p&c.thunderhead-第1部分

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　Douglas　Preston　dedicates　this　book　to　Stuart　Woods。　
　
　Acknowledgments　
　Lincoln　Child　wishes　to　thank　Bruce　Swanson；　Bry　Benjamin；　M。D。；　Lee　Suckno；　M。D。；　Irene　Soderlund；　Mary　Ellen　Mix；　Bob　Wincott；　Sergio　and　Mila　Nepomuceno；　Jim　Cush；　Chris　Yango；　Jim　Jenkins；　Mark　Mendel；　Juliette　Kvernland；　Hartley　Clark；　and　Denis　Kelly；　for　their　friendship　and　their　assistance；　both　technical　and　otherwise。　Thanks　also　to　my　wife；　Luchie；　for　her　love　and　unstinting　support。　And　I　would　especially　like　to　acknowledge　as　an　inspiration　my　grandmother　Nora　Kubie。　Artist；　novelist；　archaeologist；　independent　spirit；　biographer　of　Nineveh　excavator　Austen　Henry　Layard；　she　instilled　in　me　from　a　very　early　age　twin　loves　for　writing　and　archaeology。　She　worked　on　excavations　as　far　away　as　Masada　and　Camelot；　and　as　close　as　her　own　New　Hampshire　backyard。　Although　she　passed　away　ten　years　ago；　during　the　writing　of　Thunderhead　in　particular　she　was　never　far　from　my　thoughts。　
　Douglas　Preston　would　like　to　offer　his　appreciation　to　the　following　people：　Walter　Winings　Nelson；　horseback　riding　panion　across　a　thousand　miles　of　deserts；　canyons；　and　mountains；　seeking　the　Seven　Cities　of　Gold；　Larry　Burke；　captain　of　the　Emerald　Sun；　for　hosting　a　memorable　expedition　up　Lake　Powell；　Forrest　Fenn；　who　found　his　own　lost　city；　the　Cottonwood　Gulch　Foundation　of　New　Mexico；　and　Tim　Maxwell；　director　of　the　Office　also　like　to　thank　my　wife；　Christine；　and　my　children　Selene；　Aletheia；　and　Isaac。　I　want　to　thank　once　again　those　two　who　can　never　receive　enough　thanks；　my　mother　and　father；　Dorothy　and　Jerome　Preston。　
　We　would　like　to　thank　Ron　Blom　and　Diane　Evans　at　NASA's　Jet　Propulsion　Laboratory　for　their　help　with　an　article　of　Douglas　Preston's　explaining　how　space…borne　radar　is　used　in　locating　ancient　trails。　We　offer　them　our　apologies　for　creating　the　unpleasant　and　wholly　fictitious　character　of　Leland　Watkins。　No　such　persons　as　Leland　Watkins　or　Peter　Holroyd　work；　or　have　worked；　at　JPL。　We　would　also　like　to　express　our　great　appreciation　to　Farouk　El…Baz；　director　of　the　Center　for　Remote　Sensing　at　Boston　University；　for　his　help　with　the　technical　aspects　of　remote　sensing　the　earth　from　space；　and　we　thank　Juris　Zarins；　the　archaeologist　who　discovered　the　lost　city　of　Ubar　in　Saudi　Arabia。　
　Our　deep　appreciation　goes　out　to　Bonnie　Mauer；　who　read　the　manuscript　not　once　but　several　times　and　offered　excellent　advice。　Thanks　also　to　Eric　Simonoff；　Lynn　Nesbit；　and　Matthew　Snyder；　for　their　continued　assistance；　counsel；　and　encouragement。　Special　thanks　to　Mort　Janklow　for　sharing　a　surprising　and　very　moving　personal　anecdote　in　connection　with　our　story。　And　to　Clifford　Irving；　for　his　advice　on　the　manuscript；　as　well　as　Kim　Gattone；　for　so　kindly　assisting　with　some　of　the　technical　aspects　of　rock　climbing。　At　Warner；　we　would　like　to　thank　Betsy　Mitchell；　Jaime　Levine；　Jimmy　Franco；　Maureen　Egen；　and　Larry　Kirshbaum　for　believing　in　us。　Thanks　also　to　Debi　Elfenbein。　
