“Open,” he repeated.
Untying the leather thongs, she unwrapped the buckskin, revealing a heavy gold pocket watch, with engravings of constellations visible on its worn cover. The parfleche opened to expose an ancient sheet of parchment. On it was an Apache drawing of four horses with riders.
“Those are now yours,” he said.
Staring at them, Nora’s mouth went dry. “What are they?”
A long silence ensued while he closed his eyes again and took several long, deep breaths.
“I will tell you what it is you came to hear,” he said. “And then—then I can finally go.”
46
SITTING AT HER kitchen table as afternoon turned to evening, Corrie Swanson carefully laid out the piece of tinfoil she’d prepared on returning home the night before. She pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, opened the evidence box, and took out—yet again—the piece of parchment and the bundle it had been wrapped in and placed them side by side on the table. She moved a bright light over to it and picked up her magnifying glass.
The wrapping was an old-fashioned oilcloth, stiff with age. She had spread it out, looking for writing or designs. Though it had been hard to see through the dirt and stains of the years, it appeared to be free of any marks.
Now she turned her attention to the parchment. It was stiff and square, about eight inches on a side, and was covered with ancient lettering. Age had turned it a dark honey color. Three of its edges looked old and worn, but the fourth had been cut at a more recent date: under the glass she could see marks of a knife scoring back and forth in the parchment. The faded old lettering on that side had been cut off—clearly, this had once been a larger document divided in half.
She turned the parchment over and examined the other side. On it was a picture, drawn in color with what looked like crayons. Areas here and there were filled in with watercolor. It, too, had been cut. The section on her half showed two indigenous people wearing leggings, galloping, one on a black-and-white spotted horse and the other on a roan. They both carried bows and were chasing a cavalry officer, who was fleeing from them on horseback. The drawing had a childlike simplicity and clarity of exposition: every detail had been painstakingly rendered, including streaks of paint on the Indians’ faces, the bridles and reins, and the cavalry soldier’s uniform. It was lively and engaging and, despite the passage of years, still remarkably fresh.
On the other hand, the strange lettering on the other side—which she didn’t recognize but assumed was Spanish—looked very much older, so faded as to be barely legible. There were crossings-out and blots of ink that made her think it had been written in haste. The script was indecipherable to her. It was even hard to make out individual letters among all the curlicues and flourishes.
She sat back, speculating—as she had been doing all day. This was clearly the item that Jesse had spoken of. Nothing else made sense. But had his great-grandfather treasured this parchment for the drawing, the Spanish text—or both? A quick computer search had told her Indian drawings like this, known as “ledger art” because old army ledgers had often been used as drawing pads, were valuable. Usually, they were drawn by warriors who wanted to depict important battles or courting scenes. The Indians had valued parchment because of its toughness and durability. It was remarkable Jesse had held on to it, despite needing money for drugs. It was hard to imagine an addict not cashing it in; it was that important to him. Or possibly he didn’t realize its value. But no, he’d said it himself: In my greatgrandfather’s time, most people would have thought his precious item fit only to line a henhouse with. But over the years it’s gained value. Maybe a lot of value.
She sighed. This was clearly evidence. Her responsibility was to bring it in to Albuquerque to be logged and examined in the lab. And the Spanish, or whatever that old calligraphy was, needed to be translated by an expert. But such was her annoyance with her supervisor that, though an entire day had passed, she’d hesitated to report it.
Maybe she wouldn’t ever. Morwood would probably just dismiss it, as he had her suspicions of the general, and give her another of his fatherly lectures about not going off on a tangent. But finally she shook off such thoughts. That was the old rebel thinking, not the new FBI agent. She had to follow the rules, and that meant notifying Morwood—even though it was six o’clock on a Sunday evening. Damn, she should have done this earlier.
She picked up her phone and called Morwood’s cell.
He picked up on the second ring. “What is it, Corrie?”
She told him about her hunch; about going up to Gower’s place; about finding the parchment. She didn’t mention exactly when she’d done it, and he didn’t ask. Instead, a long silence followed. As she waited, she prepared herself for the dismissive, perhaps even irritated, response. But instead, when Morwood spoke again, his voice had taken on an unexpected edge. “Can you send me some pictures? Just take a few with your cell phone while I wait.”
“Yes, sir.”
She photographed both sides of the parchment, the oilcloth wrapper, and the waxed string used to hold it together, and shot
them off to Morwood.
“Okay,” he said, “got them.”
Another long silence followed. “And how much did you estimate the drawing is worth?”
“Looking around on the web, I got the sense they sell for a lot of money. Like ten thousand dollars.”
Another silence. “And the Spanish script on the other side?”
“I have no idea what it is.”
“This could be a significant piece of evidence, Corrie. Did you log it yet?”
“Not yet. I collected it using all the evidence protocols, though, and documented everything.”
“Very good. We need to get that Spanish script translated. First thing tomorrow, bring it down to the evidence room and we’ll log it in. Ultraviolet light or multispectrum imaging ought to make the script more legible. Then get in touch with Dr. Kelly and see if their Spanish expert at the Institute will look at it and make a translation. We might also get an expert in ledger art to examine the drawing.”
