Thunderhead Read online

  THUNDERHEAD. Copyright © 1999 by Lincoln Child and Splendide Mendax, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For information address Warner Books, Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017, Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  A Time Warner Company

  The "Warner Books" name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2529-0

  First eBook Edition: July 2001

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Excerpt from The Ice Limit

  Thunderhead

  Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

  Archaeologist Nora Kelly is adrift in her career and her personal life when a violent, inexplicable incident leaves her in possession of a mysterious letter. Written by her father, who vanished sixteen years ago in the remote desert, the letter reveals the location of a legendary site hidden in the redrock canyon country of southern Utah: Quivira, the Anasazi Indians’ wondrous lost city of gold.

  Convinced that her father truly had found Quivira, Nora puts together an expedition and takes a team up Lake Powell to the mouth of Serpentine Canyon. In the stark labyrinth of canyons and slickrock desert she will find the answer to both her greatest hopes and her deepest nightmares. For hidden in the shadows of the sunbaked cliffs are untold treasures, the solution to the greatest riddle of American archaeology—and implacable, suffocating death.

  From the colossal fury of a savage desert storm to sunlight penetrating a mass grave for the first time in a thousand years, Thunderhead is a tale for anyone who has ever searched for clues to the past. In the masterful hands of Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, Thunderhead becomes an epic tale of discovery, human deceit, and a desperate struggle for survival in a place that has guarded its extraordinary secrets for centuries—and will not let go without a devastating fight.

  “When it comes to nail-biting, two-in-the-morning, page-turning thrillers, nobody delivers the goods like these guys.” —Nelson DeMille, author of Plum Island

  “Great, exciting fun! I’m addicted to these guys.”—David Morrell, author of Double Image

  “Preston and Child continue to redefine ‘page-turner.’ Thunderhead combines good science and history with dark legendry in the chilling tale of a modern-day search for Quivira, the fabled city of gold.”—Dale L. Walker, Rocky Mountain News

  “Thunderhead is scary and smart, and it moves as fast as a runaway train. Get ready to read all night.”—Sarah Lovett, author of Dangerous Attachments

  “Preston and Child are magicians. Thunderhead is a classic adventure tale . . . a thrilling story of greed, obsession, and bravery in the face of evil. You won't be able to put it down.”—Clifford Irving, author of Hoax

  DOUGLAS PRESTON is coauthor of the phenomenal bestseller The Relic, as well as Mount Dragon and the recently released thriller Reliquary. He worked for the American Museum of Natural History in New York as managing editor of Curator magazine. In 1989 he undertook a thousand-mile horseback journey retracing the Spanish explorer Coronado’s search for the legendary Seven Cities of Gold.

  LINCOLN CHILD is a former book editor and coauthor, with Douglas Preston, of The Relic, Mount Dragon, and Reliquary. He has published numerous anthologies of short stories, including Dark Company and Dark Banquet.

  THUNDERING PRAISE FOR

  DOUGLAS PRESTON, LINCOLN CHILD,

  AND THE NEW YORK TIMES

  EXTENDED LIST BESTSELLER

  THUNDERHEAD

  * * * *

  “SPELLBINDING—PRESTON AND CHILD HAVE HIT PAY DIRT!”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “THESE GUYS ARE MASTERS AT SCARING THE HELL OUT OF PEOPLE.”

  —Tampa Tribune

  “EXCITING, WELL CONCEIVED, AND WELL OILED . . . a rip-snorter for lovers of adventure stories with more than a touch of evil.”

  —Toronto Star

  “AN INTELLIGENT AND MYSTICAL LOOK INTO ANOTHER LEGEND. . . . Once again the dynamic duo of suspense turn in yet another stellar, chilling, and compelling novel.”

  —Charleston Post and Courier (SC)

  “PRESTON AND CHILD HAVE COMBINED ADVENTURE AND SUSPENSE IN THUNDERHEAD.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “PRESTON AND CHILD HAVE CLEVERLY USED THE POPULAR THRILLER GENRE TO EXPLORE SOME FASCINATING IDEAS about Coronado’s quest, archaeology, and the American Southwest.”

  —Bergen Record

  “PRESTON AND CHILD KNOW WHAT BUTTONS TO PUSH AND LEVERS TO YANK.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A SPELLBINDING . . . FAST-PACED, EXCITING THRILLER. . . . Child and Preston at their best.”

  —Wichita Falls Times Record News (TX)

  “FILLED WITH EXCITEMENT, A SENSE OF PLACE, AND PERSONABLE CHARACTERS, delivered in a quick-paced race against evil, humankind, and the tremendous forces of nature.”

  —Library Journal

  “A GRIPPING EXPOSITION. . . . The sense of menace is immediate.”

  —Roanoke Times

  “TECHNICALLY AUTHENTIC AND A FASCINATING EXPOSITION of a classic, historical mystery.”

  —Amarillo Sunday News-Globe

  “BRIMMING WITH MYSTERY, WONDER, AND TERROR . . . a headlong narrative that will keep you turning pages into the wee hours.”

