“I agree,” Corrie said. “So is homicide—as in the execution of Serban.”

“Beyond the Parkin connection,” Morwood asked, “what other evidence do you have to connect these cases?”

“None yet, sir.”

“And no doubt you’ve contacted other Parkins, living and directly related, to see if they know anything about this—with negative results?”

That had proven time consuming. “Correct as well.”

“And you’ve checked to see how many other Parkins still lie in their graves, undisturbed?”

That had proven even more time consuming. “Yes. There aren’t many—the family line is thin.”

“Do you have any leads beyond the Parkin connection?”

“Not beyond, sir.”

Morwood took a sip of coffee, a sure sign he was preparing to pass the floor to another agent.

“There is one thing.” Here it was—the other part Morwood didn’t know about.

The supervisory special agent raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“I spread my net pretty wide. And in the course of doing so, I flagged some information that—well, seemed to me of interest.”

Morwood put down his coffee. “Agent Swanson, surprise me.”

“Any archaeological excavations on federal land require extensive paperwork. Several months ago, the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute in New Mexico submitted paperwork proposing an excavation of a campsite of the Donner Party.”

She looked around the table, to be greeted by blank faces.

“The Donner Party. They were the pioneers whose wagon train got snowbound for an entire winter in the Sierra Nevada, in 1847. Many of the survivors resorted to cannibalism to stay alive.”

Now some of the faces registered recognition.

She continued more quickly. “One of the party who died that winter was Albert Parkin. It turns out this Albert Parkin is the direct common ancestor of all four Parkins in our case. The Santa Fe Archaeological Institute is currently searching for that campsite and intends to excavate it.”

Morwood was, indeed, now looking surprised—and not in a good way. “And?”

“I spoke to the president of the Institute, a Dr. Fugit. This is a legitimate organization and the excavation is approved by both the feds and the state of California.”

“I ask again: and?”

“Well, sir, this means that, if they’re successful, yet another set of Parkin remains might be excavated—legally this time. It seems like a strange coincidence that should be investigated.”

“I see,” said Morwood. “And let me guess. You want to go out to the Sierra Nevada, track down this archaeological expedition, and in one way or another make their lives miserable.”

“That—” Corrie began, but decided not to finish.

There was a brief silence around the table. Out of the corner of her eye, Corrie could see Wantaugh smirking.

Morwood sighed. “Let me remind you, Agent Swanson, what you were tasked with: discovering who killed that gravedigger at Pigeon’s Ranch.”

“And that’s what I’m doing, sir,” Corrie replied. She felt herself growing hot under the collar.

“You have already taken a trip to Arizona in pursuit of this theory. And accessed unapproved civilian databases to further your investigation. What you are suggesting would take several days, at the least. On what can only be called the thinnest of leads.”

“With respect, sir, Albert Parkin is the common link. The ancestor of them all. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that, out of nowhere, Parkins are being dug up all over the world?”

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Swanson—but I believe you’ve fallen into a rookie trap.”

“Which is?”

“You’ve let the case lead you, rather than leading the case. It’s a common problem among first- and second-year agents, nothing to be ashamed of.”

Corrie, tense in her seat, balled her fists below the table. Nothing made her angrier than being patronized. Well, except some jackass sexually harassing her—which had been a problem at the Academy.

Morwood’s voice was quiet, even gentle, but the words cut her like a knife. “This is a good object lesson, and one that everybody in this room either has learned or will learn soon enough. Focus on the case at hand, and don’t chase after every circumstantial lead.” He looked pointedly at her. “Ask yourself: what could this Albert Parkin, who died in 1847 in the mountains of California, possibly have to do with the homicide of Frank Serban in a Civil War cemetery almost two centuries later? Albert Parkin’s remains haven’t even been found yet. And you yourself said this excavation is being conducted by a highly accredited organization with all the required permits—nothing like nighttime grave robbing.”

He took a deep breath. Corrie could see he was about to draw the lesson for everyone in the room.

“There’s an insidious danger we all face in our job today: computers are too good at giving us information. We at the FBI are faced with an overwhelming deluge of data. It becomes difficult to determine which leads are valuable and which are just coincidence…or wishful thinking.”

He paused to let this sink in.

“And so what I’d suggest for your next action steps, Agent Swanson, is to continue the good work you’ve been doing. Continue the investigation into the Serban homicide. And while you’re doing that, keep an eye—a distant eye—on this Parkin family connection. Watch for any other incidents involving the family line. Wait and see if that expedition in California ever finds the remains of Albert Parkin.”

He gave Corrie a smile of encouragement along with an approving nod, but she could see the no in his eyes as well.

Morwood then took a hearty gulp of coffee and turned to Wantaugh. “All right, Agent,” he said. “We’re now ready for the next chapter in this thriller of yours.”

17

NORA HIKED BACK down Dollar Fork to Hackberry Creek, taking particular care—being on her own—not to slip on a rock or twist an ankle. She had to cross multiple times going downstream before she reached Poker Creek. By then her feet were freezing and making a squelching sound with every step. The clouds were lifting, revealing a fresh snow line laid down by the storm. The line looked a lot closer than it had on the first day they packed in.

She started up Poker Creek and in forty minutes had reached the defile, then the wall of dead trees. Instead of looking for the profile of an old woman, she walked along the base of the cliffs searching for freshly fallen rock that might indicate where the profile had once been. The job wasn’t difficult: rock had been falling for tens of thousands of years, leaving long scree slopes and boulders, but most of it was covered with lichen and buried in soil. The rock faces were riddled with cracks and holes. As she worked her way along, a pair of ravens flew overhead, cawing their displeasure. The air smelled of fir trees. A strange, icy feeling took hold as the mists once again descended, obscuring the peaks and turning the valley into a lake of ghostly mist.

She reached the end of the valley and started back down the other side, almost immediately coming upon a fresher rockfall—recent enough that the trees it had knocked down could still be seen rotting among the broken rocks. She backed away and looked up. Along the edge of the bluff, below the line of melting snow, she spied an area of lighter, newly exposed rock where the canyon made a turn.