“Okay,” said Corrie, “let’s go.” She turned to Watts. “Obviously, he’s got nothing to do with Jim Gower or that gold object.”
At this, the man paused. “Gold object?”
Corrie stared him down. “Mr. Gower, I need to know if you’ll cooperate.”
“I’ll cooperate. I will.” He eased back down on the stool. After a long silence, he said: “James Doolin Gower was my great-grandfather.”
Corrie pulled out a picture. “This man?”
Gower took the picture in a trembling hand. He stared at it. “Where’d you get this?”
“It’s a facial reconstruction, made from the skull of a man found in a ghost town several miles from here. A man tentatively identified as James Gower.”
“That’s pretty good. It’s him, all right.”
“I want you to be sure. Here’s another picture, and another.”
He looked through them. “I’m sure it’s him. He disappeared long before I was born, but I saw enough photos to know.”
Corrie took the pictures back. “Tell us about him.”
“Not much to say. He had a hardscrabble ranch in the San Andres. The government confiscated his ranch and everyone else’s in the area when they created the White Sands Missile Range.”
“The government took his ranch?”
“Oh, yeah. And after those government bastards stole his ranch and paid him almost nothing for it, he spent the last few years of his life trying to make a living. Or so my dad told me. He was sure the government took his land because they wanted something on it—oil, maybe, or gold. My great-grandma left him, and then he disappeared. Nobody ever heard from him again.”
“When did he disappear?”
“A couple of years after they stole his ranch.” He thought for a minute. “I’d guess in the midforties, based on what my father told me.”
“Did anyone search for him?”
“The government people and the sheriff organized a half-assed search party for a few days and then gave up. So you found his body up there in High Lonesome?”
“What makes you think that?” Corrie asked.
“You said the body was found in a ghost town some miles away. High Lonesome’s the only one that comes to mind.”
“As it happens, that’s correct. The body was found by a relic hunter.”
“What was he doing up there?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Corrie said. “Do you have any thoughts?”
He shook his head. “Not a clue. How did he die?”
“We’re looking into it. Could be homicide, could be an accident. Any rumors or stories passed down in your family about him?”
He looked at her with suspicion—or maybe, Nora thought, paranoia. “Not really. So he was carrying something valuable? Was it his gold watch?”
“Gold watch?” Corrie asked.
“Yeah. Pocket watch, with constellations engraved on the spring cover. A flyback chronograph.”
“A what?” Watts asked.
“Flyback chronograph. I think they called it a repeater back when it was made, in the 1920s or thereabouts.”
“You seem to know a lot about it,” Corrie said.
Gower shrugged. “My dad knew something about repairing timepieces. That watch meant a great deal to my great-grandfather. It was worth a lot of money.”
After a pause, Corrie went on. “We found something made of gold. But it wasn’t a watch. It was a cross.”
“A cross?” Gower seemed to have difficulty picturing his ancestor with such an object. “How much is it worth?”
“We’re looking into that as well.”
“I’m the only descendant. It belongs to me. The rightful owner—just like you said.”
At this, Nora leaned forward. “It would be helpful to us if you could give us a sketch of your family history and relationships. A family tree.”
“My great-grandfather, your dead man, had one child. His name was Murphy Gower. He was taken by his mother to her family’s homestead—this place, here—when she left her husband. Murphy Gower was my granddad. He inherited this place and married Eliza Horner, my grandma, and they had one child—my dad. His name was Jesse, too. He spent some time in Culver City, California, then came back here and married my mom, Millicent. They tried to get a ranch going outside of Magdalena. That’s where I spent my first twelve years. Then the ranch went bust, my mom left, I got a scholarship to Harvard, my dad died—and I dropped out.”
“Harvard?” Nora blurted out.
“Yes, Harvard. Full scholarship. Don’t look so shocked. I was at Harvard for two years and did very well.” For the first time, some color came into his face: the blush of shame.
“Go on,” said Corrie.
“So I went to New York, did some writing. Didn’t work out. I needed peace and quiet. So I came back here to write my novel. I’m still working on it.”
A silence.
“What’s the title of your novel?” Corrie asked.
“Lamentable.”
This was followed by another silence.
“And then what happened to you?” Corrie asked, a sudden edge to her voice.
Gower’s pale face became splotchy with color. “What do you mean? Nothing happened. I’m living off the eggs from that henhouse over there. And writing my novel.”
“For ten years?”
He shifted. “James Joyce took seventeen years to write Finnegans Wake.”
Corrie leaned forward. “What I mean is, when did you become addicted to drugs?”
Gower’s face flushed with anger. He lurched to his feet. “Get off my fucking property.”
Corrie rose, as did the others. “And you,” she said. “Get yourself clean—or you’ll die.”
“What about my cross?” Gower asked in a cracked voice.
“When it’s no longer needed as evidence, there’s a process that will allow you to claim it. If you are indeed the only heir—and aren’t dead by then.”
He stared at them from the porch as they returned to the Jeep.
“Jesus,” said Watts, “you were awfully hard on that fellow.” He carefully hung his hat on a wire hat rack and got behind the wheel, looking at her curiously—as did Nora. The outburst was so uncharacteristic.
