There was a pause. Then another series of five shots sounded: regular, unhurried, like target practice.

“He’s not shooting at us,” Corrie said. “Those shots are too far away. Besides, he couldn’t possibly see us from down the canyon.”

“So what the hell is he shooting at?” Nora asked.

As Nora spoke, Corrie heard a strange sound like thunder erupt from above, followed by a low vibration and a rising wind. And that was when she realized exactly what Clive had been shooting at.

48

THE MASSIVE CORNICE of snow slid off the top of the cliffs and descended toward them with terrible speed. Nora leapt up to run at the same moment as Corrie, but it was too late: the avalanche hit her from behind, wet and cold and terrifyingly heavy, knocking her down and tumbling her over and over. Abruptly, she was caught up in a horrifying elemental fury the likes of which she’d never known: churned about, beaten, helpless, unable to breathe. She vaguely remembered hearing somewhere that if caught in an avalanche, you should try to swim—breaststroke your way upward. But which direction was up? The sudden fury had left her dazed, disoriented, and half-crushed. She flailed about in a panic, thinking she could just as easily be digging herself deeper into her own frozen grave.

Abruptly the violent motion stopped. Her entire body lay frozen in place, immobilized. Her ears were plugged with snow, and sound was reduced to a cocoon-like whisper. For a moment Nora lay where she was, stunned. Then she opened her eyes—and saw only a dim gray blur. She tried to breathe in, got a mouthful of slush, and coughed it out immediately. She tried to scream, but she had no breath to spare, and a muffled, distant moan was all that resulted. Panic flooded through her; the panic of being buried alive. She could feel her heart pounding faster and faster.

Frantically, she tried moving her limbs—and realized that, incredibly, one arm was unencumbered. It had to be above the level of the snow—and that, at last, gave her a sense of which way was up. She sank her free hand into the icy mush, scooping away the slush, even as she felt the lack of air taking hold. She scooped again, then again and again. Just when she thought she’d black out, her lungs afire, her desperate fingers cleared the snow and ice from her mouth and she took a vast, gasping breath.

She paused to rest, gulping in the delicious air, breathing strength back into her body as the stars cleared from her eyes and the pain in her chest subsided. After a minute or two she began wriggling her limbs, slowly, carefully, checking to see if anything was broken. She felt like a mass of bruises, but otherwise seemed to be intact. Now she began digging again, clearing the area around her face, twisting this way and that to loosen the heavy white tomb that encased her. The snow was wet and dense and it was remarkably difficult work, but within five minutes she had managed to free her upper body, then heave herself up and crawl out of the snowy grave onto the irregular surface.

“Corrie!” she cried, looking around. “Corrie!”

The avalanche had spread out across at least a third of the width of the valley, snow boulders mingled with twigs and branches and bits of debris. She could see no sign of the FBI agent.

“Corrie!” she called again, coughing and staggering to her feet.

She frantically began wading through the slush, postholing with each step, calling out Corrie’s name and looking for a sign—something, anything, a hand, foot, bit of clothing—that might indicate where she was buried. But there was nothing save a vast and lumpy snowfield: deep at the base of the cliffs, spreading and thinning out as it moved toward the center of the valley.

She needed a probe. She looked around frantically, pulled a stick from the debris, then began tromping back and forth, plunging the stick into the snow.

“Corrie! Corrie!”

The stick kept getting stuck in the heavy, ice-packed snow, and soon it broke. She threw it away with a curse and cast about for another one.

“A brave show,” came a voice.

Nora whirled. It was Clive—rifle leveled at her.

“You did this!” she said. “You brought down that cornice intentionally!”

Clive nodded. “I knew you were following me, so I set a trap. Too bad it didn’t get you both. Now, get down off that snow pile.”

“But Corrie! She’s—”

“Dead, of course. It’s been, what, ten minutes? She suffocated five, maybe six minutes ago.”

“You bastard.”

Clive raised the gun and fired over her head. “Shut up or I’ll kill you here and now.” He lowered the muzzle and pointed it at her again.

Nora fell silent.

“Now get the fuck down here and do as I say.”

Nora wallowed through the snow and reached solid ground. It was horrible, thinking of how Corrie must have suffered. She hadn’t escaped that horrible, crushing, suffocating whiteness. Nora’s mind reeled, barely able to process the shock and tragedy of the last few minutes.

But Corrie had been right. She’d been right from the start. It was Clive. And he was carrying a blue artifact box, lashed to his day pack.

“So it was just the gold, after all,” she said bitterly.

At this, Clive started to laugh. “Ah, the gold!” He nodded toward the box. “You know what? I couldn’t give a shit about the gold. In fact, when everyone learned about it, my job got ten times harder: Maggie with her bionic ears, people hunting around at night. People like Wiggett. I can’t believe how fast you found his body: maybe some goddamned ghost was helping you after all. Anyway, in the end the gold did prove useful. It got you up here. Right? You bought into the same story as your dead friend.”

He jerked the muzzle of the gun. “Enough chit-chat. Start walking.”

“Where?”

“The dig site.”

He was going to kill her; she knew that. Why hadn’t he already? She’d been supposed to die in the avalanche, like Corrie. Shooting her might raise too many questions and leave evidence: he would probably do it some other way, make it look like an accident. She tried to push away the feelings of fear and horror and figure out how to get away from him. Her mind came up blank.

Just then, she saw movement. Seconds later, a horse and rider appeared at the edge of the meadow, coming toward them through the trees, still in shadow. Nora’s heart leapt. Was it Burleson? Of course. He’d come to make sure they were all right—exactly the kind of thing he’d do.

“Look out!” she screamed. “He’s got a gun!”

Clive shook his head. “You poor, dumb bitch,” he said, seemingly unconcerned about the figure, still in shadow, who was approaching. He waited, gun trained on Nora.

The wind had picked up and the trees were now thrashing about, the rain coming down hard. Nora shivered uncontrollably, and she began to feel light-headed and unaccountably warm. Hypothermia. Maybe his plan was that simple: let her die of cold and exposure.

The figure on horseback emerged into the open and Nora saw, with perfect astonishment, that it was Dr. Fugit.

“What’s she doing here?” Fugit asked Clive as she rode up, nodding at Nora.

“Dr. Fugit!” Nora called, uncomprehending. “What’s going on?”

Clive gestured at her with the gun. “Shut the fuck up.”

Fugit halted her horse and gave Nora a cold smile. “You’re a fine archaeologist, Nora. But when it comes to understanding the way the world works, you’re exactly what Clive just said: a dumb bitch. I’m sorry for you.” She removed a six-gun from a holster under her arm and pointed it at Nora. Absently, as if in a dream, Nora noticed she was wearing nitrile gloves.