open window, and headed for the overgrowth in the direction of Bear River. The workman was right behind, with the other three also pursuing, but the wiry Benton had spent much of his life hiking in the Sierras and they fell back. He tore through the trees, slid down the embankment, and splashed across the sandbars and channels of the river. At the main channel he held up the backpack and plunged into the water, swimming hard until his feet touched sand on the far side. He climbed out and turned to see the workmen standing on the opposite embankment, shouting threats.
He gave them the finger and then jogged into the woods and made a long loop, crossing the river again way upstream. From there he navigated back to his car with his cell phone GPS, relieved to find his gleaming convertible still hidden. He locked the backpack in the trunk and eased out onto Wild Irish Road. Eight miles down, turning onto the highway, he passed two cop cars, lights flashing, and couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
3
November 20
NORA KELLY STOOD up and stretched, muscles cramped from hours of kneeling in the dirt with trowels, picks, and paintbrushes, excavating the fourth and final room of a prehistoric Pueblo ruin.
“Quitting time,” she said to her field assistant, Jason Salazar.
The man rose from the square meter he was picking away at and slapped the dust from his jeans. Then he took off his cowboy hat, mopped his brow with a handkerchief, and fitted the hat back on: despite the lateness of the season, the temperature still hovered in the upper fifties.
Nora tipped up the canvas water bag hung on the mirror of the Institute’s field truck and took a long swig. The site itself wasn’t much to see, but the views were spectacular. The ancient Pueblo people, she thought, always built with a view in mind. The tiny ruin sat on top of a rise of land at the base of Cerro Pedernal, the flat-topped mountain made famous in the paintings of Georgia O’Keeffe. It rose majestically behind her, riven by deep canyons, the higher reaches covered in trees. In front of her, the land swept down to a vast plain the Spanish called the Valle de la Piedra Lumbre, the Valley of Shining Stone. On the far side, the red, orange, and yellow buttes of Ghost Ranch did indeed seem to shine in the golden afternoon sunlight.
As she walked over to their worktable, she saw a distant corkscrew of dust approaching on the old uranium-mine road that led to the site.
Salazar came up beside her. “Wonder who that is?”
“No idea.”
They began packing up their tools and putting them in the prefab storage shed set up next to the site. After a while the vehicle itself appeared, creeping slowly over a rise. They both paused and watched it approach, driven cautiously over the rough dirt road. It was some kind of classic car, Nora could see. It eased up next to the Institute’s field truck and waited a few moments for the cloud of dust to roll over it and settle. Then the door opened and a tall, lanky man appeared. A shock of black hair hung down across a bony but fine-looking face, intense blue eyes squinting around. He was dressed in the ugliest paisley shirt Nora had ever seen, all swirls of purple and orange. He appeared to be in his late thirties, a few years older than she.
“Lost?” Nora asked.
His gaze settled on her. “Not if you’re Dr. Nora Kelly.”
“I am.”
“Sorry to arrive unannounced. My name is Clive Benton.” He pulled a backpack from the car, came forward, then extended his hand, giving hers a quick shake. “Really, I should have called, but…” He seemed to hesitate. “Well, the Institute said you were out here, and it seems there’s no cell reception, and then I was worried I couldn’t describe the whole thing properly on the phone anyway—”
Nora gently interrupted the nervous rush of words. “Come sit down and have a cup of cocoa.” She led him to the worktable under the shade, where a thermos sat with some plastic cups.
Benton perched on the edge of a chair.
“What kind of car is that?” Nora asked, trying to put the fellow at ease.
“It’s a ’64 Ford Futura,” he said, brightening. “I restored it myself.”
“Not a great car for that road.”
“No,” he said. “But what I have to tell you can’t wait.”
Nora took a seat across the table from him.