Thunderhead Page 10

  He fixed Nora with his gaze. “Nora Kelly has been with the Institute only five years, but she has proven herself an excellent field archaeologist. She is in charge, and I have put my complete trust in her. I don’t want anyone to forget that. When my daughter joins you in Page, she will also report to Dr. Kelly; there can be no confusion of command.”

  He took a step away from the fire, back toward the darkness of the overhanging bluff. Nora leaned forward, straining to hear, as his whisper mingled with the muttering fire.

  “There are some who do not believe the lost city of Quivira exists. They think this expedition is foolhardy, that I’m throwing my money away. There is even fear this will prove an embarrassment to the Institute.”

  He paused. “But the city is there. You know it, and I know it. Now go and find it.”

  13

  * * *

  THE EXPEDITION PASSED THROUGH PAGE, ARIZONA, at two o’clock that afternoon, the horse trailers followed by the pickup and the van, threading caravan-style down through town to the marina, where they edged into the gigantic asphalt parking lot facing Lake Powell. Page was one of the new Western boomtowns that had sprung up like a rash on the desert, built yesterday and already shabby. Its trailer parks and prefabs sprawled down toward the lakeshore through a barren landscape of greasewood and saltbush. Beyond the town rose the three surreal smokestacks of the coal-fired Navajo Generating Station, each climbing almost a quarter mile into the sky, issuing plumes of white steam.

  Beyond the town lay the marina and Lake Powell itself, a green sinuosity worming its way into a fantastical wilderness of stone. It was huge: three hundred miles long, with thousands of miles of shoreline. The lake was a breathtaking sight, a sharp contrast to the banality of Page. To the east, the great dome of Navajo Mountain rose like a black skullcap, the ravines at its top still wedged with streaks of snow. Farther up the lake, the buttes, mesas, and canyons were layered one against the other, the lake itself forming a pathway into an infinity of sandstone and sky.

  Staring at the sight, Nora shook her head. Thirty-five years before, this had been Glen Canyon, which John Wesley Powell had called the most beautiful canyon in the world. Then the Glen Canyon dam was built, and the waters of the Colorado River slowly rose to form Lake Powell. The once silent wilderness, at least around Page, was now filled with the roar of cigarette boats and jetskis, the sounds mingling with the smell of exhaust fumes, cigarette smoke, and gasoline. The place had the surreal air of a settlement perched at the end of the known world.

  Beside her, Swire frowned out the window. They had talked horses most of the trip, and Nora had come to respect the cowboy. “I don’t know how these horses are going to like floating on a barge,” he said. “We might have ourselves a surprise swimming party.”

  “We’ll be able to drive the trailers right onto the barge and unhook them,” Nora replied. “They never have to be unloaded.”

  “Until the far side, you mean.” Swire fingered the heavy mustache that drooped beneath his nose. “Don’t see any sign of that Sloane gal, do you?”

  Nora shrugged. Sloane Goddard was supposed to fly directly into Page and meet them at the marina, but there was no sign of any Seven Sisters sorority types among the fleshy, beer-bellied throngs milling around the docks. Perhaps she was waiting in the air-conditioned fastness of the manager’s office.

  The two trailers pulled up on the vast cement apron of West Boatramp. The van and the pickup came up behind and the company emerged into the sweltering heat, followed by the four Institute employees who would drive the vehicles back to Santa Fe.

  Down here near the water, Nora could see Wahweap Marina in all its glory. Styrofoam cups, beer cans, plastic bags, and floating pieces of newspaper bobbed in the brown shallows at the bottom of the boatramp. SKI ONLY IN CLOCKWISE DIRECTION read one sign and nearby was another: LET’S ALL HAVE FUN TOGETHER! Endless ranks of moored houseboats lined the shore in either direction, enormous floating metal-sided RVs. They were painted in garish colors—motel greens and yellows, polyester browns—and sported names like Li’l Injun and Dad’s Desire.

  “What a place,” Holroyd said, stretching and looking around.

