Painter had been making tentative, vague inquiries, learning mundane tidbits that were getting them nowhere. He decided to cut to the quick.
“We’re looking for lost treasure,” he said.
That got her full attention. She drew to a stop, her hands settling to her hips. “Really?” she asked sarcastically.
“I know how that sounds,” Painter said. “But we’ve been following the trail of a historical mystery that suggests something was hidden here long ago. Around the time of the eruption . . . maybe shortly thereafter.”
Nancy wasn’t buying it. “This park has been scoured and searched for decades. What you see is what you get. If there’s something hidden here, it’s long buried. The only things under our feet are some old icy lava tubes, most of them collapsed.”
“Icy?” Kowalski asked, wiping his brow. He’d already soaked through his shirt as the day had grown hot, and the trail offered little shade.
“Water seeps through the porous volcanic rock into the tubes,” Nancy explained. “Freezes during winter, but the natural insulation and lack of air circulation in the narrow tubes keeps the ice from melting. But just so you know, those tubes were mapped both on foot and by radar. There’s nothing but ice down there.” She began to turn away, ready to head back to the parking lot. “If you’re done wasting my time . . .”
Hank raised a hand, stopping her, but his dog tugged him to the side of the trail. Nancy had insisted that the professor use a leash inside the park, and Kawtch was clearly not happy about it—especially now that they’d stopped. The dog sniffed the air, apparently still looking for that wild hare.
“We’re pursuing an alternate hypothesis regarding the disappearance of the Anasazi,” Hank said. “We have a lead that the volcanic eruption here might be the cause of—”
She sighed, fixing Hank with a hard stare. “Dr. Kanosh, I know your reputation, so I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I’ve heard every crackpot theory about the Anasazi. Climate change, war, plague, even alien abduction. Yes, there were Anasazi who lived here, both the Winslow Anasazi and the Kayenta Anasazi, but there were also Sinagua, Cohonina, and other tribes of the ancient Pueblo people. What’s your point?”
Hank stood up to her disdain. As an Indian who practiced Mormonism, he was no doubt well accustomed to dealing with ridicule. “Yes, I know that, young lady.” His voice took a professorial tone, practically browbeating the young woman. “I’m well versed in the history of our people. So don’t dismiss what I’m saying as some peyote-fueled fantasy. The Anasazi did vanish from this region suddenly and swiftly. Their homes were never reoccupied, as if people feared moving into them. Something happened to that tribe—starting here and spreading outward—and we may be on the trail of an answer that could change history.”
Painter let this little war play out. Nancy’s face flushed—but he suspected it was more from shame than from anger. Painter had been raised enough of an Indian to know it was rude to talk harshly to an elder, even one from a different tribe or clan.
She finally shrugged. “I’m sorry. I don’t see how I can help you. If you’re looking for more information on the Anasazi, maybe you shouldn’t be looking here but over at Wupatki.”
“Wupatki?” Painter asked. “Where’s that?”
“About eighteen miles north of here. It’s a neighboring national park.”
Hank elaborated. “Wupatki is an elaborate series of pueblo ruins and monuments, spread over thousands of acres. The main attraction is a three-story structure with more than a hundred rooms. The park is named after that place. Wupatki is the Hopi word for ‘tall house.’ ”
Nancy added, “We Navajo still call it Anaasazi Bikin.”
Hank translated, glancing significantly at Painter. “That means ‘House of the Enemies.’ Archaeologists believe it was one of the last Anasazi strongholds before they vanished out of the region.”
Painter stared up at the brilliant cinder cone. According to the tale told by Jordan’s grandfather, the birth of this volcano was the result of a theft by a clan of the Anasazi, a mishandling of a treasure not unlike what had recently happened up in the Utah Rockies. He eyed the massive cone. Had a great settlement once stood here? Had it been destroyed, buried under ash and lava? And what about the survivors? Had they been hunted down and slaughtered? Painter remembered Hank’s one-word description.
Genocide.
Maybe they were looking in the wrong place.
