“We’ll do our best.”

Fugit laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to get through this. Whatever you need, just let me know.”

44

May 20

CORRIE RODE DOWN the canyon from the camp, unaccompanied. She had managed to squeeze in her forty-eight allotted hours, and then some, before the storm was to arrive, and for that she was grateful. On the other hand, a meticulous search of the camp had yielded no smoking gun. In fact, she had to admit they hadn’t found any incriminating evidence at all. If the killer was a member of the team, he had been a lot more careful than Corrie initially assumed.

They had made one significant discovery: the glacial tarn in the little cirque up behind the camp was the actual site of the homicide. The killer had tried to cover it up, smoothing the ground along the shore and replacing overturned stones, but a careful inspection revealed it to be the place of a struggle. Beyond it they had found imperfectly concealed drag marks heading toward the spot where the body was found.

But this only raised more questions. What was Wiggett doing up at the lake in the middle of the night? Was he meeting someone? Had he been lured there? He’d left his tent with obvious deliberation, dressing warmly and putting on his hiking boots rather than his cowboy boots. So he was expecting rough terrain. The M.E.’s report would hopefully verify the sequence of injuries leading to his death—but she wasn’t sure that would help her reconstruct the crime.

If someone in camp had killed Wiggett, he or she had left no obvious evidence. Corrie was starting to favor the idea that someone on the outside, lurking near the camp, had been shadowing the group and committed the murders. She’d sent Devlin and his group to search the surrounding forest for signs of recent disturbance, but they had turned up nothing.

They’d all left at noon, but Corrie had stubbornly stayed behind, unwilling to leave the area, thinking there must be something—something—they had missed that would point to a killer. How many times had she made one “final” pass through camp? But now the window of opportunity had closed and she had to hustle back down the trail. Even hurrying, she would probably not arrive before dark, and already the wind was rising. The storm was predicted to move in around dawn. Waiting for her at the head of the trail would be Morwood and, perhaps, the new special agent from the Sacramento office who was going to take over the investigation.

And that would be it.

As she rode, she found herself filled with frustration: at the lack of evidence; at her inability to develop a theory of the crime; at her failure to find a connection to the Parkin case. She couldn’t help but go over the mistakes she’d made: talking too much, telling people she thought Peel might have been murdered, alienating Devlin, and letting Nora Kelly push her into limiting the camp closure to forty-eight hours.

But maybe the case was as simple as Morwood believed—this was a sordid murder involving the twenty million in gold and nothing more. He had decades of experience under his belt, and she had just a few months. One thing they’d hammered into her in the Academy was that the right solution to a crime was usually the one most obvious. Avoid the temptation to look for devious motives and unlikely conspiracies, one instructor had said. Life is not an Agatha Christie novel. Criminals are stupid and most crimes are banal and obvious.

Suddenly she looked up, realizing she was in unfamiliar territory. A giant spruce, split in half by lightning, stood in front of her—she’d never seen that before. She cursed out loud. Wallowing in self-pity, she had ridden off the route.

She took out her cell phone and checked her location on the GPS app. Even though there was no cell reception, the phone’s independent GPS was working and she had previously downloaded the requisite maps of the area. It showed that instead of riding down Hackberry Creek from the Poker Creek junction, she had missed the turn and instead ridden half a mile up an unnamed side canyon on the far side of the creek.

Four o’clock. Dark clouds covered the sky and the air smelled of gathering electricity. “Let’s go, Sierra,” she said, awkwardly turning her horse around. “Come on, boy. Faster!”

The sluggish horse, unmoved by her entreaties, slowly turned and plodded back down the canyon.

“Hurry up, for Chrissakes!” She shook the reins, but the horse ignored her.

She would never get used to riding. Her whole body seemed to ache. As she rode alongside the creek, she passed through a clearing and noticed the remains of a fire ring. She drew a sudden breath. Maybe this was the camp of the person or persons shadowing the group.

“Whoa, Sierra! Whoa, goddamn it!”

The horse reluctantly came to a halt. Corrie dismounted and tied his halter rope to a tree. She approached cautiously, trying not to disturb anything. But on getting closer, she was disappointed to see the fire ring was old. Autumn leaves and pine needles had collected in the fire pit, which meant the rude camp had to date back to before the previous fall. Nobody had been here since.

Still, it was an odd place to camp, off any trail, next to a stream too tiny for fishing, in a dark and depressing canyon. She picked up a stick and stirred the old ashes, uncovering a few pieces of trash, singed here and there but still relatively intact. Feeling a little silly, she slipped them into an evidence bag. That was something else the Quantico instructor had said: If in doubt, take it out.

She untied the horse and remounted, urging him along. The rising wind was tossing the treetops, making a hissing noise. She had three hours to ride a dozen miles before the sun set, on a rugged trail. Son of a bitch, she was really cutting it close.

She gave Sierra a vigorous kick and finally got him into a slow trot. She hated trotting—it bounced her all over the place—but she’d rather have a sore ass than get lost at night in the mountains on the leading edge of a storm.

* * *

She arrived at Red Mountain Ranch as the last light was disappearing in the west. Sure enough, Morwood was waiting as she rode in.

“Jesus, Swanson, I was getting worried!” he said as she got off the horse and handed the reins to a wrangler, then hobbled over. She could barely walk.

“You okay?” Morwood asked.

“No worries, just crippled for life from riding that glue plug,” Corrie said.

“You shouldn’t have ridden down alone.”

“I wanted to go over the site one last time.”

“And?”

She shook her head.

They walked toward the parking lot. “I wanted to tell you that Special Agent Nick Chen has been assigned the case,” Morwood told her. “He’ll be arriving from Sacramento tomorrow morning. He’s got a spotless record and—just as important—a rep for being a nice guy. I think you’ll enjoy working with him on the transition.”

“Okay.”

Morwood smiled like a matchmaker. “I’m heading out tonight on a late flight for Albuquerque. Corrie, you’ll stay here long enough to bring Agent Chen up to speed. I’ve booked you at the Truckee Inn for the next several days. Transfer all your notes, evidence, and so forth to him. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait out the storm that’s coming, but after it passes I’d like you to take him up to the camp, show him around, and introduce him to the group. And then rejoin me in Albuquerque.”