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.
“Yes.” She had to get this conversation focused, and fast. “EOD, huh? What’s it like working at WSMR? You ever have any contact with the commander, General McGurk?”
“General McGurk?” The soldier seemed confused for a moment. “Oh, no, we don’t have any contact with him.” He raised his hand and fluttered his fingers in the air. “He’s way up there, a mucky-muck, you know?”
“I thought there were a lot of rumors about him.”
“Nobody talks about him that I know of. But listen, Corrie.” Again he leaned in, beery breath washing over her. “Listen, we can talk about McGurk or whatever else you want. But maybe
we could do it someplace, you know … quieter?”
He swayed forward as he said this.
“I like it here.”
“Come on, my truck’s just—”
Corrie finished her beer, placed the glass back on the counter, and stood up. “No, thank you.”
“Come on, darling … hey, wait, don’t go!” He swayed forward again and pitched facedown, as Corrie neatly stepped back to avoid him.
There was a small commotion, then a man in an officer’s uniform smartly stepped up and came between her and Billy, who was struggling to get up.
“I’m sorry,” he said to her, placing a hand in the small of her back and guiding her off. “Let’s get away from him.”
Now Billy’s friends were crowding around and dusting him off, while the bartender was telling them to get him the hell out.
The man continued to steer her expertly toward a table. “Will you join me for a drink?”
“Sure.”
She took a seat, and he sat down opposite her. He had a silver bar on each lapel of his shirt, which was khaki, not camo, and a little different from most of the other outfits people were wearing in the bar. Intense blue eyes, late twenties, fit and handsome, ramrod military bearing. This was more promising than Billy.
“Name’s Ben. Ben Morse.”
“Corrie Swanson.”
He shook his head. “That guy’s really a disgrace to the military. Maybe I should report him.”
“Please don’t. He’s harmless.” That was the last thing she needed: to be dragged into some sort of disciplinary situation.
He looked at her and smiled, eyes crinkling. “Okay. For your sake.”
The waitress came by, and Corrie ordered another beer, while Morse ordered a gin and tonic. Corrie realized this beer had better be her last if she was going to drive home, so she decided to cut to the chase. She gave him her prettiest smile. “I’m kind of ignorant about the military, but those bars—what rank is that?”
“Lieutenant. Lieutenant Morse, at your service.” He gave her a mock salute.
“Oh, you’re an officer, then?”
“Yes, I am. Just a JG, but I’m due for promotion to full lieutenant. In fact, I’m leaving for San Diego the day after tomorrow.”
Lieutenant JG... “Wait. So you’re navy?”
His smile broadened. “Of course. What else would I be?”
“I don’t know, I … ” Corrie stopped. “Well, this is an army and air force base. And we’re in the desert. The nearest navy ship must be hundreds of miles from here.”
“We do other things besides sail the ocean,” Morse said. “For example, I work at the VLF array.”
“The what?”
“The naval radio station. It’s in the northern part of the range, about six miles northeast of the Trinity site. West of Abajo Peak.”
The drinks came. He raised his glass and clinked hers.
“Radio station? What do you play: Oldies? Top Forty?”
Morse chuckled. “We only have one class of listener: submarines.”
“You’re joking.”
Morse shook his head. “Low-frequency radio waves can penetrate both the ground and seawater. That lets us forward orders to submarines. The conditions here are close to ideal—that’s why we’re a tenant command on an army base.” He paused a moment. “Sorry, I really shouldn’t say any more about it.”
“That’s okay, I totally understand.” She understood something else, too: the way he’d said “tenant command” in a bitter tone he couldn’t fully conceal.
“It must be rough duty, though,” she said. “I mean, I’m just guessing. But far from sea, on a little patch of turf in the middle of army types who probably look on you guys as trespassers.”
“It’s not that bad,” he said, but again his tone held the whiff of disgruntlement.
“Do you ever, ah, run into General McGurk?” she asked, in a way that she hoped sounded like she was intentionally switching subjects for his benefit.
His glass paused on the way to his lips. “You know him?”
“No, not at all.” She thought fast, sensing a fresh edge to his tone. “It’s that I had a friend, an officer, who didn’t have a lot of good things to say about him.”
He nodded. “Not surprised.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t like to talk out of school, but … ”
Corrie waited, her heart accelerating. All of a sudden, it seemed like this crazy, stupid mission of hers just might work.
“These WSMR commanders come and go. Most of them have respect for how things are done, understand the routine is there for a reason. But since McGurk’s father was posted at WSMR as a lieutenant back in the sixties, he seems to think that gives him legacy rights to do whatever the hell he wants.”