“Harvard—and now this?” Corrie said angrily. “That’s a fucking tragedy. And…” She hesitated.
“Go on,” Nora said.
“I…” Corrie paused again. “I saw the same shit in my family. I’ve got no tolerance for it.”
22
CORRIE DESCENDED THE concrete steps to the basement of the Albuquerque FO building. It seemed asleep, windows dark, parking lot empty—not surprising, considering it was five o’clock in the morning. She had awoken from a bad dream, a rerun of her missed shot, and after that, sleep had been impossible, and at last she had given up and gotten out of bed. After showering and eating a granola bar washed down with two cups of coffee, black and strong, she’d gotten in her car and driven to work. The mule skeleton had been bothering her—Lathrop had been particularly possessive during his examination of its bones, and she’d barely managed to peer over his shoulder while he worked. At the time, she’d let him have his way, thinking the mule less important than the examination of Gower. But she still had some unanswered questions—in particular, why the animal had been shot—and she wanted time to have a closer look without the interfering old pathologist hanging around.
Using her key card, she entered the path lab and turned on the lights. The cramped entrance was more crowded than usual by the stacks of unopened cartons and boxes that had accumulated. This, she’d learned, was an ongoing problem—the loading dock was just beyond the lab, and the hall and entryway of the lab had become a convenient place to cache newly ordered supplies that people were too lazy to unpack and store quickly. Lathrop himself seemed particularly guilty of this, as Corrie could see many of the labels came from medical and laboratory supply houses.
She threaded her way thro
ugh the mess to the operating theater. It, too, was crowded, with examination tables with movable hoods, wet gurneys, and forensic equipment. On the far side of the room was a refrigeration unit with several drawers; one was currently occupied by the remains of James Gower, and another by his mule—hinnie, goddamn it, she’d never remember that stupid word.
She gowned up, put on gloves, mask, and hood, and began an examination of the skeletal remains. Wheeling over one of the empty tables, she opened the locker containing the animal. Unlike its owner, it was almost completely skeletonized, having been more exposed to the elements. She rolled out the drawer and transferred the bones to the examination cart. Before moving the cart under the lights, she took a moment to open Gower’s locker as well, and slid the drawer out. With the refreshing absence of Lathrop she decided to examine those remains again without the pressure of someone breathing down her neck. The mummified corpse, missing some of its internal organs, was still in a fetal-like position, one arm extended. Again she was struck by the unnatural position of the body; it just didn’t look like someone, even a person dying in agony, would have assumed that position. And the skin coming off in sheets like that—was that really a product of having spent three-quarters of a century desiccating in an arid environment? It, too, looked odd.
She turned her attention back to the animal bones and decided to start her examination with the hooves and legs. The animal might have been shot because it was injured or lamed. As she worked, the silence of the lab seemed to grow. She was accustomed to morgues and the dead bodies that tenanted them, but she had never been able to shake the feeling—especially at times like this, when she was alone in the lab—that they weren’t really dead after all, but only sleeping. And sometimes, not even sleeping…but awake and listening.
She shook off this ridiculous thought and continued the naked-eye examination. There was nothing unusual about the hooves or leg bones, no obvious fractures. The pelvis also looked normal. As she moved on to the rib cage, she noticed something interesting. The third and fourth left posterior ribs had spots that stood out—just shadows, really. She peered at them closely. She turned toward the cabinet that stored microscope goggles, near the lab entrance. Naturally, there were some boxes blocking the door, which she shifted with irritation to open the cabinet. She pulled out a pair of Galilean-type binocular loupes, fixed with 2.5× goggles, and fitted them onto her head. As she was adjusting the straps to make them comfortable, she heard a muffled beeping noise from behind her, faint but regular. Was it a UPS truck, backing up to the loading dock? No—too early. She shut the cabinet and pushed the boxes against it.
Under magnification, she saw that she’d been correct. What had seemed to the naked eye like a shadow on the weathered bone was, with the help of the goggles, two side-by-side hairline fractures in the ribs, with no signs of healing. Another perimortem injury, and oddly similar to the rib fractures she had seen in Gower. Now, this was strange. Had both mule and rider had a bad fall? That seemed the likely explanation. But this would not account for the fact that the mule had been shot.
She now focused her examination to the entrance hole, which was directly between the eyes. Under magnification she could see clear microscopic pitting just around the rim, indicating a point-blank shot; the barrel of the gun had probably been pressed right to the animal’s head. The .22 round had not been powerful enough to exit the skull, so it bounced around inside, killing the animal instantly and preserving the round.
Slowly, Corrie straightened up and pulled the magnifying goggles from her head. She still had not found any indication of why the animal had been put down. The legs looked sound, and a few hairline fractures in the ribs would in no way cripple the animal. There might have been internal injuries, but that was doubtful.
Her examination finished, feeling frustrated, she covered the cart and rolled it aside to bring out Gower’s remains for examination.
