Page 92 of Dead Mountain

SUPERVISORY AGENT CLAY Sharp sat in the living room of his house in the High Desert section of Albuquerque. The room was furnished with such spareness it might have been a monk’s cell, if it weren’t for the large, high ceiling and the single painting on one otherwise bare wall. The painting was a Rothko from the artist’s early “multiform” period, extravagantly expensive. Sharp had decided one perfect specimen of art was better than a dozen inferior ones and had used his entire lifetime art budget on this single splurge.

Ornette Coleman’s Free Jazz was playing, at a rather high volume, from speakers set into the walls. Sharp was not a devotee of jazz, and the music of someone like Coleman was particularly anathema to him, but he’d set the album-long piece to repeat again and again as a kind of counter-irritant. It wasn’t helping, and now he reached for a remote, switched off the music, and resumed staring moodily at the painting.

He’d told himself over and over again his only choice was to accept what had happened. The air force certainly had good reasons to cover up an accident like that. Revealing it would have caused a scandal, brought comfort to America’s enemies, and frightened the American people. It made sense that the government would be eager to suppress it.

But somehow, having good reasons wasn’t enough—not in this case. Something else was going on here: a crime, or several crimes, that had been festering for years. Sharp believed in national security: in fact, it lay at the foundation of his own moral principles. But on the other hand, the Dead Mountain victims had the right to justice. Revealing the accident would be bad publicity—but it could be contained, and it did not in any way compromise the security of his country. On the other hand, he was now being forced to lie to citizens of that same country—the families of the victims—and, perhaps worse, pretend to investigate a case that was already, or very nearly, resolved. It went against everything he believed in.

His thoughts turned to Gold. The man had been second in charge of the Albuquerque office and one of the most decorated FBI agents in the Mountain West. A year or so after taking on the Dead Mountain case, he’d resigned—and then his life had gone downhill. Had he, too, figured out what happened—and been quashed? The more Sharp thought about it, the more he felt it was likely. It would explain a great deal—not just Gold’s failure to solve the case, but the many avenues of investigation the man had inexplicably neglected to follow. If he’d just followed orders, pretended to investigate . . . then all the things he did—and didn’t do—fell into line. And being forced to follow such perverse orders destroyed him.

Sharp’s father had been a decorated marine; his grandfather and great-grandfather had both been full-bird colonels in the Corps; there had been a Sharp among the marines aboard the Bonhomme Richard. And so although Sharp himself had grown up more interested in art history than combat, he had dutifully enlisted. It was during his training that the Corps discovered he was not only a superb marksman, but also intellectually and emotionally well suited for intelligence and counterintelligence duties.

The beginning of his actual service coincided with the Iraq War. After two years of HUMINT work, with his shifting from one nameless sub-agency to another, the war abruptly escalated, and Sharp found himself temporarily seconded to a task force, in support of Marine Recon Snipers, during the acute lack of manpower that followed in the wake of Operation Phantom Fury, the Second Battle of Fallujah.

Sharp had already killed enemy combatants and spies in the line of duty. But now, following a series of tactical missteps from HQ, he found himself unexpectedly defending a weakened American flank, sniper rifle in his hands, fighting off repeated assaults by the AQI, the IAI, and Iraq’s Secret Army. In fifteen minutes of the first, intense engagement, he’d shot half a dozen insurgents. Within twenty-four hours, he’d lost count.

At last, after successive waves of reinforcements and heroic sacrifices on the part of the U.S. infantrymen, they had prevailed. The spider holes, IEDs, and Jersey barriers were cleared, and the surviving enemy had retreated. But two months later, when he returned to his previous work, Sharp found himself a changed man. What he had seen and done in Fallujah was classified, as of course was all of his work. He couldn’t speak of it—and he couldn’t unsee it. The waves of zealots, disintegrating in hails of 850 rpm .50 caliber bullets from entrenched M2s. Grandmothers and children, used by the enemy as two-legged shrapnel devices. Faces losing shape as they melted under sheets of white phosphorus. Friends he’d made—the instant friendships formed in the heat of battle, former strangers now trusted to watch your back and save your life—dying hours or even minutes after their first shaking hands. And so he’d left the service, with a Silver Star, at the first honorable opportunity. Both his parents had died while he was overseas, and he’d inherited a significant amount of money. Not knowing what else to do, feeling rudderless, but with a clear understanding that—for his own emotional well-being—he had to find an all-consuming occupation, and quickly, he’d joined the FBI. And he’d remained there for seventeen years, rendering exceptional and at times secretive service—and keeping his personal life, and personal baggage, locked up tightly inside himself.

