She cleared sand from around the skull and found more of the rotting duster turned up around the man’s neck—it was definitely a man, judging from the clothing and the fringe of hair encircling the bald skull.
Corrie stopped. Getting these remains out of this pile of drifted sand was going to be a serious job. If he was a murder victim and she dug out the bones herself, she’d compromise the integrity of the evidence. Her background was in forensic anthropology; she wasn’t trained as an archaeologist. She was qualified to analyze the remains in her lab but didn’t have the expertise to dig them up properly in the field. On the other hand, if she called in the FBI’s field Evidence Response Team, dragging them and their van all the way out here, three hours each way from Albuquerque over terrible roads, only for them to discover it was an accidental death…she would look like an idiot. What she needed, it seemed obvious, was an archaeologist who could excavate the bones in a proper manner.
She thought of Nora Kelly.
Kelly was a senior curator at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute. Corrie had worked with her before—their collaboration, although unanticipated, had ultimately expanded into Corrie’s first, and only, important case.
And it had been a success, as well. Her first—and only.
Crouching next to the skeleton, Corrie thought about the idea. Kelly had been supervising a dig in the Sierra Nevada a few months back when Corrie intruded on her camp, investigating a case involving murder and grave robbing. She and Kelly had locked horns initially, and the woman could be a pain in the ass at times—stubborn and a bit full of herself—but she was certainly qualified. If it came down to it, she would make a good expert witness. And Corrie was pretty sure Morwood, who knew Kelly from the same prior case, would approve of bringing her in. Kelly had what he would have called “sand.”
Besides, the woman owed her one.
After taking a final round of photos and slipping the ring into an evidence bag, she came back out, blinking in the bright September sun. Watts and Fountain were standing there, chatting. They looked toward her.
“So what’s the deal?” asked Watts, removing his hat and mopping his brow.
“Well,” said Corrie, “we’re going to need a little extra help here. I’m going to bring in a specialist to excavate the remains—just in case it’s a homicide.”
“Why a specialist?” Fountain asked. “If it’s murder, whoever committed it is long dead.”
“That may be the case, but we have to preserve the integrity of the evidence—and that means bringing in a professional archaeologist. And the sooner the better, too.” She pointed to the ring. “This might not be the only valuable item.”
“Good plan,” said Sheriff Watts with a brilliant smile. He looked at his watch. “I’m starving, and we didn’t bring any lunch. There’s a nice café in Socorro, and if we hurry we can get there before it closes at three.”
Corrie wasn’t sure there was such a thing as a “nice” café in Socorro, but she, too, was hungry. And she was not looking forward to the long drive to Albuquerque, on top of another one just getting out of High Lonesome.
Fountain looked from one to the other. It was clear Watts hadn’t included him in the invitation.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said laconically. “I’m on a diet, anyway.”
“I’ll drop you off at your office,” Watts said. He put out a hand, and Corrie passed him the evidence bag. “Too bad the initials aren’t HW,” he said, peering at it and handing it back a moment later. “Looks like it might just be a perfect fit.”
“That would be felony robbery of the dead,” Fountain said as he got into the back of the car. “But don’t worry, Sheriff,” he continued as they set off on the long, bumpy ride back to civilization. “I could get you off.”
7
THE WALLS OF the small Pueblo cave dwelling had been plastered with mud and painted red, but the intervening span of six hundred years had taken quite a toll. Nora Kelly examined the back wall with her headlamp. It was stained with soot over a circular area that looked more thickly plastered than the rest of the interior. The longer she looked at it, the more she was convinced the plaster concealed a hole in the back of the shelter.
Her graduate student, Bruce Adelsky, entered and knelt, peering over her shoulder. “Funny-looking plastering job.”
“Just what I thought.” She reached out and, using the handle of her archaeological trowel, lightly tapped on the plaster. A hollow sound resulted.
“Holy cow,” he said. “There’s something back there!”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a burial. Which means we don’t touch it.”
“Come on. Really?” Adelsky asked, his voice betraying his disappointment. “Just to take a look?”
“The new president is even more of a stickler about protocol than I am.” Nora ventured a small smile. The reputation of the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute was currently in the toilet following a scandal involving the previous president. But the Institute had the money and power to climb out of that hole quickly enough—and, in the meantime, the current chief of archaeology was retiring in a month, and Nora was in line for the promotion. Securing the chief of archaeology position would be a big deal; it would put her in charge of the Institute’s “dirt herd,” as it was affectionately called, overseeing all the active excavations the Institute was engaged in. She had even allowed herself to think that, one day, she might be president herself. The current dig had been as much of a success as the last one was a disaster—ahead of schedule, no problems or controversy, strong support from the local Pueblo council, and beautiful results. And besides, none of the many problems that had occurred at the Donner dig could be laid at her door—her own work had been practically flawless.
“I find it interesting how they buried their dead right in their own homes,” said Adelsky.
Nora smiled at him. This was another plus: Bruce had proven an excellent graduate student, meticulous and reliable, fully capable now of running a dig on his own. “The ancient Pueblo people liked to keep their dead near them,” she told him. And she added, almost to herself: “It is interesting. But understandable.”
