3

November 20

NORA KELLY STOOD up and stretched, muscles cramped from hours of kneeling in the dirt with trowels, picks, and paintbrushes, excavating the fourth and final room of a prehistoric Pueblo ruin.

“Quitting time,” she said to her field assistant, Jason Salazar.

The man rose from the square meter he was picking away at and slapped the dust from his jeans. Then he took off his cowboy hat, mopped his brow with a handkerchief, and fitted the hat back on: despite the lateness of the season, the temperature still hovered in the upper fifties.

Nora tipped up the canvas water bag hung on the mirror of the Institute’s field truck and took a long swig. The site itself wasn’t much to see, but the views were spectacular. The ancient Pueblo people, she thought, always built with a view in mind. The tiny ruin sat on top of a rise of land at the base of Cerro Pedernal, the flat-topped mountain made famous in the paintings of Georgia O’Keeffe. It rose majestically behind her, riven by deep canyons, the higher reaches covered in trees. In front of her, the land swept down to a vast plain the Spanish called the Valle de la Piedra Lumbre, the Valley of Shining Stone. On the far side, the red, orange, and yellow buttes of Ghost Ranch did indeed seem to shine in the golden afternoon sunlight.

As she walked over to their worktable, she saw a distant corkscrew of dust approaching on the old uranium-mine road that led to the site.

Salazar came up beside her. “Wonder who that is?”

“No idea.”

They began packing up their tools and putting them in the prefab storage shed set up next to the site. After a while the vehicle itself appeared, creeping slowly over a rise. They both paused and watched it approach, driven cautiously over the rough dirt road. It was some kind of classic car, Nora could see. It eased up next to the Institute’s field truck and waited a few moments for the cloud of dust to roll over it and settle. Then the door opened and a tall, lanky man appeared. A shock of black hair hung down across a bony but fine-looking face, intense blue eyes squinting around. He was dressed in the ugliest paisley shirt Nora had ever seen, all swirls of purple and orange. He appeared to be in his late thirties, a few years older than she.

“Lost?” Nora asked.

His gaze settled on her. “Not if you’re Dr. Nora Kelly.”

“I am.”

“Sorry to arrive unannounced. My name is Clive Benton.” He pulled a backpack from the car, came forward, then extended his hand, giving hers a quick shake. “Really, I should have called, but…” He seemed to hesitate. “Well, the Institute said you were out here, and it seems there’s no cell reception, and then I was worried I couldn’t describe the whole thing properly on the phone anyway—”

Nora gently interrupted the nervous rush of words. “Come sit down and have a cup of cocoa.” She led him to the worktable under the shade, where a thermos sat with some plastic cups.

Benton perched on the edge of a chair.

“What kind of car is that?” Nora asked, trying to put the fellow at ease.

“It’s a ’64 Ford Futura,” he said, brightening. “I restored it myself.”

“Not a great car for that road.”

“No,” he said. “But what I have to tell you can’t wait.”

Nora took a seat across the table from him. “What’s on your mind?”

Benton glanced at Jason Salazar. “Um, what I’m about to say is confidential.”

“Jason’s a curatorial assistant at the Institute, and I can vouch for his discretion,” Nora said. “A lot of what we do as archaeologists is confidential, so you needn’t be concerned.”

Benton nodded, his black hair ruffling in the breeze. He remained a bit flustered, as if not knowing where to start. Finally he reached down, opened the backpack, and pulled out a plastic Ziploc bag. He opened it and removed an old, tissue-wrapped volume, which he laid reverently on the table between them, unfolding the tissue with delicate fingers.

“The original journal,” he said, “of Tamzene Donner.”

Nora stared at the book blankly. The name meant nothing to her. “Who?”

“Tamzene Donner.” He looked sideways at her and Salazar. “You know, the wife of George Donner, who led the Donner Party? The emigrants who got trapped in winter snows in the Sierras and were forced to resort to cannibalism?”

“Oh. Those Donners,” Nora said. “So I take it this journal is of historical significance?” She wondered where this was going.

“Incalculable significance.”

This pronouncement was followed by a brief silence.

“Maybe I’d better give you some background,” Benton said. “I’m an independent historian specializing in nineteenth-century westward expansion. I also happen to be a distant descendant of some of the Donner Party survivors: a family named Breen. But that’s not important. I’ve been researching the tragedy for years. Anyway, one of the few things the Donner survivors agreed on was that Tamzene Donner kept a journal, in which she recorded every detail of the journey. Historians have long speculated one of the survivors must have preserved and carried out her journal, but it’s never been found—until now.” He made a rather dramatic gesture at the stained and frayed book on the table. “Go ahead—open it up.”

With the utmost delicacy, Nora reached forward and opened it to the title page.

“You see what she wrote? Tamzene Donner, My Journal, October 12, 1846 to…Note that there’s no end date, because she died of starvation and then—” he paused and cleared his throat— “was eaten by a man named Keseberg.”

“Wasn’t Keseberg also accused of murdering her in order to eat her?” Salazar interjected.

Benton turned in mild surprise. “Yes, that’s right. You seem familiar with the story.”

Salazar shrugged. “They taught the Donner tale in history class at Goleta High. I found it intriguing.” He gave a quick smile. “Who wouldn’t?”

Nora agreed. “But where do I come in?”

“Well, I’m here to ask you something.”

“All right. Go ahead.”

Instead of answering, Benton paused. “First of all, you’ve directed several archaeological digs in the Sierra Nevada. You know those mountains.”

“To a certain extent.”

“You’re a top field archaeologist who also has experience with sites where cannibalism occurred, including Quivira—a cliff dwelling you found in Utah.”

“True.”

“And you have the legitimacy and backing of the Institute.”

Nora leaned back. “I’m starting to have the feeling I’m being interviewed for a job.”

“You’ve already got the job—if you want it. You’re the ideal person for what I have in mind.”

“Which is?” All this dancing around was starting to get on Nora’s nerves.

“I have to ask for your word of honor that—for the present at least—nothing I say will go beyond us.”

“Isn’t that a bit dramatic?”

“I’m sorry,” Benton said hastily, nervousness returning. “I know how this must sound, but once you hear what I have to tell, you’ll understand why I want to keep it under wraps. It’s a long story…and, I warn you, a disturbing one.”