Corrie was surprised to hear this: The father was also at WSMR? She quickly covered up her reaction. “That
explains what my friend was saying. What kind of stuff, for instance?”
Lieutenant Morse took a quick sip. “He’s been here just over a year, but he completely upended the test and training schedules. He moved some of the bombing targets as well. Just to assert himself.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
He looked at her, his eyes suddenly narrowing. “Why the interest?”
Looking at him, Corrie realized she had pushed too hard.
Quickly, she made a decision. Good or bad, it was a decision. She reached into her jacket pocket, took out her FBI shield with her photo ID, and laid it on the table. He stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at her.
“Is this for real?”
“Special Agent Corinne Swanson.”
He looked at her with complete astonishment, and then flushed, trying to cover up his surprise. “Excuse me—I’m just floored. You don’t … ” He stopped.
“I don’t look like an FBI agent? Don’t worry, I hear it all the time.” As she spoke, she thought about how she might use this to her advantage. “In fact, this is one of my very first cases,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “If you could help me out, I’d be really grateful.”
He took a deep breath. “What’s this about?”
“Can I ask you if you’re willing to keep our conversation strictly confidential?”
“Not until I know where the conversation’s going.”
Okay, time for a different approach. Corrie put on her best crisp, official-sounding voice. She’d been practicing her presentation and interrogation skills, but it was hard to get the right balance between serious and bitchy. “We’re investigating a death connected with WSMR. I wish I could say more. Let me just assure you that General McGurk is not suspected of any wrongdoing, nor is anyone at WSMR. I’m just trying to fill in some information about the general. If you’d be willing to answer a few questions, strictly in confidence, that would be really helpful to me—to us.”
He thought for a moment. “Let me see if I can explain something first, just so you won’t take what I’m about to say in the wrong way. As you guessed, there’s some friction between my unit and the army—McGurk treats us like we’re squatters. The air force contingent at Holloman isn’t too happy with him, either. He’s trod on his share of toes. And Woodbridge—that lieutenant he picked as his personal attack dog—she’s a stone-cold operator, smart and ambitious and about as friendly as a rattlesnake. Put all that together, and you can imagine a lot of trash-talking about McGurk goes on—true or not, sometimes it’s hard to say.”
“Thanks for explaining the situation. So what do you know about McGurk’s father?”
Lieutenant Morse glanced around and leaned toward her. “I don’t know anything, really. Just rumors that I probably shouldn’t be repeating.”
“You can speak freely. This is all off the record, for my own information only. I won’t even take notes.”
The lieutenant looked a little relieved. “Some of the rumors are a bit absurd.”
“Those are the ones I’d like to hear.”
Morse hesitated again. “Where are you based? Albuquerque?”
“Yes.”
“You been in this area long?”
“No, not really.”
“Well … have you heard about the legend of Victorio’s gold—the Spanish treasure hidden in the peak?”
Corrie felt a charge of electricity jolt her spine. “A little.”
“When Lyndon Johnson was president—so the story goes—he somehow heard about the Victorio Peak treasure. He and the secretary of the army teamed up with the governor of Texas, and they organized a secret project at WSMR to investigate the peak with the latest technology and find the treasure—if it was there. They put together a select group of military officers at WSMR and Holloman to work on the project. That rumor, by the way, has been around for decades—never proved or disproved.”
“And McGurk’s father? Was he one of them?”
“So the rumors go.”
“And … did they find anything?”
“Some people claim they did, but most say nada. They probed the peak, sounded it and drilled it, set off explosives. Total bust. And the reason they found nothing is that nothing’s there.” He finished his drink. “There is no treasure. The whole legend is bogus.”
“And General McGurk?”
He shrugged. “They say he wangled the appointment at WSMR so that he could find the treasure his father couldn’t. Which is why he’s been altering bombing runs and such. According to the grapevine, he’s using bombing runs as a cover for a treasure hunt. You see, when the EOD teams locate dud ordnance from those bombing runs, they go out and detonate it in place. The rumor is that they’re screwing with some of the ordnance to create duds, then using that as cover for seismic blasting to locate the underground cavern supposedly holding the gold.”
“Jesus,” Corrie murmured. Suddenly McGurk’s father having been posted to the base didn’t seem so coincidental after all.
“Exactly. I told you the stories were absurd. And that’s all I know—or all I’ll admit to knowing, even to an FBI agent.” He tapped her beer glass. “Now—would you like another? I’ve just got time for one more before I have to hit the road.”
