The Scorpion's Tail

by Douglas Preston

  “He called it his great-grandfather’s ‘other precious possession.’ He said nobody else knew why he treasured it so much, but over time it became a kind of family heirloom.”

  “Was he bullshitting you?”

  “Didn’t sound like it to me.”

  “Okay.” Morwood called over the medical examiner, his gowned figure glowing unearthly in the bright light. “What have you got?” he asked.

  The man nodded. “Prelim. The victim probably died of a traumatic cervical fracture, caused by radical hyperextension.”

  “A broken neck?” Morwood said. “He seems to have been worked over pretty goddamned well.”

  “We’ll know more after the postmortem,” the medical technician said. “It’s possible another injury might have been the fatal one, but I would put my money on the cervical fracture as the proximate cause of death.”

  “Very well. Thank you.”

  Morwood turned to Corrie. “I want to commend you, Agent Swanson,” he said. “You handled an unexpected and difficult crime scene with care and precision.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Tomorrow, I’d like a full report on this matter. I’m particularly interested in the conversations you had with Jesse Gower and what brought you back out here this evening.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I wonder if the killers were looking for the same thing,” Watts said, “and they tried to beat its location out of him.”

  “That beating,” said Morwood, “sure looks like an attempt to get something out of Gower. But we have no idea what. Maybe he was selling antiquities to finance his drug habit. We haven’t yet done a complete inventory of that shed, but it was full of artifacts, many worthless, and others that seem to have been, ah, dressed up to look otherwise.”

  “Fakes?” Watts said.

  “It seems so. The point is, there might be many reasons for someone to want something out of Gower: money, drugs, information, whatever.”

  “But we can’t be sure they got it,” Corrie said.

  Morwood turned to her. “How so?”

  “It’s possible Gower’s death was an accident.”

  “Accident?” Morwood repeated. “You want to know how many molars I counted in that shed?”

  “What I’m saying, sir, is it’s possible they didn’t mean to break his neck. Shooting him would have been a more sensible way of killing him if that’s all they wanted to do. Isn’t it possible they accidentally killed him before he caved?”

  “It’s possible. We’ll see what the M.E.’s report says about that.” He turned to the sheriff. “Well, Sheriff Watts, it looks like we’ve got quite a homicide on our hands—in your county. The FBI is going to take the lead, but we’re going to need your help. Jesse Gower, the land he lived on, and the people he associated with are your jurisdiction. And your expertise. I know you’ve already been liaising with Agent Swanson, and she tells me you’ve been a great help. We’re going to need you even more now. You and I are going to be working together on this one.”

  “I’m happy to help. It’s been a pleasure working with Agent Swanson.”

  “Good. I look forward to it. Now you probably want a tour of the crime scene.” He shook the sheriff’s hand and called over an ERT technician, who took Watts off for the tour, leaving Corrie with Morwood.

  Corrie watched him go, absorbing this fresh shock and mightily annoyed that Morwood had not only taken over the case, but now had taken over the sheriff. “So the sheriff is no longer working with me?” she asked. “You’re reassigning him to yourself, just like that?”

  “It’s been a rough evening for you, Swanson,” Morwood replied. “So I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  Corrie colored when she realized the tone she had taken with her boss. “I’m not complaining about Watts being put on the case, sir. It’s just that we were working so well together, and I’ve come to rely on his local contacts and knowledge.”

  “You can still consult with him, after going through me.”

  It took a tremendous amount of self-control for her to keep her mouth shut after that one. Finally she managed to say, in a calm voice, “I sense I may be losing your trust, Agent Morwood.”

  Morwood closed his eyes a moment, as if he was counting to ten. When he opened them again, he spoke. “It has come to my attention from General McGurk that your warranted search of the old Gower farmhouse yielded some items. And yet I’ve heard nothing about it, and nothing has been logged as evidence.”

  Corrie felt the blood rush into her face. “I didn’t want to log the evidence until I was sure it connected with the case.”

