“Yes?” Devlin and his deputy, who had been hovering in the background, came over.

“Agent Swanson is saying we have to shut down everything. I’m trying to explain to her that’s impossible. Not just impossible, but it threatens the integrity of the dig. It puts the human remains up here at risk of damage, vandalism, even theft. I can’t allow that. You’re the county law enforcement officer, and I protest this.”

Devlin shuffled a bit and didn’t answer at once. He slipped a pack of cigarettes from his vest pocket, shucked one up, and stuck it in his mouth, taking his time lighting it. He exhaled a stream of smoke.

“Well, ma’am, shutting down a crime scene is standard operating procedure.”

Corrie realized she’d been holding her breath. She released it.

“But this isn’t the crime scene!” Nora said. “We found Wiggett’s body at least a couple hundred yards upstream. Look, at least keep the dig site open so we can protect it. Nothing happened up there.”

“We don’t know that.” Corrie shook her head. “And last I saw, the dig site was already tarped and secured. Law enforcement will be very careful not to disturb anything.”

Nora fumed for a moment in silence. “When do you expect us to leave?”

“Now.”

“Like, right now?”

“That’s correct. And without anyone being allowed to return to their tents, take their possessions, or disturb anything.”

“That’s insane. I’ve got my notes, wallet, credit cards, phone, everything in the tent!”

“Take absolute necessities only. We’ll make sure the rest is safe.”

“Don’t you need some kind of warrant?”

“Nora, as I’ve already explained, since we’re on federal land, no search warrant is required. I’ve also taken a closer look at your permit, and I noticed it allows for federal law enforcement entry without notice—pretty standard language, actually, for any activity in the National Forest.”

Nora stood there, arms akimbo, a dark expression on her face. “Who made this decision? You? What does your boss say about this?”

“Special Agent Morwood agrees with me.” She glanced over at the sheriff. “What’s more to the point, I’m in charge and that’s the end of this discussion.” Corrie realized with relief that, this time, she was managing not to raise her voice. She turned to Burleson. “Please get the horses saddled and ready to take everyone down. I want them on their horses and gone, leaving everything untouched. And I’ll need your personnel—in addition to Nora’s—to remain in Truckee, available for questioning.”

“Are you shitting me?” Nora asked. “For how long?”

“As long as necessary.”

Nora turned to Devlin. “And you. Sheriff. You’re good with this?”

Devlin cleared his throat, took a moment to take another drag on his cigarette, puckered his lips, and spit out a piece of tobacco. “Well, maybe we could put a time frame on things. How about that, Agent Swanson?” He looked at her sideways.

Corrie suppressed an upwelling of irritation. She didn’t like Devlin interfering, but the suggestion wasn’t out of line.

“Seventy-two hours,” Corrie said.

“Twenty-four,” said Nora.

Corrie had just about had it with this woman. “Forty-eight. And you don’t come back up here until you’ve cleared it with me—face-to-face.”

A long silence.

“All right,” Nora said at last.

Burleson spoke. “I’m guessing you think one of us killed Wiggett?”

“I can’t speak to that. Now, are we clear?”

“As a bell,” said Burleson with a wry smile. “We’re going to have to hurry if we want to get back to the ranch before dark. You ready, Nora?”

Nora swore briefly and colorfully, her face white with anger, then turned and stormed off.

“What about that pineapple express headed our way?” Burleson asked Corrie.

She hesitated. Son of a bitch: in the course of everything, she’d forgotten about the approaching weather. “We’ll do the best we can. But I need forty-eight hours up here, storm or no storm.”

42

May 19

AT NINE O’CLOCK the next evening, Nora sat alone at the bar in the faux-quaint saloon of the Truckee Inn: old movie posters and roadside attraction signs hung on the wall, along with random gold-mining tools—picks, shovels, pans, sluice boxes, hand drills. She was nursing a beer and a sense of grievance. She’d spent a long, boring day stuck in this crappy town. Wiggett’s death had horrified her, and she couldn’t get the image of the wrangler’s white, staring face out of her mind. Her brother, who’d started hearing rumors about the dig site, had called her full of concern, and it had taken her half an hour to persuade him not to drop everything and drive up immediately.

She felt a presence behind her and Clive swung onto the next barstool.

“Hendrick’s straight up, with a twist,” he told the bartender, then turned to Nora. “How are you doing?”

“Extremely shitty.”

“I know. Just when we thought we were finished. But I’ve been doing my best to look on the bright side—and you should, too. The dig was an unqualified success. We found the site we were looking for, and an incredibly rich one at that. And when all this blows over, we still might find the gold.”

“It would have been an archaeologist’s dream,” said Nora. “If it weren’t for the murders.”

“Plural. So you think Peel was murdered, too?”

“I don’t think an experienced guy like Peel would just walk off a cliff with his headlamp on.”

“I heard the coroner is going to take another look at his body.”

“Good. If he hadn’t screwed up the autopsy, Wiggett might still be alive.”

Nora finished her beer and ordered another as Clive’s martini arrived.

“That FBI agent seems to think it was one of us,” Nora went on.

“Can’t blame her, I guess.” Clive shrugged. “But who?”

“That’s just it. Me? Maggie? You? Burleson? Adelsky or Salazar? The idea that any one of us six is a killer is totally absurd.” She hesitated a moment before continuing. “I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but now I’ve begun to wonder if some person or persons were in the forest. Watching us.”

“Now you sound like Maggie.”

Nora made a moue.

“But why?”

“It all comes down to the gold. Maybe Wiggett or Peel found it and got killed as a result. Maybe they found it together, and had some kind of secret pact. Or maybe word of the gold somehow leaked—and somebody’s trying to scare us off so they can hunt for it unencumbered.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe.” Clive sipped his drink. “Burleson says we’re slated for the third degree tomorrow. When Agent Swanson gets back.”

“Oh, God.”

Clive finished the martini and tapped the glass, signaling for another.

“Those look strong,” said Nora.

“They’re just what the doctor ordered.” He waited, watching the bartender fill a cocktail shaker. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to mention to you. About Burleson.”