Diablo Mesa(103)

He fell silent again.

It was Nora who spoke next. “You said earlier it was delivering a message. Did you decipher it?”

“We did. It was very short. The equivalent of one word, really.”

“What was that word?”

The general smiled grimly. “Hide.”





67



CONNOR DIGBY STOOD just outside the closed door for a moment, squaring his shoulders and slowing his respiration. He glanced at his watch: twelve noon exactly.

Ordinarily, a summons from Dr. Marcelle Weingrau, president of the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute, would not trouble him. He’d been her graduate assistant at Boston University, and felt he’d grown to know her rather well. In fact, normally he’d welcome a chance to ingratiate himself further with her.

But the last couple of months had been anything but normal. The department he’d headed for almost a year had begun to come apart. Two important projects—the excavation at Cornpollen Ridge and the preparatory work near Hottaktion Ranch—had gone awry in different ways. In the first, it seemed permits had not been drawn up properly, and there was an embarrassing matter about an accumulated fine. In the second, the rancher who owned the property and had given his permission for the Institute to proceed had a change of mind. Apparently, one of the archaeological undergraduates working for the Institute on the ranch had hit and killed a calf with his jeep, quickly identified by its J-O brand. Digby had done his best: he’d gone before the appropriate board regarding the Cornpollen permit, and he’d compensated the ranch owner—but somehow, in both cases he’d only managed to make things worse. On top of that, he’d heard rumors that some of the postgrads in the department were circulating a petition about him. Digby had no idea about its details, and he felt sure it had no merit…still, he’d recently had some run-ins with lower-level staff over budgets and his efforts to weed out the tradition of slovenly attire that seemed pervasive in archaeology.

Weingrau’s unexpected call ten minutes earlier had been more terse than usual. So he raised his hand to the wooden door and gave what he thought was a confident-sounding rap.

“Come in,” said the familiar voice immediately.

Digby opened the door and stepped inside—and was surprised all over again. There was Dr. Weingrau, behind her large desk that seemed to exhibit fewer native artifacts by the day. But sitting in a large leather chair in front of that desk was Lucas Tappan. He looked more or less as he had when they’d first met—four months back?—but he was more tanned now, a little thinner, and he’d ditched the hipster-cowboy look for what was obviously an expensive bespoke suit.

“Connor!” said Weingrau in an unexpectedly bright voice. “Thank you for coming so quickly. You remember Mr. Tappan, I’m sure.”

“Of course. What a pleasure to see you again.” Digby began approaching Tappan in order to shake his hand, but the billionaire had already risen, smiled, nodded, and was taking his seat again, so instead Digby changed tack toward a vacant chair.

“Mr. Tappan has come to us with wonderful news,” Weingrau informed him. “He’s planning on making a contribution to the Institute. A sizable contribution, it would seem—to endow a research chair.”

“I’ve spoken to the Executive Committee already,” Tappan said with another smile, “and they’re on board—forgive the pun.”

“Perfectly wonderful,” Digby said, nodding in an instinctual cadence. He was now thoroughly confused. As far as he knew, Tappan’s ill-fated, ill-advised expedition—the one Dr. Kelly had been fired over—had ended in disaster: an accident with a propane tank that had killed a number of people. They had found nothing of value, naturally, proving once again that the whole Roswell thing was a hoax. If that was the case, then why was he back here now, bearing gifts?

Weingrau must no doubt be wondering the same thing. Nevertheless, she was beaming to the point where he feared the makeup on her cheeks might crack off. A contribution would be welcome right now, Digby knew. In fact, it was desperately needed. Several donors the president had been counting on had recently backed out of their pledges for vague reasons, and that—combined with some poor investment choices—had left the Institute’s endowment in a fragile state.

Tappan intruded on his speculations. “But there’s no reason to draw this out,” he said. “I’m sure you both have a lot to do.” He turned to the president. “As I mentioned, Dr. Weingrau, I’ve also chosen the person to occupy that endowed chair, someone with impeccable credentials and a distinguished career, with a long list of seminal publications. May I introduce you?”

“Of course!” Weingrau said, clasping her hands together. In his mind’s eye, Digby imagined a bag of gold coins clenched tightly between them. He shook this away.

Tappan pulled out a phone, tapped it, and slipped it back into his jacket pocket. “It shouldn’t be more than a moment. She’s just down the hall.”

“‘She,’” Weingrau repeated.

At that moment, the door opened and Nora Kelly stepped in.

Digby rose to his feet in surprise. This was the last person he expected to see. It took him a moment to recognize her. Instead of the usual grubby jeans and work shirt, she was wearing a pleated midcalf dress of pale ivory, obviously expensive, and she’d ditched the Doc Martens for a pair of Gucci flats. Her glossy, layered hair fell to her shoulders with the kind of informality only good stylists could achieve, and her skin glowed with a radiance that had nothing to do with sitting for hours at an office desk.