  “It’s so hot,” Black said, wiping his brow.

  As Swire went to help back the horsetrailers around, Nora noticed an incongruous sight: a black stretch limousine flying down the parking lot toward the docks. The crowds noticed it too, and there was a small stir. For a moment, Nora’s heart sank. Not Sloane Goddard, she thought, not in a limo. She was relieved when the car came to a halt and a tall young man tumbled rather awkwardly out of the back, straightened up his skinny frame, and took in the marina through dark Ray-Bans.

  Nora found herself staring at him. He was not particularly handsome, but there was something striking in the high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and especially in the bemused, confident way he surveyed the scene before him. His soft brown hair was wild, sticking out every which way, as if he had just climbed out of bed. Who in the world can he be? she wondered.

  Several teenagers in the crowd instinctively moved toward him, and soon a crowd gathered. Nora could see the man was talking animatedly.

  Black followed her stare. “Wonder who that guy is?” he asked.

  Tearing her glance away, Nora left the group to gather up their gear and went in search of Ricky Briggs, one of the marina’s managers. Her route to the marina headquarters took her past the limo, and she paused at the edge of the crowd, intrigued, glancing again at the man. He was dressed in starchy new jeans, a red bandanna, and expensive alligator cowboy boots. She could barely hear his voice over the hubbub of the crowd, making comments while he waved a paperback book in one hand. As she watched, he scribbled an autograph in it, then handed it to a particularly ripe-looking girl in a string bikini. The small crowd laughed and chattered and clamored for more books.

  Nora turned to a woman standing at the fringe of the crowd. “Who is he?”

  “Dunno,” the woman said, “but he’s gotta be famous.”

  As she was about to walk on, Nora heard, quite distinctly, the words Nora Kelly. She stopped.

  “It’s a confidential project,” the man was saying in a nasal voice. “I can’t talk about it, but you’ll read about it soon enough—”

  Nora began pushing through the crowd.

  “—in the New York Times and in book form—”

  She elbowed past a heavyset man in flowered trunks.

  “—a fantastic expedition to the farthest corner of—”

  “Hey!” Nora cried, bursting through the last of the crowd. The young man looked down at her, surprise and consternation on his face. Then he broke into a smile. “You must be—”

  She grabbed his hand and began pulling him through the crowd.

  “My luggage—” he said.

  “Just shut the hell up,” she retorted, dragging him through the stragglers at the edge of the crowd, who parted before her fury.

  “Just hold on a minute—” the man began.

  Nora continued to pull him across the tarmac toward the horse trailers, leaving the perplexed crowd behind to disperse.

  “I’m Bill Smithback,” the man said, trying to extend his hand as he skipped alongside of her.

  “I know who you are. Just what the hell do you mean, making a spectacle of yourself?”

  “A little advance publicity never hurt—”

  “Publicity!” Nora cried. She stopped at the horse trailer and faced him, breathing hard.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Smithback said, looking innocent, and holding a book up to his chest like a shield.

  “Wrong? You arrive here in a limo, like some kind of movie star—”

  “I got it cheap at the airport. And besides, it’s hot as hell out here: limos have excellent air conditioning—”

  “This expedition,” Nora interrupted, “is supposed to be confidential.”

  “But I didn’t reveal anything,” he protested. “I just signed a few books.”


  Nora felt herself beginning to boil over. “You may not have told them where Quivira is, but you sure as hell alerted them that something’s going on. I wanted to get in and out of here as quietly as possible.”

  “I am here to write a book, after all, and—”

  “One more stunt like that and there won’t be a book.”

  Smithback fell silent.

  Suddenly Black appeared out of nowhere with an ingratiating smile, hand extended. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Smithback,” he said. “Aaron Black. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  Smithback shook the proffered hand.

  Nora watched with irritation. She was seeing a side of Black that wasn’t obvious from the SAA meetings. She turned to Smithback. “Go tell your chauffeur to bring your stuff and put it with the rest. And keep a low profile, okay?”

