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hat’s light around the darkness.
    Marquez found himself staring into a room hewn in the rock. It looked to be a perfect cube approximately fifteen by fifteen feet, with the same distance separating the floor and roof. Strange markings were cut into the sheer, smooth walls. This definitely was not the work of nineteenth-century miners. Then, abruptly, the beam of his hard hat’s light struck a stone pedestal and glinted on the object it supported.
    Marquez froze in shock at the ungodly sight of a black skull, its empty eye sockets staring directly at him.

2
    THE PILOT BANKED THE United Airlines Beechcraft twin-engine plane around a pair of cotton-fluffed clouds and began his descent toward the short runway on a bluff above the San Miguel River. Though he had flown in and out of the little Telluride airport a hundred times, it was still a chore for him to keep his concentration on landing the aircraft and not on the incredible aerial view of the spectacular snowcapped San Juan Mountains. The serene beauty of the jagged peaks and slopes, mantled with snow under a vivid blue sky, was breathtaking.
    As the plane dropped lower into the valley, the slopes of the mountains rose majestically on both sides. They appeared so close that it seemed to the passengers as if the aircraft’s wings would brush the aspen trees on the rocky outcroppings. Then the landing gear dropped, and a minute later the wheels thumped and screeched as they touched the narrow asphalt runway.
    The Beechcraft carried only nineteen passengers, and the unloading went quickly. Patricia O’Connell was the last one to step to the ground. Taking the advice of friends who had flown into the resort town for the skiing, she had asked for a rear seat so she could enjoy the fantastic view without its being blocked by one of the aircraft’s wings.
    At 9,000 feet in altitude, the air was thin but incredibly pure and refreshing. Pat inhaled deeply as she walked from the plane to inside the terminal building. As she passed through the door, a short, stocky man with a shaved head and a dark brown beard walked up to her.
    “Dr. O’Connell?”
    “Please call me Pat,” she replied. “You must be Dr. Ambrose.”
    “Please call me Tom,” he said, with a warm smile. “Did you have a good flight from Denver?”
    “It was wonderful. A little rough coming over the mountains, but the beautiful scenery easily offset any discomfort.”
    “Telluride is a lovely spot,” he said wistfully. “There are times I wish I could live here.”
    “I don’t imagine there are many archaeological sites to study for a man of your experience.”
    “Not this high,” he said. “The ancient Indian ruins are at much lower altitudes.”
    Dr. Thomas Ambrose may not have fit the stereotype of an eminent anthropologist, but he was one of the most respected people in the field. A professor emeritus at Arizona State University, he was an accomplished researcher, meticulous with written reports of his on-site investigations. Now in his late fifties—Pat guessed him to be ten years younger—he could boast of thirty years spent on the trail of early man and his cultures throughout the Southwest.
    “Dr. Kidd was very mysterious over the phone. He offered almost no information at all about the discovery.”
    “And neither will I,” said Ambrose. “It’s best that you wait and see for yourself.”
    “How did you become involved with this find?” she asked.
    “The right place at the right time. I was on a skiing vacation with an old girlfriend when I received a call from a colleague at the University of Colorado, asking if I’d take a look at the artifacts a miner reported finding. After a quick study of the site, I realized that I was in over my head.”
    “I find that hard to believe of a man with your reputation.”
    “Unfortunately, my area of expertise does not include epigraphy. And that’s where you come in. The only one I know personally who specializes in deciphering ancient