Then she checked her watch. “Let’s break for lunch.”
The two crawled out of the low entrance to the cave. Nora stood up and looked about, massaging the small of her back. This cave was one of hundreds carved into the volcanic tufa of northern New Mexico, part of an ancient Pueblo settlement called Tsankawi. It was tangential to the Bandelier National Monument, a complex of caves, ladders, trails, and a mesa-top ruin. The view from the mesa was amazing—the ancestral Pueblo people really liked their views—looking across the valley of the Rio Grande to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, twenty miles away, covered by a fresh dusting of snow. And all this, Nora thought, was a few scant miles from Los Alamos National Laboratory, where they had designed and built the first atomic bomb. The contrast between the ancient ruins of a vanished people and the birth of the nuclear age always gave Nora a creepy feeling of cognitive dissonance.
As she gathered up her day pack, she saw a figure approach along the trail. It was probably an intrepid tourist—a few did visit the Tsankawi ruins—but as it approached, it began to look familiar. More than just familiar.
“Damn,” she murmured under her breath.
“Uh-oh,” Adelsky said, staring. “It’s that fed again.”
Nora slapped the dust off her jeans with a sinking feeling as she watched Corrie Swanson approach. She wondered what the agent wanted now. She sure as hell hoped Swanson wasn’t going to throw her current dig into the extended chaos she had with the previous one. Reluctantly, Nora climbed down from the cave entrance to meet Corrie beneath the tent shade set up on the valley floor.
Corrie approached with her hand extended.
“Hi, Nora,” said Corrie, shaking her hand. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Nora said, “Well, that depends.”
“This isn’t about the Donner Party site, if th
at’s what worries you.”
Nora took immediate, and instinctual, offense. Do I look worried? But she pushed the feeling away, telling herself she was being prickly.
“We were about to have lunch,” she said instead. “Come into the shade and have some coffee.”
“Great, thanks.”
Nora led the way. She poured Corrie a cup from a large thermos and another for herself.
“Have a seat,” she said. “Cream and sugar are over there.”
Corrie eased herself into a chair, looking uncertain. Adelsky took a seat nearby and pretended to drink his coffee, while obviously waiting with his ears perked up to hear what the FBI agent might have to say. Nora thought with a certain amusement that Corrie still looked very much the rookie—she hadn’t yet developed the air of authority and self-assurance law enforcement types usually displayed. And she looked so young. It couldn’t be easy for her in an FBI office with a bunch of older guys. Nora certainly empathized with that.
So why did she feel such an urgency to speed Corrie on her way?
“How’s your arm?” she asked, making an effort to be polite.
“All healed up, thanks for asking.”
They sat in director’s chairs around a plastic worktable. Nora’s sandwich was in the cooler nearby, but she figured it would be rude to start eating in front of Corrie. Adelsky felt no such compunction, and he hauled out an overstuffed bologna sandwich and began to chow down.
Nora took a deep breath. “What brings you all the way out here, if not the Donner case?”
“I didn’t mean to drop in on you like this. I would have called, but, well, you’ve got no cell reception—and I’m in kind of a hurry.”
Nora nodded.
“I’ll get to the point,” said Corrie. “A body was found in a ghost town in the Azul Mountains. I need someone to excavate it properly.”
“Someone. You mean me?”
“Yes.”
All of a sudden, Nora realized why Corrie’s appearance made her antsy. It was because, unconsciously, she’d been afraid of a request exactly like this.
“Doesn’t the FBI have a team that does that sort of thing?” she asked.
“We do. It’s called the Evidence Response Team.”
“So why not use them?”
“The thing is,” Corrie said, “we don’t know yet if the individual represents a homicide or just an accident. In other words, it isn’t an official case yet. It’s a small job, something that could be done in a couple of hours. It doesn’t require a big forensic team and a lot of fuss.”
In other words, my time is less valuable than theirs. Nora pondered this for about one additional second. “I’m sorry, but I’m totally tied up here. Our permit expires October 15, around the time the snows start at this altitude. I have to have everything finished before then.”
“I understand,” Corrie said. “But it’s only a couple of hours’ work, and I just want to make sure it’s done right and the evidence isn’t compromised.”
“I doubt the Institute would release me, even for a day.”
“On the contrary, I’m pretty sure they would. Local institutions often lend their expertise to law enforcement. It’s considered a courtesy.”
“A courtesy.” Nora felt slightly annoyed at the way she’d framed this, implying that a refusal would be a discourtesy. Rookie or not, Special Agent Swanson was proving once again that she could be a pain in the ass.
“And,” Corrie added, “it would be good publicity for the Institute, which…could probably use it right about now.”
And whose fault is that? Nora almost replied, swallowing her words. This damned FBI agent was like a dog with a bone. A lot was riding on the smooth completion of this project—for Nora personally. She took another deep breath. “Sorry. You make a good case, Corrie, you really do. But I’m telling you the truth. We’re incredibly busy, on a short clock, and—” she fibbed— “behind schedule as it is.” She gave Corrie a long, friendly smile of refusal. Maybe if she split her sandwich with the woman, she’d leave.
