“I’m going to ease over there,” he said, “and circle around to flank them.”
Another crackle or rustle came from the darkness.
“And they’re creeping up on us.” He lowered the gun and cradled it, getting ready to move off. “We have no choice but to go on the offensive. Do nothing, make no sound. Keep in mind they’re as blind as we are.”
Nora answered by squeezing his arm, then letting her hand slip away.
Skip crept, with immense caution, into the darkness. Nora waited, staring in the direction of the sounds. Even as she did so, she heard another faint crunch of a footfall. It couldn’t be more than twenty feet away. Skip was right—this was a deliberate, vigilant approach.
Skip’s warning may have been wise, but Nora realized she couldn’t wait there, helpless, like a sitting duck. Silently, she turned and reached back into the tent, fingers probing in the darkness for her folding knife, stored in a tent pocket along with her flashlight. She found both and slowly withdrew them. She laid the flashlight at her right foot and unfolded the blade of the knife—a blacked-out Zero Tolerance 0888. It locked in place with the faintest of clicks. If anyone came at her, she’d make damn sure they regretted it.
Another whisper came: breathy, closer. Jesus, it was dark. She extended her hand, gripping the titanium handle, crouching and tense and ready to thrust and slash. The balance and heft of the weapon—a limited-edition blade, mailed to her anonymously after she assisted Corrie Swanson at Donner Pass a few months before—was reassuring.
What was Skip doing? She could hear nothing of his movements, which was probably a good thing, but it left her feeling abandoned nonetheless. She could hear the blood pounding in her ears. The darkness was so absolute that the intruder, or intruders, might be mere inches from her and she wouldn’t know. She arced the knife through the darkness before her, slowly. Nothing.
More seconds ticked by. Could she turn on the flashlight and toss it, as a diversion? No—as soon as she turned it on it would reveal her location, make her a target. Her mind went through various other scenarios, but none of them seemed to have much chance of success. She simply had to trust in Skip. He was the one with the shotgun.
…A whisper in the darkness, so close she almost believed she could feel the brush of the person’s breath. She reached out with the knife again and swept it in front of her—nothing.
She was now so tense it was an effort just to draw breath.
And then she felt rough fingers brush her face.
With a scream she thrust out with the knife, slashing back and forth, the blade encountering resistance and biting in. There was a cry of pain. Still flailing, she scrambled backward, falling into her tent—and at that same moment she heard the monstrous crack of the twelve-gauge. Its muzzle flare briefly lit up the scene, illuminating three men: two right in front of her and a third behind, carrying rifles, with Skip off to one side, shotgun pointed. He fired again, another massive boom that caromed off the mountains, mingling with shouts and cries and the scrabbling sound of men retreating in haste.
Nora seized her flashlight and turned it on, just in time to see the last two figures disappearing into a nearby ravine. Skip came rushing over and put a steadying arm around her.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Nora nodded. “I’m fine,” she gasped. “Did you see them? Did you hit one?”
“There were three of them—but it all happened so fast I didn’t get much of a look. I fired over their heads. I mean, I didn’t want to kill anyone unless I had to. I still had three rounds…if they’d kept coming.”
Nora got her hyperventilating under control. “You did right.” She held up the knife. “I think I slashed one of them.”
“Christ, I’ll say you did.”
Nora glanced at the knife in the reflected glow of the flashlight. Its blade was dripping blood.
“Fucking scumbags,” Skip said. “You know, I’ve been saying you were crazy, carrying around that ZT like it was an ordinary pocketknife—but I’m sure glad you had it with you tonight.” He paused. “What the hell were they doing, sneaking up on us like that?”
Nora swallowed. “I’ve no idea. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“No argument there.”
They packed in great haste, Nora putting everything into the back of the vehicle while Skip stood watch with the shotgun and flashlight. She slowed down when it came to the artifacts, making sure they were properly packed in archival-quality boxes, while Skip urged her to hurry. As soon as she was done they tore out of the ghost town, Nora behind the wheel, and began the long, jarring ride in the dark back to civilization.
36
YOU SAID YOU cut one of them?” Corrie asked. It was almost five in the morning, and she’d been awakened by the phone call out of a sound sleep.
“I’m damn well sure I did,” came Nora Kelly’s voice. “Deep, too.”
“You know where? Face? Arm?”
“No.”
“Well, maybe we’ll get lucky with hospitals or emergency clinics.” Corrie paused. “And you don’t know what they were doing there? If they were intentionally coming after you?”
“They were armed. But I wonder…If coming after us was their intention, I’m not sure we’d be talking now. My guess is they were headed to High Lonesome in search of something and were surprised to find us. Perhaps what happened was an attempt to scare us away. I can’t be sure.”
“Well, you two will have to come in and make a statement.”
“I figured as much.” Nora hesitated. “Look, Corrie. We made some important discoveries during the excavation.”
“Such as?”
Briefly, Nora explained about Gower’s partner in treasure hunting; the unusual burial position of Gower’s corpse; the medicine bag that had been left behind.
“A what?”
