Page 53 of Dead Mountain

“That’s Melody Ann O’Connell,” Sharp said, nodding in the direction of a woman in her midforties, wearing tight white jeans and incongruously high heels. “She’s the stepmother of Rodney O’Connell—victim nine. The de facto spokesperson for the victims’ group, Manzano Families Memorial Association.”

Corrie scrutinized her, committing to memory the expensive blow-out, black-painted nails, and a face that seemed to have received the ministrations of multiple cosmetic surgeons. She thought she’d seen her before somewhere—probably on a TV news clip.

Getting out of the vehicle, Sharp and Corrie went briskly up the walkway to the front door, triggering an increased volume of chanting.

“Hey, FBI! What are you hiding?”

“Tell the truth, you liars!”

As an agent Corrie had never been subjected to this kind of confrontation before. But she followed Sharp’s lead in ignoring them. Instead of ringing the doorbell, Sharp knocked loudly, making their presence known over the din. It was immediately cracked open—so quickly that Corrie figured the inhabitant had already been in the front hall, watching the goings-on outside.

“Agents Sharp and Swanson,” Sharp said.

The door opened wide enough to allow them entrance. As they stepped in, a man—Robertson Gold, Corrie assumed—quickly shut, bolted, and chained the door behind them. According to the file, Robertson Gold was sixty-eight years old. But Corrie would have taken him for at least a decade older. He was tall but bent with age, dressed in a plaid work shirt and jeans. In his lined face Corrie could see, like a pentimento, traces of a strikingly handsome man.

“Let’s go back into the office,” Gold said. “It’s quieter back there.”

He turned and led the way out of the living room, past the kitchen, and down a hall. The inside of the house was dim, the curtains drawn. As Gold walked before them, Corrie caught sight of a pistol jammed into his jeans at the small of his back.

The back office was unremarkable, with as much personality as a furniture warehouse. A computer sat on a desk of blond wood, accompanied by a printer. The only place to sit other than at the desk was a sofa against the far wall, between two filing cabinets; Corrie and Sharp settled themselves on it after a wave from Gold. There were no family photographs on display, no plaques or commendations on the wall, no personal knickknacks on the desk. A bookcase stood behind the desk, mostly bare save for books on the JFK assassination and histories of the naval battles of Midway and the Coral Sea. Beyond was a plate-glass window with drawn gauzy curtains that looked toward the mountains. There was absolutely nothing to show that the man had spent decades in the FBI.

Even at the back of the house, the noisy chanting of the group was more than audible.

Gold offered them water, which they politely declined. “What’s with the gun?” Sharp asked mildly.

With a faint smirk, Gold reached around, pulled out a well-used Browning Hi-Power 9×19 Parabellum, and laid it on his desk. “It was my father’s,” he said.

When this was greeted with silence, he continued. “Don’t worry—I’m not planning to take any potshots at those idiots outside. But a man’s home is his castle, and I won’t abide intrusion on my property. Besides, I made my share of enemies on the job.”

“Haven’t we all?” Sharp replied.

Gold nodded. “It’s been—what? Fourteen years? But you haven’t changed a bit, Clay.”

“I’m surprised you remember my name.”

“Oh, I remember a lot more than that. I remember when you first joined the Albuquerque FO. Caused a lot of speculation around the watercooler back then. Where you came from was a real mystery.”

“That was a long time ago,” Sharp said, apparently anxious to shift the conversation elsewhere. Corrie’s curiosity was piqued, but Sharp clearly wasn’t interested in talking about it.

“It’s funny, the things you remember. You, for instance. And that thing with the snake.” He chuckled.

Corrie broke the brief silence that ensued. “Snake?”

Sharp shifted. “Let’s not—”

“Agent Sharp,” Gold interrupted, turning to her, “had only been in the Albuquerque office a month or two.”

Sharp looked displeased and Corrie realized she’d just made a mistake.

Gold went on. “This package got delivered to the third floor—addressed to a secretary, chosen at random, I suppose, the FBI wasn’t especially popular at that time—and the idiots in the mailroom hadn’t checked carefully enough. Inside, under some fake paperwork, was a poisonous coral snake. And it was pissed. The woman screamed so loud the walls almost blew out, and she threw the package and snake into the walkway outside her cubicle. There was a huge ruckus, and that snake could have slithered away in a wink and we’d have been looking forever—but Sharp here snatched it by the tail and cracked that son of a bitch just like it was a whip. Head, eyes, brains, tongue . . . its whole front end snapped off.” He shook his head. “Kind of made the office’s day, if you know what I mean.”

Corrie looked at Sharp, who now looked even more displeased. She wanted to know more but bit her tongue.

After a beat, Sharp said evenly, “The good old days . . . But we’re here to talk about the Dead Mountain investigation that you led. May we proceed?”

“Of course,” Gold replied. And something in his voice made Corrie suspect that snake anecdote had been a way of stalling.

“Good. I’m glad to see your memory is as sharp as ever.”

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