Page 98 of Dead Mountain

“Maybe it has something to do with that case they opened up again—those dead hikers.”

“You know, that’s probably it,” said Jo. She paused. “So what should we do if they don’t come back?”

“If I don’t see them by four thirty, I’m going to take the Cat out and follow their trail.”

This brought a look of apprehension to Jo’s face. “They should’ve waited till after the storm.”

A chime rang in the kitchen, indicating a vehicle had come through the gate. Puller stuck his head out the front door of the lodge and saw a black Hummer approaching slowly. “Looks like we got some more feds.”

“Thank heavens for that. Let them look after their own.”

Puller went outside and waited while the vehicle drew up. It stopped next to him, and the smoked passenger window slid down.

“Howdy,” said Puller to the men inside. “You with those two FBI gals that came through here a while ago?”

“Sure are,” said the driver. “Where’d they go? We’re worried about them.”

“I am, too. They hauled their snowmachine to the end of the road and headed over into the Knot.”

“The Knot,” said the man. “Right. When was this?”

“About one o’clock. You going after them?”

“We hope to.”

“You’re going to need a snowmachine.”

“We were hoping we might rent some of yours.”

“Rent? Hell no, I’d be glad to let the FBI borrow them. Over there in the garage, second bay—two of them, all gassed up and ready to go. I keep them in tip-top shape.” He hesitated, glancing at the two men in the front and three in the back. None were properly dressed. “There’s a rack of monosuits there, too. You know how to drive a snowmachine?”

“Absolutely,” the driver said, with a friendly smile. “Is there anyone else on the premises?”

“No, just my better half, Jo.” He nodded toward the house.

“Thank you so much, Mr. . . . ?”

“Puller. Sam Puller.”

“Supervisory Special Agent Sharp. And these are agents from the Albuquerque Field Office, assisting in the investigation. Good to meet you, Sam, and thanks for supporting law enforcement.” The driver reached over his companion and stuck out his hand, and Puller shook it.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the agent named Sharp. “I realize I haven’t shown you any identification.”

“No need,” Puller said, but the man was already reaching under the dashboard. His hand came up holding a gun. The last thing Puller heard, to his vast astonishment, was the sound of the point-blank shot into his face.

Four men jumped out of the Hummer. One pair grabbed the body of Puller, rolled it up in a plastic tarp, and threw it in the back. The other two ran into the lodge. A moment later there were two shots in rapid succession, and not long after the two men came back out carrying another body wrapped in plastic, which they also heaved into the rear.

The man with the gun had stayed in the driver’s seat. He now leaned out the window. “Make sure the entrance gate is closed and locked.”

“Yes, Dr. DeGregorio,” said one of the men.

DeGregorio pulled the Hummer over to the multicar garage, on the far side of the plowed reception area. Everyone exited the vehicle. One pulled up the door of the second bay, revealing two snowmobiles, with half a dozen monosuits and helmets hanging on a nearby wall.

DeGregorio pulled down a suit for himself and gestured for the others to do the same. “Let’s move,” he said, yanking himself into the suit.

54

Even before that, though, we’d started to feel seriously weird. High, like. Not the usual high like weed or alcohol . . . at first I thought maybe shrooms. I knew something was fucked up with the way my brain was processing the world, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I thought it was just me. Then Amanda said, Is anyone else feeling strange?

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