Painter reached into his shirt pocket and removed the slip of paper that Jordan Appawora had given to him. The kid’s grandfather had said it would guide them to where they needed to go. He unfolded it and showed the pair of symbols to the park ranger.
“These markings may be tied to what we came seeking. Have you ever seen them?”
She leaned over, doubt fixed on her face. But as she studied the sketch of a crescent moon and five-pointed star, her eyes got huge. She glanced up to him.
“Yes,” she said. “I know these symbols. I know exactly where you can find them.”
12:23 P.M.
San Rafael Swell
Kai raced after Jordan through Buckhorn Wash. He rode a black four-wheel all-terrain vehicle while she pursued him in a white one. She kept low, swerving right and left, looking for a break so she could pass him, eating too much of his dust. The screaming whine of the two engines echoed off the cliffs to either side as they sped along the bottom of the wash, following an old off-road trail.
The Swell’s two thousand square miles of public land had little restrictions against ATV use. Over the years, enthusiasts had carved hundreds of miles of trails that crisscrossed the region. A part of Kai railed against such abuse of the land, especially as a Native American.
But she was also young, needing an escape.
After sending her e-mail to John Hawkes, she had repeatedly checked for a response. A half hour later, still with no answer, she could no longer sit by herself in a dark room. She had to get out, clear her head. She found Jordan still sitting on the porch. With a conspiratorial glint in his eye, he showed her what he had discovered in a shed behind one of the pueblos. Iris and Alvin had reluctantly handed over the keys to the ATVs, with firm instructions to stick to the flat dirt roads.
They had—for about twenty minutes, until both felt capable enough for more of a challenge.
Ahead of her, Jordan whooped as he wheeled around a sharp turn in the wash, skittering a bit in the loose talus. Coming out of the curve, he fishtailed his bike. Kai grinned madly, hunkered down, and hit her throttle. She shot past him as he foundered, close enough to give him the finger.
He laughed and hollered at her back. “This ain’t over!”
She smiled and raced along the trail, bumping over smaller rocks, going airborne across a small dip. She landed on all four tires, jarring her teeth. Still, the grin never left her face.
At last the wash petered out, and the mountain trail joined the dirt road again. She braked, sliding to a stop.
A second later, Jordan joined her, expertly skidding sideways to come to rest beside her. That bit of fancy maneuvering made her wonder if he’d been coddling her during the race.
Still, when he tugged off his helmet and goggles, the pure joy and exhilaration that she saw in his eyes mirrored her own. With half his face pasted with road dust, he looked like a raccoon.
She imagined that she looked no better.
He reached to his water bottle and upended it over his head, washing the worst away, then took a long drink. She watched his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed. With a shake of his hair, he smiled at her, making the hot day just that much warmer.
“How about two out of three?” he asked, nodding toward another trail.
She laughed and had to turn away a bit shyly.
Still, it felt so good.
“Maybe we should be heading back,” she said, and pulled out her cell phone to check the time. “We’ve been out two hours.”
She hadn’t re
alized how long it had been. Time had passed swiftly as the pair raced through the Swell, stopping every now and again to check out some set of petroglyphs or to poke their heads in one of the old mines that pocked the canyons.
Jordan looked a little crestfallen but agreed. “I suppose you’re right. If we’re gone much longer, Iris and Alvin will be sending out a search party. Besides, I could use some lunch . . . that is, as long as it’s not more of those roasted piñon nuts.”
“Toovuts,” she reminded him.
He nodded appreciatively. “Well done, Ms. Quocheets. Going native Paiute on me, are you?” He bumped a fist against his chest. “Does a brave proud.”
She pretended to swing her helmet at him.
He dodged back. “Okay, I surrender!” he said with a wolfish grin. “Back we go.”
They took a more sedate pace for the return trip, sticking to the road, ambling along in no particular hurry, squeezing out every last moment together. At last they reached the circle of small pueblos. They sidled over to the shed, parked the vehicles, and climbed off.
