As they followed her, Painter noted large swaths of rock art along the cliff faces: snakes, lizards, deer, sheep, fanciful human figures, and geometric designs of every shape and design. The petroglyphs appeared to be two types. The more common was formed as the darker “desert varnish” of the surface stone was chipped or scraped away to reveal the lighter stone beneath. Others were formed by drilling hundreds of tiny holes into the soft sandstone, outlining figures or sunlike spirals.
Painter followed behind Hank, noting the professor scanning the same cliffs, likely looking for the star and a moon of his lost Israelites.
At last, after climbing a good way up, they reached a broken chute in the cliff face, the eponymous crack in Crack-in-the-Rock pueblo. The opening was narrow, but the sandstone was worn smooth by rain and wind.
“It’s a short climb up from here,” Nancy promised.
She led the way, sliding into the chute and climbing up the boulder-strewn path. As the crack split its way to the top of the mesa, Kowalski cursed under his breath. He had to squeeze through sideways a few times to get past some old choke stones that partially blocked their way.
But they all finally made it topside, exiting from the crack into a room of the pueblo itself. They stepped clear and out onto the open mesa. The jumble of ruins here was not as impressive as those that they had seen back at Wupatki, but the view made up for it. It overlooked the Little Colorado River and offered vistas for hundreds of miles in all directions.
“One of the theories about this place,” Nancy said, putting on her guide voice, “is that this was a defensive outpost. If you look at this shield wall along the edge of the mesa, there are small angled holes, perhaps for shooting arrows, but others have suggested this might have been an ancient observatory used by shamans, especially as some of the holes in the wall angle up.”
But such theories were not why they’d made the long trek.
“What about the petroglyphs you mentioned?” Painter asked, staying on task. “Where are they?”
“Follow me. We don’t normally take anyone this way. The path is dangerous, steep, full of slippery talus. A wrong step and you could go sliding to your death.”
“Show us,” Painter said, undaunted.
Nancy headed to a pile of rock where a wall had collapsed long ago. They had to climb over the rubble to reach what appeared to be another crack or chute. This one headed down. The footing was indeed treacherous. Rocks slid under Painter’s boots. He had to pin his hands to either side of the crack to keep from losing his balance. It didn’t help that Hank’s dog danced between them with all the ease of a mountain goat, stopping to mark the occasional stone or bit of weedy brush.
“Kawtch!” Hank yelled. “I swear if you bump me again…”
Nancy had agreed to let Hank unleash his dog, but only for as long as they were on top of the mesa. Apparently everyone was regretting this decision now — except for Kawtch himself. He lifted his leg again, then vanished below.
This new chute was narrower and longer than the crack they had passed through earlier. Even if they moved with care, it took some time to traverse, but finally they reached the bottom. Rather than breaking through to the outside, the group ended up within a high-walled chasm, open to the sky overhead, but offering no way out.
Hank stared around, his mouth hanging open. “Amazing.”
Painter had to agree. Great sprawling displays of petroglyphs covered the walls on both sides, every square inch of them. They were almost too dizzying to look at.
But their guide, having been here before, was more impatient than impressed.
“What you came to see is over here,” Nancy said, and led them to a smooth section of the stone floor. “This is the other reason we don’t let anyone down here. Can’t have them walking all over this masterpiece.”
Rather than scratching into the wall, the artist here had used a different canvas: the floor of the chasm.
Again it was a riotous panoply of prehistoric art — but in the center, wrapped around by one of the ubiquitous spirals, was a distinct crescent moon and five-pointed star. There was no mistaking it. The design was identical to the one drawn by Jordan’s grandfather.
Painter lifted a foot, ready to cross the field of art. He looked to Nancy, who tentatively nodded.
“Just be careful.”
Painter headed out. Hank followed with Kawtch, but Kowalski stayed with Nancy, making plain where his true interest lay. Reaching the piece of art, Painter knelt beside it. Hank assumed the same position on the far side of the display. They studied the work together.
Including the spiral wrapped around it, the singular piece of art had to be a full yard across. The ancient artist used both techniques that they had seen demonstrated elsewhere. The moon and star had been scraped out of the rock, but the spiral was composed of thousands of pinkie-sized drill holes.
Kawtch sniffed at the surface — at first curious, but then his hackles rose. He backed away, sneezing in apparent irritation.
Hank and Painter stared at each other. Painter leaned down first, putting his nose close to the art. Hank did the same.
“Do you smell anything?” Painter asked.
“No,” he answered, but there was still an edge of excitement in his voice.
Then Painter felt it, too — the smallest brush against his cheek, like a feathery kiss. He sat back and held his palm over the petroglyph, over the small drill holes.
“You feel that, right?” Painter asked.
“A breeze,” Hank said. “Coming up from below through the holes drilled in the spiral.”
“There must be a blowhole under here. Same as at Wupatki.”
Painter leaned over and gently brushed his hand across the surface of the art. Some of the fine rock dust billowed up as it passed over the drill holes, but that wasn’t his goal. He was clearing it for another reason.
He ran his fingertips along the edges of the petroglyph, then reached to Hank’s hand, urging the professor to do the same.
“Feel this,” Painter said, and drew one of Hank’s fingers along a seam that circled the piece of art.
Shock filled the professor’s voice. “It’s been mortared in place.”
Painter nodded. “Someone sealed this blowhole with a slab of sandstone. Like a manhole cover over a sewer.”
“But they left holes so the caverns below could still breathe.”
Painter’s eyes locked on Hank’s. “We must get down there.”
Chapter 24
This day was never going to end.
In the shadow of the Washington Monument, Gray headed across the National Mall, casting a withering glare toward the sun. It seemed to refuse to set. Though the flight from Reykjavik had taken five hours, because of the time change, he’d landed back in D.C. only an hour after he’d left Iceland — and as much as he traveled, such changes still mucked up his inner clock.
Some of his irritation also came from the two hours he’d spent underground, beneath the Smithsonian Castle at Sigma command. He’d gone through a thorough debriefing, while chomping at the bit to discover the contents of Archard Fortescue’s journal.
It had to be important, and he bore the proof of that. He touched his left ear gingerly. A liquid plastic bandage, barely visible, hardened the graze from the bullet he’d taken as he wrestled the backpack from the Guild agent on the island. But injuries he had received weren’t the worst from that trip.
“Slow down!” Seichan called behind him.
She hobbled after him, limping on her right leg. Medics at Sigma had also tended to her lacerations, suturing up the deeper bite marks and pumping her full of antibiotics and a lighter dose of pain reliever, as evidenced by the slight glaze to her eyes. She’d been lucky the orcas had treated her as gently as they had, or she could have lost the leg.