Page 50 of Dead Mountain

“Have a look at this,” she said.

Morrison came over. “Wow. You think one of them dropped this?”

“I do. Hand me a Ziploc bag.”

Morrison went over to the pack as Nora stared at the object: an open penknife with a wooden handle and brass bolsters, slightly scorched. It was in remarkably good condition for having been buried in the dirt fifteen years. It gave her an odd feeling, a sense of connection to the nine desperate hikers who had huddled around this fire, trying to stay warm in a monstrous blizzard. Three of them had died here, while the six others went on—but not before cutting off the clothes of the dead. Why did they leave the shelter of the fire? Was the storm too powerful for the fire to keep them warm? But if they left the fire . . . six of them did . . . then where, exactly, were they going?

Morrison returned with the bag. “Record this, please,” Nora said, handing him her phone, “while I remove it.”

“Got it.”

While Morrison filmed, Nora took a pair of wooden tongs and loosened the knife from its bed of charcoal, then gently turned it over. A small silver plaque was inlaid into the handle, with initials engraved into it:

M H T

Using the tongs, she slipped the knife into the bag and placed it inside a plastic container.

“MHT,” said Morrison. “I don’t recall one of the victims having those initials.”

In her head, Nora went over the names she had just read on the memorial plaque. The only one whose last name began with “T” was Paul Tolland Jr. She wondered if the knife belonged to his brother or some other relative.

That was worth looking into.

The knife—whoever had brought it along on the expedition—had probably been used in the frantic attempt to gather branches for fuel, and afterward dropped and forgotten. And as she stared at the remains of the fire, she realized it had not been small. They must have piled wood into it, almost making a bonfire.

And yet, for some reason she could not speculate about, six people had still left its warmth.

27

NORA TOOK A seat in the restaurant. She was a few minutes early, and she took a moment to look around the dim interior, the hand-troweled adobe walls, the kiva fireplace in which a real fire was burning, the low ceiling of vigas and latillas, the small tables set close together. It was one of Santa Fe’s famous old restaurants, in which nothing had changed in decades, including the menu. The restaurant had been Corrie’s idea, and she had insisted on taking Nora out as a sort of apology for the way she’d reacted when first learning of Skip’s arrest.

Corrie entered the dining room, saw her, and came over. She took a seat and the waitress handed them their menus. “Still or sparkling?”

“Sparkling,” said Corrie.

“Me too.”

“Bring us a bottle, please.”

“Drinks?”

“Hendrick’s martini, straight up, dirty, two olives,” said Corrie.

“Glass of Chablis,” Nora said.

“Coming right up.” The waitress went off.

“Dirty martini?” Nora asked. “I didn’t know you were, ah, such a robust drinker.”

Corrie laughed. “I just came from the autopsy of the two victims and, Christ, I need a stiff one.”

“What did you find out?” Nora asked.

“Crazy. Just crazy. I’ll tell you in a minute.” She leaned forward. “But first—I’m sorry about my reaction to hearing about Skip’s arrest. I’m really grateful for your help, and this whole thing with Hawley is awful. I wish there was something I could do, but you understand there’s just no way.”

“I understand,” said Nora. She was tired of worrying herself sick about Skip. If there was a way to get into trouble, he would find it, no matter how good his intentions. But he’d never found trouble like this. “He’s out on bail and has a top-notch lawyer, which is all we can do. But let’s not talk about that.”

The waitress came back with their drinks. Corrie practically seized hers, the gin slopping over the rim, and raised it. “Cheers.” She took an alarmingly long pull.

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