39
“I’M AFRAID IT would be better if you went in alone,” said Watts, sitting behind his ancient, scuffed desk. “If you go in there with a cop like me, that won’t start you off on the right foot.”
“You know people in Mescalero,” said Nora Kelly. “Can you at least give me an introduction? I can’t walk in cold.”
Watts nodded. “Sure, I can give you a name.” He leaned forward and flipped through an old-fashioned Rolodex on his desk. He copied down a name and address and handed it to her. “Emmeline Eskaminzin. She’s on the tribal council, and she’s an attorney who’s been involved with missing indigenous women cases. I’ve helped her, following up on leads in Socorro County.”
“Thanks.”
“She also happens to be the great-great-great-granddaughter of Geronimo.”
“Wow.”
“But don’t mention that unless she brings it up.” Watts placed his hands behind his head and leaned back, the old wooden chair creaking in protest. “That’s sacred stuff in that medicine bag, you know. It might be pretty hard to get anyone to talk about it.”
When Nora didn’t reply, he continued. “If you want my advice, this strikes me as a wild-goose chase. It’ll be a miracle if you can find out who that bag belonged to. And even if you do, what then? The man’s long dead.”
Nora gathered up the photos and put them back into a manila envelope. “At least it will get me away from here.”
Watts’s smile turned to a frown of concern. “Still no word on those guys that tried to ambush you at High Lonesome?”
“Not that I know of. From what Corrie tells me, they covered their tracks like professionals.”
“I heard you gave one of them a souvenir. Maybe one that will never go away.” Watts paused. “You’re getting awfully involved in this case, aren’t you? I mean, this isn’t exactly archaeology.”
You think I don’t know that? Nora managed to swallow this remark instead of say it. Time was running out on her permit at the Tsankawi site; Adelsky, her graduate student, had finished all the work he could do without her supervision; and for a senior curator, she’d spent remarkably little time at the Institute recently. “I’d take this as an object lesson, Sheriff: when Corrie Swanson asks for your help, be careful what you promise. This whole thing started as an afternoon visit to High Lonesome. Now I’m hip-deep in it.” She paused. “I’m intrigued as well.”
Watts’s smile returned. “Good luck, then.”
*
The town of Mescalero lay in the mountains east of WSMR, in a pretty river valley surrounded by pine-clad hills. It could have been in Wyoming or Canada, thought Nora as she slowed down on the approach to town. Hard to believe the brutal desert w
as only twenty miles away.
She turned off the main road into the parking lot of a modest tribal building and community center. Grabbing her backpack, she entered the building and was greeted by a receptionist in a small lobby and waiting area.
“I’m here to see Emmeline Eskaminzin,” Nora said.
“Third door on the right.”
She went down the hallway, trying to suppress feelings of nervousness. The door was open, and a woman, sitting behind a desk in a small office, rose to greet her. She was strikingly tall and athletic-looking, dressed in a conservative suit and silk shirt straight out of a corporate law office. The only nod to Apache culture was her hair, pulled back in two braids, their ends tied with colored twine. She appeared around thirty.
“Dr. Kelly, right? Please, have a seat.”
Nora sat down in a chair opposite the desk.
“What can I do for you?” The woman folded her hands with a smile. “You were a bit mysterious on the phone.”
Her voice was quiet and low. In her mind, Nora had run through several ways to spin this delicate request; but now, facing this no-nonsense person, she decided to lay it out as straightforwardly as possible. “I’m an archaeologist,” she said, “and I’ve been doing some consulting work for the FBI. I’m trying to identify the owner of a particular medicine bundle that we found during a recent excavation. I think it belonged to an Apache.”
“A medicine bundle?” Eskaminzin asked. “How do you know it’s Apache?”
“I’m not sure, but the objects inside appear to be Apache. And the Mescalero are the tribe closest to where it was found.”
“Do you have it with you?”
“Yes.” She took the container out of her backpack and put it carefully on the table. This woman, she thought, would never know how much wheedling, cajoling, and threatening it had taken to convince Corrie Swanson to let her borrow the evidence.
Eskaminzin eyed the box but did not touch it. “May I ask where you found it?”
“In a ghost town called High Lonesome, in the foothills of the Azul Mountains at the north end of the Jornada del Muerto. Do you know the place?”
“I’ve heard of it. You mentioned the FBI. Is this a criminal investigation?”
The Scorpion's Tail (Nora Kelly Book 2) Page 21
