carefully, she peeled it away from its hiding place. But even as she did, the tape broke into pieces and the paper fell away. She caught it deftly in midair and—trying to touch it only by the edges—turned it over. It was an old black-and-white aerial photograph of a desert landscape of valleys, canyons, and arroyos, photographed from a considerable height.
More quickly now, she walked over to her carryall, removed a Ziploc evidence bag, and slipped the photo inside. She took several photos of the framed picture, front and back, as well as the stained rectangle on the wall that marked where it had hung for many decades. Then she hung the frame back on its peg and looked around once again. Her gut told her the room had no more secrets to yield. After another moment, she picked up the pack, slung it over her shoulder, and headed for the front door and the ride back to the transportation office.
28
IN HER COMMODIOUS, relic-decorated office in the Old Building of the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute, Nora Kelly snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves and carefully slipped the photograph out of its evidence bag.
“This is the original?” she asked, looking quizzically at Corrie.
The FBI agent—who was sitting restlessly on a nearby stool—nodded. “I wanted you to see it, just in case there was something a reproduction would miss.”
She turned the photo over in her hands a couple of times, looked at it closely from a variety of angles, held it up to her nose, and took a gentle sniff. “Old-school photographic paper. Even smells kosher.”
“Our lab identified it as being seventy to eighty years old,” Corrie said. “They’ll be able to provide more specifics when I get it back to them.”
So that’s why she’s in a hurry, Nora thought. This time, when Corrie had called, Nora had simply been unable to stop work wrapping up her analysis of the Tsankawi dig site and come down to Albuquerque at a moment’s notice. So Corrie had brought the evidence to Santa Fe.
“And this?” she asked, pointing to a small line of old adhesive tape clinging to the back of the upper edge.
“Scotch-brand cellulose tape made by the Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing Company, approximate date of manufacture 1940.”
Nora nodded as she continued her examination. “You’ve got a good lab to be able to date that.”
“We have the best.”
Nora smiled. “Do you know why 3M called it Scotch tape?”
“No idea.”
“Because when it was first being developed, adhesive was applied only along the edges, instead of the entire strip. Someone joked that such parsimoniousness was typically Scotch—the Scottish people being stereotyped at the time for their, shall we say, excessive frugality.”
“Hey, I’m Scots and I take offense,” said Corrie, laughing.
“In the 1950s, Studebaker even put out a car called the Scotsman, named for its low price and lack of frills.”
“Imagine a corporation trying that today,” said Corrie. “How is it you know such an odd piece of trivia?”
“We Kellys hail from Dublin, and—” Nora switched into an Irish brogue—“me granda loved to slag them what lived across the channel.” She returned her attention to the photo. “Too bad there’s no information or legend on the verso to give this photo some provenance.”
“Our lab technician in Phoenix was especially disappointed there was no handwriting. They’re actually able to identify not only how old an ink formulation is, but how long ago it was written on a page.” She paused. “One other thing of interest—there are no fingerprints.”
“That’s strange, isn’t it?” Nora held the image out in front of her thoughtfully. “But you think this was taped up there by James Gower?”
“Yes. Him or one of the Gowers. Based on the age of the tape and the date on the magazine cover. Hidden there, maybe, for their expected return.”
“Poor old Gower.” Nora glanced at her. “Well, you didn’t bring it here for a forensic exam—you were hoping for a location.”
“It’s a little blurry. But you know the landscape of New Mexico like the back of your hand, so I was hoping you might recognize it.”
“Flattery, flattery. But you’re right, it is blurry—too blurry to be useful in an aerial survey. Maybe the plane, or whatever, encountered turbulence just as the camera exposed the shot. Anyway, let’s take a closer look.” She cleared a spot on her desk, put the evidence bag on it, then carefully placed the photo atop that, taped edge away from her. “Looks like typical New Mexico, all right—I can see canyons, arroyos, and a scattering of piñon-juniper. Taken from a relative altitude of maybe, what, three thousand feet?”
She looked at the photo for a long time, frowning. Then, hunting around the stuff on her desk, she plucked out an illuminated magnifying glass and held it over the image, moving from top to bottom, left to right, so close she could see her own breath faintly mist the glass. She cursed under her breath.
“What is it?” she heard Corrie ask over her shoulder.
“I don’t know. Something’s wrong.”
“Wrong? I know it’s blurry, but—”
“No, not that. I feel I should recognize this, but … ” All of a sudden, she stepped back and lowered the magnifying glass with a laugh. “Am I stupid, or what?”
“Sorry?”
“This photo—Gower taped it to the back of the frame upside down.” Nora turned the image one hundred and eighty degrees, then bent over it once again.
