He urged his horse on and they rode single file along the ridge. A sheer chasm plunged downward on their left, a chill wind blowing up from below.

“We should stop here, tie up the horses, and go the last few hundred feet on foot,” Burleson said. “I don’t like the footing, and I’d rather disturb the area as little as possible.”

“Good idea,” said Clive.

They dismounted and tied their horses by their lead ropes to some dwarf pines below the ridgeline, out of the wind. Wiggett led the way, snapping on his headlamp, as they walked over the rounded granite rocks. A half-built cairn came into view, stones tumbled about.

Burleson shone his headlamp over it. “Looks fresh, all right. And over there are some pieces of wood, like he was going to make a cross. Guess I was wrong—he wasn’t headed into town to find a clergyman, after all; he was going to bury those bones in the wilderness, where nobody would disturb them again.” He paused. “Looks as if he was building it when he fell. That’s one hell of an edge.”

Nora shone her light on the oblong pile of rocks and then toward the cliff edge, about thirty feet away. Only blackness yawned beyond.

“He’s down there,” said Wiggett, pointing.

Nora and the others approached gingerly. She knelt at the edge and looked down. The valley was flooded in moonlight and she could see, perhaps five hundred feet below, the horribly twisted body of a man. Scattered around him were bits of white. She took out her binoculars and saw immediately that the bits were scattered fragments of bone, spilled from a pair of torn saddlebags that had tumbled down the cliff with him.

Clive knelt next to her. Silently, he took the binoculars from her hands. “Jesus, how awful. And I suppose those are the bones he stole—or what’s left of them—lying around him.”

For a moment, everyone was silent, wrapped in their own thoughts. Then Burleson abruptly spoke.

“How is it possible,” he asked, “that a man as experienced in the wilderness as Peel would fall off a cliff like this?”

“Late at night,” Wiggett replied. “The moon had set. He’s collecting rocks for his grave. He’s agitated, upset, not thinking clearly.”

“Maybe even had a drink or two,” Clive added.

“Peel didn’t drink.”

Nora looked down again, fighting off a sense of vertigo despite her long experience with heights. The cliff edge was, in fact, so sharp it could have been cut with a knife. Anyone might have walked over the edge. Except…

“Wouldn’t he have had a headlamp?” she asked.

“You’d think so,” said Burleson.

Nora backed away from the edge. Then she rose to her feet. “I think we’d better ride back to camp and notify the police.”

31

May 14

SPECIAL AGENT CORRIE Swanson rode at the rear of a string of horses winding their way up the ridgeline. Ahead of her was the wrangler who was acting as guide; the county sheriff, a burly man named Blake Devlin; his deputy; and two Forest Service law enforcement officers—all on horses supplied by the Red Mountain Ranch. The county coroner was up there, too, a funny, small man who didn’t seem to have anything much to say and looked silly perched on a very large horse. It was quite a motley crowd, Corrie mused, to be making its way along a series of rocky ridges high in the Sierras. They were at an altitude of over seven thousand feet, in a country of barren granite peaks and knobs, with little twisted pine trees growing here and there. Beyond stood higher mountain peaks heavily patched with snowfields.

Corrie did not like horseback riding. The holster carrying her Glock was digging into her ribs, and the handcuffs tucked into her back—why the hell had she brought those?—were rubbing against her spine. Her bulging saddlebags carried the paraphernalia she had brought for collecting evidence—booties, gloves, mask, hair net, evidence tubes, digital camera, Ziploc bags, penlight, and tweezers. Normally an FBI response team would handle evidence collection, but in this case Morwood had declined to provide one, since all initial reports suggested the death was an accident. And, he pointed out, Corrie was supposed to be a forensic expert herself. Which she was, in theory—but with no field experience yet.

When she had arrived that morning at Red Mountain Ranch, the other four in the law enforcement group—middle-aged men all—seemed to know one another already and were saddling up. It was pretty clear from the unenthusiastic way they greeted her that she was an unwelcome interloper. Corrie was acutely aware of how young and inexperienced she looked. But she was determined, for that very reason, to be cool and correct in all her interactions. Even if it’s a straightforward accident, Morwood had told her, it’ll offer you some valuable experience.

As the group rounded a bend in the ridge, she could see where someone had strung rope across the trail as temporary crime scene tape. That was good. She wondered who had done it.

They all halted their horses and Corrie dismounted. She untied the saddlebags and draped them over her shoulder. The wrangler from Red Mountain who had guided them up came over and took the reins, leading her horse away with the others. She looked around. The guys were confabbing in a group. Abruptly, they all broke into laughter about something.

Stepping over the rope, Corrie made her way to the edge of the cliff. It was a long, sheer drop. At the bottom, she could see the body of the victim, saddlebags lying nearby. On the ridge next to her stood a half-built pile of stones, and not far away were two freshly carved and peeled sticks. Evidently, the man had been in the process of making a cross when he fell. The ground was mostly solid granite, with patches of moss and alpine flowers in the cracks—pretty much the worst possible ground to record evidence, and a close examination of the edge of the cliff and the cairn of stones did not reveal a single trace of man or horse.

Taking out her camera, she snapped a number of photographs. Meanwhile, the sheriff and deputy and the two Forest officers came walking up behind, still talking and laughing. They stood around, obviously uninterested but nevertheless, she thought, having a grand time playing cowboy in their hats and boots.

She felt a presence behind her and turned. The archaeologist, Nora Kelly, approached rather tentatively. Behind her was the man Corrie recognized as Benton, the expedition’s historian, and two other familiar faces.

“Any idea what happened?” the woman asked.

“I don’t think there’s much to find up here,” said Corrie. “I’d like to get down below to examine the body. Do you know the way?”

“I’ll show you. Looks like the coroner is heading down there already.”

Corrie followed Nora Kelly along the ridgeline to a steep couloir that led down into the ravine below. They descended carefully to the bottom. A stream flowed through the ravine, with meadows and stands of tall firs on either side. Hiking alongside the stream, they soon came to another piece of rope.

“Who put up this rope?” Corrie asked.

“I told Wiggett to do it, before everyone came up. I didn’t want anyone tramping through here and picking up things. Especially the old bones Peel stole.”

“Wiggett, the assistant wrangler?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for doing that.”