Once again, the muffled beeping noise intruded on her thoughts. This time, she looked around, her irritation mounting. It sounded too close to be from the loading dock—it seemed to be somewhere inside the lab itself. Had somebody left a phone in here, its alarm on? Because that’s exactly what it sounded like—low, regular, insistent.
As she looked around, her ear directed her to a stack of recently delivered boxes near the goggle cabinet. The beeping seemed to be coming from that area.
She approached, curious. The examination table on which the hinnie bones were laid out was in the way, and she rolled it aside in order to get a closer look.
The beeping stopped—but not before she was able to zero in on its source: a box atop the stack.
For a crazy moment, she wondered if it was a bomb. But that was silly: bombs only beeped in the movies. Reaching over, she picked up the box and shook it—first gingerly, and then with a little more severity. She held it to her ear.
Nothing.
What the hell?
Box in hand, she turned back toward the examination tables in order to get enough light to read the label. When she did so, the beeping inside the box resumed.
Corrie went still. Then, slowly, she took a step backward, away from the tables.
The beeping stopped again.
Carefully, deliberately, she brought the box up to eye level. It had been sent by a laboratory company in Michigan, and the label read:
FOUR-C SCIENTIFIC
12-PACK/ELECTRONIC RADEX DOSIMETERS
RADIATION DOSE RATES IN µSv/h FOR β-, γ- AND X-RAYS
(Batteries included)
Almost without thinking, she tore the box open, exposing twelve little boxes, each with a dosimeter inside. She ripped open a box and took out the dosimeter—a small plastic device with a tiny LED screen and a clip for fastening it to clothing. Shoving the box aside, she held it out and—with a trembling hand—moved it toward the table that held the hinnie.
The beeping intensified, becoming more rapid.
She took another step, and another, holding it toward the skull. The beeping became so intense it merged into a single loud hum, with the LED screen flashing red.
“Holy shit,” she said, backing away, with the device slowing down and finally ceasing.
Still holding the dosimeter out in front of her, Corrie now walked past the table and approached the open drawer containing Gower’s remains.
Again, the noise went from an irritated beeping to a manic castanet to a continuous buzz.
For a second, maybe two, Corrie stood in frozen horror. She took two steps back, then wheeled around and fled the lab.
23
IN HER LAB, bending over a table covered with potsherds, Nora Kelly heard faint sirens. She paused for a moment to listen. Sometimes, of course, sirens passed on the street. But these were slowing and growing louder and she realized that they must have turned into the Institute’s parking lot.
A minute later a loud knock came at the door. It opened before Nora could reach it. Standing there were Corrie Swanson, Special Agent Morwood, and Dr. Weingrau, her face creased with concern. Behind them stood two people dressed in white radiation suits, with face shields and radiation symbols on the front, one carrying a heavy metal box.
“What in the world—?” Nora began.
“I’m afraid the FBI are here to take the cross,” said Weingrau. As she spoke, Digby appeared behind her, rubbernecking.
“We would have called ahead,” said Corrie, “but there was, um, a national security protocol that prevented it.”
“National security protocol?”
“It appears the gold cross in your safe may be radioactive.”
“Radioactive?…Is this some kind of joke?”
“The level is likely very low,” Corrie added hastily. “But enough that we have to collect it and take it to our radiological evidence room. May we come in?”
Nora stepped aside and Corrie entered, followed by the others, crowding into the room. At least Digby remained outside.
“Where is it?” Corrie asked.
“We’ll explain back in Albuquerque,” Morwood interrupted. “Right now, we’ve got to get that cross into this box.”
“It’s in the safe over there. I’ll open it.”
“No,” said Morwood. “These men will do it. Everyone else, please stand back.”
The goons in suits went to the small safe set into a far wall. Nora told them the combination, and they punched it in. They opened the door, removed the cross in its leather wrapping, and gently placed it in the box—evidently lead-lined—then closed and locked it.
In the meantime, Corrie laid some papers down on Nora’s desk. “Here’s the receipt and release. Just sign here, please, indicating the item has been collected.”
Nora signed the document. Everything was happening so fast. “Now what?”
“We’ll take it back to the field office. There we can explain more thoroughly what’s going on—if you’d like to come with us.”
Nora glanced at Weingrau, who nodded. “Nora, please do go with them and then report back to me. This is alarming—to say the least.”
“Okay,” said Nora simply.
Nora rode to Albuquerque in an FBI car. Corrie traveled on ahead in a van with the cross, so Nora wasn’t able to get any of her questions answered. Within an hour they had arrived at the FBI offices on Luecking Park Avenue, entering via the back, where the monkey-suited men carried the box into the building at a trot. Nora joined Corrie and Morwood as they followed the men.
“So am I going to grow an extra head?” Nora asked, annoyed and only half joking. “That thing’s been in my safe—and out of it—for more than a week now, and suddenly everyone’s going to DEFCON One.”
“You don’t need to worry about the radiation,” Corrie said. “It’s not all that much above background. Sorry about the fuss, but it’s protocol, and I had no say. Believe me, I freaked out, too—when I first discovered it. But I’m told the dose is about the same as flying in an airplane at 35,000 feet for a couple of hours.”
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