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threw out a pale corona； suffused by dust。
From time to time； growing up； Black had been tortured by a recurring nightmare： he found himself paralyzed； unable to move。 Now； he felt that he was living that nightmare。 His limbs seemed to have grown frozen； unwilling or unable to respond to his mands。
〃I can't move！〃 he cried。 And then； with a sudden terror； he realized he hadn't been able to articulate the words。 Air had e out of his mouth； yes…an ugly splutter； and he felt saliva dribbling down his chin…but no words came。 He tried again and heard once more the ugly choking rush of air； felt the refusal of his tongue and lips to form words。 The terror increased。 In a spasm of panic； he struggled unsuccessfully to rise。 Weird shapes and writhing figures began crowding the darkness beyond his eyes； he turned to look away； but his neck refused to move。 Closing his eyes now only caused the shapes to spring to greater definition。
〃Sloane！〃 he tried to call； staring up into the cloudy dimness； afraid even to blink。 But not even the splutter of air came now。 And then the lantern flickered again； and went black。
He tried to scream； but nothing happened。 Sloane was supposed to be bringing medicine。 Where was she？ In the close darkness； the hallucinations were all around him； babbling； whispering： twisted creatures； grinning skulls； teeth inlaid with bloody carnelians； the clinking of skeletons moving restlessly around the kiva； the flickering of fires and the smell of roasting human meat； the screams； the victims gargling their own blood。
It was too terrible。 He could not close his eyes； and they burned with an internal pressure。 His mouth was locked open in a scream that never came。 At least he still recognized the shapes around him as hallucinations。 That meant he wasn't too far gone to tell reality from unreality 。 。 。 but how unspeakably dreadful it was to not feel anything； not to know any longer where his limbs were lying； whether or not he had fouled himself； to lose some profound internal sense of where his body was。 The panic of paralysis； that dream…fear out of his worst nightmares； washed over him yet again。
He couldn't understand what had gone wrong。 Was Nora really dead？ Was he himself also dying； in the horrible darkness of this kiva？ Had Sloane and Bonarotti really been inside the kiva with him？ Perhaps they were going to Aragon for help。 But no…Aragon was dead； like Nora。
Aragon； Smithback； Nora 。 。 。 and he had been as guilty of their deaths as if he had pulled the trigger。 He hadn't spoken up； down there in the valley。 He'd let his own desire for immortal fame； for that ultimate discovery； get the better of him。 He groaned inwardly： clearly； nobody would e to help； after all。 He was alone in the darkness。
Then he saw another light； very faint； almost indivisible from the darkness。 It was acpanied by a rustling sound。 His heart surged with fresh hope。 Sloane was returning at last。
The light grew stronger。 And then he saw it； through the film of his sickness： fire； strangely disembodied； moving through the darkness of the kiva； dropping sparks as it went。 And carrying this burning brand was a hideous apparition： a single figure； half…man； half…animal。
Black fell into renewed despair。 Not a rescue。 Just another hallucination。 He wept inwardly； he wailed in his mind； but his eyes remained dry； his body flexed and immobile。
Now the apparition was ing toward him。 He smelled juniper smoke； mixed with the ripe； sweet scent of morning glories； he saw in the flickering light the glittering black of an obsidian blade。
Distantly； he wondered where such an image； where such an unexpected scent； could have e from。 Some grotesque recess of his mind； no doubt； some dreadful ceremony that perhaps he'd read about in graduate school； long forgotten and now； in the extremity of his delirium； resurrected to haunt him。
The figure bent closer； and he saw its blood…stiffened buckskin mask； eyes fiery behind the ragged slits。 Surprisingly real。 The coldness of the blade on his throat was astonishingly real； as well。 Only a person who was as gravely ill as he was； he knew； could hallucinate something so 。 。 。
And then he felt the unyielding knife blade trace a hard cold line across his neck； felt the abrupt wheeze of his own air； the gush of hot blood filling his windpipe； and he realized； with transcendent astonishment； that it was not a hallucination； after all。
64