As she took a step, her legs wobbled a bit, still vibrating from the ride. Jordan caught her arm, his fingers tightening much too hard. She turned, ready to shake him off, but his face had gone all tense.
He drew her back into the shadows of the shed.
“Something’s not right here,” he whispered, and pointed. “Look at all the fresh tire tracks.”
Now that he’d pointed it out, she realized that the sandy dust was all cut up with multiple treads. But where were the vehicles? She suddenly was too aware of how silent it was, as if something were holding its breath.
“We need to get out of here . . .” he started.
But before they could take a step, they saw men in desert combat gear come sweeping out of the shadows behind the pueblos on the far side, spreading wide. Kai’s heart climbed into her throat, choking her. She instantly knew that this assault was her fault, knew how the enemy had found her.
The e-mail . . .
Jordan tugged her around—only to find a monstrously tall blond figure, also dressed in khaki camouflage, standing before him. The man lashed out with a rifle, punching the butt into Jordan’s face.
He dropped to his knees with a cry that sounded more surprised than pained.
“Jordan!”
The attacker turned and leveled his rifle at Kai’s chest. His words were gruff, his manner frighteningly cold. “Come with me. Someone would like a word with you.”
11:33 A.M.
Flagstaff, Arizona
Standing at the foot of the towering structure, Hank Kanosh appreciated its name. Wupatki. It certainly was a tall house.
The ruins of the ancient pueblo climbed three stories, constructed of flat slabs of red Moenkopi sandstone, quarried locally and mortared together. An amazing feat of engineering, it climbed high and spread outward into a hundred rooms. A part of the pueblo also included the remains of an old masonry ballpark and a large circular community room.
He imagined how all of this must have once looked. In his mind’s eye, he put the thatched and beamed roof back in place. He rebuilt walls. He pictured corn, beans, and squash growing in the neighboring washes. He then populated the place with Indians from various tribes: Sinagua, Cohonina, and of course, the Anasazi. The different tribes were known to live in relative peace with one another.
Standing beside the ruins with Kawtch at his side, Hank stared at a view that had changed little from ancient times. Wupatki had been built on a small plateau overlooking a vast distance, revealing the breadth of the tabletop mesas that encompassed the high desert, the brilliant beauty of the Painted Desert to the east, and the snaking green path of the Little Colorado River.
It was a picturesque spot.
Still, a dark mood settled over him as he studied the dusty ruins. Why did these ancient people leave? Were they driven out, slaughtered? He pictured blood splashing the red walls, heard the screams of children and women. It was too much. He had to turn away.
Down at the foot of the ruins, Painter and his partner wandered near the community amphitheater. The group, led by Nancy Tso, had traveled the short distance from Sunset Crater National Park, but they were still waiting for the ranger to get permission for an overland hike. It was forbidden to stray from the public areas of the park here without guidance. The more remote ruins and monuments—close to three thousand of them—were considered too fragile, as was the desert’s ecosystem, for sightseeing.
Once Nancy received permission, she would guide them herself to where she had seen the symbols Painter had shown her, the mark of the Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev, the People of the Morning Star. Hank’s blood pounded harder at the thought of them. Could they possibly be one of the lost tribes of Israel, as described in the Book of Mormon?
Impatient and done exploring, he hiked down to the others, drawing a sullen Kawtch along by his leash. He spotted Nancy Tso heading the same way from the visitors’ center.
Reaching the group first, he found Kowalski amusing himself with one of the other unique features of the pueblo. He stood before what appeared to be a raised fire pit, newly constructed of mortared flagstone. But the square pit in the center was not meant to hold a fire.
The big man leaned over the opening. He had to hold on to the Stetson he’d bought for the hike to keep it from blowing off of his head. A stiff breeze blew up from below, coming out of the pit.
“It’s cool,” Kowalski sighed. “Like air-conditioning.”
Painter stood by the information sign. “It’s a blowhole.”
