“Nantan Taza.”
“I’m sorry?”
“This medicine bundle belonged to Nantan Taza.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t tell you how I know, beyond saying that every medicine bundle is unique and contains items that tell of an individual’s clan and family. Nantan Taza was my grandfather’s brother. That may sound like an odd coincidence, but we’re a small tribe.”
Nora could hardly believe her luck. “What else can you tell me about Nantan Taza?”
Eskaminzin folded her hands. “What you’ve just told me, about his witnessing the atomic blast, explains a great deal. We long wondered why he was the way he was.”
“How so?”
“Everyone said that as a boy, Nantan was a dreamer, a happy-go-lucky type, full of plans. But then something happened…and he became a strange, dark, and silent man.”
“And this thing that happened—it was around the time of the atomic test?”
“Yes. He never married, had no family. He earned a small living from a grazing allotment where he ran cattle, and he was a good hunter. He stood out from others not only by his solitary ways but also what some considered to be his visionary powers. Or so they say. Sometimes, people in great need would go to him to understand the future, or to ask for a vision or spiritual guidance. Even so, he was a forbidding person. Laughter and humor are a big part of Apache culture, but I never saw him so much as smile. Ever. He looked as if he’d stared the devil in the face. And from what you tell me, I guess he did.”
“What happened to him?”
“About ten years ago, he departed.”
“You mean he passed away?”
“No, I mean he left.”
“Left to go where?”
“We don’t know.”
“He just left? How old was he?”
“Eighty-five. Let me explain. For a long time, as I’ve implied, he was regarded with a certain amount of awe. But in his later years, younger people became skeptical of the idea that he had special powers. They saw him only as a grumpy, off-putting old man. Some made fun of him. Finally, people stopped consulting him. I think perhaps he felt he’d outlived his usefulness. So one day he filled a sack with his possessions, took his rifle and ammo, got on his horse, and rode off into the mountains.”
Nora paused a moment. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“In the days when we were a nomadic people, an old person would sometimes decide to go into self-exile rather than become an encumbrance. This was especially true when we were fighting the Mexicans and Americans and had to move like the wind. What he did was anachronistic, perhaps—but not unusual.”
“So he just went off and—then what? Did he die?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he simply decided to live apart. Our reservation covers almost five hundred thousand acres. There’s good hunting and plenty of water. He could have lived in some remote canyon and nobody would ever know.”
“He’d be in his midnineties now,” Nora said. “Alone in the wilderness for a decade…it’s hard to believe he might still be alive.”
Eskaminzin smiled indulgently. “We are the people of Geronimo, Cochise, and Victorio. We are survivors.”
“If he is still alive, is there…well, any way of knowing where he might be?”
Eskaminzin was silent a long time before at last she spoke. “In his last years here, a young boy used to go by his cabin to bring groceries, chop wood, and help work his cattle. In return, I think Nantan would tell him stories. When Nantan left, that boy was the only one who seemed surprised—and upset.”
“Could I speak to him?”
“He’s a young man now, and you’ll find him in Albuquerque, where he’s got a job in a bank.” She jotted on a piece of paper and handed it to Nora. “His name’s Nick Espejo.”
Nora rose. “You’ve been extremely helpful. Thank you.” She gathered up the items from the medicine bag and began putting them back in the container. As she turned to leave, Eskaminzin said, “Be very respectful, please, with that medicine bundle.”
40
DON’T HANG UP!” the voice said the moment she answered the phone. “Please, just…don’t.”
Corrie recognized the voice, of course. Normally she would have hung up, but not before giving Jesse Gower a detailed explanation of how in her history of meeting countless losers, addicts, lowlifes, scumbags, assholes, and perverts in a remarkably short span of years, he took the prize. But she reminded herself it was an active case; he was a person of interest; and, if nothing else, she would have to make a note of his contacting her.
So instead she remained silent.
“Look. I’ve apologized before. Saying sorry again isn’t going to help any. You know how…messed up I am. That’s not an excuse, it’s just an explanation. It’s really hard for me to trust anybody in authority. I got that from my dad, who got it from his dad. Anytime a cop says something to me, I have to analyze it to see if there’s some trap. You know, that was probably the longest talk I’ve had with anyone in maybe half a dozen years. That shows you what a pathetic life I lead. And, you know, the questions you asked, the interest you showed, I guess I’m not used to it. I got paranoid. When people ask me questions, it’s usually ‘Where the hell’s my money?’” He laughed mirthlessly.
Still, Corrie didn’t say anything. As apologies went, it was a pretty good one. It had the ring of truth, at least. But since he’d ordered her off the ranch, she’d done some thinking, too. He had revealed more than he realized during their conversation. It was clear that, at the very least, he’d been pawning stuff—and the offhand remark about the cameo implied he’d learned a thing or two about estimating value. She wouldn’t be surprised if he sold relics, too, and given how touchy he was about the toolshed, she imagined that’s where he kept them. And then, there was that other sentence he’d started but not finished—which led her to another suspicion entirely.