“A medicine bag. A bundle of shaped stones, herbs, other things that possess supernatural or healing qualities. It must have belonged to Gower’s partner. It’s a very precious object and strange that he left it behind.”
“Just as strange as leaving the gold cross.” Corrie sat farther up in bed.
“Yes. Normally, I would have left the pouch in situ…but with those guys out there in the dark, I couldn’t take the chance.” A silence on the line. “Corrie, I think there’s a possibility I can track down Gower’s partner.”
“What? After all these years? He’s probably dead.”
“Probably. But even finding out what happened to him in later life will help us. Look, a mountain soil bundle like the one I found is unique. No two are going to be exactly alike. It will help me narrow down who the Apache was, learn if he really was Gower’s partner, and maybe understand what it was they were looking for.”
“But that bundle is evidence.”
“If we find the partner, and he’s still alive, he could tell us what really happened. Fill in the rest of the story. He might even be able to lead us to the treasure.”
Corrie opened her mouth to object, then sighed instead. “All right. You and Skip come in later this morning, say eleven. We’ll get your statements. And I’ll try to get you photos and a detailed list of the contents of the bag.”
“No. No photos, no list of contents. I need the medicine bundle itself.”
“You’re kidding, right? You can’t just take the bundle. That’s part of the chain of evidence.”
“Look, you were the one who came out to my dig site, practically begging for my help. You’re the one who got me interested in all this—at just the wrong moment in my own career. Now we’re going to do the right thing, uncover the history of what happened. Or I’m done.”
“Jesus.” Corrie let her head fall back on the pillow. “I’ll figure something out, okay? Meanwhile, get some rest. And be careful. Looks like we both have our work cut out for us.” She hung up.
About twenty miles to the southeast, in a small soundproofed room full of electronic equipment, General Mark McGurk watched
as Lieutenant Woodbridge clicked a mouse button, pausing the audio and recording software that were running on her computer. She then saved the file and looked up at him.
“Five by five?” he asked.
She scrolled back through the recording—the scrubbing needle on the screen moving quickly over the digital waveform—then played back a section at random. Nora Kelly’s voice sounded through the monitors: He could tell us what really happened. Fill in the rest of the story. He might even be able to lead us to the treasure.
“Outstanding, Lieutenant,” the general said. “Outstanding.”
“And if they learn the location, sir?”
“If they do,” McGurk said, his voice going low and soft, “I know just the way to make sure they keep that knowledge to themselves.”
37
SO A SECOND person was working with Gower,” Morwood said. “A partner.”
“Yes, sir,” Corrie replied. It was shortly after lunch; Nora and Skip Kelly had come by her office as requested, given their statements, along with partial descriptions of their attackers, and then left. Morwood, his eyes red-rimmed, was now paging through Corrie’s initial report and its accompanying photos.
“A partner who hadn’t been with Gower that day but who—when he saw the dying man come back to camp—made tracks like a bandit.”
“That’s what Dr. Kelly believes.”
“And yet he had time to bury Gower, shoot the mule—and leave the gold cross behind.”
Corrie sighed inwardly. It was true, this made little sense to her…and probably even less to Morwood.
“But these discoveries—suppositions—of Dr. Kelly’s don’t seem related in any direct way to the assault on them last night.”
“No direct link has been discovered, sir.”
“We’ll see about that.” He froze, looking at one of the photographs. “Sweet mother of God. Is that a Zero Tolerance blade?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the archaeologist was packing it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looks like a limited edition. Belongs behind glass, not in somebody’s pocket.”
“Well, she used it to take a good slice out of whoever came at them. We’ve taken blood and tissue samples off the blade, along with a full battery of photographs.” She didn’t mention that, beyond these steps, Nora had declined to submit the knife as evidence.
“Well, if she’s fast with a knife, that’s a good kind to have at hand. We shouldn’t have any problem following the blood trail.” He put Corrie’s report to one side and picked up another. “I’ll be sending a team out to secure the entire site.”
“What site do you mean? High Lonesome?”
Morwood nodded tersely.
Corrie almost asked a question but then suppressed it. But Morwood already seemed to know what she would say. “Yes. I’m taking over supervision of the case.”
In the stunned silence that followed, Morwood opened the second report. “The full autopsy report is back on Rivers, and an analysis of his blood chemistry and other indicators show persuasively that he died of—” he consulted the report— “Brugada syndrome.”
Corrie found her voice. “Brugada syndrome?”
“I’ve never heard of it, either. ‘Brugada syndrome, brought on by injection of carbamazepine.’ As best I can make out, people in questionable health, or with latent cardiac issues—and our friend Rivers ticks off both those boxes—can have malignant arrythmias induced by an injection of epilepsy sodium blockers. Of which carbamazepine is one. There are lots of other big words in this report, too: polymorphic ventricular tachycardia; myocardial voltage-gated sodium channels; dilated cardiomyopathy. You’re welcome to read it for yourself.” He tossed the report back on his desk, where it landed atop Corrie’s. “What it all adds up to is homicide. Rivers was murdered, probably by someone who knew him well enough—or was well connected enough—to know his general state of health. Rivers was also involved in various unsavory kinds of work, including fraud and the sale of antiquities, illegally acquired or otherwise. We’re pretty sure that figure in the hospital video is the killer. With Rivers’s death being a homicide, the canvas—Gower, Rivers, Trinity—has suddenly grown larger, and far more complex. That’s why I’m getting involved.”
