Page 57 of Dead Mountain

“And look for what?”

“Maybe the ninth person cut through the fence, and there’s evidence of that still.”

“I’m not sure the air force would appreciate being linked to the Dead Mountain investigation. We might not be welcome.”

“We don’t need them to welcome us with dancing girls and champagne . . . just a Jeep and a driver. Present it as routine. Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.”

“They are likely to point out this seems rather far-fetched.”

“I don’t think it’s random that every one of those victims were heading in the same direction. They left the fire with a goal in mind, some goal we don’t yet know. Maybe it was just the base itself and the hope of finding a patrol. But it stands to reason if the ninth camper, O’Connell, survived longer than the rest—and we haven’t found his body anywhere along the route—he might have made it to that fence and onto the base. He was only one of two with both his boots on and fully dressed for outside.”

“I won’t insult your intelligence by pointing out that had he gotten into Kirtland, his body would have been discovered long ago.”

“But it’s the one place we haven’t been able to search. And that radiation—you’ve got to admit it points to Kirtland. I don’t recall from the files that Gold or anyone else followed up on that possible lead.”

Sharp was quiet for so long that Corrie grew sure he’d nixed the idea. And so it was with surprise that, as they were passing the desiccated whistle stop known as Luis Lopez, she heard him say, “Okay.”

“Okay what, sir?”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. When we get back to the office, let’s schedule a visit with the Kirtland commander to discuss it. He’ll have the final say. And Corrie?”

“Yes?”

“Step on it, will you? I’d like to get back before dinner.”

And while Sharp plumped and prodded his seat like a dog preparing for a nap, Corrie—already going seventy-five—pressed her foot on the accelerator, adding another fifteen miles per hour. She was, after all, in no danger of getting a speeding ticket.

30

WINTER HAD SETTLED in along the Rio Grande. A freezing wind whipped a few stray flakes of snow across the mesa that overlooked the river, flowing sluggish and brown. The mesa top was barren save for a few twisted juniper trees, and the sky the color of zinc. Nora looked around curiously as people assembled for the burial ceremony. While she had attended a number of Pueblo dances, she’d never participated in anything like this, and she knew it was a privilege to be there. Few were in attendance—less than two dozen. Two side-by-side graves lay open, dirt piled up nearby. Next to them stood a folding table covered with a baize cloth, on which were placed two small painted boxes carrying the bones. Laid out next to the boxes were the few artifacts recovered: the broken golden micaceous pot, gleaming dully in the gray light; several spearpoints; and a fetish made of carved shell. A line of Isleta elders in traditional Pueblo dress stood in a solemn row next to the gravesite, along with a singer with a drum, waiting motionless, the wind ruffling their hair and clothing. Nora, bundled in a down jacket, a hat, and gloves, thought they must be freezing, but they showed no signs of cold.

Skip stood next to her, also in a puffy down jacket, hands shoved into his pockets, looking dour. Skip’s attorney, Edward Lightfeather, was beside him. The last to arrive was Darren Tenorio, wearing an Isleta-style shirt with a cowboy hat and leather vest, who came over from the parking area. He greeted her with a nod and a handshake.

“Glad to have you here,” he said.

“Thank you for the invitation.”

Tenorio leaned over and grasped Skip’s hand. “You too, Skip. I’m glad you could come to see us put these remains to rest—especially after the price you paid.”

“Thank you,” said Skip, “I really appreciate that. That bastard Hawley—”

Nora nudged him, hard; now was not the time to go on another tirade about the crooked sheriff.

Tenorio turned to Nora. “This mesa top is our traditional burying ground. Most of our people today are Catholic and they’re buried in the mission graveyard, but we don’t bury prehistoric remains there. Those who aren’t Christians can be buried up here, if they choose.”

“It’s got an amazing view.”

“Yes. You can see the entire pueblo. Isleta was originally built on an island in the river, which is why the Spanish gave it that name four hundred years ago. You can see the scar of the old river channel behind town. Its real name—our name—is Shiewhibak.”

Nora could see where the river had once been, having evidently shifted into its present channel sometime in the past. The dusty adobe and prefab homes of the pueblo were surrounded by irrigated fields, with strips of bare cottonwood trees along the river. The Manzanos rose up in the east, a wall of mountains from north to south as far as the eye could see, their upper slopes covered with fresh snow, peaks lost in the winter clouds. In the opposite direction, to the west, stood layer upon layer of desert mesas in shades of brown, orange, and russet. It was an austere, windswept vista.

At the last minute, a Ford Explorer emblazoned with a sheriff’s logo drove up and a young man got out, wearing a black cowboy hat. Nora immediately recognized, to her surprise, that it was Sheriff Watts. He came striding over on lanky legs.

“Glad you could make it, Sheriff,” said Tenorio, as they shook hands.

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