“Yes, sir.”
A hesitation. “Good work, Corrie.”
She was surprised and gratified. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
After he had hung up, she looked once again at the document, with its curly faded script. She dialed Nora’s cell phone number, but it went immediately to voice mail. Nora had gone to the Mescalero reservation, trying to trace the old Apache; she probably wasn’t back yet. Corrie swallowed at the thought. The fact that Nora had insisted on taking the actual medicine bag they’d found at High Lonesome with her—her certainty that no substitute would do, and anything else would doom her investigation before it even began—made the compliment Morwood had just given Corrie seem almost ominous. If Nora didn’t get that back to her soon … In a sudden hurry, she packed everything back into the evidence box, then carefully sealed it, making note of the date and time on the lid. She was going to make damn sure the chain of evidence on this item was rock solid.
She thought back to her conversation in the bar. If General McGurk was really looking for the Victorio Peak treasure, she’d need to have evidence for it beyond hearsay. She knew enough about Morwood to mentally hear his little speech about the danger of rumor and innuendo in an investigation. Despite that, she could feel the pieces of the puzzle coming together. Gower and his partner had been looking for treasure, and Gower found it: that gold cross was proof. Gower’s great-grandson was tortured and killed, his place ransacked, by people trying to find something. Could that thing be this piece of parchment? Jesse knew it was precious to his great-grandfather … and he had died keeping its secret. Was the general really involved?
The general was about forty-five, so he hadn’t been born yet when his father was at WSMR in the early sixties. But maybe he grew up hearing stories. She wondered how she could find out more about the general’s father—not rumor, but fact. The FBI could easily request his military records.
It was done all the time. But she’d have to go through Morwood, and he’d hit the roof. He was busy looking into the death of Rivers, and he’d already warned her to keep her own investigation below the radar.
Rivers … he was another piece of this puzzle, she felt sure. Why else would he have been killed? Was he up there at High Lonesome, digging for the Victorio Peak treasure? It seemed everyone was hunting for the same jackpot.
She sighed. Enough speculation. Tomorrow she’d log the evidence, get in touch with Nora, and have the parchment translated—but not before retrieving the medicine bag and returning it to evidence storage, where it belonged.
47
CHARLES FOUNTAIN, ESQ., had a fine office in an old Territorial building in town, occupying the floor above the Sage Diner. But everyone knew that instead of sitting in his grand office, he could usually be found in the diner itself, tucked into the corner booth in the back, drinking coffee, meeting friends, and doing business. And this was where Watts and Morwood found him, even on a Monday afternoon, by himself, with a big pot of coffee and the table spread with papers.
As they approached, he gave them a smile and an outstretched hand. “Hello, Sheriff. And you must be Special Agent Morwood. I hope you don’t mind if I stay seated—I’m afraid in my middle age, I’ve developed a serious medical condition known as a potbelly.” The slight bulge around his waistline barely qualified for the term, but he chuckled at his own little joke and invited them to sit. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
He waved over the waitress, who brought two mugs. Fountain served them himself, then sent the pot back for a refill. “I apologize for the clutter,” he said, gathering up papers and stuffing them willy-nilly into an already bulging accordion briefcase. “A messy desk is a sign of contentment. I read that in a fortune cookie, so you know it must be true.”
Watts realized he still had his hat on, and he removed it, checked that the table was spotless, and gently placed it upside down. Morwood had asked him to take the lead in the conversation, since he, like everyone else in town, had known Fountain most of his life. Watts slipped out a steno notebook on which he’d jotted some questions. “Thanks for meeting with us, Mr. Fountain.”
“How many years have I known you? Charles, please. Same goes for you, Agent Morwood.”
Watts acknowledged the informality with a nod. “We’ve got some questions related to the Gower homicide. A search of the place revealed he was probably dealing in antiquities—relics and the like. Possibly selling them to support his drug habit.”
Fountain nodded. “Just like his great-grandfather. To buy alcohol instead of meth.”
“Right. A lot of those relics, in fact, would appear to be stuff his great-grandfather collected. There’s an old shed up at the ranch where the junk’s been sitting forever. Gower’s father or grandfather may have added to the collection as well. The kid was selling it off, little by little, to finance his habit.”
Fountain shook his head. “And to think the Gower boy started out at Harvard. That’s a long way to fall.”
After a brief pause, Watts continued. “I’m sure you’re aware that, despite little obvious evidence of recent lootings, there’s been a notable upsurge in unprovenanced antiquities hitting the market. It’s been going on long enough now to make me concerned. Given the lack of provenance, it would seem that the looting of historic and prehistoric sites is involved … except in this case, done with painstaking care and research. Sophisticated. Most looters just leave their holes, but maybe these guys fill them in and make it look like nothing happened.”
“Interesting theory.” Fountain took a sip of coffee. “In order to work, the racket would have to be well organized. I’d speculate that such a group would stay away from the Gower boy. Too big a risk. Besides, these black market antiquities you mentioned are valuable. I’d guess that most of the stuff in that old Gower shed isn’t in that class.”
