“What’s that?”

“Me. I’m up against a deadline—remember? I did you a favor, just rearranging things sufficiently to come out here today.”

“I know that, and I’m grateful. But—” Corrie swept her hand toward the caved-in cellar in frustration—“you can see for yourself this is important.”

Nora sighed. “It might be. It’s also a four-and-a-half-hour drive from Santa Fe—nine hours round trip. And it’s two o’clock already: we need to leave here in an hour, and even so I won’t get home until eight. That’s a lot of driving to get in three hours

of work.”

There was a silence.

“Here’s what I propose,” Nora said. “I can return to help after I’ve completed the dig at Tsankawi. The excavation is mostly complete, and we’re moving on to documenting and stabilizing the site. I should be finished there in two to three weeks.”

“Thanks,” Corrie said after a moment. “But you know as well as I do that in two weeks, there’s going to be nothing left here besides spade marks and boot prints.”

Nora took a sip of water. She hadn’t considered that, but Corrie might be right. Word could get out, or someone else might just find it. She looked around: at the remarkably preserved ghost town, at the magnificent desert view.

“You agreed to this,” Corrie said. “Please finish it. You can’t just leave me in the lurch.”

Although Nora shook her head, Corrie’s point struck home. And she had to admit; she was intrigued by that body and the expression on its face. She swore silently; she should have followed her initial instincts and said no right up front. “There is one possibility,” she said slowly.

Corrie turned toward her.

“I come back tomorrow—with camping gear. That way, I can put in twelve to fourteen hours instead of three … and complete the work in two days.” Adelsky, she thought, was ready to take charge at Tsankawi; he could deal with documenting the work-site: photography, artifact descriptions, database work. It would be good practice for him.

“Camping?” Corrie asked. “My supervisor isn’t going to go for that at all.”

“Well, you don’t have to come. It’s not as if you can help with the work, anyway.”

“You can’t camp out here alone!”

“I’ll bring my brother. He’d love this place. And he’s got a Remington twelve-gauge he’s quite handy with.”

“What about your dog? I couldn’t allow him at the site.”

“That’s Mitty, Skip’s dog, but he’s temporarily staying with our aunt, who just lost her husband and needed companionship. Look, I can’t promise. I’ll have to get permission from the Institute’s new president, but I think, if it’s only two days, she’ll be cool with it.”

“But … I’ve got to be here with you. That’s just the way the FBI works. I’ll have to get permission, too.”

“Well, hurry up and get it, then—because that’s the best I can do.” But even as she spoke, Nora’s eyes crept back toward the cellar, and the mystery that lay within.

9

WHEN NORA HAD called the president’s office the next morning to ask about taking two days off to work for the FBI, the president’s assistant had said brightly, “What a coincidence! I was just about to ring you. Dr. Weingrau wants to see you in her office at ten.”

As Nora approached the hand-carved door to the president’s outer office, she felt uneasy, but she wasn’t sure why. Dr. Marcelle Weingrau had accepted the position after a long search by the Institute’s board, following the scandalous disgrace and imprisonment of the previous president. She had arrived at the Institute only a month ago and hadn’t yet introduced herself to the staff beyond a single formal meeting. Nora got the sense she was going to be a distant and chilly leader.

In her previous position, Weingrau had been a dean and professor of anthropology at Boston University, and Nora thought that maybe her formality could be chalked up to the culture of her New England background. Once out west, she might loosen up a little. Her CV had been circulated at the time of her hire, and Nora was interested to see that her PhD was in the anthropology of the Maya of the Guatemalan Highlands, where she had lived for several years, and that she was fluent in both Spanish and K’iche’. Nora had looked up some of her publications and found them respectable, if rather jargon-heavy, and she was curious to get to know her better.

“Come in and have a seat,” said Dr. Weingrau’s assistant. Weingrau’s door was shut, but Nora could hear her talking to someone: a man with a deep voice.

Nora sat down, and a few minutes later Weingrau opened the door. “Ah, Nora, glad to see you. Come in.”

Nora entered the beautiful old office. She had often been in here when it was occupied by a previous president, where it had been decorated with historic Pueblo Indian pots and Navajo rugs from the Institute’s collection. But Weingrau had taken those out to make space for a wall of her diplomas, along with pictures of her among the Maya of Guatemala, interspersed with Chagall and Miró prints. While Nora liked those artists well enough, the images seemed out of place in the Spanish Colonial office.

A young man rose from a chair next to the desk.