“You were supposed to take care of this,” Dr. Fugit told Clive.

“She got lucky. Dug herself out. The FBI agent is dead, though.”

“Well, stop gloating and give me the box. Put your gun down: I can cover Nora. Just be careful.”

Clive put down the rifle, shucked off the pack, and untied the artifact box. He gingerly handed it up to Fugit. Still sitting on her horse, she tucked the six-gun under her arm and opened the box, glanced inside for a moment, then sealed it back up. She slipped it into one of her saddlebags, buckled it shut, and pointed the gun once again at Nora.

“You going to, ah, do her?” Clive asked. “I was going to put her in the tarn, make it look like an accident. Like I did with Wiggett.”

“Some accident. You screwed that up rather nicely. I’ll deal with her—don’t you worry.”

“They said you were going to arrange the wire transfer. Has it been done?”

“Don’t worry, Dr. Benton. You’ll be paid. In fact, I can take care of that right now.”

The gun in her hand turned from Nora to Clive. A shot rang out and Clive’s head suddenly snapped back. The rest of his body stood motionless for a moment, then toppled backward as well, hitting the ground with a soft thud. He lay unmoving in the falling rain, except for one finger that twitched a few times before going still.

“Stupid bastard,” Fugit muttered to herself. The gun swung back toward Nora. More briskly now, Fugit raised it, aimed, and fired.

49

THE TWO SHOTS were not quite simultaneous. The first came unexpectedly from behind, knocking Fugit off balance just enough to make her own shot go wide, the gun flying out of her hand. Another shot punched her over the saddle horn. The horse, terrified, reared up and bucked, throwing Fugit’s body up and to one side, and it somersaulted through the air before slamming to the ground. Despite all that, the Institute president was still alive: she screamed shrilly, grasping and tearing at her clothes in the most horrible way, as if trying to find a wound.

Nora whirled to one side and saw Corrie—bleeding, sodden, the snowy Glock in her hand—stumbling toward the edge of the avalanche debris. She fell to her knees, still holding the Glock. She struggled to stand again.

Nora rushed over, catching her before she collapsed and easing her to the ground.

“Help me,” came a feeble voice. Fugit.

Ignoring her, Nora leaned over Corrie. “You’re hurt,” she said.

“I’m alive,” said Corrie.

“How—?”

“Air pocket. And just enough room to work my way out. Thanks to you.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“If you hadn’t grabbed my hand and heaved me up, I would be dead.”

Nora stared at her. “I didn’t grab your hand.”

“Of course you did. I was blacking out when I felt your hand grasp mine…” Corrie’s eyes fluttered as she began to drift in and out of consciousness.

Nora said nothing. Obviously Corrie’s oxygen-starved brain had been hallucinating.

“Please help me,” came the pathetic voice of Fugit.

Nora went over. The president lay on her back, blood staining her shoulder. Nora quickly unbuttoned the woman’s shirt and pulled it aside, revealing an ugly exit wound on her anterior shoulder. Shivering, she tore off a piece from her own shirt and balled it up, handing it to Fugit. “Press down with this.”

Fugit took it. “I’m cold,” she said.

Nora’s teeth were chattering. “We’re all cold. You just keep pressing.”

She went back to Corrie, knelt, and took her hand. The agent’s eyes fluttered back open. “Nora?”

“Yes?”

“Go…see what’s in that blue box.”

Nora turned. Fugit’s horse was standing fifty feet away, sides heaving, still frightened. The box bulged inside the left saddlebag, one corner peeking out.

“That can wait. We need to get you out of this rain.”

Corrie pressed Nora’s hand. “Please go see what’s in the box.”

Nora realized she wasn’t going to leave the subject alone. She stood up and approached the horse, holding her hands out and speaking soothing words. The horse took a few nervous steps back before Nora could grab the lead rope and stroke his neck reassuringly.

She untied the saddlebags, slipped them off, and draped them over her shoulder. Then she tied up the horse and returned to Corrie, who was now sitting up.

Corrie nodded for her to open it.

Nora slipped the blue box out of the saddlebag, unlatched it, and handed it to Corrie. She removed the lid. A wan smile spread across the agent’s features as she stared inside. “I knew it.”

“What?”

“Parkin’s skull.”

She handed the box to Nora, who looked inside. “What the hell? How is this supposed to be worth more than gold?”

“That,” said Corrie, “is the twenty-million-dollar question.”

50

NORA HELD CORRIE tight in the driving rain, trying to think through their situation.

“I’m so cold,” Corrie said, her entire body shivering.

“We’ve got to get out of this weather. Can you stand up?”

Gripping Corrie under her arms, Nora tried to help her to her feet. Corrie cried out and staggered, sinking back to her knees, cradling her left arm. “I think it’s broken,” she gasped.

“Hold it still with your good arm,” Nora said. “It’s only a hundred yards to the tent.”

She helped Corrie up, bracing her by the shoulders, trying to avoid the broken arm. Corrie managed to remain standing, and one painful step at a time, they reached the tent and got inside. Unfortunately, there were no blankets or sleeping bags—just tarps. Nora laid Corrie down and covered her with several. Then she rummaged in the equipment box and pulled out a camp stove, along with packets of tea, sugar, and cocoa.

“Better get Fugit in here,” said Corrie.

“Screw Fugit,” Nora said as she set out the stove, fired it up, and poured water into a pot. The wind was now shaking the tent, the rain pounding down, making an almost deafening noise.

Corrie shook her head. “No. Key witness. Can’t let her die.”

“I’m going to make cocoa first, because we’re both suffering from hypothermia.” Nora dumped cocoa into the water and stirred, dissolving it. When it began to simmer, she poured out two mugs and put one in Corrie’s pale hand.

“Thanks.”

Nora helped Corrie raise the mug to her lips and take a sip, then another. In between, Nora drank hers, feeling the warmth slide down her throat. The effect was dramatic as strength and mental acuity immediately flowed back into her body.

Nora got out the medical kit and sorted through it for ibuprofen, giving two pills to Corrie and taking the same dose herself. Corrie had finished her cocoa and Nora poured out two more mugs.

“Let me see your arm,” she asked Corrie.

Corrie eased her left arm out from under the tarp, wincing. With great care, Nora took a pair of scissors from the medical kit and cut open the sleeve to expose the skin. Corrie’s forearm was oddly crooked and already sported a massive purplish welt—a bad break, but at least it wasn’t a compound fracture.