Page 20 of Dead Mountain

It was amazing how quickly silence fell.

“I’m Special Agent Corinne Swanson, one of the initial agents on the scene.” She tried to muster a tone of gravitas. “First: I can’t answer any of your questions right now, because it’s far too early in the investigation for details. What I can say is that we’re fairly confident we’ve found two more victims of the so-called Dead Mountain incident of 2008. We are currently in the identification and evidence-gathering phase, and I can assure you that the FBI are devoting all necessary resources into solving this case once and for all—after fifteen years.”

She paused. The lights were dazzling, as was her growing realization that this was probably being broadcast live on TV. She ought to close it down. “My colleagues and I will supply you with additional information as soon as we are able. Thank you.”

This was followed by an upswell of questions, but Corrie braced herself and moved forward, the crowd parting reluctantly to let them pass. Some of them continued following as they walked across the tarmac toward their cars, but they soon melted away, realizing they would get nothing more. By the time she reached her car door, she and Sharp were alone.

“You have to admit,” he said in an undertone, “the walk from the back exit is longer.”

Now that it was over, she could feel her heart pounding, the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. “Sir, did I establish that we’re in charge and moving forward with all possible dispatch?”

This wasn’t meant to be insubordinate, and a lazy crinkling around Sharp’s eyes made it clear he hadn’t taken it that way. “You gave them just enough to pick over, while respectfully representing the Bureau. I’d say it was just about perfect. When you get home, I would recommend treating yourself to a stiff drink.”

“I will. Thank you, sir.”

Sharp went off to his own car while Corrie climbed into her vehicle, drove across the lot and out onto Leucking Park Avenue, her pounding heart settling back into a normal rhythm.

13

NORA KELLY PARKED her Jeep in the increasingly muddy area beside the Forest Service road. She noted that the Torrance County sheriff’s Ford Explorer was also parked there, which meant Deputy Baca was still standing guard over the cave. The temperature had warmed to above freezing, and a chilly mist drifted among the black tree trunks.

A second Jeep pulled up alongside, carrying Darren Tenorio, a member of the Isleta Pueblo Tribal Council. They all got out, Nora and her assistant Stan Morrison hefting small daypacks with tools and equipment, Tenorio slinging a worn leather bag over his shoulder.

“It’s this way,” said Nora, indicating the now-established trail leading downslope.

Tenorio nodded. He was a middle-aged man with two long salt-and-pepper braids, wearing a down jacket over a traditional Pueblo shirt, jeans, and hiking boots.

They gingerly picked their way down the slippery terrain, finally arriving at the ravine. Nora was surprised to see someone she assumed must be Sheriff Hawley there with Deputy Baca, sitting in chairs, smoking and passing a thermos of coffee back and forth. All that was missing, she thought, was a beer bucket and a portable grill, and they’d have a tailgate party for a Jets game.

Hawley rose as they arrived. “What’s this?” he asked, looking at Tenorio and Nora. “Who are you?”

“Dr. Nora Kelly, Santa Fe Archaeological Institute,” she said. “I’m here at the request of the FBI.”

“That so? You got ID?”

Nora was surprised by the challenging tone of his voice, but she reached into her back pocket for her wallet and fished out her SFAI identification card.

The sheriff took it and scrutinized it, grunted, and handed it back. He turned to Tenorio. “And you?”

Tenorio handed him his driver’s license.

The sheriff took it. “What’s the nature of your involvement, Mr. Tenorio?”

Tenorio said, his voice low and calm, “I’m here to inspect the two burials, which we believe are ancestral to Isleta Pueblo.”

“And who authorized this?” the sheriff asked.

“I did,” said Nora sharply. “With the approval of Special Agent Swanson, who asked me to liaise with Isleta Pueblo over these burials.”

“Swanson?” he said, a note of disrespect in his voice.

Nora wondered what Hawley was doing there anyway: the cold, damp mountain was not exactly Monet’s field of poppies. She had a sense something was up.

“This is an active crime scene,” said the sheriff, returning the driver’s license to Tenorio with insolent slowness. “Ten minutes.”

Tenorio put away his license. “This is a burial ground of our ancestors, it is sacred to us, and for that reason I’ll take all the time I need.” He spoke in the softest voice, but there was an edge to the words.

Hawley stared at him. “I understand completely. Like I said: ten minutes.”

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