His spidery hand fetched another document. “Here is Smith’s death certificate. You will note he was one of those unfortunates trapped in the cave-in. His body was never recovered. And here,” Pendergast continued, “is a document that dates back almost a decade from the present day. It’s an auction record. Captain Lawton’s Winchester Model 1886 rifle sold at auction for 1.2 million dollars—the highest price ever paid for a gun up to that time. Curious it should be among Fountain’s papers. Or, perhaps, not so curious.”
Pendergast cast his eyes over the group. “All very suggestive, don’t you think? It now seems quite clear what Fountain and his gang were looking for.”
Corrie said nothing. It wasn’t clear to her at all. None of this confusing welter of evidence seemed to connect.
A smile creased Pendergast’s face at the silence that greeted his pronouncement.
“Agent Pendergast,” said Morwood, “perhaps you might go into a little more detail on the connection you see among these facts you’ve recited?”
Pendergast’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “More explanation?”
“For those of us lacking your remarkable perspicacity,” Morwood said drily.
Corrie could see Pendergast was thoroughly enjoying himself. “Very well. What is the first thing that happens to an armed man when he surrenders to an enemy?”
“He’s disarmed,” Corrie blurted out. She was suddenly beginning to see how the pieces fit together. “So Lawton took away Geronimo’s rifle … and then, perhaps, gave it to Smith as a reward. You said Lieutenant Smith played an important role in the capture. When he was discharged, Smith would have taken the rifle to High Lonesome. He wouldn’t have entrusted it to anyone else. But then, he was killed in the cave-in.”
“And he wouldn’t have taken the rifle into the mine with him,” Nora said.
Corrie nodded. “Which means the rifle could still be there—somewhere—at High Lonesome.”
“Brava, Agent Swanson!” Pendergast cried, putting his hands together. “And if Lawton’s rifle was worth 1.2 million dollars, what do you think Geronimo’s rifle would be worth?” He tapped the plat of the old boardinghouse where Smith had lived. “He would have kept that prize close. So it’s in those ruins somewhere. Perhaps we should go take a look?” He paused. “And shall we bring Charles Fountain, Esq., with us? I feel confident the discovery of that rifle would be just the psychological impetus needed to get him talking.”
62
NORA KELLY HAD no interest in participating in the search, nor was she asked to. Pendergast was obviously not going to dirty his impeccable suit, either. As a result, the two of them stood side by side, watching the FBI Evidence Response Team, directed by Corrie and Morwood, searching the old ruined boardinghouse—the same building from which she had excavated the body of James Gower. Some team members had metal detectors and were sweeping the grounds and interior. It was a fall day of stunning perfection, the air crisp and cool, the old ghost town flooded with golden sun. Between them—at Pendergast’s request—stood Charles Fountain, arm bandaged, shackled and silent.
“Tell me, Nora,” Pendergast said, “what happened after the general fled into the desert? I still haven’t heard the details.”
“The navy delivered us to the FBI, where we were debriefed. And then let go—thank God.”
“I understand your brother’s covetousness turned out, ironically, to be a stroke of genius.”
Nora smiled. “Serendipity, more like.”
“And the general?”
“They found his body a day later. He’d shot himself in the head. The remaining soldiers were caught trying to drive the two trucks full of treasure out of the range. It was all recovered. We’ll be studying it—and its historical importance—for years to come.”
Pendergast shook his head. “Every man now worships gold, all other reverence being done away. So said an Augustan poet about the Roman Empire. The same could be said today.” He turned to Fountain. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
The lawyer did not reply.
“It was a very clever setup,” Pendergast continued. “You and a cadre of like-minded men—well-to-do, pillars of the community—had the resources and knowledge to research the most likely spots where valuable artifacts might be found in ruins and historic sites. The background work would be scrupulously done. And then, you’d make a surgical strike—at night, with heavy vehicles or even a helicopter—plunder the site, and leave. Usually, you’d be careful to leave the site looking untouched … untouched but strangely empty. When that wasn’t possible, you caused a lot of damage, to disguise the clever theft as an act of mindless vandalism. And then, you’d sell what you recovered on the black market to a circle of oligarchs, sheikhs, and billionaires with a passion for collecting certain things.”
“For an FBI agent, you have a very active imagination,” Fountain said.
“Except that, as time went on, the sites that could be found by research alone began to thin out. And that’s when you’d stoop to a little slumming—paying for tips that couldn’t be traced back to you. Even, at times, buying items of dubious value … from people like Jesse Gower.”
“Just try to pin his death on me,” Fountain said.
“Why would I, when you had nothing to do with it? That was the general’s doing—he’d hacked into Agent Swanson’s phone using advanced, classified army methods, and he thought young Gower had the last piece of the puzzle. His men got a little overzealous in their interrogation. Ironic, really, because a gang like yours would be the obvious suspects. But you’d allied yourself with Pick Rivers. I imagine you used him, at one remove, for making initial sorties into new projects of yours. Projects you felt insulated from; that gave you deniability. No wonder Rivers seemed to have come into a bit of money recently. Except Sheriff Watts caught him—and Rivers panicked and drew his gun. Rivers didn’t confess, of course—he knew that was more than his life was worth—but your associate who called himself Bellingame didn’t want to take the risk of letting him live. More proof of the value of the artifact hidden here.”
