Page 67 of Dead Mountain

“And the others? Did you know them all?”

“I knew most of them, more or less. We were grad students together in the engineering department. It was pretty small—at least back then.” He laughed a little ruefully.

“What was the group studying?”

“Just about any flavor of engineering we could find—computers, civil, nuclear, aerospace, that sort of thing.”

“Nuclear?” Corrie felt a sudden twinge.

“That was Rod’s area.”

“In what way?”

“He had the hope of working up at LANL—Los Alamos—after graduation.”

“So he was going to be a nuclear bomb designer?”

“No. At least, that wasn’t his intention—things can change once you get your doctorate. But he was mostly interested in reentry systems, ballistic missile design, not actual warheads.”

This would definitely be worth looking into further, Corrie thought.

“Did you know about the hiking trip before they left?”

“Oh, sure. They talked about it nonstop.”

“Were you invited?”

“No. I enjoyed climbing mountains as much as any of the others, but I had no winter experience.”

No winter experience. A picture came unbidden into Corrie’s mind of the slope-shouldered body that went with the high-pitched voice. It hadn’t stopped him from making a fortune before he turned forty. It occurred to her that she was running out of questions. “You knew the victims—do you have any idea what might have happened?”

“I must have mulled that over a million times. Every theory I come up with always has at least one hole in it—usually several. I’m certain something terrified them, but I have no idea what, or how. And the business with the radiation contamination is really nuts.”

“Thank you for your time, Dr. DeGregorio. Before we hang up, is there anything more you’d like to tell me, or that you think I should know?”

“I can’t think of anything, but if I do, I’ll call.” He paused. “I really hope you can solve the case this time around. I mean, I’m not a relative, just a friend . . . but it’s been a real burden on me nonetheless. Not knowing, I mean.”

“Thanks again.” Corrie hung up just as she was leaving the freeway for the exit ramp to Socorro.

She arrived at Martha’s Black Dog Café early and decided to drive around the block a couple of times so she wouldn’t look too eager. As usual, she felt a little nervous whenever it came to Homer Watts, and this morning it mingled with a deep sense of unease and discouragement about the case. Eleven days had passed and they’d made no real progress. Over the past few days Sharp had seemed more quiet and sleepy than usual, which seemed to her a warning sign.

When she parked and went inside the café, she saw Sheriff Watts already seated in the back, cowboy hat on the table, coffee mug next to it. He rose as she came over, stooping to shake her hand with the usual bashful air, his deep brown eyes crinkling with a smile.

They both sat down. “Got here early,” he said. “Already ordered coffee, sorry.”

“No worries.”

The waitress arrived and filled a mug for Corrie. She dumped in three sugars and a heavy pour of half-and-half, stirred, and took a big gulp. “So,” she said, “what have you got?”

“Good stuff,” said Watts, with a grin displaying his white teeth. “Starting with this guy Cheape.”

“Lay it on me.” She leaned forward and Watts did too. She could smell his aftershave.

“Cheape was a civilian employee of Kirtland pretty much all his life, in the maintenance department. He started as a janitor, although even to do that he would have needed a security clearance. Ended up a supervisor. Totally unremarkable career, one minor commendation on his record, not much advancement. Retired at fifty-five, lived a dull, quiet life since.”

“Commendation? What’d he do?”

“Didn’t say. Maybe he shined some pilot’s shoes extra well. Have to dig out the letter, I guess.”

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