Page 33 of Dead Mountain

Corrie took out her phone, and he came around to her side of the booth to look, while she brought up the USGS topo map, acutely aware of his thigh touching hers.

“So here’s where the tent was,” she said, “and that’s the location of the fire where three bodies were found. Here’s the ravine. And here’s the cave.”

“All in a line due north.”

“Right. So we’re focusing our search for number nine on that same corridor. You know the area?”

“Not really. I’ve hiked up in there a few times, but there are a hellacious lot of mountains.”

Their lunches arrived and Watts returned to his side of the booth. “So I was wondering,” Corrie continued, “if they weren’t heading for something in particular, why did they keep going like that? Were they trying to get somewhere specific in those mountains?”

“There must also be natural caves up in that area like the one those kids recently found.” He shook his head. “Shame they desecrated the place.”

“If they hadn’t, Sheriff Hawley would probably have finished the job for them.”

Watts suddenly frowned. “Hawley? Christ, he’s not involved, is he?”

“Yup. He was rooting around that cave like a pig in a truffle patch until I put a stop to it. He also did us the favor of calling in a camera crew. Only thing he forgot were the neon signs and reelection buttons.”

“Figures.” Watts took a bite of his sandwich.

This response surprised Corrie. “Tell me about him.”

Watts swallowed, shrugged. “There’s bad blood between the sheriff’s departments of Torrance and Socorro—has been for a long time. Hawley’s the reason.”

“How so?”

“I . . .” Watts hesitated. “Sorry, I don’t feel right talking trash about a fellow sheriff.”

“I’m a fed. We’re colleagues. I need to know.”

Watts sighed. “That county, Torrance—well, Hawley’s been sheriff there forever. Always gets reelected, greases palms, kisses up, kicks down. There’s only fifteen thousand people in the whole county, and so it’s like a little fiefdom for him. He’s uneducated, a clown, morally unfit—and a bully. But he has this uncanny ability to sniff out a person’s soft underbelly and rip into it.”

Corrie rolled her eyes.

“First term as sheriff,” Watts went on, “he was in a gunfight with a bank robber. Hawley took a bullet. He returned fire and slowed the perp down long enough to nab him. Hawley’s been living off that gunfight for twenty years, and you gotta give him credit for it. Only—”

Watts stopped abruptly.

“What?” Corrie asked.

“I’ve said enough.” It seemed to Corrie that, for a moment, Watts was struggling to maintain a straight face. “Anyway, he’s got friends, so his job is secure unless he does something really stupid. But be careful—he may seem like a dumbass, but he’s crafty as a mongoose and a person with absolutely no principles. And that makes him dangerous.”

“I’ll remember that. And I’ll let Nora know.”

“Lucky her.” Watts laughed as he turned to signal the waitress to refill their coffee mugs.

19

NORA, HER BROTHER, Skip, and Stan Morrison arrived in the cave turnout at 2 PM, virtually at the same time as Tenorio pulled up in a van emblazoned with the symbol of Isleta Pueblo on the side: a flying bald eagle inside a circular fan of feathers. Nora saw, with a sinking feeling, that a Torrance County sheriff’s vehicle was also there. She hoped it was only Baca, the deputy. He didn’t seem like a bad guy, just cowed by Hawley, and she believed she could handle him.

Tenorio got out, slinging the same old leather satchel across his shoulders. He raised his hand in greeting and came over. “Dr. Kelly. Good to see you.”

“Call me Nora, please,” she said.

“Of course. And I’m Darren.”

“This is my brother, Skip, and you know Stan Morrison.”

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