Thunderhead

For what seemed several minutes, they stood motionless, overwhelmed by the furious emotion of the chase. Then, at last, Sloane snugged the gun into her belt.

“So what now, Nora?” she asked huskily.

Nora looked up at her, slowly, uncomprehending.

“I just saved your life,” Sloane went on slowly. “Isn’t that going to count for something?”

Nora could not bring herself to speak.

“It’s true,” Sloane said. “I saw that storm. So did Black. But I didn’t lie about the weather report. You gave me no choice.” There was a sudden flash of anger in the almond eyes. “You were willing to abandon everything, keep the glory to yourself—” A sudden racking cough cut short the sentence. Nora could see Sloane fighting to keep her voice calm.

“I’m not proud of what I did,” she went on. “But it had to be done. People have died for far lesser causes than this. The true wrong was yours: walking away, ready to deprive the world of the most glorious pottery ever made by man.”

“Pottery,” Nora repeated.

“Yes. The Sun Kiva was full—is full—of black-on-yellow micaceous pottery. It’s the mother lode, Nora. You didn’t know it. You didn’t even suspect it. But I knew.”

“I knew there was no gold in that kiva.”

“Of course there wasn’t. Neither one of us ever really believed that. But all those ancient reports weren’t totally fabricated—not really. It was a translational blip.”

Sloane leaned forward. “You know the value of black-on-yellow micaceous. No intact examples have ever been found. That’s because they’re all here, Nora. They were the true treasure of Anasazi. And they’re more than just pots. I’ve seen them. The designs are unique—they tell, in pictographic form, the entire history of the Anasazi. That’s why they were made and hoarded here, and nowhere else: knowledge is power. They hold the answers to all the great mysteries of southwestern archaeology.”

For a moment, Nora froze at these words. The horror and danger were forgotten as she thought of the magnitude of such a discovery. If this is true, she thought, then it makes all of our other discoveries seem like . . .

And then Sloane coughed, drawing the back of her hand across her mouth. The climb seemed to have drained all the energy from her: she seemed pale, her breathing rapid. Instantly, Nora returned to the present. The sickness is coming on her, she thought.

“Sloane, the entire back of the city—especially the Sun Kiva—is full of fungal dust,” she said.

Sloane frowned, as if doubting she had heard correctly. “Dust?”

“Yes. That’s what killed Holroyd. The skinwalkers are using it for corpse powder.”

Sloane shook her head impatiently. “What are you doing—trying to distract me with bullshit? Don’t change the subject. I’m talking about the greatest discovery of the century.”

Sloane fell silent for a moment. Then she began again. “You know, we could keep the mistaken weather report between ourselves. We could forget about what happened to Aragon, forget the storm. This find is bigger than all that.” She looked away. “You can’t possibly understand what it means to me—what it would have meant to me—to be the sole discoverer. To have my name go down in history beside Carter and Wetherill. If it weren’t for me, we would have left this place, the pottery undiscovered, ripe for looting by—”

“Sloane,” Nora said, “the skinwalkers weren’t after the pottery. They wanted to keep us away from it.”

But Sloane put her hand up for silence. “Listen to me, Nora. Together, we could give this great gift to the world.” She drew a ragged breath. “If I’m willing to share this with you, then surely you can forget what’s happened here today.”

Nora looked at Sloane, her tawny face dappled in the moonlight. “Sloane—” she began, then stopped. “You don’t get it, do you? I can’t do that. It’s not about archaeology anymore.”

Sloane stared at her, wordlessly, for a moment. Then she placed her hand on the butt of her gun. “It’s like I told you, Nora. You leave me no choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

Sloane drew the gun quickly, pointing it at her. “Right,” she said. “Endless fame, or a lifetime in disgrace? That’s not a choice.”

There was a brief silence as the two women stood, facing each other. Sloane coughed once again; a sharp sound.

“I didn’t want things to end up like this,” she said, more calmly. “But you’ve made it clear it’s either you or me. And I’m the one holding the gun.”

Nora said nothing.

“So turn around, Nora. Walk to the edge of the roof.”

Sloane’s voice had grown very quiet. Nora stared at her. In the pale light, the amber eyes were hard and dry.

Her gazed still locked on Sloane, Nora took a step backward.

“There’s only one bullet left in the chamber. But that’s all I’ll need, if it comes down to that. So turn around, Nora. Please.”

Slowly, Nora turned around to face the night.

Open space stretched out before her, a vast river of darkness. Across the narrow valley, Nora could make out the dark violet of the far wall of cliffs. She knew she should feel fear, regret, despair. And yet the only emotion she was aware of was a cold rage: rage at Sloane, for her pathetic, misplaced ambition. One bullet . . . she wondered, if she threw herself to one side, whether she stood a chance in hell of dodging that bullet. She tensed, readying herself for sudden movement.

Sloane shifted behind her. “Step off the roof,” she said.

But still Nora stood, eyes and ears open to the night. The storm had passed. She could hear the frogs calling from below, the hum and drone of insects going about their nocturnal business. In the intense stillness, she could even hear the blood as it rushed through her veins.

“I’d rather not shoot you,” she heard Sloane say. “But if I have to, I will.”

“Damn you,” Nora whispered. “Damn you for wrecking the expedition. And god damn you for killing Bill Smithback.”

“Smithback?” The tone in Sloane’s voice was one of such surprise that, despite herself, Nora turned toward it. As she did, she saw a form suddenly emerge from the hole in the roof: a dark, matted shape, wolf pelt twisting around naked painted skin. Pale light glistened off a crimson patch of fur that stained the figure’s midriff.

Sloane pivoted as the thing rushed at her with a great howl of vengeance. There was a flash of moonlight on the gun, the arc of a knife, and both figures went down, rolling frantically in the loose dirt of the tower roof. Nora dropped to her knees and crawled crablike away from the edge, eyes riveted to the struggle. In the moonlight, she could see the figure, burying the black knife again and again into Sloane’s chest and stomach. Sloane cried out, twisting and thrashing her body. With a supreme effort, she tried to pull herself away. She half rose, gun hand swiveling around desperately, only to be pulled down again. There was a terrible thrashing, another anguished cry from Sloane. The blade flashed down and the gun fired at last, blowing the knife into hundreds of glittering slivers of obsidian. With a howl, the dark shape flung itself upon her. There was a final thrash, a puff of dust: and then both figures were gone.

Nora rushed quickly to the edge, peering down in horror as the bodies, locked together, landed in the sand at the bottom of the tower, flew apart, then rolled off the edge of the city. Before the moon buried itself once again behind the clouds, it winked briefly off Sloane’s pistol as it spun lazily, end over end, into the unfathomable night.

Trembling, Nora pulled herself back, sprawled across the floor, breathing hard.

They had not killed the skinwalker, after all. It had hidden itself somewhere within the blackness of the tower, waiting for the right moment in which to strike. Then, it had attacked Sloane with a single-mindedness so furious Nora could barely comprehend it. And now, that skinwalker was dead. And so was Sloane.