  “He’s not exactly my chauffeur—”

  “Do you understand?”

  “Hey, does that hole in your head have an off switch?” Smithback asked. “Because it’s getting a little strident for my tender ears.”

  She glared at him.

  “Okay! Okay. I understand.”

  Nora watched as he went shambling off toward the limousine, head drooping in mock embarrassment. Soon he was back, carrying a large duffel. He slung it on the pile and turned to Nora with a grin, bemused composure regained. “This place is perfect,” he said, glancing around. “Central Station.”

  Nora looked at him.

  “You know,” he explained, “Central Station. That squalid little spot in Heart of Darkness. The last outpost of civilization where people stopped before heading off into the African interior.”

  Nora shook her head and walked toward a nearby complex of stuccoed buildings overlooking the water. She found Ricky Briggs ensconced in a messy office, a short, overweight man yelling into a telephone. “Goddamned Texican assholes,” he said, slamming the phone into its cradle as Nora entered. He looked up, his gaze traveling slowly up and down her body. Nora felt herself bristling. “Well, now, what can I do for you, missy?” he asked in a different tone, leaning back in the chair.

  “I’m Nora Kelly, from the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute,” she said coldly. “You were supposed to have a barge here ready for us.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, the smile vanishing. Picking up the phone again, he punched in a number. “They’re here, the group with the horses. Bring the barge around.” He replaced the phone, then turned and without another word charged for the door. As she scrambled to follow, she realized she was showing a little more bitchiness than was good for a leader of an expedition. She wondered what it was about Smithback that had suddenly made her flare up like that.

  Nora followed Briggs around the side of the complex and down the blacktop to a long floating dock. Planting himself at the edge of the dock, Briggs began yelling at the nearby boaters to clear away their craft. Then he swivelled toward Nora. “Turn the horse trailers around and back ’em down to the water. Unload the rest of your gear and line it up on the dock.”

  After Nora gave the orders, Swire came around and jerked his head in the direction of Smithback. “Who’s the mail-order cowboy?” he asked.

  “He’s our journalist,” said Nora.

  Swire fingered his mustache thoughtfully. “Journalist?”

  “It was Goddard’s idea,” said Nora. “He thinks we need someone along to write up the discovery.” She stifled the comment that was about to come; it would do no good to badmouth either Goddard or Smithback. It puzzled her that Goddard, who had chosen so well with the rest of the expedition personnel, had picked someone like Smithback. She watched him hefting gear, his lean arms rippling with the effort, and felt a fresh stab of irritation. I go to all this trouble to keep things quiet, she thought, and then this smug jerk comes along.

  As Nora returned to the ramp to help guide the trailers, a great barge hove into view, davits streaked with dirt, aluminum pontoons stoved and dented in countless places. LANDLOCKED LAURA was stenciled across the tiny pilothouse in rough black letters. The barge eased around a bend in the harbor, its engines churning in reverse as it approached the cement apron.

  * * *

  It took a half hour to load the trailers. Roscoe Swire had handled the horses with great skill, keeping them calm in spite of the chaos and noise. Bonarotti, the cook, was loading the last of his equipment, refusing to let anyone else lend a hand. Holroyd was checking the seals on the drysacks that held the electronics gear. Black was leaning against a davit, tugging at his collar and looking overheated.

  Nora looked down at her watch. Sloane Goddard had still not shown up. They had to make the sixty-mile trip to the trailhead by nightfall: offloading the horses after dark would be too complicated and dangerous.

  She jumped aboard and entered the tiny pilothouse. The barge’s captain was fiddling with a sonar array. He looked like he might have just stepped off a porch in Appalachia: long white beard, dirty porkpie hat, and farmer’s overalls. WILLARD HICKS was sewn in white letters on his vest pocket.

  The man looked over at her and removed a corncob pipe from his mouth. “We need to shake a leg,” he said. “We don’t want to piss him off any more than he is already.” He grinned and nodded out the window toward Briggs, who was already bawling to them, Move out, for chrissakes, move out!

