Quinn, the young ranger, crossed himself.

“That’s no way to treat a lady,” came a familiar voice at her elbow. Swanson turned to see Morwood, hands behind his back, looking down into the hole and shaking his head. She’d been so engrossed that she hadn’t heard him approach.

“Hello, sir,” she said quickly. Behind him, she could see several others in various uniforms advancing—FBI support staff to complete the CSU work.

“Solved the case yet?” Morwood asked.

“Sir, I—”

“Never mind. It looks like you have things well in hand here—why don’t you brief me back at HQ.” He nodded at Larssen, who waved familiarly back.

Now the sheriff, Turpenseed, approached. He did not look happy. His cowboy boots were dusty from the search for evidence.

“Special Agent Morwood,” he said, removing his hat again and wiping his bald pate. “Glad to see a…more senior agent taking charge of the case.”

Swanson bit her lip.

“Looks to me like Agent Swanson has been doing quite a creditable job, sheriff,” Morwood said in an even tone.

“Oh, no doubt.” He grinned. “I just wasn’t aware the FBI was hiring out of high school these days.” He gave a guffaw and winked at her.

It came out before she could stop herself. “And I wasn’t aware mental deficiency was a requirement of being a New Mexico sheriff. These days.”

Morwood shot her a warning glance. Then he nodded to the sheriff and began making his way back down to the parking area. Swanson followed.

“The time-out stool for you tonight, Agent Swanson,” he said as they arrived at their vehicles.

10

May 1

YOU’RE GOING TO want to take these,” Skip said, picking up Nora’s binoculars from her desk and brandishing them. “You know a comet’s supposed to appear in ten days or so. You’ll get a great view up there in the high Sierras.”

“Good idea.” Nora took the binoculars from her brother and laid them out on the living room floor with the rest of the equipment. Her golden retriever, Mitty, was roving around, and she could tell he was worried. He knew something was up—humans didn’t normally wake for the day at 5 AM—and had been following her around the house, constantly underfoot and whining anxiously.

She paused in her packing to give him a reassuring scratch. “Skip’s going to look after you,” she said, smoothing his fur. “Don’t you worry.”

“That’s right.” Skip was walking around in his bare feet, holding a clipboard with a list of all her personal equipment, checking off each item as she put it in the duffel bag.

“There’s no muffler,” he said, frowning at the list. “It’s going to be cold up there at night, you know, even in May.”

“I’ve got a winter hat and scarf; that’s enough.”

“Nothing is as warm as a muffler, but okay, if you’re sure. And what about long underwear?”

“Right over there.”

Skip had been a fountain of freely offered advice during the packing process. If it were up to him, she’d be taking five trunks full of everything from umbrellas to an espresso machine. He had been extra solicitous of her the last several years, ever since she’d lost her husband in New York City under tragic circumstances. She had returned to Santa Fe, where she’d grown up, and been rehired by the Institute, where Skip worked as a collections manager. The Institute had assigned him to be a “liaison” with the expedition, which essentially meant he would be responsible for monitoring the Institute’s satellite phone. The phone would be the expedition’s only reliable link to the outside world while in the mountains.

“Long underwear, check,” said Skip, marking it on the list. “Woolen socks, check. Glove liners, check. French ticklers—”

“Knock it off.” Nora surveyed the gear littering the floor. It seemed a bit much—after all, they weren’t bound for the Himalayas, or even the remote canyons of southern Utah. The presumed location of the Lost Camp was only about a dozen miles from Interstate 80, which followed the route of the original California Trail. The Institute was supplying the expedition with the best of tents and outdoor gear. Fugit had also arranged for them to have access to the latest archaeological technology, including a resistivity meter, a portable magnetometer, and a handheld XRF analyzer.

Knowing a good PR opportunity when she saw one, Fugit had invited a local reporter from the Santa Fe Express to interview Nora about the expedition at her Institute office. Nora hadn’t been especially happy about this—she considered it bad luck to talk about an expedition until after its successful conclusion—but it was good for the Institute, so she’d consented, remaining vague and being careful to avoid any and all specifics that might attract the curious to their intended worksite. And of course, any mention of gold was absolutely forbidden.

“Anybody I should say goodbye to for you?” Skip asked with a knowing leer. “That guy Morris, for example?”

“The brainiac pencil pusher from Los Alamos? I haven’t talked to him in months.”

“Pencil pusher? Huh. He’s a nuclear engineer.” Skip played idly with the dog. “What about that professional climber, then? The one who led the expedition up K2 last year?”

“Parker Frampton? His biceps measurement was greater than his IQ.”

“Okay. So the nuclear engineer is too smart, and the mountain climber is too dumb.”

“Skip, don’t start.”

“Start what? I’m just saying.”

“I know what you’re just saying. And we have work to do.”

“You’re young—well, relatively speaking. You’re attractive as hell. But as your brother, I’ve got to say: if you keep looking hard enough, you’ll always find a reason why some poor guy isn’t going to measure up.”

Instead of replying, Nora began collecting the gear from the floor.

“Look. I know you still grieve. I do, too. But it’s been half a dozen years. You have to move on. That’s not a betrayal, and it doesn’t mean you love him any less. He’d want you to be happy! There’s more to life than your job, these four walls, and doting on Mitty. If Bill were here he’d say the same thing.”

Nora felt her face flush. “Well, he’s not. And mind your own business. Seems to me you’ve got your own hands full with that blond bartender over at the Cowgirl Tavern. Talk about a hot mess.”

“You’re always throwing shade at Georgetta! Anyway, we’re just friends.”

“Try telling her boyfriend that.”

This observation produced a storm of protest and self-justification. Thank God, Nora thought, that her brother was an easy person to redirect.

* * *

Soon everything was checked, packed in the duffel, and ready to go. Mitty was looking more anxious than ever, whining and trying to nuzzle Nora with his cold wet nose at every opportunity.

“Remember,” she told Skip. “One cup of food in the morning, one in the evening, always mixed with a raw egg, plus raw hamburger twice a week. And give him a real beef marrow bone from time to time, never one of those fake chewy things…”