  “What was the evidence?”

  “An aerial photograph, an almanac, and a book.”

  “And what was the significance of this evidence?”

  “Well, the photograph was hidden behind a picture, the almanac had some notes in it, and the book was entitled Early Legends of the Western Frontier, which had stories of buried treasure and such. I thought it might contain clues to what Gower was searching for.”

  “I see.”

  “So the general has been in touch with you?” Corrie asked.

  “Today I received a call from him asking about it. And I knew nothing.”

  “Isn’t it sort of convenient for him to be calling you?”

  Morwood looked at her steadily. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I think the general is trying to undermine me.”

  “Why?”

  “Why would he be interested in the evidence I might have collected?”

  “It’s a reasonable follow-up for him to do.”

  “I don’t know. Think about it, sir—we’re dealing with a potential scandal in that the Trinity test actually caused a fatality, a fake army MP murders one of our suspects, we’ve got irradiated human remains, and now somebody tortured and killed one of our informants. It all seems to point to WSMR involvement in some way, and McGurk’s the guy in charge.”

  Morwood shook his head. “General McGurk, as a suspect? You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m not saying he’s involved,” Corrie said. “Directly. But White Sands remains a large piece of the puzzle…” She halted. She had been about to tell him of her meeting with the navy lieutenant, but the look on his face made her realize she’d better shut up.

  Morwood shook his head. “You know, Swanson, rookie agents tend to overthink their first cases. I’m usually the last one to discount a theory, but this one…” He looked at her appraisingly. “You take the cake, Agent Swanson,” he said in a low, neutral tone from which she could glean nothing. “Whether that cake is angel food or a cow pie remains to be seen. But one thing’s certain: if the slightest whisper gets out that the FBI finds General McGurk a person of interest, we’re all sunk—unless we’ve got ironclad proof. Go ahead and follow your leads. But keep it absolutely quiet. And I want daily reports. No—make that weekly reports. Until further notice. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then go home and get some sleep. Your formal writeup on tonight’s events can wait until the morning.” And before she could say another word, he turned away and went toward the hive of activity that surrounded the toolshed of the late Jesse Gower.

  43

  NORA FOUND NICK Espejo in a small office in the Bank of Albuquerque building, the sign on the open door announcing him as a loan officer. He was exactly what Nora expected from a young banker: blue suit, polished shoes, crisp haircut. He looked to be in his early twenties. She knocked on the door, and he waved her inside with a big smile.

  “Please have a seat, Dr. Kelly.”

  She sat down. She hadn’t told him on the phone what she wanted, and she could see now that had been a mistake, as his warm greeting and fake smile announced that he assumed she was a customer.

  “Now, what can I do for you? Rates are at rock bottom—”

  “I’m not here as a customer,” she said. “I’m an archaeologist with the Santa Fe Archaeological I
nstitute.”

  The look of heartiness faded a little, replaced by something more wary. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were here to take out a loan.”

  “I’ve come at the suggestion of Ms. Eskaminzin. She said you might be able to help me.”

  At this his face softened. “Well, of course. Please go on.”

  “It’s about Nantan Taza.”

  This time, the transformation in his face was dramatic. An expression of mingled surprise and sorrow flickered through his black eyes. “Oh. Is he…What’s happened?”

  “Nothing that I know of. Would you mind if I explained? I’ll make it as brief as possible.” With a warning that it was confidential, she gave him an abbreviated account of the discovery of Gower’s body, the Trinity test, the old campsite, and the medicine bundle belonging to Taza. The young man listened with close attention, his face registering surprise more than once.

  “So,” Nora said once she’d finished, “I was hoping that you might have heard stories from him about Gower, or—well, anything, really, that might shed more light on what happened that day.”