“That’s better—now north is at the top, and everything looks more familiar. That group of low mesas, there, and that canyon, twisting like that … ” Abruptly, she straightened up and smiled in triumph. “It’s Anzuelo Canyon, and that’s Navajo Ridge.”
“Where’s that?” Corrie asked.
“I’ll tell you where it isn’t—it isn’t close to White Sands or High Lonesome. It’s probably a hundred miles away, north and west as the buzzard flies.” She looked back at the photo, beckoning Corrie closer. “I recognize it because of the slot canyon, here.”
“Slot canyon?”
“You see this narrow, curved line, with that sharp bend at the end? That’s a slot canyon. It’s an extremely narrow channel of sandstone, hundreds of feet deep but only a dozen or so feet wide. There are quite a few in the Southwest.” She tapped the dark semicircle gently with a gloved fingertip. “This section, here, is known locally as
El Anzuelo, which is Spanish for fishhook—for obvious reasons. And the ridge curving across the eastern side of the frame is a section of Navajo Ridge.”
“I wonder why Gower would hide a rather poor aerial photo behind a picture in the first place?”
“Beats me.”
“Is there anything else in the photograph that stands out to you? Historic, geologic, out of place? Anything?”
Nora shook her head. “Anzuelo Canyon is the only thing of interest. Above the canyon is a medium-size Tewa Indian ruin, called—what was that name?—Tziguma.”
The two women sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the old photograph.
“One thing’s for sure,” Corrie said at last. “If it was Gower who hid this—and he’s the most likely suspect—he must have done so for a reason.”
“Agreed,” Nora said. “Let’s see if we can figure out what that reason is.”
*
“All right,” Nora said, stretching and massaging the small of her back. It was an hour later, and they were in the Institute’s small, exquisitely decorated library, a pile of survey maps, atlases, and historical tomes lying on the table between them. “So that Tewa pueblo I told you about, Tziguma, appears to have once been the site of a Spanish mission church.”
“Just beyond the slot canyon,” Corrie said. “The Fishhook.”
Nora nodded. “The Tewa joined the Pueblo Revolt and killed the padre, but when the Spanish returned in 1692, the Tewa resisted, and the pueblo was destroyed and abandoned, and eventually fell into ruin. As far as I can determine, it’s never been excavated.”
“Never excavated,” Corrie repeated. “And yet it’s rumored to contain buried treasure.”
“Half of the ruined churches in the Southwest, and all of the abandoned pueblos, share that rumor.”
“Maybe. But in this case, it’s mentioned in not one or two but three separate books—including this one that probably belonged to Gower.” As she spoke, Corrie tapped the copy of Early Legends of the Western Frontier that she’d taken from the cabin.
“True.” Nora began closing the books and straightening the maps. “So what’s next? Are you going to take this up with your boss?”
“Morwood?” Corrie shook her head. “He’ll say it’s too speculative. I’ve pushed my luck with him just about as far as I can these past few days. I’ll have to check it out myself first. If it seems important, then I can loop him in.”
“Sounds good,” Nora replied. “But that leaves you with one problem. How the hell are you going to get out to Anzuelo Canyon? You’d never find it in a million years. Even your new friend Watts—” Abruptly, she stopped. “Oh no.”
“Walked right into that one,” Corrie said. Then she laughed. “Why, thanks, I’d be delighted to have you take me there.”
Although the library was sparsely occupied, Nora’s blistering response nevertheless turned every head in the room.
29
THEY PARKED THE car at the end of the track and stepped out. The long dirt road winding through the high desert had ended in a turnaround at the edge of a canyon. The air was crisp with the scents of sagebrush and blooming chamisa, and puffy white clouds passed by in the cool breeze, casting slow-moving shadows on the landscape. It was, Nora thought, a perfect day for a hike. The ridge overlooked Anzuelo Canyon, a broad cut in the sandstone plateau, with spires and hoodoos of white sandstone rising here and there like misshapen snowmen.
They had driven to the canyon in Nora’s car, because—since this wasn’t official business and it was a Sunday—Corrie wasn’t authorized to use her OGV.
“Pretty cool,” said Corrie, looking around.
Nora took out her phone and fired up a GPS app. “Looks like we’re about two miles from the ruins.”
They shrugged into their day packs and set off on a faint dirt trail. It switchbacked down into the canyon and followed a dry wash that snaked along the bottom. As they moved up the canyon, it gradually narrowed, the walls getting higher and
more dramatic.
“I’ve never seen a slot canyon before,” said Corrie.
“They’re pretty dramatic. But they can also be dangerous. I was once caught in a flash flood in a slot canyon, years ago in Utah. It was probably the most terrifying experience of my life.”
“How did that happen?”
