She took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, slowly. She flexed her fingers, adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. Remotely, she was relieved to see her hands weren’t trembling.

Get a grip, take it one step at a time, and play it by the book.

She exited at a sign marked GLORIETA PASS BATTLEFIELD NATIONAL PARK onto a rutted road that took her higher into the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, then leveled off onto a mesa top. Ahead she could see the land dividing, ultimately leading to a twin set of ridges that slowly sank away to the north and the south. She wondered, a little idly, if that was the so-called pass, and who Glorieta was.

Now ahead she could see a grouping of RVs and Airstreams parked on the shoulder, their doors open and the occupants standing around in the sun, looking pissed. Another quarter mile, and she found out why: the entrance to PIGEON’S RANCH CEMETERY—GLORIETA PASS was blocked by a sheriff’s cruiser, light bar flashing. She stopped and a deputy got out of the cruiser. Swanson had her ID on a lanyard around her neck and held it up for his inspection. The young deputy looked at her, at the ID, and then back again before finally nodding and returning to his vehicle. He revved the engine and moved it so Swanson could pass. Ahead, beyond a gate, a cluster of signs, and a parking turnout, she could see several official vehicles, parked haphazardly.

She took another deep breath.

Pulling in beside the vehicles, she got out and began to walk, first across a paved surface, and then up a gravel path. Weathered graves, each with a number and some sporting small explanatory labels, began to appear on her left and right. She could make out perhaps a dozen people in the distance, in a corner of the cemetery—uniformed officers, national park rangers, a few figures in monkey suits, medical personnel, a woman with a camera, one or two others whose purpose was not immediately identifiable—all standing around as if waiting. As she approached, the heads all swiveled in her direction and she realized it was her they’d been waiting for.

The last of the random thoughts abandoned her and her heart began pumping a mile a minute.

Be cool, she told herself. You’ve got this. As she continued walking, she forced herself to mentally review the case file Morwood had given her, to go over the crime scene training that had been drilled into her at the Academy. With relief she realized that, despite her nerves, she felt a good grounding of confidence beneath her feet. Whatever else happened, she wasn’t going to panic.

The group broke up a bit as she drew closer, then one person stepped forward—a middle-aged man, muscular and deeply tanned, with a bottlebrush mustache. He wore the hat and uniform of the sheriff’s department.

“Gus Turpenseed,” he said, sticking out his hand. “Sheriff, San Miguel County.”

Swanson shook it, fingers stiffening as she felt the crushing, intimidating grip. “Agent Swanson, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“Good to meet you, Agent Swanson,” the sheriff said, glancing back at another man wearing the star of a deputy sheriff, who grinned and nodded faintly.

Everyone seemed to be staring at the ID and shield on her lanyard.

“Agent Morwood mentioned you,” Turpenseed said, “but I didn’t expect—”

“A woman?”

“Someone so young.”

“I see.” Swanson was surprised to find herself not rising to the bait. It was the FBI shield, she realized; she had it, he didn’t, and though he might not like it, he couldn’t do shit about it. This realization gave her a tickling sensation of power. Growing up, power was the one thing she’d never had. And so she’d built up a carapace of sarcastic belligerence and resentment toward authority. Ironic how she was the authority now.

She looked around, taking in the other faces, the scene itself—an open grave, surrounded by crime tape, a confusion of dirt, plastic tarp, tools, and a partially covered body at the grave bottom—familiarizing herself with the situation as she let a silence build. Then she turned back to Turpenseed. “You’re right, I’m young—and I’m not getting younger standing here. So let’s get on with it. Who was first on the scene?”

A blond woman in a ranger’s uniform separated herself from the group. “I was.”

“Your name?”

“Grant.”

“Want to tell me what happened?”

The ranger nodded. “I got here at seven thirty to open the cemetery and prepare it for visitors. One of my duties is to walk the perimeter. As I was doing so, I noticed this mound of earth.” She nodded over her shoulder. “Coming closer, I saw the hole in the ground. At first I thought it might be grave robbers, come for Regis. But then I saw that man in the hole, partly covered by dirt. And blood. So I turned and called for Alec.”

“Alec?”

“Alec Quinn. He’s the other ranger on duty with me today. His car was just pulling in.”

“Go on.”

Another ranger, apparently Quinn, stepped forward and took over the story. “I thought there was a chance the man was still alive. So I jumped into the hole and began brushing the dirt from him. And then when I saw that—” He swallowed. “That he was dead, I got out and made some calls. There were no ISB agents in the area, so I notified the sheriff.”

Swanson nodded. She knew that the ISB, or Investigative Services Branch, comprised the special agents of the National Park Service. She also knew there were a total of about three dozen agents to cover the entire country.

She looked around. “Who’s heading the local CSU team?”

A short man of about sixty approached. “Larssen. Santa Fe Crime Scene Unit.”

“You’ve been waiting for the feds?”

“That we have,” the man said.

“Sorry to keep you. Please get started, and I’ll be with you shortly.” Now Swanson turned back to Quinn. “And when did you decide to call the FBI?” she asked.

Quinn reddened. “It’s not as cut-and-dried as you might think,” he said. “Glorieta Pass has only been ranked a Class A battlefield for the last twenty-five years. And most of it is on private land. Only about twenty percent, the Pigeon’s Ranch unit, is technically under National Park Service jurisdiction.”

“I called the FBI while we were verifying the authorization,” Grant said.

Swanson nodded. “Did you see anything or anybody else?” she asked.

The woman shook her head. “It was like this when we arrived. Once we understood the victim was dead, we backed off and left it alone.”

“Nothing out of place? Suspicious in any way?”

Another shake of the head.

“What are the park hours?”

“Eight to six.”

“And there’s nobody here at night?”

“No.”

“You aren’t worried about vandals? Souvenir hunters?”

“That’s never been a problem before,” Quinn told her. “Folks around here respect the dead. We’re pretty remote, too, and besides, funding is tight. The trust does what it can, but most of the money is put toward upkeep and restoration. Glorieta Pass is considered an endangered battlefield. It’s got a Priority I rating—one of only a dozen such battlefields to have one.”

Swanson had already learned there was a different mind-set in this part of the country. It wasn’t all that unlike rural Kansas, really, where she grew up—too much empty land to police effectively, and not enough bodies or money to police it.