She realized he had stopped talking. “Yes?”
“I was asking, will you accept a peace offering?”
“Like what? A baggie full of crystal? I’m not into biker food.”
“That’s not fair.” He sounded genuinely hurt.
She sighed. “What kind of a peace offering did you have in mind?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone. It would spoil the surprise.”
“Look, Jesse. I’ve driven all the way over there twice, only to be run off both times. You’re going to have to do a little better than that.”
“All right.” A moment of silence. “I wasn’t exactly telling the truth about my great-grandfather’s other precious possession. When I said it was long gone, I mean.”
When Corrie didn’t reply, Jesse said: “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to thank me? I mean, that’s a clue.”
“A clue to what? But I knew it, anyway.”
“You did?” A pause. “Do they teach you FBI agents to read minds now?”
“No. We’re just trained to pick up on certain things. Statements that don’t add up, or that strike you as wrong. Or that are interrupted in midsentence.”
“I’m a novelist. I’m careful to always finish my sentences. Except when I’m swearing, but even then I try to be grammatically correct.”
“Maybe so. But you did leave a sentence unfinished in our last conversation.”
“Yeah? What was that?”
The sentence had been “Not even if I sold…”—but Corrie was not going to tell him that. “Let’s just say that when I put it together with the fact your great-grandfather had something of value besides that gold watch, I get the feeling that maybe you were thinking of pawning something. But you didn’t. Which means it’s still in your possession. And it probably isn’t just any ‘old drawing’ but something really valuable.”
Then Jesse did something unexpected. Instead of gasping in awe at her deductive powers, he burst out laughing. Corrie, frowning to herself, did no
t interrupt him. Finally, the laughter subsided into infrequent eructations of amusement.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not laughing at you. I mean, you were doing so well there for a minute.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. You see, you used the word ‘value’—when the actual adjective was ‘precious.’ Didn’t pick up on that, did you?” Another irruption of laughter. “The watch went missing the same time he did—but he left the other thing behind. Nobody could ever figure out why he’d made such a big deal about it. But he treated it like a holy object. Wouldn’t let anybody else touch it. And so, over the years, it’s been passed down: with the watch gone—it was first a sort of family curiosity. But so many years have passed that now it’s more like an heirloom.” He paused. “So—what do you think of that?”
“I’m not sure what to think,” said Corrie, struggling to follow his ramblings.
“You were on the right track, though,” Jesse went on. “In my great-grandfather’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. Even if Pertelote is still the only one who can enjoy it.”
“And so you refrained from selling this precious thing, even while you sold all the other relics in that shed?”
“Are you trying to make me mad? Here I am, making a peace offering to you. An important one, at that.”
“So tell me why this thing is important.”
“My great-grandfather, carrying a fabulous gold cross, dying of radiation from the Trinity test…This other treasure of his was important to him, so surely it must be important to you.”
Corrie tried to suppress her irritation at his coy teasing. Was this just another come-on, where she’d drive all the way out only to find him turning from Jekyll to Hyde yet again?
“You’re saying this object could help further my investigation?”
“I don’t think it could hurt.”
Corrie sighed. “Why don’t you just tell me what it is, Jesse, instead of all this bullshit.”
“You have to see it. Really. I can’t explain.”
She thought about this. It was just worth a trip. “All right. I have some paperwork to finish up here. I’ll try to leave within an hour.”
“I’ll fry up some eggs for us. If you want anything to drink besides water or malt liquor, you’ll have to bring it yourself.”
41
CORRIE ENDED UP wrestling with her casework for two hours, rather than one. It felt strangely pleasing to be working with documents involving one’s own case…even if Morwood was in the process of taking it over. At last she rose from her desk, trotted downstairs, got into her car, and drove out of town. She wondered if this “precious object” wasn’t just more bullshit.
The drive was as long as she remembered, but she was relieved that—although the sun had set and the roads had no lights—she found the way without getting lost. On one of the last stretches of dirt road, a big F-250 passed her going the other direction at high speed, which really pissed her off. She tried to catch its license plate in the rearview mirror, but the truck was so filthy with dust and dried mud that the plate was obscured. Men and their trucks—they were like boys playing with Tonkas. It raised a huge cloud of dust, and she had honked in annoyance, but the burly vehicle had been moving so fast it was gone and out of hearing. She spat out a mouthful of dust, then closed the windows and put the air-conditioning on recirculation mode. One thing she’d never get used to was the damned dust. Southern New Mexico made Kansas look like a tropical oasis by comparison.
She slowed as she approached the ramshackle Gower farm, then turned in at the spavined, tilted mailbox. Beyond the large collection of objectionable lawn art, the house looked dark. Surely this wasn’t going to be Jesse’s attempt at a candlelit supper?
She got out of her car, looked around slowly. All was silent.
“Gower?” she called out.
Nothing.
“Jesse? You there?”
When there was still no answer, she reached into the car and took out her flashlight, checked her gun to make sure a round was chambered, and then cautiously approached the house.
