“Hunting season starts in late November, after the leaves have fallen.”

This sounded a little strange. “Did you find anything else up there?”

“I scoured the site, but it was pretty clean. Just some trash. A gum wrapper, cigar butt, stray piece of cellophane—that’s it.”

Nora paused. “Cigar butt? Did it still have its label?”

“I didn’t notice. I’d have to check.”

“You saved it?”

“Of course.”

Nora quickly dismissed this as a meaningless coincidence—which, if mentioned to this FBI agent, would only create more unnecessary suspicion. Still, she hesitated, uneasiness tugging at her. “Where was this canyon, exactly?”

Corrie paused to recollect. “If you go down Poker Canyon, cross, um, Hackberry Creek, and go up the canyon on the opposite side—that’s the one. No name on the map.”

Nora took a deep breath. Now she remembered where the memory of the split tree had come from. When they were first riding up Hackberry Creek, before they found the Lost Camp, Clive had mentioned something about a giant tree split in two by lightning. But in what context?

“Where’s the cigar butt?” Nora asked.

“In my room.”

“Can we go take a look?”

Corrie’s gaze turned speculative. “Why?”

“Let’s just check it,” said Nora. “I’ll tell you why later.”

“All right.”

Nora followed Corrie over to the stairs and up to her room. The agent walked over to an evidence case placed on a luggage rack, opened it, and took out a sealed plastic envelope with a few items inside, including the butt end of a fat cigar. She handed the envelope to Nora.

Nora turned it over, feeling an odd tightness in her chest. “Dunhill,” she murmured. She handed it back to Corrie.

“Is that significant?” Corrie asked.

Nora hesitated. Should she tell her? It was only going to lead to more trouble. But she heard herself saying: “Clive occasionally smokes Dunhills.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. He said it calms him when he’s feeling frustrated. And…” Now she feared she was really taking a step she’d regret. “You mentioned a tree split by lightning.”

“Yes. It was right next to the fire ring, one half leaning out like it was about to fall. I’d never camp there for fear of getting clobbered while I slept.”

“When we were looking for the camp, riding up Hackberry Creek for the first time…Clive said something about a split tree.”

“In what context?”

“I can’t fully recall. I think he was joking about the danger of being struck by lightning up in those mountains. He mentioned a spruce he’d seen that was split top to bottom. Very dramatic, he said. Is the tree…visible from the trail?”

“No.”

Nora went silent, thinking.

Corrie asked, “Is Dunhill a common brand of cigar?”

“No idea.” This was precisely what she’d been afraid of, setting off more speculation. “Look, anybody could have left that cigar. It wasn’t Clive. Why would he be camping up there last year? He told me he’d never been in this area before.”

Corrie took a moment to answer. “Looking for the gold.”

“Come on. Really? Then why bring this project to the Institute? Why didn’t he just take the gold himself?”

“Maybe he tried but couldn’t find it. So he enlisted your expertise in locating the camp.”

“That makes no sense. Once we found the gold, how was he supposed to get his hands on it? Steal it from the Institute?”

Corrie said slowly, “Perhaps he’s already found the gold. And that’s why you haven’t found it yet.”

Nora laughed mirthlessly. “You’re hanging this entire theory on an old stogie.”

“And a split tree.”

“There must be dozens of those in the forest.”

After a moment, Corrie took the evidence bag from Nora. “There’s going to be DNA on this. Maybe even a fingerprint. Let’s show it to him and ask if he was camping up there last year.”

“He’ll say no.”

“Of course he’ll say no. But we’ll get a chance to gauge his reaction to our question.”

“Your question. I’m not going to ask him that to his face. He’s a partner in this expedition—and a friend.”

“Fair enough.” And Corrie led the way to the door.

46

BUT WHEN THEY knocked, Clive didn’t answer.

Standing just outside his door, they spoke in low tones. “Think he’s still asleep?” Corrie asked.

“He always seemed to be an early riser.”

“Well, he wasn’t downstairs at breakfast. And there’s not a whole lot of other places to go in town this early in the morning, with a storm bearing down on us.” Corrie knocked again, harder this time. As she did so, the door came ajar.

“That’s funny,” Corrie said, inspecting the knob. “Looks like the lock is stuck. If the shower in my room is any indication, the hardware in this fleabag is in as bad shape as the plumbing.”

Nora stuck her head past the open door. “Clive?” She could see the room was a whirlwind of disorder—suitcases open, drawers ajar, personal items scattered around. About the only thing that wasn’t a mess was the bed—it was still made.

“Doesn’t look like Clive went to bed last night,” she said. “But whenever he left, he left in a hurry.”

“That probably explains the door,” Corrie replied. “He locked it, but didn’t check to make sure he’d pulled it tight. Hey, wait—!”

As she was speaking, Nora stepped into the room.

“You can’t go in there,” Corrie said. “Not without a warrant.”

“What warrant? I’m the expedition leader. A friend. Clive left something in his room that belongs to me. I came to get it and found his door open.”

“What thing of yours would that be?” Corrie asked.

“I’m not sure. But I’ll know it when I see it.”

“I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.”

Nora gazed around at the disorder, trying to make sense of things, her friendship with and respect for Clive at odds with the inexplicable mess surrounding her. It didn’t look like he’d taken any clothes. Even his camera was still sitting on a nightstand. She approached the desk, which was covered with historical documents. Riffling through them, she found photocopies of old letters; contemporary newspaper reports; yellowed reproductions of microfilm pages; even penny dreadfuls purporting to tell the gruesome and unadulterated story of the Donner tragedy. There were dozens of items; Clive was nothing if not thorough in his research.

“Do you see a coat?” Corrie said, looking in through the door.

“No. He must have gone out.”

Nora continued sorting through the documents on the desk. She picked up a stapled photocopy of what she quickly recognized as Tamzene Donner’s journal. Clive, of course, had left the original back in Santa Fe for safekeeping. As she turned the well-thumbed pages, a single sheet fell out.