Page 101 of Dead Mountain

“Reckless at best—mass murder at worst.”

“That’s why he lied to me. Covered up his presence on the expedition.” Corrie closed the journal and laid it down on the bed.

“And the alien?” Nora asked.

“Probably some guy in a radiation suit,” said Corrie. “We know a bomb was jettisoned to prevent a plane crash. Search parties were sent out for retrieval and cover-up. Meanwhile, those nine students were tripping out of their minds, thanks to DeGregorio’s experiment.”

“The shock of the explosion,” Nora said, “must have made their hallucinations worse. And then somebody in a radiation suit appeared, freaking them out to such a degree they lost their minds.” Nora paused. “But who was the guy in the suit? And why wasn’t it reported?”

Good questions, Corrie thought. One possible answer that came to her mind also tied up another loose thread.

“I think,” Corrie said slowly, “it was Cheape in the suit.”

“Cheape?” Nora asked. “How so?”

“He got a commendation for something he did on that night. Maybe it was for being on the team that found the bomb location—he was one of the searchers. He came across the tent.”

“So why didn’t he report it?”

“I’m not sure, but it also might explain where he got the money for the Tesla—and why he was murdered. After all, DeGregorio was the only sane one—and he didn’t run off like the others.”

“He and Cheape must have had some sort of interaction,” Nora said. “There at the tent. Cheape knew DeGregorio was on the expedition. When the Dead Mountain case was revived, Cheape probably decided to cash in. Back then DeGregorio had no money—but now he was rich.”

Corrie nodded. “That’s it. Cheape got greedy, tried to blackmail DeGregorio, and got killed for his trouble.”

“It certainly looks that way,” Nora said. “But here’s the real question: What now?”

What now, indeed? Corrie felt conflicted. They’d solved the Dead Mountain case for real. It wasn’t just an accidental bomb drop, but something much more—negligent homicide, if not actual murder. They’d found the guilty party—a powerful pharmaceutical-entrepreneur-cum-philanthropist and . . . it seemed likely . . . killer. Given this new slant, the government couldn’t just suppress the whole thing—could it?

She finally spoke. “I’ll lay it all out for Sharp and Garcia. Give them the camera and journal. And then we’ll wait to see what happens. Nora, they’ll have to do something. They can’t let a killer like DeGregorio just go free.”

“But what if they don’t do anything?” said Nora. “It’s hard to imagine the guys who classified this just suddenly getting all transparent. What if they keep their boot on the case—and deep-six the camera and journal?”

Corrie shook her head. She had no answer. At least not yet.

Suddenly Nora held up her hand. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

Corrie listened intently. At first she heard nothing. And then she heard a distant, familiar sound—a squealing, like a small animal in pain—that she’d first heard when they opened the main door into the presidential suite.

They stood, frozen in place. Faint sounds, magnified and distorted by the tunnels, reached them at the edge of audibility. Low voices, a muffled footfall.

“Someone’s in here,” Corrie whispered.

56

THEY REMAINED IMMOBILE by the bedside, scarcely daring to breathe.

Immediately, Corrie’s mind turned to Sharp. He was the only one who could have deduced she would be there in the bunker. She considered calling out, revealing her presence. But then again, it might also be military personnel from Kirtland. Sealed off or not, maybe the bunker was still alarmed—and they’d set it off.

She and Nora exchanged glances, saying nothing. Then Corrie heard another faint creak—a door in the hallway was being cautiously opened.

She slipped the headlamp off her head and snapped it off. Nora followed suit. Abruptly, they were plunged into absolute darkness. In the ensuing silence, Corrie heard, or thought she heard, a faint clink of jostling in the kitchen.

Nora leaned close to her ear. “We need to get out of here,” she whispered.

They had to be able to see. Holding the headlamp in her cupped hand, Corrie turned it back on, allowing a mere sliver of light to escape between her fingers. She put the journal in her pack, while Nora picked up the camera and draped it around her neck. They waited, listening. And then, another creak—whoever was in the bunker had opened another door in the hall.

Instinctively, she placed a hand on her sidearm, reassured by its cold solidity. Touching Nora, she pointed toward the doors in the back of the bedroom suite they had not yet examined. One of them might just serve as their exit. But first, she had to determine who had come into this maze of passageways.

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