p&c.thunderhead-第89章

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　〃Keep　that　sleeping　bag　bundled　close；〃　she　said；　stroking　his　cheek。　〃I'm　going　to　see　if　I　can't　get　some　hot　liquid　into　you。〃　Gently　tucking　the　sleeping　bag　around　him；　she　moved　toward　the　opening　of　the　tent。　
　〃Nora；〃　came　the　voice　from　beneath　the　sleeping　bag；　slow　and　dreamlike。　
　She　turned。　〃Yes？〃　
　Smithback　looked　at　her。　〃Nora；〃　he　said　again。　〃You　know；　after　all　that's　happened　between　us　。　。　。　well；　I'd　really　like　to　tell　you　how　I　feel。〃　
　She　stared　at　him。　Then；　gliding　closer；　she　took　his　hand　in　hers。　〃Yes？〃　
　His　lips　parted　in　a　feeble　grin。　〃I　really　feel　like　shit；〃　came　the　dry　whisper。　
　Nora　shook　her　head；　laughing　despite　herself。　〃You're　incorrigible。〃　
　She　bent　closer　and　kissed　him。　Then　she　kissed　him　again；　a　gentle；　lingering　kiss。　
　〃Please；　sir；　I　want　some　more；〃　Smithback　murmured。　
　She　smiled　at　him　for　a　moment。　Then；　drawing　back；　she　crawled　out　of　the　tent；　securing　its　front　flap。　Hunching　her　shoulders　against　the　rain；　she　moved　across　the　camp；　heading　for　the　supply　cache。　
　
　
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　SLOANE　GODDARD　STOOD　IN　THE　MURK　OF　THE　kiva；　gazing　at　the　rows　of　gleaming　pots。　For　a　long　time；　she　saw　nothing　else。　It　was　as　if　the　outer　world　of　time　and　space　had　retreated　to　a　vast　distance；　leaving　nothing　but　this　small　space　behind。　As　she　stared；　she　forgot　everything…Holroyd's　death；　the　flash　flood；　Nora　and　the　others；　the　creeping　presence　of　the　horse　killers。　
　Only　a　few　small　sherds　of　black…on…yellow　micaceous　pottery　had　ever　been　found。　To　see　them　whole　was　a　revelation。　They　were　transcendentally　beautiful；　by　far　the　most　exquisite　pottery　she　had　ever　seen。　Each　piece　had　been　perfectly　shaped　and　formed；　and　polished　with　smooth　stones　to　a　sensuous　luster。　The　clay　they　had　been　made　from　fired　to　an　intense　yellow；　but　the　color　had　been　immeasurably　enhanced　by　the　addition　of　crushed　mica　to　the　clay。　The　resulting　pottery　shimmered　with　an　internal　light；　and　as　Sloane　stared　at　them…at　the　heaps　of　bowls　and　jugs；　hunchbacked　figurines；　skulls；　pots；　and　effigies…she　felt　they　were　more　beautiful　than　gold。　They　had　a　warmth；　a　vitality；　the　precious　metal　lacked。　Each　piece　had　been　decorated　with　geometric　and　zoomorphic　designs　of　superlative　artistry　and　skill：　the　entire　pictographical　history　of　the　Anasazi　people；　laid　out　before　her。　
　It　was　all　here；　as　she　had　been　certain　it　would　be：　the　mother　lode　of　micaceous　pottery。　It　had　been　her　father's　pet　project：　over　the　course　of　thirty　years；　he　had　mapped　each　rare　sherd；　traced　hypothetical　trade　routes；　searched　for　the　source。　Because　the　number　of　discovered　fragments　was　so　small；　he　had　theorized　that　this　pottery　was　the　single　most　prized　possession　of　the　Anasazi　people；　and　that　it　was　stored　in　a　central；　most　likely　religious；　place。　Eventually；　after　mapping　the　distribution　points　of　all　known　sherds；　he　had　e　to　believe　its　location　would　be　somewhere　back　in　the　labyrinthine　canyons。　Briefly；　he　had　entertained　dreams　of　finding　the　source　himself。　But　he　had　grown　old　and　sick。　Then；　when　word　of　Nora　and　her　father's　letter　reached　him；　hope　had　sprung　anew。　Instantly；　he　realized　that　Quivira；　if　it　existed；　might　be　the　source　of　the　fabulous　pottery。　It　was　speculative；　of　course…much　too　speculative　for　a　man　of　his　position　to　publish；　or　even　broadcast。　But　it　was　enough　to　launch　an　expedition；　with　his　daughter　on　the　team。　
　Sloane　knew　she　was　supposed　to　have　discussed　the　matter　privately；　with　Nora；　if　they　ever　found　the　city。　But；　of　course；　there　was　no　way　she　would　have　cued　Nora　into　the　great　discovery　that　lay　ahead。　Nora　already　had　more　than　her　share　of　the　glory。　How　many　times；　on　the　trail　to　Quivira；　had　the　thought　wormed　its　way　bitterly　into　Sloane's　heart：　there　she　was；　taking　orders　from　a　second…tier；　untenured　academic；　when　by　rights　she　should　be　the　one　in　mand。　In　the　end　it　would　be　Nora；　and　by　extension　Sloane's　father；　who　would　get　all　the　credit：　just　another　example　of　her　father's　thoughtlessness；　his　lack　of　faith　in　her。　