Now he looked at the clock. In disgust he noted it was only noon. He stood up anyway, went into the kitchen, opened the liquor cabinet doors, took out a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, and poured himself three fingers, tossing half of it back. He felt the liquid burn down his throat. He retreated back to the living room, drink in hand. He’d acquired a taste for single malt scotch while overseas, and while the idea of blended scotch appalled him, he found the notion of “age statement” blends, which used expensive whiskies in an attempt to re-create flavor profiles from a century ago, amusing enough to pick up a bottle of Blue. And, goddammit, he liked the stuff . . . even though it cost as much as three bottles of Lagavulin.

He sat down and took another slug. But not even the liquor seemed to help.

He thought of his first and only mentee, Corrie Swanson. She was smart, persistent, idealistic, fearless, and, at times, a pain in the ass. Most good agents were pains in the ass. She’d done excellent work with the case, and even learned how the two bodies had been crushed—something that had remained a mystery for fifteen years. What a clusterfuck that this should happen so early in her career. He’d be able to retire in a few years—although until now, he’d had no intention of retiring until the mandatory age of fifty-seven. But Corrie was just starting out. He’d never mentored anyone before, but he approved of her strong idealism and sense of duty. And now—Christ, to be ordered to lie to grieving families? How was that going to work out for her over the next nineteen years?

He knocked back the rest of the drink.

He shouldn’t have been so hard on her in that last conversation. God knows, he hadn’t meant to be. Abruptly, a feeling that had lain dormant almost twenty years had washed over him in the wake of meeting with Garcia: pinned down in a hot-war situation, with no acceptable exit strategy. He’d tried to tamp it down, but Corrie coming up, worrying and worrying at the bone of the case after they’d been told to stand down—well, he’d responded with a kind of emotion he hadn’t felt since Fallujah.

The accident pretty much solved everything. Of course, as with any case, there were details that remained puzzling. That murder-suicide in the cave, for example. But people did crazy things when pushed to the extreme. If he wasn’t sworn to secrecy, he could cite hair-curling examples of that by the dozen.

But that business about the hikers slicing their way from the tent instead of simply fleeing out the door . . . it was true that didn’t quite square with the accident. And why wouldn’t they take the few seconds necessary to put on their coats and boots? As he sat in his silent retreat, he had to admit Corrie made some good points. But what good was any of that when the case had been permanently quashed? Nevertheless, he felt a twinge of guilt for being hard on her. She was still his mentee, despite everything, and she needed him now more than ever. Of course, he could never tell her the real reasons he’d erupted like that: it was not only a former self briefly reappearing again, but it was also the frustration of tilting at windmills. The windmills always won.

Nevertheless, he really should check in with her, see how she was doing, let her know—tactfully—that he understood exactly how she felt. He picked up his FBI cell phone and dialed.

The call immediately clicked over to voice mail.

He looked at the screen of the phone, a prickling feeling on the base of his neck. Although she might be pretty disgusted with the FBI right now, she was never under any circumstances allowed to turn off her work phone. Which meant she was probably out of range.

After a moment’s thought, he dialed Nora Kelly.

Again, the call went straight to voice mail.

Now he sat up. What the hell? Had they both turned off their phones . . . or were they both out of range?

He placed a call to the dispatcher at Albuquerque FO as an uneasy thought formed in his mind. “Hi, Gloria,” he said. “Did Agent Swanson check out a vehicle today from the pool?”

“As a matter of fact she did, Agent Sharp. A four-wheel-drive Jeep Wrangler. Said she might be driving in snow.”

“Thank you.”

Sharp lowered the phone.

What about Corrie’s friend Sheriff Watts? Maybe he knew something about her whereabouts or intentions. He raised the phone and dialed Watts. His call was answered immediately.

“Sheriff? It’s Agent Sharp . . .”

50

BY THE TIME they’d unloaded the snowmobile, packed it with their equipment and supplies, stepped into their monosuits, and donned their helmets, it was one o’clock. Gray clouds now scudded across the sky and the temperature was dropping.

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