The raindrops flashed through the yellow beam like fitful streaks of light. As she approached the rock face, she saw a dark figure climb down the ladder and leap lightly to the sand. The silhouette, the graceful movement, was unmistakable.
“Is that you, Roscoe?” Sloane’s voice called out.
“No,” Nora replied. “It’s me.”
The figure froze. Nora stepped forward and looked into Sloane’s face, illuminated in the glare of the flashlight. She saw, not relief, but shock and confusion.
“You,” breathed Sloane.
Nora heard consternation, even anger, in her tone. “Just what is going on?” she asked, trying to keep her voice under control.
“How did you—” Sloane began.
“I asked you a question. What’s going on?” Instinctively, Nora took a step back. Then, for the first time, she noticed the necklace that lay around Sloane’s neck: large beads, obviously prehistoric, glittering yellow—micaceous yellow—in the glow of the light.
As Nora stared at the necklace, what had begun as a smoldering fear burst suddenly into fierce conviction.
“You did it, didn’t you,” she whispered. “You broke into the kiva.”
“I—” Sloane faltered.
“You deliberately entered that kiva,” Nora said. “Do you have any idea what the Institute will say? What your father will say?”
But Sloane remained silent. She seemed stunned, as if still unable to comprehend, or accept, Nora’s presence. She looks as if she’s seen a ghost, Nora thought.
And then, in an instant, she realized that was precisely it.
“You didn’t expect to see me alive, did you?” she asked. Her voice was steady, but she could feel herself trembling from head to foot.
But still, Sloane stood rooted to the spot.
“The weather report,” Nora said. “You gave me a false weather report.”
At this, Sloane suddenly shook her head vigorously. “No—” she began.
“Twenty minutes after you came down from the rim, that flash flood hit,” Nora broke in. “The entire Kaiparowits drains through this canyon. There was a gigantic thunderhead over the plateau, there had to be. And you saw it.”
“The weather report out of Page is a matter of public record. You can check it when we get back . . .”
But as she listened, an image came unbidden to Nora’s mind: Aragon, the flood shredding him to pieces as it pulled him along the pitiless walls of the slot canyon.
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll do that. I think I’ll check the satellite images instead. And I know what I’ll find: a monstrous storm, centered directly over the Kaiparowits Plateau.”
At this, Sloane’s face went dead white. Beads of rain were collecting on her wide cheekbones. “Nora, listen. It’s possible I never looked in that direction. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Where’s Black?” Nora asked suddenly.
Sloane stopped, surprised by the question. “Up in the city,” she said.
“What do you think he’ll say when I confront him? He was up on top of that ridge with you.”
Sloane’s eyebrows contracted. “He’s not well, and—”
“And Aragon is dead,” Nora interrupted, speaking in a barely controlled fury. “Sloane, you were going to break into that kiva, no matter what the cost. And that cost was murder.”
The ugly word hung in the heavy air.
“You’re going to prison, Sloane,” Nora said. “And you’ll never work in this field again. I’m going to make sure of that personally.”
As Nora stared at Sloane, she saw the shock, the confusion, in her eyes start to turn to something else.
“You can’t do that, Nora,” Sloane replied. “You can’t.” Her voice was suddenly low, urgent.
“Watch me.”
There was a flash of jagged lightning, followed almost instantly by a great peal of thunder. In that instant, Nora glanced downward, shielding her eyes. As she did, she saw the dull glint of the gunmetal tucked into Sloane’s belt. Looking up quickly again, she saw Sloane watching her. The woman seemed to straighten up, draw a sudden breath. Her jaw set. In a face full of lingering surprise, Nora thought she saw a resolution begin to form.
“No,” she murmured.
Sloane looked back at her, unblinking.
“No,” Nora repeated, more loudly, backing up into the darkness.
Slowly, tentatively, Sloane’s hand dropped toward the gun.
In a sudden, desperate movement, Nora snapped off her light and wheeled away, sprinting into the close, concealing darkness.
The camp lay a hundred yards off—no protection there. Sloane stood between her and the city. And the flood had cut her off from the other side of the valley. In the direction she was headed, that left only one option.
Her mind worked furiously as she ran. Sloane, she realized, was not the kind of person who could bear to lose. If she had refused to even leave Quivira without opening the kiva, was it possible she would allow Nora to take her back to civilization—in shame and humiliation—to face life in ruin? Why did I provoke her like that? Nora raged at herself. How could I have been so stupid? She herself had demonstrated to Sloane exactly how stark her choice was. Nora, effectively, had signed her own death warrant.
She dashed as quickly as she dared along the rocky base of the cliff, making for the landslide at the far end. Fitful tongues of lightning guided her way. Scrambling up the talus of broken boulders, she searched for a hiding place, not daring to use her flashlight for fear of betraying her position. Halfway up the slope she found a suitable hole: narrow, but still large enough to fit a human body. She wedged herself as far inside as she could and crouched in the darkness, gasping for breath, trying to sort things out, raging with frustration and despair.
She glanced around her hiding place. She had managed to crawl fairly deeply into the landslide. Still, it was only a temporary option: it would only be a matter of time before Sloane searched her out. And Sloane had the spare gun.
Her thoughts returned to Smithback, lying asleep in the medical tent, and her hands clenched in anger. He was a sitting duck. But no: there was no reason for Sloane to enter the tent and find him. Even if she did, there was a chance she would not kill him. Nora had to cling to that hope—at least, until she found some way to stop Sloane.
There had to be a way. Bonarotti and Swire were out there, somewhere. Unless they were part of the conspiracy, too . . . she shook her head, refusing to let herself follow that line of speculation.
Perhaps she could find a way to sneak back into the camp, steal away with Smithback. But that would mean hours of cautious waiting, and one way or another Sloane would certainly act before then. Nora knew she couldn’t climb up to the rim and escape—not with Smithback behind, injured, in the valley. As she crouched in the darkness and turned over her options, it dawned on her, with a desperate kind of finality, that in fact there were no options at all.
60
BEIYOODZIN MADE HIS WAY ACROSS THE slickrock plateau, far above the valley of Quivira. The heart of a second, smaller storm was passing overhead now, and it was very dark. Beneath his feet, the irregular rock was slick with rainwater, and Beiyoodzin walked with great care. His old feet ached, and he missed the presence of his horse, tethered back in the valley of Chilbah. The Priest’s Trail was impassable for all but the two-legged.
The trail markings were irregular and vague—a small, ancient cairn of rocks here and there—and the way was difficult to make out in the darkness. Beiyoodzin needed all his skill simply to follow it. His eyes were not as strong as they had once been. And he was all too aware that the single most difficult stretch lay ahead: in the tortuous, dangerous descent along the ridge of the narrow slot canyon at the far end of the valley.