  Nora looked up the ramp toward the parking lot, shimmering in the heat. “Get ready to shove off, then,” she said. “I’ll give the word.”

  The expedition was gathering forward of the pilothouse, where some grimy lawn chairs had been arranged around an aluminum coffee table. A dilapidated gas grill stood nearby, coated in elderly grease.

  She looked around at the people she would be spending the next several weeks with: the expedition to discover Quivira. Despite impressive credentials, they were a pretty diverse bunch. Enrique Aragon, his dark face lowering with some emotion he seemed unwilling to share; Peter Holroyd, with his Roman nose, small eyes, and oversized mouth, smudges of dirt decorating his workshirt; Smithback, good humor now fully recovered, showing a copy of his book to Black, who was listening dutifully; Luigi Bonarotti, perched on his gear, smoking a Dunhill, as relaxed as if he were sitting in a café on the Boulevard St. Michel; Roscoe Swire, standing by the horse trailers, murmuring soothing words to the nervous horses. And what about me? she thought: a bronze-haired woman in ancient jeans and torn shirt. Not exactly a figure of command. What have I gotten myself into? She had another momentary stab of uncertainty.

  Aaron Black left Smithback and came over, scowling as he looked around. “This tub is god-awful,” he winced.

  “What were you expecting?” Aragon asked in a dry, uninflected voice. “The Ile de France?”

  Bonarotti removed a small flask from his carefully pressed khaki jacket, unscrewed the glass top, and poured two fingers into it. Then he added water from a canteen and swirled the yellowish mixture. He rehung the canteen on a davit bolt and offered the glass around.

  “What is that?” Black asked.

  “Pernod,” came the reply. “Lovely for a hot day.”

  “I don’t drink,” said Black.

  “I do,” Smithback said. “Hand it on over.”

  Nora glanced back at Willard Hicks, who tapped an imaginary watch on his wrist. She nodded in understanding and slipped the mooring lines from the dock. There was an answering roar from the diesels, and the boat began backing away from the ramp with a hideous scraping sound.

  Holroyd glanced around. “What about Dr. Goddard?”

  “We can’t wait around here any longer,” Nora said. She felt a strange sense of relief: maybe she wasn’t going to have to deal with this mysterious daughter, after all. Let Sloane Goddard come after them, if she wanted.

  The team looked at one another in surprise as the barge began a slow turn, the water boiling out from the stern. Hicks gave a short blast on the airhorn.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Black cried. “You aren’t really leaving without her?” />
  Nora looked steadily back at the sweaty, incredulous face. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I’m really leaving without her.”

  14

  * * *

  THREE HOURS LATER, THE LANDLOCKED Laura had left the chaos of Wahweap Marina fifty miles behind. The wide prow of the barge cut easily through the turquoise surface of Lake Powell, engines throbbing slightly, the water hissing along the pontoons. Gradually, the powerboats, the shrieking jetskis, the garish houseboats had all dropped away. The expedition had entered into a great mystical world of stone, and a cathedral silence closed around them. Now they were alone on the green expanse of lake, walled in by thousand-foot bluffs and slickrock desert. The sun hung low over the Grand Bench, with Neanderthal Cove appearing on the right, and the distant opening of Last Chance Bay to the left.

  Thirty minutes before, Luigi Bonarotti had served a meal of cognac-braised, applewood-smoked quail with grapefruit and wilted arugula leaves. This remarkable accomplishment, achieved somehow on the shabby gas grill, had silenced even Black’s undertone of complaints. They had dined around the aluminum table, toasting the meal with a crisp Orvieto. Now the group was arranged around the barge in lethargic contemplation of the meal, awaiting landfall at the trailhead.

  Smithback, who had dined very well and consumed an alarming quantity of wine, was sitting with Black. Before dinner, the writer had made some cracks about camp cooking and varmint stew, but the arrival of the meal changed his tone to one approaching veneration.