Page 73 of Dead Mountain

“Agent Gold! Agent Gold!” Sanchez was calling out, her mike extended.

“You crazy bastards, get out of here!” Gold screeched, his face mottled red, eyes bulging, jacket askew. Melody Ann grew frightened—he looked totally unhinged, a man who could do anything.

“Get out!” He rushed down the driveway. “Get out!” He reached behind and pulled something out of his waistband.

“Gun!” someone screamed, and there was an instant chorus of shrieking as everyone fell to the ground all at once, cameras crashing down, mikes flying, as Melody Ann threw herself onto the asphalt. The screaming continued as people scrambled to their feet and began running every which way, like hysterical geese scattered by a rampaging dog. But Melody Ann remained on the ground, heart pounding even though she had recovered her wits. The man hadn’t fired at them, but just waved the gun over his head—and now he was standing there, looking at his hand holding the gun like it was some foreign thing. A camera operator had resumed filming from a low position, and the producer was shouting, “Get it on tape! Get it on tape!”

This is unbelievable, Melody Ann thought. The station was getting footage of this FBI agent screaming and waving his gun around, as if her talk of a cover-up had forced his hand. The only thing left to make this absolutely perfect was for the guy to get arrested on camera.

Arrested on camera. That would be all over the news. And she, Melody Ann, had made it possible. This meant vindication of all her hard work, all those years—well, months at least—of struggle and doubt. Now the FBI would have to come clean. This would blow the Dead Mountain case wide open.

She grabbed for her cell phone and dialed.

“Nine one one—what’s the nature of your emergency?” came the bored voice.

39

CORRIE NOSED THE FBI pool vehicle into a free space on San Pedro Drive Northeast, then put it in park, turned off the engine, and sat a moment, looking out at the cracked asphalt, motels, and working-class apartments that lined both sides of the street.

In the passenger seat, Watts stretched and yawned. “This is a novelty, being chauffeured around for a change,” he said. “And it’s a good thing you’re armed. We’re only—” he twisted around, looking through the rear window— “a mile and a half north of the ‘War Zone.’”

Corrie smiled wryly at this reference to Albuquerque’s International District, one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods and certainly its most violent. “Well, let’s see how it goes. Interviews are easy when you just need somebody to verify what you already know. Others—like when you don’t exactly know what you want—can be tough.”

“You’ve learned all that as an intern?”

“I’m not an ‘intern,’” said Corrie, giving him a playful punch in the arm. “Another crack like that, and I’ll use that cowboy hat for a Frisbee.”

Watts was in a teasing mood. Corrie wondered if it was covering some lingering nervousness from their moment—she wasn’t sure what else to call it—by the river the other day. What happened was unexpected. The Bosque del Apache had been beautiful, like an Albert Bierstadt miniature, and he’d nuzzled her under the cottonwood trees. She’d nuzzled back. And the next thing she knew, they were locked in a passionate kiss. One of them, she wasn’t sure which, had pulled back a little in surprise . . . and an elderly couple strolling nearby prevented the Bierstadt landscape from morphing into Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe. All Corrie knew for sure was, at that moment, she’d felt white-hot with lust for Watts. But the moment had passed—and, luckily, without becoming either too drastic or too embarrassing.

What was, or wasn’t, going on between them? She couldn’t deny her attraction, and it was obvious he felt the same way. But it seemed too much of their time together had been tangled up with work. It wasn’t that she expected some kind of nineteenth-century courtship . . . but a few nights out at the movies or romantic dinners or flowers would be nice. She knew Watts was a stand-up guy, not interested in a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am fling. Maybe he was just intimidated. Or inexperienced. Well, that made two of them.

Whatever it was, it could wait—she was juggling a lot of balls right now and wasn’t sure she wanted to handle two more.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re along,” she said. “After all, you found her.”

“You asked me to sniff around locally. Anything for a lady.”

“Not that anyone’s going to ask, but if they do, she could have turned up as part of your investigation into Cheape’s murder.”

They got out into a chill wind and crossed the road, approaching the drab residence of Winifred Luckie. Watts had already gotten her up to speed on the woman’s details: born in Hartsdale, New York; aged thirty-nine; unmarried, no children; graduate of Hudson Valley Community College. She’d moved to New Mexico in 2006 and worked as a substitute teacher, employed off and on, occasionally applying for support from the New Mexico Human Services Department in between jobs.

Corrie had purposely not alerted the woman they were coming. This time, her gut told her to catch the woman off guard, before she’d had time to prepare. It was 10 AM on a holiday Monday, and even if Winifred Luckie was currently working, which her background check indicated was probably not the case, there would be no school.

Their knock was answered by a woman in a sweatshirt and black leggings. One look at her clothes and uncombed hair told Corrie she probably hadn’t worked in a while.

“Winifred Luckie?” she said, holding her ID up through the door’s security bars. “I’m Special Agent Corinne Swanson of the FBI, and this is Sheriff Homer Watts. Could we come inside and ask you a few questions?”

“What about?”

“Rodney O’Connell.”

“Have you found him?”

“Not yet.” The woman seemed in no hurry to open the door. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, could we speak inside?”

The woman hesitated long enough to examine their IDs once more, then unlocked the security door and let them in.

The apartment beyond was in a kind of curious disorder. To Corrie, it looked as if attempts had been made to stem the mess but, like an encroaching tide, it kept returning. Carefully stacked Tupperware containers on the dining room table were surrounded by a litter of Chinese take-out cartons. An ironing board in the corner, clothes folded atop it, had its legs buried in unwashed T-shirts and underwear. As the woman led them through the dining room and into an adjoining living area, Corrie noticed that one corner held a card table with a computer atop it. This area had been kept scrupulously clean. Beside it was an improvised plank bookshelf, and Corrie was surprised to see that Luckie shared her taste in both music and fiction. There were scuffed CDs of Inade and Stars of the Lid, as well as some of her childhood SF favorites by Larry Niven and Roger Zelazny, along with a handful of obscure thrillers, including the sadly forgotten Ice Limit IV: Wormstorm.

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