The Devil Colony(82)

Kowalski pointed ahead as they passed through the gates of the national park. “Is that our lady?”

Painter sat straighter. A slim young woman climbed out of a white Jeep Cherokee equipped with a blue light bar on top. She wore a starched gray shirt with a badge affixed to it, along with green slacks, black boots, and a matching service belt, including a holstered sidearm. As she stepped clear of the vehicle, she pulled on a broad-brimmed campaign hat and crossed toward the passenger side of their vehicle once it came to a stop.

Kowalski let out a low whistle of appreciation.

“I don’t think your girlfriend back in D.C. would approve of that,” Painter warned.

“We got an agreement. I’m allowed to look, just not touch.”

Painter should have scolded him for his behavior, but in the end he couldn’t disagree with the man’s assessment of the park ranger. Still, as striking as the ranger was, she didn’t hold a candle to Lisa. He had spoken to his girlfriend an hour ago, assuring her that everything was okay. She had hurried to Sigma command, joining Kat as this situation escalated.

As the park ranger reached their car, Painter rolled down his window. She leaned toward his door. Her skin was a coppery mocha, her eyes a dark caramel, framed by long black hair done up in a braid down her back.

“Ranger Tso?” he asked.

She checked the front and back seats. “You’re the historians?” Her voice was rife with skepticism as she eyed Painter and Kowalski.

It seemed her instincts were as refined as her looks. Then again, park rangers had to wear a lot of hats, juggling duties that varied from overseeing national resources to thwarting illegal activities of every sort. They were firemen, police officers, naturalists, and historical preservationists all rolled up into one—and all too often, psychiatrists, too, as they did their best to protect the resources from the visitors, the visitors from the resources, and the visitors from one another.

She pointed to a neighboring lot. “Park over there. Then tell me what this is all really about.”

Kowalski obeyed. As he turned into the parking lot, he glanced to Painter and mouthed the word wow.

Again, Painter couldn’t disagree.

In short order, they were all marching down a trail, gravel grinding underfoot. As it was midweek and midday, they had the path to themselves. They climbed toward the crater, passing through a sparse pine forest, along a route marked as LAVA FLOW TRAIL. Wildflowers sprouted in the sunnier stretches, but most of the path was crumbling pumice and cinders from an ancient flow. They passed a few spatter cones, known as hornitos or “little ovens” in Spanish, marking where old bubbles of lava burst forth, forming minivolcanoes. There were also strange eruptions from cracks—called “squeeze-ups”—where sheets of rising lava hardened and curled into massive flowerlike sculptures. But the main attraction was the cone itself, climbing higher and higher before their eyes. Up close, the mineral show was even more impressive as the lower slope’s dark gray cinders rose up into a spectacular display of brilliant hues, reflecting every bit of sunlight.

“This looped trail is only one mile long,” their guide warned. “You have my attention for exactly that length of time.”

Painter had been making tentative, vague inquiries, learning mundane tidbits that were getting them nowhere. He decided to cut to the quick.

“We’re looking for lost treasure,” he said.

That got her full attention. She drew to a stop, her hands settling to her hips. “Really?” she asked sarcastically.

“I know how that sounds,” Painter said. “But we’ve been following the trail of a historical mystery that suggests something was hidden here long ago. Around the time of the eruption . . . maybe shortly thereafter.”

Nancy wasn’t buying it. “This park has been scoured and searched for decades. What you see is what you get. If there’s something hidden here, it’s long buried. The only things under our feet are some old icy lava tubes, most of them collapsed.”

“Icy?” Kowalski asked, wiping his brow. He’d already soaked through his shirt as the day had grown hot, and the trail offered little shade.

“Water seeps through the porous volcanic rock into the tubes,” Nancy explained. “Freezes during winter, but the natural insulation and lack of air circulation in the narrow tubes keeps the ice from melting. But just so you know, those tubes were mapped both on foot and by radar. There’s nothing but ice down there.” She began to turn away, ready to head back to the parking lot. “If you’re done wasting my time . . .”

Hank raised a hand, stopping her, but his dog tugged him to the side of the trail. Nancy had insisted that the professor use a leash inside the park, and Kawtch was clearly not happy about it—especially now that they’d stopped. The dog sniffed the air, apparently still looking for that wild hare.