  Espejo looked down. “It’s painful just thinking about it. He told me a lot of stories, but they were Apache stories. Mescalero fables and legends. He was a good man, but he had a gloomy view of things. Not cynical—dark. He seemed to feel our species was doomed. And now I know why. My God—and you really think he actually saw the bomb go off?”

  Nora nodded. Eskaminzin had used the same word to describe the old man: dark.

  Espejo thought for a moment. “I was eleven or twelve. Nantan lived outside Mescalero, up by Graveyard Spring in an old log cabin. He was self-sufficient, hunted for his meat, dried it, had a little garden watered from Graveyard Creek. I ran into him by accident—I was riding up the canyon and disturbed some of his cattle. They were half-wild anyway, but he was angry. To make up for it I chopped some wood for him, and somehow that became a regular thing. At first I was scared of him: he was so stern, never smiled and almost never talked. But gradually I got used to him and he had me run other errands. He treated me like an adult—an equal.”

  “You said that he told you legends and fables. What else did you talk about?”

  “Traditional Apache beliefs. How to live a good life. He talked about the importance of treating everything in the world as sacred.”

  He paused. “Once in a while, as I got to know him better, he’d talk about going away, but he never said why or when. I thought it was just talk. But then, I came by one day and he was saddling his horse, tying a sack of stuff behind the cantle, rifle in a boot. I asked him where he was going. He told me the time had come to go into the mountains. I was really upset. I couldn’t understand, and when I asked more questions he refused to answer them. I cried, I pleaded, but he’d made up his mind. So I ran off to saddle my horse and go with him, but he stopped me dead in my tracks. He made me promise not to follow. And he left.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Nora. “It must have been like losing a father.”

  “A father—and best friend. I didn’t understand how much it all meant to me until he was gone. I still try to believe that he’s here with me, in a way—because of his teachings, you know—but it’s hard.”

  Nora hesitated. “Do you know where he went?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “But…you have a sense?”

  At this, Espejo paused. “Why are you asking?”

  “I just wondered if he might still be alive.”

  “He’d be ninety-five.”

  Nora nodded.

  “Ten years of surviving alone in the mountains,” Espejo said. “You think that’s possible?”

  “Do you?”

  Espejo didn’t answer for a moment. Then he said: “If he’s passed on, then he’s returned to the spirit land. If he’s alive, he won’t want to be found. I made a promise never to go looking for him.”

  “But if he’s alive, he might be able to help us solve the mystery. Of what exactly happened that day. Of what he and Gower were looking for.”

  Espejo didn’t respond for a long time. Finally, he stirred. “So if I tell you where I think he went, what will you do?”

  “I’ll go there, if I can.”

  Espejo sighed and shook his head. Another lengthy moment passed while he looked down at his desk, thinking. “There was a place he mentioned—mentioned only once. When he was a teenager, he told me one evening during a bad storm, he’d had to purify himself of the taint of some kind of evil. He told me that it was clinging to him, clinging with a grip like death, and that only a spiritual journey would rid him of it. Now I know he must have meant that bomb. Anyway, he told me he’d gone out into the wilderness, wandered around until he found his power place—Ojo Escondido, he called it—and spent five days there, fasting. He said he experienced a powerful vision. But he wouldn’t describe it to me and told me never to bring it up again.”

  “And he didn’t say anything more about that experience?”

  “No. He implied it had given him some unique insight into the world—but that it was too potent, maybe too dangerous, to be passed on to a boy.”

  “But you believe this place of power was where he went back to when he disappeared?”

  “I always figured that’s where he returned.”

  “You said he called it Ojo Escondido. Do you know of any place with that name?”

  Espejo shook his head again. “I remember a few of the elders mentioning it in passing, a long time ago. Supposedly, it was a place near Sierra Blanca, way up at the northern end of the rez. But the way they spoke of it, I could never be sure whether it was real—or mythical.”

  “Ojo Escondido,” Nora said slowly, almost to herself. “Hidden Eye.”

  “In New Mexico Spanish,” said Espejo, “Ojo also means ‘spring.’”

