Page 76 of Dead Mountain

“What bunker?” Corrie asked.

“That old one. The one on Kirtland, where his dad worked. They’d built it in the early fifties to shield the president and his brain trust in case of a nuke attack. The bunker had a front entry, but it also had a secret escape route: a long tunnel that led out the back. It came out somewhere in the mountains. The back door—Harry, I mean Mr. O’Connell—he’d been in charge of securing that. He bragged about it to Rod, said he’d used his son’s birthday as a code for the lock. Rod made me swear never, ever to tell anybody about it.”

As Helen spoke, the emotion drained from her voice until the final words sounded like a rote recitation.

“And where was this back exit?” Corrie asked.

“No idea. Rod said he’d take me, but then he disappeared . . .” She trailed off.

“Didn’t he give you any idea?” Corrie urged.

“No. Like I told you, he said the escape tunnel was long. It went through the mountain and came out on the other side, in a flat area where a helicopter could land. He never told me anything else.”

“What mountain?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone this?” Corrie asked.

“I didn’t want to get Rod and Dad—his dad—into trouble.” And now at last the sobs came.

Corrie walked slowly back across the street, trying to fit this last-minute revelation into the jigsaw of what she already knew. “Do you think that’s where O’Connell was headed?” she asked. “That bunker?”

To her disappointment, Watts didn’t look all that impressed. “I doubt it. That’s an area called the Knot. Suicide to go in there in wintertime, at night, in a snowstorm.”

“Oh yeah,” said Corrie. “I got a glimpse down into the Knot when we got the tour of Kirtland. That and the new dude ranch.”

“Rancho Bonito. They got yoga retreats, spas, massages, meditation, you name it.” Watts’s tone made clear how he felt about the place. “Anyway, that resort was only built a few years ago. I don’t think O’Connell would go into the Knot intentionally—even if he thought a back door was hidden there.”

“She said there was a flat spot—how many of those are there in those mountains?”

“It doesn’t take a big area to land a chopper,” Watts said.

Corrie nodded. “On another note, how did you dig up all that shit on the grifter girlfriend?”

“I know people who know people who know people,” he said, with a dimpled smile. “When I found her for you, I couldn’t resist putting the Cheape investigation aside for fifteen minutes and digging a little. I just had a feeling. Seems our dear Winifred, or Helen, or whoever, came into a nice income in the years after Rod’s death—and stopped working. Which ended abruptly when your friend Melody Ann arrived on the scene.”

As they got into the car, he added, “Well? I think that deserves at least a lunch—on you.”

Corrie laughed. “All right, you get lunch. But I’ve got another interview this afternoon, so it’ll have to be hot dogs from the food truck.”

“Make it a chili dog and you’ve just bought yourself a boy.” Grinning, Watts buckled himself in and adjusted his Resistol as Corrie pulled away from the curb and accelerated north.

40

THIS VISIT TO the jail was different from the first in every imaginable way. There were no papers for Nora to sign, checks to write, forms to be stamped. And Skip didn’t walk out of a side door, arms swinging, wearing his own clothes. This time, Nora and the lawyer, Lightfeather, had to endure pat-downs and magnetometer scans, and a long wait before passing through one locked door, then another, until they reached a small room, with a dirty plexiglass window in the far wall. There were two seats, but the space was barely big enough for both of them to sit. A minute passed, and then a light was switched on behind the glass and Skip came into view. Nora’s heart immediately sank. His wrists were chained in front of him, his legs were shackled, and he walked with a prisoner’s shuffle. He wore an orange coverall with PRISONER and the name of the county jail stenciled on both front and back. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and his hair was messed up. But worst of all was the look in his eyes: of a caged animal, desperate, close to panic.

“Nora!” he said, catching sight of her. “Oh my God, Nora!” He rushed toward the glass, only to be stopped by a guard who grabbed and propelled him into the chair. Then, when Skip was calm, he removed his handcuffs and left, closing the door behind him after saying, “Five minutes.”

“Skip!” Nora cried through a small circular grill in the plexiglass. “Are you all right?”

He massaged his wrists, then planted his elbows on the narrow metal railing in front of him and let his forehead sink onto his palms. “Sis, I’m so screwed.” His voice was quavering, on the edge of tears.

Nora spread her hands over the plexiglass, repelled by its greasy feel. “Skip, are you being abused? Are you in danger?”

Skip shook his head without lifting it. “No. It’s just—I can’t go to prison! I just can’t!”

“Skip,” Lightfeather said, leaning toward the speaker grill and speaking soothingly, “you’re in jail, but that’s just for violating conditions of release. It’s not a serious offense. You crossed the county line by five thousand yards—unintentionally. The real problem is—”

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