“Jesse?” she called again.
Where the hell was he? The property was small enough that he’d be able to hear her calling from any location. He didn’t seem the type to play some kind of practical joke. Was he in the house, high on crank, headphones blasting, having totally forgotten the conversation they’d had a few hours earlier? She sniffed the air, but there was no odor of ammonia or weed—only the faint stench of bird shit from the henhouse.
When she called out again and there was still no response, she fell silent.
The old treads squeaked as she ascended the porch. Shining her light around, she noted nothing different. The screen was long gone, and the door itself was hanging ajar. She pushed it open with her foot, stepped inside, and then paused, slowly sweeping her flashlight beam over the living room as she took it all in.
The place looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Old sofas were overturned, their stuffing torn out; bookshelves pulled away from walls, contents flipped through—she could see little notes, probably Jesse’s, peeping here and there from the pages. A dresser stood askew in one corner, empty drawers grinning in her beam of light, the contents scattered. Manuscript pages covered everything like bunting. Pictures were torn from the walls, standing lamps sprawling, the TV staved in and knocked over.
She stepped carefully through the maelstrom of destruction, her flashlight continuing to roam. She considered turning on a light to see if there was power, then thought better of it.
She’d never seen the inside of the place, but she knew one thing: however Jesse lived, it wasn’t like this.
Reaching the far end of the living room, she scanned the kitchen that lay beyond. It, too, was a whirlwind of devastation. One thing caught her eye—four eggs, broken, on the floor in front of the old stove.
I’ll fry up some eggs for us. If you want anything to drink besides water or malt liquor, you’ll have to bring it yourself.
She turned and made her way back out to the front porch. Some instinct told her that wherever Jesse was, he wasn’t in the house. What was this—a drug shakedown? Maybe he owed someone money, and they’d come for it. It looked like there had been a furious tussle, followed by a violent and thorough search. Maybe he’d escaped out the back and taken off into the gathering dark—or, God forbid, been kidnapped.
She thought of the truck that had passed her on the road.
Stepping down off the porch, she let her light range over the property. The henhouse looked untouched, but even from this distance, she could see that the padlock had been cut from the toolshed door.
Now she pulled her gun from its holster. Except for the beam of her light, and her own footfalls on the dusty ground, silence and darkness were absolute. Corrie got a good fix on the location of the shed, then turned off her light and stood motionless, allowing her night vision to return. Once she could see its outline, she began creeping forward again—slowly, slowly—until she reached the broken lock.
Her heart was beating like a hammer. Still silence. She readied herself, and then—moving fast—kicked open the door, dropped to a defensive stance, and covered the room with her Glock, bringing up the flashlight to support her right hand with the “ice pick” Harries grip she’d been trained to use.
“FBI, nobody move!” she barked.
There was nothing but the echo of her voice and the faint squeaking of the door.
Slowly, Corrie straightened up. As she did so, her elbow brushed against a light switch—the old-fashioned kind you toggled on and off by pushing. If she hadn’t provoked a reaction yet, she wasn’t likely to now.
Lowering the flashlight but keeping the gun ready, she pushed the button.
A naked bulb in the ceiling came on. It revealed a space full of the same furious carnage as the main cabin. Jesse Gower sat in a c
hair near the back wall. He was hog-tied, ankles and wrists bound together behind the frame of the seat. His head was flung back at an unnatural angle, but nevertheless she could see his face was a mask of blood. His shirt and ragged shorts were sodden with blood; more spatter encircled the ground in front of the chair, along with a couple of teeth. It was obvious he had endured a methodical, savage beating.
“Jesse?” she called out quietly. Then she approached the chair. But she already knew what she’d find. Gower’s eyes were open and filmy, and he wasn’t breathing. She touched his neck and found no pulse, the flesh cool.
She stepped back, feeling slightly sick, and glanced around the shed. Half of it had been lined with rude wooden shelving. The other part held piles of old tools, auto parts, rusting tin cans, highway signs, and other detritus, apparently once covered by oily tarps. This was merely a mental reconstruction, however, because the interior of the shed was now such a storm of debris that it was impossible to be sure of anything. Except for the obvious: this was the result of a fierce search.
And one other thing: given the level of destruction, if they hadn’t found whatever they were searching for, then she wouldn’t, either.
42
AN HOUR LATER, at ten o’clock, the Gower Ranch had become a crowded and bustling crime scene. Portable floodlights bathed the house and toolshed in pitiless illumination, and Evidence Response Team workers in uniforms and gowns went to and fro with cameras, evidence bags, and forensic equipment of various sorts.
Corrie Swanson stood back from the fray, leaning against the side of the ERT van. To one side of her was Morwood, and to the other was Sheriff Watts, who had arrived a few minutes earlier while Morwood had been questioning Corrie about what she had seen.
Watts took off his hat, brushed a speck of invisible dust from it, and fitted it back on. “And what, exactly, was he going to show you?”
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