　We　hasten　to　add　that　any　outrages　mited　in　the　name　of　anthropology　and　archaeology　within　the　pages　of　Thunderhead　are　fictitious　and　exist　wholly　within　the　authors'　imaginations。　
　
　
1
　
　THE　FRESHLY　PAVED　ROAD　LEFT　SANTA　FE　and　arrowed　west　through　pi？on　trees。　An　amber…colored　sun　was　sinking　into　a　scrim　of　dirty　clouds　behind　the　snowcapped　Jemez　Mountains；　drawing　a　counterpane　of　shade　across　the　landscape。　Nora　Kelly　guided　the　rattletrap　Ford　pickup　along　the　road；　down　chamisa…covered　hills　and　across　the　beds　of　dry　washes。　It　was　the　third　time　she　had　been　out　here　in　as　many　months。　
　As　she　came　up　from　Buckman's　Wash　into　Jackrabbit　Flats…what　had　once　been　Jackrabbit　Flats…she　saw　a　shining　arc　of　light　beyond　the　pi？ons。　A　moment　later；　her　truck　was　speeding　past　manicured　greens。　A　nearby　sprinkler　head　winked　and　nodded　in　the　sun；　jetting　water　in　a　regular；　palsied　cadence。　Beyond；　on　a　rise；　stood　the　new　Fox　Run　clubhouse；　a　massive　structure　of　fake　adobe。　Nora　looked　away。　
　The　truck　rattled　over　a　cattle　guard　at　the　far　end　of　Fox　Run　and　suddenly；　the　road　was　washboard　dirt。　She　bounced　past　a　cluster　of　ancient　mailboxes　and　the　crude；　weatherbeaten　sign　that　read　RANCHO　DE　LAS　CABRILLAS。　For　a　moment；　the　memory　of　a　summer　day　twenty　years　before　passed　through　her　mind：　once　again　she　was　standing　in　the　heat；　holding　a　bucket；　helping　her　father　paint　the　sign。　Cabrillas；　he'd　said；　was　the　Spanish　word　for　waterbugs。　But　it　was　also　their　name　for　the　constellation　Pleiades；　which　he　said　looked　like　water　skaters　on　the　shining　surface　of　a　pond。　〃To　hell　with　the　cattle；〃　she　remembered　him　saying；　swabbing　thick　letters　with　the　paintbrush。　〃I　bought　this　place　for　its　stars。〃　
　The　road　turned　to　ascend　a　rise；　and　she　slowed。　The　sun　had　now　disappeared；　and　the　light　was　draining　fast　out　of　the　high　desert　sky。　There　in　a　grassy　valley　stood　the　old　ranch　house；　windows　boarded　up。　And　beside　it；　the　frowsy　outlines　of　the　barn　and　corrals　that　were　once　the　Kelly　family　ranch。　No　one　had　lived　here　in　five　years。　It　was　no　great　loss；　Nora　told　herself：　the　house　was　a　mid…fifties　prefab；　already　falling　apart　when　she　was　growing　up。　Her　father　had　spent　all　his　money　on　the　land。　
　Pulling　off　the　road　just　below　the　brow　of　the　hill；　she　glanced　toward　the　nearby　arroyo。　Somebody　had　surreptitiously　dumped　a　load　of　broken　cinderblocks。　Maybe　her　brother　was　right　and　she　should　sell　the　place。　Taxes　were　going　up；　and　the　house　had　long　ago　passed　the　point　of　no　return。　Why　was　she　holding　on　to　it？　She　couldn't　afford　to　build　her　own　place　there…not　on　an　assistant　professor's　salary；　anyway。　
　She　could　see　the　lights　ing　on　in　the　Gonzales　ranch　house；　a　quarter　mile　away。　It　was　a　real　working　ranch；　not　like　her　father's　hobby　ranchito。　Teresa　Gonzales；　a　girl　she'd　grown　up　with；　now　ran　the　place　by　herself。　A　big；　smart；　fearless　woman。　In　recent　years；　she'd　taken　it　upon　herself　to　look　after　the　Kelly　ranch；　too。　Every　time　kids　came　out　to　party；　or　drunken　hunters　decided　to　take　potshots　at　the　place；　Teresa　rousted　them　and　left　a　message　on　the　answering　machine　at　Nora's　townhouse。　This　time；　for　the　past　three　or　four　nights；　Teresa　had　seen　dim　lights　in　and　around　the　house　just　after　sunset；　and…she　thought…large　animals　slinking　about。　
