Page 43 of Badlands

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 addedice 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 thestars, 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.”

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