Fountain smiled thinly but did not reply.
“Do you really think they’ll find the rifle?” Nora said. “If it is a rifle. Maybe someone took it long ago.”
“Why, Nora, the doubt in your voice wounds me. I have no doubt it is Geronimo’s rifle.”
“If it really is, who would it belong to?”
“An interesting question. After its use as evidence in criminal prosecution, I would think it should be turned over to one of Geronimo’s descendants, if any should exist. It would be quite a windfall, I would imagine.”
Nora couldn’t help but smile. “I know at least one exists.”
He nodded toward the searchers. “But whether they can find it is another matter. No doubt it’s well hidden.” He paused to examine the progress of the evidence team. “As it happens, I believe they’re getting rather warm.”
Nora looked at him curiously. “Are you saying you know where it is?”
“I have a guess.”
“But you’ve never even been here before!”
“And what, pray, does that have to do with it?”
Nora was silent a moment. “Okay, I’ll bite. Where?”
“The first question to ask, Nora, is: Where is it not? It would not be in Smith’s room—he was gone all day in the mines, and in his room it would be insecure. Nor would it be hidden in the saloon: that area was too busy. The same for the kitchen. It would not be hidden elsewhere in the town—too risky—or in the surrounding hills, because people would see him going up there and wonder what he was doing. And left outside, it would be exposed to the elements. That leaves only one place: the basement.”
“But the basement was thoroughly searched! First by me and then by Huckey and those other two FBI guys.”
“Yes. Poor Huckey.” He looked at Fountain again. “I suppose dropping him down the well was your work. After all, you couldn’t have somebody—especially someone trained in
uncovering evidence—wandering around the ghost town and possibly finding your precious rifle.”
When Fountain still said nothing, Pendergast looked back at Nora. “In any case, knowing the basement had already been carefully searched was a great help to me. It sharply narrowed down the possible hiding places.”
“But where, then?” Nora asked impatiently.
“The basement walls are made of adobe—dried mud—and very thick. Hiding something in them would be quite a simple matter, actually. You hollow out a space in the wall big enough to fit a rifle, put it in, and then mud it back up. A little touching up would disguise the cavity and make it look like the rest of the mud walls. But nineteenth-century mud cannot resist twenty-first-century metal detectors.”
Just then, a shout came from the site, and Nora could see everyone rushing into the basement. Through the door she could see one of the team was kneeling at the far wall, above where Gower’s body had been found. They began scraping at the mud and soon had broken through to a cavity. Now they were taking pictures and then—finally—a long rifle was removed from its hiding place as all the agents broke into applause.
Nora looked at Pendergast. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“I simply extrapolate the facts farther than most. That’s all. It’s like chess: a good player may think three plies ahead. A better player will think five.” He turned to Fountain, who was staring at the scene with astonishment and fury. “Well, Mr. Fountain, since your silence has done you no good—as you can see, we found what you’ve been searching for—you might consider if talking to us will serve you better.”
Fountain stared at Pendergast. “You’re the very devil.”
“Coming from you, sir, I’ll take that as a compliment.” And Pendergast gave the lawyer a small, formal bow.
63
PENDERGAST, HAVING DESCENDED deus ex machina on the scene as was his wont, had performed his minor miracle and returned to New York City. Corrie was back in Albuquerque, and Nora had just received a call from the president’s office. Dr. Weingrau, she was told, would like to see her as soon as it was convenient. It was convenient immediately: Nora jumped to her feet and—still holding the envelope she’d been about to open—went out from behind her desk and into the hall at a brisk walk.
The office of Dr. Marcelle Weingrau looked much as it had before, with the addition of a Salvador Dalí print on one wall. Nora took a seat in one of the leather chairs. She knew what this meeting was about, of course, and her heart was beating like crazy. She kept telling herself there was no reason to be nervous; in fact, there was if anything less reason, with all the accolades she’d received for her part in assisting the FBI in bringing the case to a close.
“Nora, so glad you could come,” Weingrau said, in a warm and welcoming voice. “Have you recovered from all the recent excitement?”
“Yes,” Nora said. “It’s embarrassing to recall how I asked you for two extra days to excavate that body at High Lonesome, and it ended up being weeks—”
Weingrau waved this away with her hand. “It ended up being nothing short of heroic. That was remarkable help you gave the FBI … and the publicity was invaluable for the Institute.”
“Thank you.”
Weingrau folded her hands on her desk. “I asked you here to speak to you about something else.”
Nora braced herself. This was it. This was about her promotion.
“As you know, Dr. Winters is retiring, and the position of chief of archaeology will be opening up.”
Nora nodded.
“Although I suppose I’m personally an exception to the rule, no doubt you’re aware that the Institute has a tradition of promoting from within. We don’t normally like to reach out beyond our family, so to speak, to fill positions, especially when we have the talent right here.”
“I think it’s a good policy.”
