The Blood Mesa

CHAPTER THREE

Matt put his duffel bag in the back of the truck and climbed behind the wheel. Dr. Dupre slid in beside him, and Hammond sat beside the window. In the close confines of the truck's cab, the stench coming from Hammond made Matt want to gag. If he'd been sitting as close to the man as Dr. Dupre was, he probably would have thrown up.

She couldn't smell the stink, though, and for that she ought to count herself lucky.

Matt put the truck in gear and started it rolling along the blacktop. "Are you folks medical doctors?" he asked.

"PhDs," Hammond said. "Doctors of archeology, in fact."

"We're working on a dig on top of Blood Mesa," Veronica Dupre said. "There's an Anasazi settlement up there, or rather there used to be until it was abandoned about twelve hundred years ago."

"Blood Mesa?"

"That's what it's called. Because of the red sandstone, you know. When the sun hits it just right early in the morning or late in the afternoon, it's the color of blood."

That was a nice, cheery thought. He couldn't very well explain to her that he was here because he had felt the mesa calling to him in some way. She would think he had lost his mind.

"Are you familiar with the Anasazi?"

"I've heard of them," Matt said. "Disappeared mysteriously, didn't they?"

"For a long time that's what people thought. The name means ancient ones or people who came before, which certainly has a mysterious connotation to it." Like any teacher, she was warming to her subject. "Recent theories lean more toward the possibility that the Anasazi were simply absorbed into other tribes like the Navajo and the Hopi, but some of their cities do seem to have been abandoned rather abruptly, including the one on top of Blood Mesa. That's why we're here, to see if we can uncover any evidence of why they deserted this particular settlement."

"Sounds fascinating," Matt said.

Dr. Dupre laughed. "No, it doesn't. It sounds dry as dust to most people, and I know it. And I'm sorry I started lecturing."

"Don't worry. I like to learn new things."

He had learned more about certain things in the past few months than he ever wanted to. Things like evil and tragedy and degradation. The thought made him glance over at Dr. Andrew Hammond, who had his head turned away to look out the window on that side of the truck cab. Because of that, Matt couldn't get a good look at the rot on the man's face, but he knew it was there.

He drove along the two-lane blacktop for about a mile before he came to a dirt road that turned right off the highway and led toward the mesa. Dr. Dupre pointed to it and said, "That's where we turn."

Dust billowed up behind the truck as Matt slowed and wheeled it onto the dirt road. As he turned, he glanced at the big side mirror just outside his window.

Matt caught his breath as he saw the tall, skinny figure standing at the edge of the blacktop. The figure lifted an almost skeletal hand holding something—a lollipop, Matt knew from previous encounters—and waved it slowly in a mocking farewell.

Then the cloud of dust rolled over the asphalt, and Mr. Dark was gone.

# # # # # #

The mesa was about a mile from the state highway. The dirt road leading to it was rough, forcing Matt to grip the steering wheel tighter as the truck bounced through the ruts toward the base of the mesa. The red sandstone cliffs rose a couple of hundred feet and loomed over the truck. From the top, it probably looked like a toy.

The dirt road circled part of the way around the mesa and then angled straight toward it. "That's where you want to go," Dr. Dupre said, pointing to a trail that was little more than a broad ledge rising and curving out of sight around the mesa. Matt figured the ledge must spiral all the way to the top.

"Still think you can handle it?" Hammond asked. "There's no place to turn around. Once you start up, you have to go all the way to the top or else back all the way down." He shook his head, causing the strips of rotten skin hanging from his face to sway. "I wouldn't advise that."

"We'll make it," Matt said.

The road up the side of the mesa, if you could call it that, was even rougher, making Matt grateful for the big tires, and steep enough in places that the truck's engine growled and labored as it climbed. Matt kept a close eye on the temperature and oil-pressure gauges. The truck seemed to be handling the effort all right.

The ledge was narrow enough that when Matt looked out, he couldn't see anything except empty air on that side of the truck. And on the other side loomed the red cliffs, bulging out in places so they overhung the ledge. It was a little nerve-wracking, all right. As a rule, though, his nerves were pretty steady.

"What's up there on top?" he asked. It was a natural question for someone in his position, even somebody who couldn't see the festering sores on Hammond's face.