  —F. Paul Wilson, author of Legacies

  “THUNDERHEAD IS SCARY AND SMART, AND IT MOVES AS FAST AS A RUNAWAY TRAIN. Get ready to read all night.”

  —Sarah Lovett, author of Dangerous Attachments

  “ARMCHAIR ARCHAEOLOGISTS, BEWARE. Crack this book and you are embarking on the expedition of a lifetime.”

  —Rodney Barker, author of The Broken Circ
le

  “GREAT, EXCITING FUN! I’m addicted to these guys.”

  —David Morrell, author of Burnt Sienna

  “THUNDERHEAD BLEW ME AWAY! It has everything—grand adventure, a superb mystery, and an indomitable heroine.”

  —Jane Candia Coleman, author of Doc Holliday’s Woman

  “PRESTON AND CHILD ARE MAGICIANS. THUNDERHEAD IS A CLASSIC ADVENTURE TALE . . . a thrilling story of greed, obsession, and bravery in the face of evil. You won’t be able to put it down.”

  —Clifford Irving, author of Hoax

  A FLOOD OF READER ACCLAIM FOR

  THUNDERHEAD

  “As always, you two have done a magnificent job! The way you compiled the material from your horseback journeys is just great! I could see no flaws in this wonderful book.”

  —Konstantin S. Leskov, Shaker Heights, Ohio

  “THUNDERHEAD was very gripping and wonderful in its texture and ‘truth’ about the Indian culture and landscape and myths. Full of fabulous detail . . . and just great use of the English language! The violent and really beautifully written descriptions of the snap flood were powerful.”

  —Tony Cavanaugh, Brisbane, Australia

  “You’ve scored another winner! Yet again you have introduced a strong, intelligent, likable female into your novel. I was extremely pleased by your depiction of Nora Kelly. The setting was wonderful.”

  —Karen Budisin, Mahopac, New York

  “Thank you both for your work. THUNDERHEAD not only entertains, but serves as a challenge to our conscience and bravado. I hope that you continue to publish books that encourage readers to think as they read.”

  —Joshua Miller, Burkburnett, Texas

  “I spent a breath-holding, stomach-clenching weekend reading the book. It was a great mix of fact and fiction. I really appreciated the great attention to the details of the archaeology aspect of the novel.”

  —Melanie Sutton, Attleboro, Massachusetts

  “Some novels tend to bog down. Not yours. It reads like a cross between Robin Cook and Nelson DeMille.”

  —J.J. Johnson, Raleigh, North Carolina

  “Once again you’ve created a masterpiece. I really enjoy the mix of fiction with science and history. Nowadays it’s rare to find a book that uses intellect instead of pure gore and horror as a way to keep a reader turning the pages.”

  —Stephen Pause, Albany, New York

  “The language, vocabulary, and structure of THUNDERHEAD made it far more meaningful and interesting than a mere summer fast read. Thanks for the tale. It was excellent!”

  —James Puckett, Bowie, Maryland

  “Thanks for a great read from those of us who love the Southwest and the secrets it holds so dearly.”

  —Jamie Zartman, Prescott, Arizona

  “I thoroughly enjoyed THUNDERHEAD! Terrific combination of history, mystery, and evil. I was sorry when it was over. Thanks for the great read.”

  —P. Eskenazi, Renton, Washington

  BY DOUGLAS PRESTON AND LINCOLN CHILD

  The Relic

  Mount Dragon

  Reliquary

  Riptide

  BY DOUGLAS PRESTON

  Dinosaurs in the Attic

  Cities of Gold

  Jennie

  Talking to the Ground

  EDITED BY LINCOLN CHILD

  Dark Company

  Dark Banquet

  Tales of the Dark 1–3

  Lincoln Child dedicates this book to his daughter, Veronica,

  and to the Company of Nine.

  Douglas Preston dedicates this

  book to Stuart Woods.

  Acknowledgments

  Lincoln Child wishes to thank Bruce Swanson, Bry Benjamin, M.D., Lee Suckno, M.D., Irene Soderlund, Mary Ellen Mix, Bob Wincott, Sergio and Mila Nepomuceno, Jim Cush, Chris Yango, Jim Jenkins, Mark Mendel, Juliette Kvernland, Hartley Clark, and Denis Kelly, for their friendship and their assistance, both technical and otherwise. Thanks also to my wife, Luchie, for her love and unstinting support. And I would especially like to acknowledge as an inspiration my grandmother Nora Kubie. Artist, novelist, archaeologist, independent spirit, biographer of Nineveh excavator Austen Henry Layard, she instilled in me from a very early age twin loves for writing and archaeology. She worked on excavations as far away as Masada and Camelot, and as close as her own New Hampshire backyard. Although she passed away ten years ago, during the writing of Thunderhead in particular she was never far from my thoughts.

  Douglas Preston would like to offer his appreciation to the following people: Walter Winings Nelson, horseback riding companion across a thousand miles of deserts, canyons, and mountains, seeking the Seven Cities of Gold; Larry Burke, captain of the Emerald Sun, for hosting a memorable expedition up Lake Powell; Forrest Fenn, who found his own lost city; the Cottonwood Gulch Foundation of New Mexico; and Tim Maxwell, director of the Office also like to thank my wife, Christine, and my children Selene, Aletheia, and Isaac. I want to thank once again those two who can never receive enough thanks, my mother and father, Dorothy and Jerome Preston.

