Page 24 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

S KIP HESITATED AT the huge mesquite doors, then took a deep breath and knocked.

Almost immediately, Edison Nash threw them open.

“’Sup, man?” he asked.

“Come in!”

Skip followed him through the grand entryway and into the study, impressed all over again at the mansion and collections—owned by a guy in his mid-thirties.

A couple of years older than himself—and already a billionaire.

A fire was burning in the kiva fireplace, the crackle of juniper wood adding its ambience to the dying light outside.

On the coffee table sat several items: a bottle of expensive reposado tequila, some limes, a dish of salt, margarita glasses, a bottle of Cointreau, a jar of simple syrup, some lime juice, a bucket of ice, and a shaker.

Nash flopped down in a leather armchair as Skip took the sofa.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” he said.

“Got all the mixings. What say?”

“I say yes,” said Skip.

Edison deftly began mixing ingredients into the shaker: lime juice, Cointreau, syrup, and a massive pour of tequila.

He added ice and gave it a brisk shake, then—after running a wedge of lime around the rims of the glasses and dipping them in salt—strained the mixture into them with a flourish.

Skip watched, feeling a tickle of anticipation.

Edison raised his glass and Skip followed.

“To our investigation!”

Skip took a goodly sip, feeling the warm, tart liquid go down.

“Now,” said Edison. “You’re not going to believe what I’ve found out.”

“Tell me.” Skip began to reach for his glass and a second big gulp, then resisted the temptation.

He was determined not to overdo it; after his first drinking session with Edison, he’d ended up with a wicked hangover.

“So I started looking into the Gallina, the ruins, all those canyons up there. I read Hibben’s book—you should read it, too—and I did some informed poking around. After your sister’s visit, I’d begun wondering if maybe there aren’t more green lightning stones in the Gallina country. Maybe there was a source of prasiolite around. And in the process I learned about a really bizarre, unsolved murder.”

“Really?”

“About twelve years ago a body was found washed down the Gallina River from upcanyon. It was lodged in a sandbar where the Gallina flows into the Chama River. Found by some river rafters. It was a middle-aged guy, and he’d been beaten up, stabbed, generally trashed. But here’s the kicker: when they did the autopsy, they found someone had carved a symbol into his belly. Postmortem.”

“What kind of symbol?”

Nash rose, picked up a photograph off his desk, and handed it to Skip.

“Jesus,” said Skip. It was an image of a body lying on a gurney, in a disgustingly half-decayed state.

“Is that a—spiral?”

“That’s right.”

“How’d you get this?”

“I have my ways.”

“Anybody know what it means?”

Nash shook his head.

“That’s what makes it even stranger. It looks to me like the spirals you see on prehistoric petroglyphs, but who knows? A spiral could be anything.”

Skip handed back the photograph.

“Who was the guy?”

“That’s a mystery. Nobody knows who he was, what he was doing there, or who killed him.”

He drained his margarita and rocked the shaker fetchingly.

“Another?”

“Sure.” Skip quickly finished off the remainder of his glass.

Edison refilled it as well as his own.

“I also dug up my grandfather’s notes about the Gallina. And can you believe it—I discovered he’d been up there with Frank Hibben himself! This was back in the thirties. They camped out and Hibben showed him some of his favorite ruins. I’m pretty sure they did a little digging—there weren’t many rules back then. Maybe that’s where my grandfather got those lightning stones.” He paused.

“Stands to reason. I’ll bet there are more up there.”

“Maybe even the mother lode of prasiolite up there.” Skip was starting to feel the effect of the strong margaritas.

“Exactly what I was thinking!” Nash leaned forward, giving Skip a wide-eyed stare.

“I love a mystery. How about you?”

“Absolutely.”

“You do much camping?”

“All the time. Spending time out in the desert, under the stars, is a Kelly family tradition. My father was kind of a crazy treasure hunter, and he dragged us kids into the great outdoors almost before we could walk.” Skip found himself smiling at the memories that arose.

“I’m never happier than sitting around a campfire, a steak sizzling over the coals, strumming my uke… dozens of miles from anything.”

“You play the ukulele?”

Skip nodded.

“My father had this old Martin 1930s soprano uke—Style 1, if you know your ukes. Mahogany and Brazilian rosewood. He won it in a poker game. He taught me every Tin Pan Alley and cowboy song he knew. It’s gotten a little dinged up over the years, but I still treasure it. Every time I play it, I’m reminded of my dad.”

Edison’s eyes shone.

“Let me show you something.” He stood up and walked out of the room, returning a minute later with what looked like a long, straight object.

He handed it to Skip.

“An Anasazi bone flute,” Skip said in an almost reverential tone, turning it over in his hands.

“I’ve never seen one in such pristine condition.”

Edison laughed.

“That’s because there isn’t one.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t play those old flutes—most of them are so cracked and decayed, they’d come apart in your hands if you tried to play. I had this one re-created by a luthier in Denver.”

“So it’s playable?”

Edison took it from Skip, played a few bars of a plaintive melody, and handed it back.

“Wow,” Skip said. “It sounds fantastic.”

“Damn right it does. We took three old flutes apart to get the interior measurements and the finger stops just right.”

Skip looked at him.

“Three original flutes?”

“Sure. Couldn’t get the tonalities or the finger stops right otherwise. It’s not like those old things were worth much—I’ve got half a dozen others stored away someplace. I did keep the mouthpiece of the nicest one, though, and had the luthier attach it. See how it’s carved?”

Skip looked at the faded rings and geometric patterns at one end of the flute.

Then he handed it back.

“That’s pretty awesome.” He wasn’t so sure about the destruction of the old flutes to make this one, but he said nothing.

“Remember what I said last time we met? How’s about you and me doing a little investigating on our own? We could get some supplies and backpack into those canyons—camp a few days and do a little exploring. Nothing illegal, of course—just poking around. Bring your ukulele and I’ll bring my flute. It’ll be a blast. What do you think?”

Skip opened his mouth to say Hell, yes —but he stopped himself.

He was both flattered and thrilled with the idea.

It would be a fantastic outing—and they might just make some interesting discoveries.

While going into Gallina Canyon wasn’t illegal, he sensed that Nora would take a dim view of him, an Institute employee, “exploring” ancient ruins with a guy like Nash.

She had already hinted to Skip more than once that she thought Nash was a bad influence.

“I—” he stammered. “It sounds great. Do you mind if I just, ah, take a day to arrange it with my work schedule?”

“Well… sure. But don’t dally too long. I might just get antsy and head out there on my own.”

“Don’t do that!” Skip said.

Maybe, he thought, he could work this out with Nora, persuade her he would be a restraining influence on Nash when it came to picking up artifacts.

Nash smiled. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll take care of the provisions.” And he patted the bottle of tequila with a grin.

“Such as a goodly amount of this firewater to nip around the campfire. Eh, Skip?”

Then he raised his glass.

They clinked them together and drained them both down.