Watts smiled grimly. “We were wondering if you had any insight into who the kid might have been selling to.”
Fountain leaned back in his seat. “Exactly what kind of relics did you find up there, Sheriff ?”
“Civil War bullets and buttons, bottles, arrowheads, old magazines and books, a couple of busted banjos—that kind of stuff.”
“No documents? Receipts?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” Fountain pursed his lips. “You don’t think Gower had anything of real value? The great-grandfather was a junk dealer—not to put too fine a point on it.”
“What was junk seventy-five years ago might have become valuable today.”
Morwood now broke in. “Speaking of that, among the finds up there was a nineteenth-century Native American drawing, hidden in the chicken coop.”
At this, Fountain’s eyebrows, bushy as mustachios, shot up. “Ledger art? How interesting.”
“So I’m told.”
“That, at least, might be worth a lot. Did he know it was there? I can’t imagine why he didn’t sell it.”
“And another thing,” Morwood said, “which we’re keeping confidential for now. Turns out the Rivers death was a homicide.”
For the first time, Fountain’s face lost its usual expression of glib jocularity in place of real shock. “Murdered? In the hospital?”
“Yes. Someone injected a deadly drug into his IV drip. A guy wearing a phony MP uniform. We got a video of him.”
“Did you ID him?”
“No,” Morwood said. “African American, tall, thin. He probably knew where the video cameras were and was careful to hide his face. The point is, both Rivers and the Gower kid seemed to be involved in the relic business … and both were murdered. We’re wondering how it might fit together.”
Fountain took another swig of coffee and set the mug down. “You may recall that several prehistoric graves were dug up in Bonito Canyon a few months ago?”
Watts nodded. “I remember that.”
“I don’t think anyone would have known if a photographer hadn’t compared two pictures he’d taken a month apart and noticed some discrepancies. That was a professional job—the kind a sophisticated, organized group like the one you’re talking about might have pulled off. Like I said before, you really think such a group of professionals would get involved with an addict like Gower—or an ex-con like Rivers?”
“It’s an avenue we’re exploring,” Watts said. “You haven’t heard any rumors that might give us a lead?”
“Not specifically,” said Fountain. “But I’m pretty sure that if this gang does exist, they’re not local.”
“Why do you say that?” Morwood asked.
Fountain chuckled. “As a defense attorney, I’ve come to know pretty much every shady character—lowlife and otherwise—in Socorro County. Hell, I saved some of their asses from prison. If this were local, I would have heard something.” He finished his coffee and poured himself another. “I’ll certainly put out some feelers. Gower’s meth would have come out of Albuquerque, and the kind of group you’re postulating would probably operate from a large city, too.” He contemplated his fresh cup for a moment. “I can think of one lead you might find useful. There’s a bar down in San Pasqual called the Cascabel Tavern. Rivers used to hang out there before he cleaned himself up, and he had a big mouth. It’s a long shot, but you might see if anyone heard anything.”
“Thanks.”
“Just be careful—the Cascabel is a notorious hangout for doomsday preppers and anti-government types.”
“Thanks for your time and your advice.” Morwood nodded and rose. “We’ll add the Cascabel to our list. Along with High Lonesome.”
“High Lonesome?” Fountain asked.
“Whatever’s going on here, High Lonesome seems to be at the center of it. Since we’re starting to pile up more bodies than clues, the FBI has decided to send the ERT up there again, in force, to do a proper search. Comb every inch of the place, maybe even take it apart if we have to.”
“That would be a shame,” Fo
untain said, while Watts looked aghast.
“Yes, it would. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” And Morwood turned to leave. “Thank you, Mr. Fountain.”
“There you go with that ‘Mister’ again. Good luck. You too, Sheriff.”
Watts didn’t answer as he followed Morwood out the door. He was thinking about what he could do to stop the destruction of High Lonesome at the hands of the feds.
48
IT WAS ELEVEN o’clock on a Monday morning at the Institute. Orlando Chavez sat in a rolling chair in his laboratory, Nora seated next to him. They had been there ever since Nora had roused Chavez from bed at six in the morning and persuaded him to come into the office early. Both were staring at a large computer screen with an image of the text on the parchment Nantan had given her.
“Finally, we can read it clearly,” said Chavez. They had spent hours photographing the parchment under UV light and digitally enhancing the faded script to bring out the details. “So: what we have here is a classic example of Cortesana Castilian script from the seventeenth century. It looks like gibberish to the unpracticed eye, but the challenge isn’t the language—Spanish hasn’t changed that much in the last few centuries—it’s reading the script. I can read it, but for the uninitiated it’s practically impossible. Fortunately, there are online alphabet charts of old Spanish scripts.” His voice had become almost professorial. “Here, let me show you.”
Moving to a second computer screen, he typed in some commands and brought up a website displaying numerous charts. Each showed a letter of the alphabet with all the old Castilian script versions of it, both upper- and lowercase.
“Take the capital letter A for instance,” he said. “Here are all the ways it is written in Cortesana script. A remarkable variety, and some don’t look anything like an A! Now, B …”
Controlling her impatience, Nora gently interrupted. “That’s fascinating. Now, can we move on to the text?”
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