“Yes. Now, I’ve been in close consultation with the vice president and our board. The decision to fill this position is not mine alone, particularly since I’ve only been here for two months. A great deal of thought and discussion has gone on behind the scenes.”
Nora nodded again. She managed to contain her excitement. Chief of archaeology. It was a big deal, with a substantial increase in salary—but most important, it was tangible recognition of her hard work, years of service, and respected scholarship.
“We have made our decision.” At this Weingrau paused, and her face took on a serious expression. “I asked you here because I wanted to tell you the news in person.”
Nora nodded. Of course she did.
“I know this is going to be disappointing to you.”
At first Nora thought she hadn’t heard correctly. But she had. She felt a sort of freeze take hold inside, as if she were falling into suspended animation.
“It was a difficult decision, with much back-and-forth. But in the end, it was the opinion of myself and the board that the position should be awarded to Dr. Connor Digby.”
Weingrau paused, but when Nora didn’t respond she went on in a hearty voice. “Again, I know this is disappointing news, and I feel you’re owed a clear explanation. The position involves not just administrative tasks, you understand, but also a great deal of public and community interface. A great deal. It requires not only a person who has impeccable academic credentials, but, well, someone who is personable, articulate, charming—in more coarse terms, a schmoozer. Not that you aren’t those things, of course—but you’re first and foremost an archaeologist. Absolutely first-class. Your work is brilliant. And what you’ve done for the Institute has been stellar, and we are so, so grateful to you. But administrative work is not your forte. The Tsankawi project is behind schedule—I understand the reasons for that, of course, but still, we will have to renew the permit next year, when we hadn’t expected to. Nora, we want to keep you where you shine, where your strengths are so evident—in the field and in the lab. Not in the boardroom or at the fund-raiser.”
She was speaking rapidly and nervously now. “That’s where Connor comes in. He was a graduate student of mine, you know, and I got to know his family rather well.”
No: Nora hadn’t known. But it made sense. If she’d taken a look at Digby’s CV, as she’d intended to, no doubt she’d have seen he had gotten his doctorate from Boston University—and made the connection.
But Weingrau was still talking. “ … He’s from that sort of background, you know what I mean: old New England and all that. It’s just something you’re born into, really. That’s no comment on you. It’s just the way it is. We’re making strides—every year, we’re making strides—but it’s those old-money, East Coast family connections that still make the difference.”
Weingrau finally stopped talking—realizing, perhaps, that she’d already said too much. Nora felt a certain tightening around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, and to her great mortification realized she might cry. But she would never, ever let this woman see that happen. So she stood up with as much dignity as she could muster, and—because she didn’t trust herself to speak—simply turned and walked out of the office. She heard Weingrau call her name once before she rounded the corner and hastened back to her office, shutting and locking the door and thanking God Digby wasn’t around. He had probably made himself scarce, knowing what was coming down.
She sat there in the dim light, breathing hard, but in the end she didn’t cry. She realized this must have been the plan from the very beginning. Weingrau had brought in Digby for this very promotion. It was preordained. Nothing Nora did, didn’t do, or could have done would have made a difference. The newspaper articles highlighting her prominent role in the White Sands conspiracy and related murders must have made it awkward for Weingrau to push this through the board. But the board was weak, mostly retired businessmen, and no doubt it had been easy enough in the end.
Nora shook her head. She needed to pick herself up and dust herself off. Life was unfair—she’d already learned that lesson many times over. Losing
the promotion was certainly not the worst thing that had happened to her—not by a long shot. As much as she hated to admit it, there was some truth in what Weingrau had said. The job of chief archaeologist, for all its prestige and high pay, brought with it more politics than academics. The chief managed the dirt herd but didn’t do the actual work or get her hands dirty. This was something that, in her eagerness for advancement, Nora hadn’t really considered.
She heaved a deep sigh. No doubt this was all just rationalization. The entire charade—and that’s exactly what it was—stung badly, and she knew it would rankle for a long while. Digby, she supposed, wasn’t really at fault—Weingrau had been the mover and shaker. Still, Nora knew she couldn’t ever look at either of them in quite the same way again.
It was then she realized that something was clasped in her right hand. It was the envelope she’d been about to open when she’d gotten the news that the president wanted to see her. In her emotional reaction, she had reflexively crumpled it. She now placed it on her desk and smoothed it out. There was no return address on the envelope, just U.S. Department of Justice in embossed letters. With the kind of day she was having, it was probably a notice of audit from the IRS.
Nora tore it open with the back of an index finger, pulled out the single sheet, and read the missive within. After she had finished—it was a short letter—a deep silence gathered. For a long time she didn’t move. Finally, she raised her head and gazed out the window, which had a view of the Institute’s rose garden, beyond which stood the piñon-clad outline of Sun Mountain, bathed in the golden light of afternoon. She brushed away some moisture from the corner of her eye, then smiled faintly to herself. Life was indeed unfair—but sometimes when you least expected, it stacked the deck in your favor. As she looked down once more at the letter, a shaft of light fell upon it, and she read it again.
The Scorpion's Tail (Nora Kelly Book 2) Page 32
