Douglas Preston - Thunderhead

Swire didn’t answer for a moment. “You don’t know the first thing about tracking,” he said.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Anyone who grew up on a ranch knows something about tracking. I’ve looked for plenty of lost cows in my day. I may not be in your league, but you said it yourself: out here in sandy country, there’s no great trick to it.” She leaned toward him. “The fact is, if somebody has to go, I’m the only choice. Aaron, Sloane, and Enrique’s work is essential here. You’re vital to the horses. Luigi’s our only cook. Peter isn’t an experienced enough rider. And besides, he’s necessary for communications.”

Swire looked at her appraisingly, but remained silent.

Black turned to Nora. “This is insane. You, alone? You can’t go, you’re the expedition director.”

“That’s why I can’t ask anybody else to do this.” Nora looked around. “I’ll only be gone a day, overnight at the most. Meanwhile, you, Sloane, and Aragon can make decisions by majority consent. I’ll find out who did this, and why.”

“I think we should simply call the police,” Black said. “We have a radio.”

Aragon burst out in a sudden, uncharacteristic laugh. “Call the police? What police?”

“Why not? We’re still in America, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” Aragon murmured.

There was a brief pause. Then Smithback spoke up, surprisingly quiet and firm. “It’s pretty obvious that she can’t go alone. I’m the only person who can be spared from the dig. I’ll go with her.”

“No,” Nora said automatically.

“Why not? The trash mound can spare me for a day. Aaron over here hasn’t been getting nearly enough exercise lately. I’m not a bad horseman and, if necessary, I’m not a bad shot, either.”

“There’s something else to think about,” Aragon said. “You said these killings were meant to send a message. Have you thought about the other possibility?”

Nora looked at him. “And what’s that?”

“That the killings were done to lure people away from camp, where they could be dealt with individually? Perhaps this man on the ridge showed himself to Swire deliberately.”

Nora licked her lips.

“Another reason for me to go,” Smithback said.

“Now hold on,” came the cold voice of Swire. “Aren’t we forgetting about the Devil’s Backbone? Three of my horses are already dead, thanks to that goddamn ridge.”

Nora turned to him. “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said. “You said you saw a rider atop the ridge the other day. And obviously, people got into the outer valley on horseback last night. There’s no other way in save over the ridge. I’ll bet they used unshod horses.”

“Unshod?” Smithback asked.

Nora nodded. “A horse without shoes would have surer footing on a narrow trail like the Devil’s Backbone. Iron on stone is like a skater on ice. But the keratin of a horse’s hoof would grip the stone.”

Swire was still staring at her. “I’m not letting my horses get their hooves all chewed up out in that bad country.”

“We’d tack the shoes back on once we get to the bottom of the ridge. You’ve got farrier’s tools, don’t you?”

Swire nodded slowly.

“All I’m going to do,” she continued, “is try to find out who did this, and why. We can let the law take care of it when we get back to civilization.”

“That’s just what I’m afraid of,” said Swire.

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life in prison for murder?” Nora asked. “Because that’s exactly what will happen if you go out there and shoot somebody.”

Swire did not reply. Wordlessly, the cook turned on his heel and entered his tent. A moment later, he emerged with his weapon, a box of bullets, and a leather holster. He handed them to Nora. Strapping the holster around her waist, Nora opened the heavy gun, spun the cylinder, and closed it again. Ripping the top off the box of bullets, she poured its contents into one hand and rapidly shoved them into the bullet loops. Then she dropped the empty box into the fire and turned toward Swire.

“We’ll take care of it,” she said evenly.

33

SKIP PAUSED AT THE METAL DOOR TO ELMO’S Auto Shoppe, pausing a moment to build up a full head of righteous indignation. The metal, quonset-hut garage lay baking in the heat at the long sad end of Cerrillos Road, an ugly strip of fast-food restaurants, used automobile dealerships, and malls south of town. Beyond Elmo’s stretched nothing but bulldozed flat prairie, decorated with billboards, FOR LEASE and WILL BUILD TO SUIT signs—the expanding edge of Santa Fe’s uncontrolled growth.

Skip set the expression on his face and pushed through the door, pulling Teddy Bear behind him on a short, thick leather leash. In the farthest bay, perched high atop the hydraulic lift, sat his Fury, tires drooping mournfully. It was a great deal sandier than it had been the day before.

Beneath it stood the proprietor of Elmo’s Auto Shoppe, a tall, gangly man in faded dungarees and torn T-shirt. The shirt was liberally stained with oil, and it sported an oversized Rolling Stones tongue, jutting salaciously from dewlap lips. The shirt formed an appropriate reflection of Elmo’s own pendulous lips and doleful expression.

“Why’d you have to bring that with you?” Elmo whined, nodding at the dog. “I’m allergic to dog hair.”

Skip opened his mouth to deliver his speech and Elmo raised his clipboard in protest. “Broken rocker assembly,” he began quickly, licking a long, grease-sodden finger and folding the pages on his clipboard back as he spoke. “Emergency brake trashed. Hub bent. You’re looking at, oh, five, six hundred at least. Plus the tow from the third fairway.”

“Like hell I am!” Skip dragged Teddy Bear forward and paced angrily in the shadow of his car, forgetting his carefully crafted speech. “I had this in here for an oil change and tuneup just three weeks ago. Why the hell didn’t you tell me the brakes were going?”

Elmo turned his lachrymose face toward Skip. His droopy eyes always looked on the verge of weeping. “I checked that invoice already. There was nothing wrong with the brakes.”

“That’s bullshit.” Skip glanced at the mechanic in disbelief. He so rarely bothered to pay for car servicing that now, having shelled out fifty-seven dollars just a few weeks before, his righteous indignation knew no bounds. “I tell you, I had zero brakes left. Zero. I might as well have tried to use a kickstand. I could have been killed. And now you want me to pay for the privilege? Yeah, right.”

“The brake system was dry as a bone,” said Elmo, doggedly, looking at the floor.

“See?” Skip slapped a balled fist against his palm. “That proves it. You should have seen that leak when the car was here before. I’m not going to pay for—”

“But there ain’t no leak.”

Skip halted in mid-rant. “Huh?”

Elmo shrugged, his eyes rolling toward Skip. “We pressure-tested the brake system. There’s no leak, no sprung seal, nothing.”

Skip stared at Elmo. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Elmo shrugged again. “Besides, there would have been signs of a leak. Look at that.” He grabbed a basket lamp and pointed it up at the Fury.

“It’s the underside of a car. It’s sandy and greasy. So what?”

“But none of that’s brake fluid. No drips, no spray marks. Nothing to show any leak at all. Where do you park it regularly?”

“In my driveway, of course—”

“You see a big stain on the ground lately?”

“Nothing I noticed.”

Elmo looked down again, nodding sagely, his big ears wagging.

Skip started to retort, then stopped, mouth open. “What are you saying?” he said at last.