　Well；　things　would　be　different　now。　If　Nora　hadn't　been　so　selfish；　so　stubbornly　dictatorial；　it　wouldn't　have　had　to　end　this　way。　But　as　fate　would　have　it；　the　discovery　would　be　hers。　She　was　now　the　leader　of　the　expedition。　Hers　would　be　the　name　forever　linked　with　the　discovery　of　the　fabulous　pottery。　Everyone　else…Black；　Nora；　her　father　especially…would　be　subordinate。　
　Slowly；　she　came　back　to　the　present。　From　the　corner　of　her　eye；　she　saw　Bonarotti；　cloaked　in　silent　disappointment；　shambling　on　stiff　legs　toward　the　hole　he　had　helped　cut。　In　another　moment；　he　had　climbed　onto　the　banco　and　vanished　out　into　the　cavern。　
　Her　eyes　swivelled　away；　over　the　almost　unbelievable　abundance　of　pottery；　to　a　large　hole　in　the　floor　she　had　not　noticed　before。　It　seemed；　inexplicably；　to　have　been　freshly　dug。　But　that　made　no　sense：　who　else　but　themselves　could　have　been　inside　this　kiva　in　the　last　seven　hundred　years？　And　who　would　single…mindedly　dig　out　a　few　pounds　of　dust；　while　ignoring　one　of　the　richest　troves　in　all　North　American　history？　
　But　her　jubilation　was　too　intense　to　ponder　this　for　long。　Excitedly；　she　turned　toward　Black：　poor　Aaron　Black；　who　had　let　his　own　boyish　lust　for　golden　treasure　blind　the　mature　archaeologist　within。　She　had　not　tried　to　correct　him；　of　course：　no　need　to　dampen　his　enthusiasm；　when　his　support　had　been　so　important。　Besides；　once　the　initial　disappointment　and　embarrassment　was　past；　he　would　surely　realize　how　infinitely　more　important　the　real　find　was。　
　What　she　saw　of　Black；　in　the　murk　of　the　kiva；　shocked　her。　He　looks　terrible；　she　thought。　The　man's　flesh　seemed　to　have　shrunk　on　his　frame。　Two　red；　wet　eyes　stared　hollowly　out　of　a　face　caked　in　pale　dust　that　was　turning　to　mud　on　his　sweating　skin。　In　those　eyes；　she　saw　a　brief；　terrifying　vision　of　Peter　Holroyd；　paralyzed　with　fear　and　illness；　in　the　chamber　near　the　royal　burial。　
　Black's　mouth　had　gone　slack；　and　as　he　stepped　toward　her　he　seemed　to　stagger。　He　took　another　step；　reached　into　a　bowl；　and　took　out　a　necklace　of　micaceous　beads；　shimmering　golden　in　the　torchlight。　
　〃Pottery；〃　he　said　woodenly。　
　〃Yes；　Aaron…pottery；〃　Sloane　replied。　〃Isn't　it　fabulous？　The　black…on…yellow　micaceous　that　has　eluded　archaeologists　for　a　hundred　years。〃　
　He　looked　down　at　the　necklace；　blinking；　unseeing。　Then；　slowly；　he　lifted　it；　placing　it　around　her　neck　with　trembling　hands。　
　〃Gold；〃　he　croaked。　〃I　wanted　to　give　you　gold。〃　
　It　took　Sloane　a　moment　to　prehend。　She　watched　him　try　to　step　forward；　teetering　in　place。　
　〃Aaron；〃　she　said　urgently。　〃Don't　you　see？　This　is　worth　more　than　gold。　Much　more。　These　pots　tell…〃　
　She　broke　off　abruptly。　Black's　face　was　screwed　up；　his　hands　pressed　to　his　temples。　Sloane　took　an　involuntary　step　back。　As　she　watched；　his　legs　began　to　tremble　and　he　sank　against　the　inner　kiva　wall；　sliding　down　until　he　was　resting　on　the　stone　banco。　
　〃Aaron；　you're　sick；〃　she　said；　a　sense　of　panic　displacing　her　feelings　of　triumph。　This　can't　be　happening；　she　thought。　Not　now。　
　Black　did　not　respond。　He　tried　to　steady　himself　with　outstretched　arms；　scattering　several　pots　in　the　process。　
　Sloane　stepped　forward　with　sudden　resolution；　grasping　one　of　his　hands。　〃Aaron；　listen。　I'm　going　down　to　the　medical　tent。　I'll　be　back　as　soon　as　I　can。〃　
　She　climbed　quickly　up　through　the　ragged　hole　and　out　of　the　kiva。　Then；　shaking　the　dust　from　her　legs；　she　half　walked；　half　ran；　out　of　the　cave；　through　the　Crawlspace　and　into　the　silent　city。　
　
　
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　KNEELING　BESIDE　SMITHBACK；　NORA　stuffed　a　flashlight　retrieved　from　the　drysacks　into　her　pocket　and　helped　the　journalist　swallow　a　small　cup　of　steaming　bouillon。　Just　outside　the　tent；　the　portable　propane　stove　ticked　and　sputtered　as　it　cooled。　Taking　the　empty　cup　from　his　hands；　she　helped　him　back　onto　the　sleeping　bag；　stretched　a　woolen　blanket　over　him；　and　made　sure　he　was　fortable。　She　had　replaced　his　soaked　shirt　and　pants　with　dry　ones；　and　his　shock　seemed　to　be　passing。　But　with　rain　still　drum