  Nora took a deep breath. “Can you take me there? Or at least, to where you think it might be?”

  A long silence followed this question—long enough to make Nora feel uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Maybe I’ve overstepped my bounds.”

  “I’d like to help you,” Espejo said. “But I can’t. I made a promise.”

  “Even knowing what you do now?”

  The young man looked down at his hands. “That knowledge doesn’t change anything.”

  For a moment, Nora remained still. Then she picked up her backpack, unzipped it, took out the evidence case, and placed it on the desk.

  Espejo looked up. “What’s that?”

  Nora unlatched the box and took out the medicine bundle. As she did so, Espejo jerked abruptly, as if he’d been hit by an electric current. “Where did you get that?”

  “It’s Nantan’s medicine bundle.”

  But it was clear Espejo had already guessed this. “Where did you get that?” he repeated.

  “He left it at their campsite in High Lonesome.”

  Espejo let out a long, slow exhalation. “That one night he spoke to me about his vision quest, he said something strange. He said he had once been ‘spiritually orphaned.’ I never knew what he meant. I wasn’t even sure I’d understood his words.” He looked at the medicine bundle. “I wonder why he never went back to get it.”

  “He was too frightened by the atomic explosion he’d witnessed.”

  “But from what you told me, he wasn’t too frightened to stay with his dying friend. And he wasn’t too frightened to bury him in the required manner.” He paused. “It wasn’t fear. I don’t understand. Nobody would leave that behind.”

  Again he fell silent for a long moment. Then he said slowly: “One of the things Nantan taught me was that everything has a reason. Nothing is random. So you being here, carrying that medicine bundle—there’s a reason for that.” He straightened in his chair. “Very well. I’ll take you there. Or rather, I’ll take you as far as I can without breaking my promise. If we find him—dead or alive—you’ll have to go the last mile alone.”

  44

  C
ORRIE LAY IN bed, staring at the ceiling. Although she was weary, she could not manage to go to sleep. She was too restless. Restless and frustrated.

  She’d barely gotten any sleep after Morwood sent her home last night. She’d spent the day listlessly, getting little done. And now, here she was—staring at the ceiling again. It was no more of a soporific than it had been the night before.

  She reached for her phone and turned off the background music she’d put on to make her drowsy: Deep Frieze, by Sleep Research Facility. If she was going to lie awake, she might as well think.

  There was no mystery to her restlessness—it stemmed from her last trip to Jesse Gower’s. Was she feeling guilty for treating him brusquely over the phone? Maybe a little, but he’d certainly warranted such treatment. Was it the grim, brutal, pointless finality of what she’d found? She didn’t think so: it wasn’t fear or trauma that she felt. She’d seen a lot of awful stuff at Quantico, and besides, nothing could compare to that terrifying figure that had appeared in her Medicine Creek trailer doorway: that huge, white-moon face spattered with blood, the one good arm reaching for her…

  She closed the box on that memory and started over.

  Jesse had been tortured and killed for a reason. Everyone agreed: someone wanted something from him. But cash, drugs…what?

  Yet again, she mentally reran their conversation of yesterday afternoon. He’d practically begged her to come out to the ranch, and as a carrot he’d dangled his great-grandfather’s mysterious other prized possession—the one Jesse had initially dismissed as an “old drawing.” He treated it like a holy object, Jesse said.

  Had it been some messed-up joke of his, some way to lure her into taking the long drive to his place, just so he could curse her out again? She didn’t think so. Jesse hadn’t seemed the kind of person to trouble himself with games like that—and besides, if that was all it had been, he knew full well he’d never see her again…unless she had a pair of cuffs and a warrant in her hands.

  Could somebody have been outside the house and heard him on the phone with her? But no, that would be too much of a coincidence. Besides, Jesse himself had said the item was more precious than valuable. Could the phone have been tapped or hacked into? That seemed possible but far-fetched.