Page 81 of Dead Mountain

“Nobody was notified. Those that knew of it eventually retired, died . . . or tried to forget.”

Corrie struggled to keep her demeanor calm and collected. She had taken no notes, she didn’t have this on tape, and she’d given her word not to tell Sharp where she had heard it. That was against the confidential informant rules and was going to be a problem. “What connection is there between that accident and the Dead Mountain deaths?”

“I don’t know. Maybe none.”

“Do you think the explosion and fire might have scared the nine hikers into leaving their tent and running out to die in the blizzard?”

A long silence. “I’ve always wondered.”

“Did anyone at Kirtland at the time investigate a possible link?”

“No. At the time, the last thing we were worried about was a bunch of hikers camped in the snow. Later, it was dismissed as a coincidence. And even if they did witness the drop, they were all dead, so it didn’t matter.”

“How involved were you in the bomb recovery operation?”

“I was directly involved.”

“Cheape also?”

“Yes. That’s the project I mentioned earlier—when we crossed paths.”

“What was his role?”

“He was a member of one of several ground searching teams sent immediately into the blizzard to find the bomb location. They couldn’t send up air assets right away.”

“And did Cheape find the bomb location?”

“No. Another searcher called it in first. But Cheape was on the same team and they all got commendations.”

“Can you show me on a map where the bomb fell?”

“Yes.”

With her phone, Corrie loaded a Google Earth image of the Manzanos. “Can you drop a pin at the location?”

He took the phone, moved the image around, expanded it, tapped once, then handed it back.

Corrie stared. The bomb had landed less than a mile due south of where the nine hikers were camped. Jesus. This was the answer to the Dead Mountain riddle. The explosion and fire must have frightened them so badly that they slashed their way out of their tent and ran. It also explained their northward route—not to go somewhere, but to escape the conflagration.

“Sergeant Brickell,” she said, “would you please repeat what you told me to Special Agent Sharp, my superior in the case? This is the solution we’ve been looking for—for fifteen years.”

“Absolutely not. I’m retiring in a month. I’ve cleared my conscience and done my moral duty, as you put it. But I’m not willing to be dishonorably discharged, lose my pension, and spend my hard-earned retirement in the brig.”

“The FBI can protect you. There are whistleblower safeguards.”

He looked at her, the stolid expression growing weary. “You’re very young, aren’t you? Do you truly believe I’d never suffer retaliation? You’re just learning how the world really works, Agent Swanson, and I don’t envy your forthcoming education.” He paused. “Remember: you gave your word. I know you’ll honor it.”

“I did,” said Corrie unhappily. “And I will.”

43

THE EARLY AFTERNOON sun shone brilliantly on Sandia Crest as they got on the freeway heading south. Sharp, to her surprise, had insisted on driving. He appeared uncharacteristically alert, and Corrie wasn’t sure what the lack of his usual sleepy expression signaled—except that it made her nervous.

“I just want to make one thing clear,” he said. “I’m going to do the talking. I may call on you to say something, but please don’t speak until I ask you to do so.”

“Yes, sir.”

A long silence. “Let’s just go over this once more,” he finally said. “They’re going to ask me: How do we know our confidential informant isn’t a nut job? What’s my answer?”

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