Hank nodded. “It’s the opening to a breathing cavern system. It’s dependent on atmospheric pressure. When the day’s hot as it is now, it exhales the cool air trapped below. In the winter, when it’s cold, it inhales. It can get to blowing up to thirty miles per hour. Archaeologists believe this is one of the reasons the pueblo was established here. Blowholes, which were considered to be openings to the underworld, were held sacred by the ancient people, and as you mentioned, it doesn’t hurt that it offers some natural air-conditioning in the summer.”
Painter read from the posted sign. “Says here that back in 1962, excavations below found pottery, sandstone masonry, even petroglyphs down there.”
Hank understood the interest he could see on Painter’s face. On the drive here, Nancy Tso had told them where she’d seen the moon and star symbols drawn by Jordan’s grandfather. They were part of some petroglyphs found deep in the desert, near one of the many unmarked pueblo ruins out there.
“It also says here,” Painter continued, “that the size, depth, and complexity of the cavern system below have never been fully determined.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” Nancy Tso said, interrupting. She crossed down the last of the path and joined them, noting their attention. “Newer studies that have been published within the last couple of years suggest the limestone cavern system under this plateau may be around seven billion cubic feet in size, stretching for miles underground.”
Painter studied the blowhole. The opening was sealed with a locked grate. “So if someone wanted to hide something from prying eyes—”
Nancy sighed. “Don’t start that again. I agreed to show you where I saw those symbols. That’s all I’m going to do. Then you’re all clearing out.” She checked her watch. “Park closes at five o’clock. I plan on being out of here by then.”
“So you got permission for us to explore?” Hank said.
She slapped some permit forms against her thigh. “It’s a good two-hour hike.”
Kowalski straightened and seated his Stetson more firmly on his head. “Why can’t we just take that Cherokee of yours? It’s got four-wheel-drive, doesn’t it? We could be there in under ten minutes, shorter if I drive.”
She looked aghast at the suggestion.
Painter did, too, but Hank suspected it was for a very different reason. Painter’s partner had little regard for speed regulations—or common road courtesy, for that matte
r.
“Let’s get some rules straight at the outset,” Nancy said, and held up a finger. “First rule. LNT. Leave no trace. That means what you carry in you carry out. I’ve arranged for backpacks and water. It’s all inventoried and will be checked when we return. Is that understood?”
They nodded. Kowalski leaned toward Painter and whispered. “She’s even hotter when she’s mad.”
Luckily, Nancy didn’t hear this—or at least she pretended not to. “Second, we tread carefully. That means no hiking poles. They’ve been proven to be too destructive to the fragile desert ecosystem. And last, no GPS units. The park service doesn’t want the exact locations of the unmarked ruins mapped electronically. Are we clear?”
They all nodded. Kowalski only grinned.
“Then let’s get moving.”
“Where are we going?” Painter asked.
“To a remote pueblo ruin called Crack-in-the-Rock.”
“Why’s it called that?” Kowalski asked.
“You’ll see.”
She led them to the spot where their gear was stacked. Hank pulled on a backpack. It came equipped with a CamelBak water pouch and a supply of PowerBars and bananas.
Once everyone was ready, Nancy set off into the desert, moving at a hard pace, apparently determined to shave some minutes off her two-hour estimate. It certainly was no sightseeing trip. The group marched in a row, following behind her, passing through fields of sagebrush, Mormon tea, saltbush, and princess plume. Lizards skittered out of their way. Hares leaped in great bounds. At one point, Hank heard the coarse rattling complaint of a hidden diamondback and pulled Kawtch closer. His dog knew snakes, but Hank wasn’t taking any chances.
They also passed some of the park’s other monuments: tumbled piles of sandstone marking a small pueblo, a ring of stones from a prehistoric pit house, even the occasional Navajo hogan or sweathouse. But their destination—one of the towering mesas—lay much farther out, a hazy blip on the horizon.
To help with the passage of time and to distract himself from the burn of the sun, Hank walked beside Painter. “The moon and the star,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about that symbol and the name for the tribe. Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev.”