He paused. Corrie remained silent.

“And in the process, you’ve made some missteps.”

“Like what?” She blurted it out before she could stop herself.

“Well, you should never have spoken of your suspicions about Peel’s death. Maybe you hoped to rattle them, shake out a suspect. But you did it before you knew it was a homicide. The first rule of an investigation is to keep your suspicions to yourself and only reveal information if there is an extremely pressing need to do so—and if the information is solid. I shouldn’t have to remind you of FBI procedure: Say nothing. Do not opine. Do not speak of your evidence. Do not discuss any aspect of the case with civilians.”

Corrie felt herself flushing deeply. She knew, of course, Morwood was right. It was one of the things they drilled into you at the Academy.

“The second thing is that you have not worked well with local law enforcement.”

“You mean Sheriff Devlin? And those Forest Service guys? They were tramping all over the site like bulls in a china shop. They were disrespectful of my authority and pretty much forced me to pull rank.”

“I have no doubt they were difficult. But locals are often difficult when the FBI shows up. They don’t like us butting into their territory. You have to learn how to handle that.”

So Devlin went whining to the Bureau about our little standoff in the ravine. Figures. “But, sir, I was totally respectful of them.”

“You managed to seriously piss off Sheriff Devlin. He’s one of these good old boys: a bit sexist, not terribly smart, but in essence a decent guy. You’re going to meet a ton of Devlins—and Turpenseeds—in your career. You’ve got to find a better way to get along with them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“At any rate, I’m shutting down this branch of the investigation. It’s a dead end. You’re going to shift focus on this case back where it belongs: New Mexico and Arizona.”

“Yes, sir,” Corrie said again. She felt the heat in her face and hoped to God she wouldn’t start to cry.

Morwood reached across the table and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Corrie, you’re going to make a good FBI agent. I know it’s a truism, but we were all rookies once.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ve booked a room for you at the Truckee Motel tonight. We’ll drive back to Albuquerque in the morning.”

Corrie looked at him. “Albuquerque?” It was a stupid question; Morwood’s announcement was still sinking in. She should have expected it when he told her to bring down her gear.

Morwood nodded. “It’s over. With Peel’s death being ruled an accident, there’s nothing to investigate.”

38

NORA SAT IN her tent, using the last of the evening light to update her journal. It had, in its own way, been a momentous day. They had completed the excavation. And though Parkin’s skull was missing, they’d recovered Samantha Carville’s leg and could reunify it with the rest of her remains. While they hadn’t yet found the gold, they still had time during the wrapping-up period to search. Maybe, she thought, the cornice would give way in the storm forecast for the coming days. If not, they could always come back later, in the summer, after the snowfields disappeared from the high country.

“Champagne!” she heard Clive call from the kitchen area. “Come and get it!”

With a smile, she shut her notebook and exited her tent. Clive was standing by the fire, waving a bottle around. “Time to celebrate!”

“For God’s sake, man, don’t shake it up!” Burleson said, emerging from his own tent. The atmosphere in camp had improved considerably since the FBI agent had left. Morale was high, and even Maggie, who had been dour of late, was in a buoyant mood—perhaps because Nora had told her of the finding of Samantha Carville’s missing leg bone. She hovered over the fire, a pile of raw steaks and roasting ears ready to toss on the grill.

Clive worked off the cork with a pop. As it flew into the air, Wiggett snagged it with a deft one-handed catch.

“The man who makes the catch gets the first glass.” Wiggett stuck out his tin cup and Clive poured champagne into it, then went around the circle, opening a second bottle when the first was empty.

He raised his glass. “To the Donner Party—those who died and those who lived.”

“Hear, hear.”

Everyone drank and now a third bottle went around.

“So what’s the takeaway?” Burleson asked. “Give us a rundown on your discoveries.”

“In any archaeological excavation,” Nora said, “ninety percent of the real discoveries come in the lab. But we’ve already learned a lot.”

“We’re all ears.”

“It’s obvious the Lost Camp was the hardest hit of the three. We found many signs of the struggles they must have endured. They built a shelter, ate their oxen, ate their dogs. But they refrained from eating human flesh for a long time, except for one early moment of weakness when the two murderers, it seems, dug up Samantha Carville’s frozen body and began to eat her leg. But finally, in late February, when Albert Parkin died, most of the others finally broke down. That’s when the real cannibalism set in. Followed, according to Boardman’s account, by madness.”

“Why did they go nuts?” Maggie asked.

“Extreme starvation is known to cause neurological problems, including temporary derangement. Even the other two camps, which did not endure quite such extreme hardship, were affected—admittedly, to a lesser degree.”

“And how many of the dead have you identified so far?” asked Burleson.

“People’s remains were processed, boiled, gnawed on, and reboiled to extract every bit of nourishment—that’s how desperate they were, and that’s what will take the most lab time. So far, we’ve identified four individuals to a high degree of confidence: Samantha Carville, Spitzer and Reinhardt, and Albert Parkin.”

“And the gold?” Wiggett asked.

“I still believe we’ll find it.” She turned. “Clive, do you want to add anything?”

The historian took a sip of champagne, composing his thoughts. “I just want to say how grateful I am to everyone. Every single person here, in one way or another, did their part to make this possible. And I’m especially grateful to you, Nora. You know how strongly I felt about this, and you not only helped get the expedition on its feet—you were patient.” He paused. “Knowing what happened here matters. This is not just a story of cannibalism and death; I see this as a testimony to courage and survival.”

The fire had died into coals and Maggie began loading the steaks and corn on the grill, with an accompanying sizzle of roasting meat. Nora realized the discussion of cannibalism seemed to make that particular sound, and smell, a little repellent to her. But at least the corn looked appetizing.

* * *

They all went to bed rather jolly from the champagne. Nora drifted off to the scent of the campfire and the trilling of crickets—only to be awoken in the middle of the night by loud voices. She unzipped her tent as flashlight beams swung through the darkness and Maggie stood in the middle of everything, wearing her voluminous pajamas, talking loudly. It seemed she had had another nightmare.