“I was leading an archaeological expedition to a prehistoric cliff dwelling. You could only get to it through a single slot canyon. A flash flood came through, loud and violent as a dozen freight trains … ” She halted, wondering why she was suddenly telling this painful story, to an FBI agent of all people. “Anyway,” she hastily added, “there’s no possibility of rain today—I checked. And the ruin we’re going to isn’t in the slot canyon, but above it.”
The canyon walls were now narrowing sharply, throwing them in cool shadow. The air smelled of sandstone, and indirect light filtered down, shrouding them in a warm glow. It was, Nora thought, a bit like entering a cave.
“So what do you know about this place?” Corrie asked.
“As I mentioned, the Spanish built a mission here, at a Tewa pueblo called Tziguma. The Tewas joined in the Pueblo Revolt and destroyed the church. The place was ultimately abandoned, and nobody’s paid much attention to it since … except treasure hunters, maybe. It isn’t considered an important archaeological site.”
Now they were in the heart of the canyon. The sheer stone walls twisted this way and that, polished by countless floods, the floor a clean bed of sand.
Corrie stretched out her hands. “You can touch both sides. This is amazing.”
“This section is the so-called Fishhook,” said Nora. “When we come out on the far side, there’s a trail that climbs up to the top of the mesa, where the ruins are.”
A quarter mile along, the canyon spread out again and light once more penetrated the gloom. The canyon walls disappeared and they emerged among a series of low mesas.
“I can’t help but think,” said Corrie, “that maybe Gower must have found that cross while hunting for treasure. Maybe in the ruins of that mission church.”
“I doubt it. We’re hell and gone from High Lonesome.”
The trail crossed the wash and began winding its way up a ridge to the top of a mesa. It was a short, steep climb, and then they passed through a layer of rimrock before coming out on top.
“This is it,” said Nora. “The ruins are over there to the right.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“You see where there’s a change of vegetation? Where cactus and saltbushes are growing on those lumpy piles of stone and earth? That’s it.”
“But where’s the church?” Corrie took off her backpack and pulled out a copy of the photo.
Nora peered over her shoulder, toward a large mound of earth. “That’s the church; you can tell from the outline.”
Corrie put the photo away, and they walked into the ruins. Potsherds and flint chips lay everywhere, mingled with broken building stones, weeds, and scattered anthills.
“Look at this!” Corrie picked up a big painted potsherd.
“Very nice, but I’m afraid you need to put that down,” said Nora. “We’re not supposed to touch anything.”
“Oops. Sorry.” She put it back.
They walked toward the larger mound. Closer up, Nora could see a massive wall of adobe that had collapsed and eroded, thickly covered with saltbushes. At the far end stood a pillar of adobe—the only part of the wall left standing. They climbed up the mound, scaring off a bunch of crows, which rose into the air screeching and cawing before landing in a nearby piñon tree.
They peered down into the area that was once the nave of the church. “Hey, people have been digging here,” said Corrie. “And some of those holes look fresh.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Nora. “You get looters at many archaeological sites in New Mexico. Most of them are too remote to protect.”
“You think they were digging for treasure? Could be where Go
wer found the cross?”
“I suppose it’s possible he was digging here long ago. There must be a reason that aerial photo was hidden in the house.”
A sharp sound cracked through the ruins, and Nora saw a geyser of dust shoot up to their right.
“Down!” Corrie yelled, but Nora was already diving behind the interior slope of the wall. They landed hard on the ground, among the bushes, as more cracks sounded, one shot striking the adobe pillar with a spray of dirt and others clipping a bush on their left.
“This way!” Corrie hauled Nora to her feet, and they ran to the adobe pillar, then threw themselves down behind it.
Nora saw that Corrie had her handgun out. A moment passed while they breathed hard.
“The shots came from that ridge over there,” Corrie said.
“What the hell? They couldn’t be shooting at us.”
“They damn sure are.”
Nora felt her shock turning to fear and panic. “But why?”
Corrie didn’t answer. Instead, she crawled to the edge of the pillar and peered around, through a screen of bushes.
Another shot rang out, and she pulled back. “Shit! We’re pinned down.” She checked the chamber of her gun, making sure it contained a round.
“What do we do?”
Corrie shook her head. “If the shooter wants to come down here, he’s got to expose himself. There’s no cover for him.”
“Are you going to shoot back?”
“I sure as hell hope not. If I fire my service piece, I have to report it, and you wouldn’t believe the paperwork.” She didn’t mention that she was a lousy shot and the shooter, clearly using a rifle, was too far away anyway.
“So what do we do?”
“Give me a minute.”
Nora sat, back pressed against the adobe, trying to control her breathing. She glanced at Corrie, who was now edging out to take another look. Keeping low, she glanced out through the bushes. Minutes passed.
The Scorpion's Tail (Nora Kelly Book 2) Page 16