“You’re taking the case from me?” As soon as she spoke, she realized how pathetic and whiny the question sounded and regretted asking it.
“Don’t take this personally, Corrie,” he said. “It’s standard procedure that any case handled by an agent during their probationary period be assumed by their supervisor if certain criteria are met. In this case, those criteria have been met—in spades.” He smacked the papers on his desk in emphasis. “You should be proud of this work. A lot of the early heavy lifting, particularly when it comes to Gower, was done by you. And your gut instincts, especially in the hospital, have been proven right, in more ways than one. But the fact is, even now we’re still not sure if the two dead men are connected—but to find out, we have to escalate the investigation. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Corrie heard herself say. Her voice sounded oddly far away.
Morwood smirked, shook his head. “Sure you do. But you hate it nonetheless. I would, too. Try to look at the bright side: You’re involved in a much larger investigation than you ever dreamed of that first day you went out to High Lonesome. And you’re still going to be in charge of vital investigative avenues—the forensics, the irradiated corpse, the origin of the gold cross: avenues that, you’ve reminded me several times, are where your expertise lies. You’re going to find your hands full.”
The bright side. But Corrie nodded and said, “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”
“But—” Corrie began. Despite her shock at this announcement, she still had things to say: the possibility Rivers was working for someone else; where White Sands and General McGurk figured into all this; if she could have permission to temporarily sign out the medicine bundle to Nora Kelly. But when Morwood looked up impatiently, Corrie heeded the warning bells in her head and simply nodded, turned, and exited the office.
The medicine bag and the rest of it would just have to wait.
38
CORRIE SWANSON PARKED down the street from the Space Harbor Bar in Alamogordo. She got out of her car and took in the place. Alamogordo had turned out to be a much bigger place than she’d imagined, spread out at the base of the Sacramento Mountains. It had the feel of a government town, charmless and functional.
She’d heard that the Space Harbor Bar was supposed to be a favorite hangout of soldiers posted to WSMR and air force personnel from Holloman AFB. As she stood in the street, with the last of the evening light dying in the empty sky, she almost decided to get back in the car. This was a stupid idea, she told herself; it was throwback behavior. On the other hand, Morwood hadn’t forbidden her to look into the WSMR angle—as long as she was quiet about it. She had nothing fresh to go on—the almanac she found had been carefully examined and determined to be of no value to the investigation. And there was nothing illegal or unethical in a young woman going into a bar and having a few drinks, FBI agent or not. If someone said something, and she accidentally overheard it—so much the better.
Since Morwood hadn’t seemed open to further conversation on the subject, she might as well go on a fishing expedition of her own—a fishing expedition in the middle of the desert.
She took a deep breath, smoothed down her skirt, shook out her hair, and headed toward the bar’s blinking neon sign: a depiction of the Space Shuttle taking off. Pausing inside the door, she looked around and pondered again whether she should proceed. It was eight o’clock, and the place seemed busy, especially for a Thursday night. There were many soldiers in uniform, and she was glad to see a surprising number of them were women. It wasn’t very cozy—an unfortunate mixture of chrome and Naugahyde—but it was clearly a respectable joint, the atmosphere lively but restrained.
/>
She pushed in and headed over to the bar. A soldier immediately slid off his stool.
“Offer you a seat?”
Corrie gave him an encouraging smile. “Well, sure. Thanks.” She took a seat on the still-warm stool.
“Name’s Billy.” He held out his hand like a kid, and Corrie shook it, amused. He was just a kid, barely twenty-one, with the usual whitewall cut. She reminded herself that she wasn’t all that much older.
“Corrie.”
“Nice to meet you, Corrie. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Well, why not?” She glanced at the row of beers on tap. “I’ll have an Alamogordo Pilsner.”
The soldier ordered the beer, dropping a twenty on the bar, and ordered another for himself. He had obviously had several already.
“Do you live around here?” Billy asked, turning to her and standing a little too close.
“Albuquerque.”
“Albuquerque. You’re a ways from home. Whatcha doing down here?”
“Work.”
He nodded, draining his beer and ordering another.
Corrie had hardly sipped hers. She quickly shifted the subject. “You based at WSMR?” she asked, pronouncing it “wizmer” as the locals did.
“Sure am. I’m an EOD technician.”
“EOD?”
“Explosive ordnance disposal. We dismantle and destroy bombs and IEDs, using blast-proof suits or robots. I’m in training at WSMR, and then I’ll be assigned somewhere else.”
“That sounds fascinating.”
Billy had now waved over another beer and sank his mouth into it. Corrie had never seen anyone drink so fast.
“It is, it is.” He leaned toward her. “You staying around here?”
That didn’t take long, thought Corrie. “I’m staying with my father.”
“Oh. So you have family down here?” He chugged down his glass.
The Scorpion's Tail Page 20