　Nora　waited　a　few　minutes；　looking　for　signs　of　life；　but　the　ranch　was　quiet　and　empty。　Perhaps　Teresa　had　imagined　the　lights。　In　any　case；　whoever　or　whatever　it　was　seemed　to　have　left。　
　She　eased　the　truck　through　the　inner　gate　and　down　the　last　two　hundred　yards　of　road；　parked　around　back；　and　killed　the　engine。　Pulling　a　flashlight　out　of　the　glove　partment；　she　stepped　lightly　onto　the　dirt。　The　door　of　the　house　hung　open；　held　precariously　by　a　single　hinge　screw；　its　lock　cut　off　long　ago　with　bolt　cutters。　A　gust　swept　through　the　yard；　picking　up　skeins　of　dust　and　moving　the　door　with　a　restless　whisper。　
　She　flicked　on　the　flashlight　and　stepped　onto　the　portal。　The　door　moved　aside　at　her　push；　then　swung　back　stubbornly。　She　gave　it　an　annoyed　kick　and　it　fell　to　the　porch　with　a　clatter；　loud　in　the　listening　silence。　She　stepped　inside。　
　The　boarded　windows　made　the　interior　difficult　to　make　out；　yet　even　so　it　was　clearly　a　sad　echo　of　her　memory　of　the　house　she　grew　up　in。　Beer　bottles　and　broken　glass　lay　strewn　across　the　floor；　and　some　gang　member　had　spray…painted　a　tagline　on　the　wall。　Some　of　the　boards　covering　the　windows　had　been　pried　away。　The　carpet　had　been　ripped　up；　and　sofa　cushions　sliced　in　half　and　tossed　about　the　room。　Holes　had　been　kicked　in　the　drywall；　along　with　liberal　pepperings　from　a　。22。　
　Perhaps　it　wasn't　that　much　worse　than　the　last　time。　The　rips　on　the　cushions　were　new；　along　with　the　ragged　holes　in　the　wall；　but　the　rest　she　remembered　from　her　previous　visit。　Her　lawyer　had　warned　her　that　in　its　present　condition　the　place　was　a　liability。　If　a　city　inspector　ever　managed　to　get　out　here；　he　would　immediately　condemn　it。　The　only　problem　was；　tearing　the　thing　down　would　cost　more　than　she　had…unless；　of　course；　she　sold　it。　
　She　turned　from　the　living　room　into　the　kitchen。　Her　flashlight　beam　swept　over　the　old　Frigidaire；　still　lying　where　it　had　been　overturned。　Drawers　had　recently　been　removed　and　strewn　about　the　room。　The　linoleum　was　ing　up　in　big　curls；　and　someone　had　hastened　the　process；　peeling　off　strips　and　even　ripping　up　floorboards　to　expose　the　crawlspace　underneath。　Vandalism　is　hard　work；　she　thought。　As　her　eyes　roved　over　the　room　again；　something　began　to　nag　at　the　back　of　her　mind。　Something　was　different　this　time。　
　She　left　the　kitchen　and　began　to　climb　the　stairs；　kicking　aside　wads　of　mattress　ticking；　trying　to　bring　the　thought　into　focus。　Sofa　cushions　sliced；　holes　punched　in　walls；　carpeting　and　linoleum　ripped　up。　Somehow；　this　fresh　violence　didn't　seem　quite　as　random　as　it　had　in　the　past。　It　was　almost　as　if　someone　was　looking　for　something。　Halfway　up　the　darkness　of　the　stairwell；　she　stopped。　
　Was　that　the　crunch　of　glass　underfoot？　
　She　waited；　motionless　in　the　dim　light。