“Have you ever been to the ghost town of High Lonesome?” Corrie asked after a moment.
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s on a mesa, overlooking the Jornada del Muerto desert. Used to be an old gold-mining town. The buildings are fabulously preserved. There’s a hotel, saloon, church, livery stables. And those mountains are where Geronimo and Cochise used to hang out. All in all, a pretty spectacular spot.”
Nora shook her head. She was not going to take the bait.
“The body I mentioned was found by a relic hunter in the basement of a rather mysterious building, off by itself next to the edge of the mesa. It looks as if he took refuge there—or his body was dumped—maybe sixty, seventy years ago.”
“No sign of foul play?” Nora asked, despite herself.
“Hard to say. The relic hunter only had a chance to uncover the cranium and part of the right forearm before being arrested. The body is mummified and covered in windblown sand. I’m no archaeologist, but it looks like he was crouching against the wall.”
“Mummified?” She found herself intrigued—but only a little. Corrie was selling this pretty hard…but the fact was, she couldn’t even consider it. And it would be better if she didn’t hear anything more.
She shook her head with what she hoped was finality. “Your salesmanship is first-rate, Corrie, but your timing is awful. My back’s against the wall here.”
Corrie looked at the ground for a moment, almost hesitantly, then looked up—first at Adelsky, then at Nora. “So is mine. Look, I really need this. I’m in a bit of a shit storm back at work.” Another hesitation. “Actually, I’m drowning in one, to be honest. You heard about the shooting in the Sandias?”
“I did.”
“I was one of the agents involved. I kind of fucked things up. So they dumped this case on me. I think it’s sort of a penance. Or more likely, the first stop on a lateral arabesque to some desk job, investigating white-collar crime.”
Nora frowned. “What do you mean, fucked things up? From what I heard, what happened in the Sandias was a success. They—you—rescued that little girl with barely a scratch.”
Corrie winced, then waved a hand as if to shoo away something painful. “I can’t go into the details.” She glanced again at Adelsky. “But I hope what I’ve said will make it clear just how important this is to me.”
There was nothing else Nora could say, so she remained silent.
After a moment, Corrie spoke again. “I just thought, you know, given what happened in the Sierras, when I, um…” She stopped. “Well, I hate to bring this up, but—not to put too fine a point on it, I did save your life.”
For a moment, Nora was speechless at this brazen combination of honesty and lack of tact. Then, suddenly, her irritation vanished and there was nothing left for her to do but laugh. “You’re relentless!” she said, shaking her head. “Wow, I guess you really must be in deep shit. Okay. Thank you, again, for saving my life up there in the Sierras. And by the way, you’re welcome for my preventing your death from hypothermia.”
Now it was Corrie’s turn to say nothing.
Nora spread her hands, palms up. It was hard to turn down an appeal like that. And maybe, she thought, giving a little pro bono assistance to the FBI would help shine up the Institute’s reputation and give her promotion an additional push. “Since you put it that way, how can I refuse? What the hell—I’ll do it. When? With some fancy footwork I can probably squeeze in a day off sometime next week.”
“The thing is,” Corrie said, “we’re worried about word getting out and other relic hunters coming around. Apparently they’re endemic around here—but I don’t need to tell you that.”
This was true; Nora had seen more than her share of looted or desecrated prehistoric sites. “So you’re saying you need this taken care of soon?”
“Like, um, tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
Corrie flushed. “The soon
er the better.”
“Yes, but I just finished explaining that—”
“What’s the point of your agreeing, if by the time we get there everything’s been looted? Speaking of that—” and she turned to Adelsky— “everything you’ve just heard is privileged information, and if you repeat it, you risk, well, a felony.”
“Repeat what?” Turning away, Adelsky busied himself finishing up his sandwich.
Corrie turned back to Nora. And, for the first time since she’d arrived at the mesa, she smiled. “Why not just get it over with? I’ll pick you up at—say—seven thirty in the morning? It’s a bit of a drive.”
There was, Nora had to admit, real value in just getting it over with.
8
CORRIE HAD ARRIVED at Nora’s apartment at dawn. She drove up in a big black Navigator with tinted windows—the quintessential FBI car—the rear filled with plastic evidence boxes and bags and containers. The “bit of a drive” turned out to be over four hours—two from Santa Fe to Socorro and then, Corrie warned her (belatedly), another two over bone-breaking dirt paths across the mountains. Nora felt a little aggrieved at the lack of prior warning—until she realized just how much additional time on the road Corrie would have to put in, picking her up and dropping her off, given that Albuquerque was itself another hour’s drive from Santa Fe.
After passing through Socorro, they turned east and entered the mountains. Corrie had her GPS out and consulted it constantly, along with some hastily scribbled notes, as they bumped and lurched along one Forest Service road after another, each worse than the last, until Corrie halted the car at a fork in the track.
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