  We would like to thank Ron Blom and Diane Evans at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory for their help with an article of Douglas Preston’s explaining how space-borne radar is used in locating ancient trails. We offer them our apologies for creating the unpleasant and wholly fictitious character of Leland Watkins. No such persons as Leland Watkins or Peter Holroyd work, or have worked, at JPL. We would also like to express our great appreciation to Farouk El-Baz, director of the Center for Remote Sensing at Boston University, for his help with the technical aspects of remote sensing the earth from space; and we thank Juris Zarins, the archaeologist who discovered the lost city of Ubar in Saudi Arabia.

  Our deep appreciation goes out to Bonnie Mauer, who read the manuscript not once but several times and offered excellent advice. Thanks also to Eric Simonoff, Lynn Nesbit, and Matthew Snyder, for their continued assistance, counsel, and encouragement. Special thanks to Mort Janklow for sharing a surprising and very moving personal anecdote in connection with our story. And to Clifford Irving, for his advice on the manuscript, as well as Kim Gattone, for so kindly assisting with some of the technical aspects of rock climbing. At Warner, we would like to thank Betsy Mitchell, Jaime Levine, Jimmy Franco, Maureen Egen, and Larry Kirshbaum for believing in us. Thanks also to Debi Elfenbein.

  We hasten to add that any outrages commited in the name of anthropology and archaeology within the pages of Thunderhead are fictitious and exist wholly within the authors’ imaginations.

  1

  * * *

  THE FRESHLY PAVED ROAD LEFT SANTA FE and arrowed west through piñon trees. An amber-colored sun was sinking into a scrim of dirty clouds behind the snowcapped Jemez Mountains, drawing a counterpane of shade across the landscape. Nora Kelly guided the rattletrap Ford pickup along the road, down chamisa-covered hills and across the beds of dry washes. It was the third time she had been out here in as many months.

  As she came up from Buckman’s Wash into Jackrabbit Flats—what had once been Jackrabbit Flats—she saw a shining arc of light beyond the piñons. A moment later, her truck was speeding past manicured greens. A nearby sprinkler head winked and nodded in the sun, jetting water in a regular, palsied cadence. Beyond, on a rise, stood the new Fox Run clubhouse, a massive structure of fake adobe. Nora looked away.

  The truck rattled over a cattle guard at the far end of Fox Run and suddenly, the road was washboard dirt. She bounced past a cluster of ancient mailboxes and the crude, weatherbeaten sign that read RANCHO DE LAS CABRILLAS. For a moment, the memory of a summer day twenty years before passed through her mind: once again she was standing in the heat, holding a bucket, helping her father paint the sign. Cabrillas, he’d said, was the Spanish word for waterbugs. But it was also their name for the constellation Pleiades, which he said looked like water skaters on the shining surface of a pond. “To hell with the cattle,” she remembered him saying, swabbing thick letters with the paintbrush. “I bought this p
lace for its stars.”

  The road turned to ascend a rise, and she slowed. The sun had now disappeared, and the light was draining fast out of the high desert sky. There in a grassy valley stood the old ranch house, windows boarded up. And beside it, the frowsy outlines of the barn and corrals that were once the Kelly family ranch. No one had lived here in five years. It was no great loss, Nora told herself: the house was a mid-fifties prefab, already falling apart when she was growing up. Her father had spent all his money on the land.

  Pulling off the road just below the brow of the hill, she glanced toward the nearby arroyo. Somebody had surreptitiously dumped a load of broken cinderblocks. Maybe her brother was right and she should sell the place. Taxes were going up, and the house had long ago passed the point of no return. Why was she holding on to it? She couldn’t afford to build her own place there—not on an assistant professor’s salary, anyway.

  She could see the lights coming on in the Gonzales ranch house, a quarter mile away. It was a real working ranch, not like her father’s hobby ranchito. Teresa Gonzales, a girl she’d grown up with, now ran the place by herself. A big, smart, fearless woman. In recent years, she’d taken it upon herself to look after the Kelly ranch, too. Every time kids came out to party, or drunken hunters decided to take potshots at the place, Teresa rousted them and left a message on the answering machine at Nora’s townhouse. This time, for the past three or four nights, Teresa had seen dim lights in and around the house just after sunset, and—she thought—large animals slinking about.

  Nora waited a few minutes, looking for signs of life, but the ranch was quiet and empty. Perhaps Teresa had imagined the lights. In any case, whoever or whatever it was seemed to have left.

  She eased the truck through the inner gate and down the last two hundred yards of road, parked around back, and killed the engine. Pulling a flashlight out of the glove compartment, she stepped lightly onto the dirt. The door of the house hung open, held precariously by a single hinge screw, its lock cut off long ago with bolt cutters. A gust swept through the yard, picking up skeins of dust and moving the door with a restless whisper.