"There's not much left of the pueblo itself," Dr. Dupre explained, "just a few walls still standing, and the kivas, of course, although some of them have collapsed in on themselves. But there are enough ruins so that when the wind blows through them, it makes a sort of wailing noise, like there's someone up there crying . . . I know, that probably sounds crazy."

Matt shook his head. "Not at all."

"Of course I know that no one lives up there and hasn't for hundreds of years, but there are times I catch myself looking over my shoulder, like there's somebody behind me. But nobody's there. You know what I mean?"

"I do," Matt said. All too well.

As they approached the top, Dr. Dupre pointed through the dust-covered windshield and said, "There's the Indian's Head. We're not supposed to call it that, even though that's what the few people who live around here have called it for years and years. The university doesn't want anybody to be offended."

Matt saw right away what she was talking about. A huge chunk of rock poised at the edge of the mesa, above the ledge. Centuries of erosion had carved it into a shape that roughly resembled a stereotypical Native American profile.

"It's a hard landmark to miss," she went on. "When you see it, you know you're almost at the top."

Sure enough, a couple of minutes later the trail emerged onto the mesa's top, which was approximately half a mile wide and three quarters of a mile long, Matt judged, and laid out in a roughly rectanglar shape, although there were no sharp corners anywhere.

After climbing all the way up the trail, it felt good to be back on relatively level ground again. Stretches of grass grew here and there, along with an occasional stunted bush, but mostly the ground was a mixture of sand and rock. Jagged crevices sliced in from the rim and would have to be avoided. A fall into one of them could be fatal.

As Matt drove across the mesa, he spotted in the distance the ruins Veronica Dupre had mentioned. Some of the eroded walls that were still standing had windows in them, and that probably accounted for the wailing wind she had talked about.

It struck Matt that those openings also looked a little like eyes, watching them approach.

"People actually lived up here?" he asked.

"Oh yeah, several hundred of them. Maybe as many as a thousand."

"How did they get water? What did they live on?"

"They dug cisterns underground and rigged sluices to carry the water down to them when it rained. It doesn't rain much here, as you might imagine, but when it does it's usually a downpour. There are also some springs within walking distance, and they could carry water back from them if they had to. They were able to grow some corn, and hunting parties went out and brought in fresh meat. Getting enough to eat had to be a problem, though. That may be one reason why they finally abandoned this city. They made it work in other places, though. Acoma, southeast of here, is the oldest continually occupied settlement in North America. People still live there." Dr. Dupre laughed. "And I'm lecturing again. Occupational hazard."

Lecture or not, none of what she said explained why the crawling sensation along Matt's spine had gotten even worse since they reached the top of the mesa. He looked around for Mr. Dark but didn't see the scrawny son of a bitch.

Several pickups and jeeps were parked near the ruins. Matt saw a few people moving around, scattered here and there on the mesa. They all appeared to be young, which was no surprise since graduate students did most of the grunt work on archeological digs like this, while the professors just supervised.

A pudgy young man with curly brown hair came toward the truck as Matt brought it to a halt near the other vehicles. Matt opened his door and slid down from the high bench seat.

The young man stopped short and looked at him in surprise.

"Who're you?" he asked.

Drs. Dupre and Hammond had gotten out of the truck on the other side. As they came around the front, Dr. Dupre said, "This is Matt Cahill, Jerry. He's taking Alberto's place."

"What happened to Alberto?"

"He quit," Hammond said with scorn in his voice. "Claimed he was too frightened to come back out here. You know how these uneducated Indians are. Afraid of evil spirits and hogwash like that."

Dr. Dupre frowned at her colleague's comment but didn't say anything.

"Oh. Okay," the young man said. He extended a hand to Matt and grinned as he introduced himself. "Jerry Schultz. I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Cahill."

"Call me Matt," he said as he shook hands.

"Jerry, can you help Matt unload the supplies?" Dr. Dupre asked. "We're going to talk to Dr. Varley."

"Sure, I'd be glad to."

"Jerry can fill you in on anything you need to know about what we're doing up here," Dr. Dupre went on.

"And welcome to Blood Mesa," Hammond added, although the look on his rotting face didn't appear welcoming at all. "I hope you enjoy your stay with us."

Matt doubted the sincerity of that sentiment.

And he had a very strong hunch that he wouldn't enjoy his time on Blood Mesa at all.