Thunderhead

Suddenly one of the forms leaped up, moving faster than she thought possible. It passed out of the beam of her flashlight as she jerked the trigger. The shotgun bucked in her hands and the deafening roar seemed to shake the house itself.

She blinked, straining to see through the dust and smoke. There was nothing but a ragged, smoking hole in the bedroom wall. Both figures had now vanished.

She pumped another round into the chamber and pivoted, covering the room with the yellow pool of light. Her breath rasped in and out as the noise fell away and the dust settled back into the gloom. People didn’t move like that. Here, by herself, behind the flashlight, she felt suddenly, terribly vulnerable. She had a momentary impulse to turn off the light, find shelter in the darkness. But she sensed that darkness alone would not protect her from these creatures.

Teresa had grown up a brave girl, big and strong for her age. She’d had no older brothers to keep her in line, and she had been able to beat up anybody in her class, boy or girl. Now—standing in the darkened doorway, breathing hard, eyes alert to any movement—Teresa felt an unfamiliar sense of panic threaten to envelope her.

She tore her gaze from the dark emptiness of the room, pivoted again, and sca

She had to get downstairs, she realized. There, she could switch off the light, let the starlight aid her. She glanced toward the stairs, imprinting their location in her mind. Then she switched off the light and darted forward.

A black shape lunged diagonally out from a far bedroom. With an involuntary cry, Teresa turned and jerked the trigger. Eyes blinded by the muzzle flare, she stumbled backward and half rolled, half fell down the stairs, shotgun clattering away into the darkness. She scrambled to her knees at the bottom step, a sharp pain spiking through one ankle.

At the top of the stairs a large shape crouched, staring silently down at her. Teresa whirled, searching in the faint starlight for her weapon. But instead of the shotgun, her gaze fell upon the second shape, framed in the kitchen doorway, coming toward her with a slow confidence that was somehow terrible.

Teresa stared at the figure for a moment, paralyzed with terror. Then she turned and limped toward the door, scattering glass, a low whimper escaping her throat.

16

THE NEXT MORNING, NORA AWAKENED TO A marvelous smell. She stretched luxuriously, still wrapped within a wonderful, receding dream. Then, hearing the clatter of tins and the murmur of conversation, she opened her eyes and jumped out of her bedroll. It was six-thirty, and the camp had already gathered around a pot of coffee hanging over an open fire. Only Swire and Black were missing. Bonarotti was busy at the grill, the delicious aroma wafting from his sizzling fry pan.

She quickly stowed her gear and washed up, embarrassed at oversleeping on the first morning. Up the canyon she caught a glimpse of Swire, brushing down the horses and checking their feet.

“Madame Chairman!” Smithback called out good-humoredly. “Come on over and have a sip of this ebony nectar. I swear it’s even better than the espresso at Café Reggio.”

Nora joined the group and gratefully accepted a tin cup from Holroyd. As she sipped, Black emerged from a tent, looking frowsy and bedraggled. Wordlessly, he stumbled over and helped himself to coffee, then squatted on a nearby rock, hunched over his tin.

“It’s cold,” he muttered. “I barely slept a wink. Normally, on the digs I investigate, they at least have a couple of RVs parked nearby.” He looked around at the surrounding cliffs.

“Oh, you slept fine,” Smithback said. “I’ve never heard such a cacophony of snores.” He turned to Nora. “How about if we institute co-op camping for the rest of the trip? I’ve heard all about the ‘tent-creeping’ that goes on around expeditions like this.” He cackled salaciously. “Remember, happiness is a double mummy bag.”

“If you want to sleep with the opposite sex, I’ll have Swire put you out with the mares,” Nora replied.

Black barked a laugh.

“Very fu

“Oh, he said that, did he?” Black gave the older man an angry glare.

Aragon waved his hand. “It’s a technical term.”

“I’m a stratigrapher,” Black said. “Often, midden heaps provide the best information at a site.”

“Midden heaps?”

“Trash piles,” said Black, his lips compressing. “Ancient garbage dumps. Usually the most interesting part of a ruin.”

“Coprolite expert, too,” said Aragon, nodding toward Black.

“Coprolite?” Smithback thought for a moment. “Isn’t that fossilized shit, or something?”

“Yes, yes,” Black said with irritation. “But we work with anything to do with dating. Human hair, pollen, charcoal, bone, seeds, you name it. Feces just happens to be especially informative. It shows what people were eating, what kind of parasites they had—”

“Feces,” said Smithback. “I’m getting the picture.”

“Dr. Black is the country’s leading geochronologist,” Nora said quickly.

But Smithback was shaking his head. “And what a business to be in,” he chortled. “Coprolites. Oh, God. There must be a lot of openings in your field.”

Before Black could answer, Bonarotti a

“Heaven,” Smithback mumbled, mouth full.

“It has a slightly unusual flavor, almost musky,” Holroyd said, looking at the forkful in front of him. “I’ve never tasted anything like it before.”

“Jimson weed?” Swire asked, only half jokingly.

“I don’t taste anything,” Black said.

“No, I know what you mean,” Smithback said. “It’s vaguely familiar.” He took another bite, then set his fork down with a clatter. “I know. At Il Mondo Vecchio on Fifty-third Street. I had a veal dish with this same flavor.” He looked up. “Black truffles?”

Bonarotti’s normally impassive eyes lit up at this, and he stared at Smithback with new respect. “Not quite,” he replied. The cook turned to his curio box, opened one of the countless drawers, and pulled out a dusky-colored lump, about the size of a te

“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” Smithback breathed. “A white truffle. In the middle of the desert.”

“Tuber magantum pico,” Bonarotti said, placing it carefully back in the drawer.

Smithback shook his head slowly. “You’re looking at about a thousand dollars worth of fungus right there. If we don’t find that huge stash of Indian gold, we can always raid the Cabinet of Doctor Bonarotti.”

“You are welcome to try, my friend,” Bonarotti said impassively, pulling open his jacket and patting a monstrous revolver snugged into a holster around his waist.

There was a nervous laugh all around.

As Nora returned to her breakfast, she thought she heard a noise: distant but growing louder. Looking around, she noticed the others heard it, too. The sound echoed around the canyon walls and she realized it was a plane. As she searched the empty blue sky, the noise increased dramatically and a float plane cleared the sandstone canyon rim, early morning sun glinting off its aluminum skin and bulbous pontoons. From upcanyon, the horses eyed it nervously.