SLOANE WAITED； EVERY MUSCLE TENSED； LISTENING with rapt concentration。 There was a break in the storm； and the rain had slowed to an occasional patter。 Cupping her watch to shield the glow； she briefly illuminated it： almost ten thirty。 The sky had broken into patches of light as tattered clouds swept past a gibbous moon。 Still； it was mostly dark…dark enough for a person to think she could creep into camp unobserved。
She shifted； rubbing her elbows。 Once again； she found herself wondering what had happened to Swire and Bonarotti。 No one had appeared at the mouth of the city。 And they obviously weren't in camp。 Perhaps they'd never left Quivira in the first place； and were even now back in the kiva； watching over Black。 In any case； it was best they were not around。 Nora couldn't hide forever。 Soon； she would be ing for Smithback。
Sloane returned her gaze to the tent and its thin； small glow； like a canvas lampshade in the center of the dark landscape。 The camp remained still。 Concentrating on dismissing all irrelevant noise； she waited； ready to distinguish the sound of Nora's approach from the distant rush of the swollen creek。 Ten minutes went by； then fifteen。 The moon fell once more behind ragged clouds。 The rain came on again； acpanied by distant thunder。 It was more difficult than she could have imagined； waiting here like this； gun in hand。 She felt an undercurrent of rage： partly at Nora； but partly at her father。 If he had trusted her； put her in charge of the expedition； none of this would have happened。 She suppressed the sweep of dread that came over her as she contemplated what was about to happen…what she was being forced to do。
She forced her thoughts back toward the limitless wonders that awaited in the secret city。 She reminded herself once again there was no other way。 Even if she managed to beat Nora's accusations somehow； they would ruin her forever。 And in his heart； her father would know 。 。 。
It came at last： the crackle of a twig。 The soft chuff of a foot； placed carefully in wet sand。 And then another； at least； she thought she heard another； against the distant call of the river and the soft patter of rain。
Someone was sneaking up to the tent； someone exercising exceptional care。
Sloane hesitated momentarily； she didn't know Nora had such capacity for stealth。 But nobody else； she knew； would be approaching the tent so cautiously。
She took a breath； opening her mouth as if to speak。 For a moment； she considered calling out to Nora： to give her one more chance； to forget Aragon； the weather report； everything。 But then she remembered the look on Nora's face…the word murderer； uttered between clenched teeth…and she remained silent。
With a slight pressure of her thumbs and middle fingers； she raised the muzzle of the 。38； relaxing her hands to absorb the recoil。 She was a decent shot； at this range； there was no chance of missing。 It would be quick； and probably painless。 Within two minutes； both Nora and Smithback would be in the river； moving inexorably toward the narrow slot at its far end。 If there was ever any question； she could always tell the others she had been shooting at a snake。
She waited； barrel leveled steadily。 The steps were so quiet； and spaced so far apart； Sloane could not tell if they were approaching or receding。 And then at last a shadow interposed itself between her and the tent。
Sloane breathed out slowly through her nostrils。 The shadow was too tall to be bandy…legged Swire； and too short to be Aaron or Bonarotti。 It could only be Nora。 The shadow deepened slightly as it glided around the side of the tent； hovering outside the door。
Carefully； Sloane aimed the gun； centering on the shadow。 This was it； then。 She suspended her breathing； timed the shot to the interval between heartbeats； and squeezed the trigger。
The short…barreled weapon jerked back violently in her hands as the shot reverberated down the canyon。 There was a gasp； the sound of spasmodic kicking； a brief； retreating scrabble。 When her eyes cleared； the silhouette had disappeared from the dim light of the tent and all was silent。
She crept out of the chamisa and rose to her feet。 It was done。 She realized she was shaking violently but made no attempt to control it。 Snapping on her light； keeping the gun drawn； she came forward。 She hesitated at the side of the tent； momentarily unwilling to see the destruction her gun had wrought。 Then； with a deep breath； she stepped forward。
Instead of Nora's body lying before the tent； broken and bleeding； there was nothing。
Sloane's hands went slack in consternation； and she fought to maintain her grip on the gun。 She looked down at the sand before her； horrified。 How could she possibly have missed？ It was practi