“That must hurt,” said Nora.

“You have no idea,” Corrie said. Her voice was stronger now. “Look, if you don’t help Fugit, she’s going to die.”

Nora nodded. “I’ll go get her.”

She wrapped rain gear tightly around herself, even though she was already soaked through, then opened the flap. Wind and rain gusted in, lashing her skin. Hunching into the tempest headfirst, she went to where Fugit lay prone. The president’s eyes were slits, and rain-diluted blood was pooled on the ground beneath her. She looked dead.

Nora knelt, put her finger to the woman’s neck. Still a pulse.

“I’m going to move you into the tent.”

Fugit gave a moan.

God, how was she going to do this? The woman’s shoulder was shot to pieces. It looked terrible.

While she pondered the problem, Fugit moaned and turned her head toward Nora. She wasn’t sure how conscious the woman was—if at all.

“I’m going to have to drag you,” Nora said. “By your feet.”

Nora grabbed Fugit’s boots, braced herself, and started pulling. The grass was wet, which made sliding the body easier. She pulled, rested, pulled again, moving a few feet each time. Fugit made no sound. It seemed she had definitely lapsed into unconsciousness.

With a final struggle, Nora got the woman into the tent and onto a tarp. Now she could examine the wound more closely, cutting away Fugit’s rain jacket, coat, shirt, and bra strap to expose the area. One bullet had only grazed her, but the other had gone in through the back of the shoulder and come out the front, expanding as it exited. The wound was ugly, but it was just oozing now, no longer bleeding heavily, and it appeared to have been well rinsed by the rain.

Nora carried the medical kit over, smeared some antibiotic ointment on a pad, pressed it gently against the wound, then bandaged it in place. When she was done, she covered Fugit with plastic tarps. Then she returned to Corrie.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

Corrie tried to smile. “Better.” She looked over at Fugit. “We need to get a medevac up here. Where’s the sat phone?”

“Down in the camp.”

Corrie hesitated. “I hate to ask…”

“I’ll go make the call. You just watch Fugit in case she revives.”

Corrie eased her good arm out from under the tarp and Nora saw she had her Glock in it. “Sorry I can’t go with you. I just don’t want her to die.”

“I don’t, either. She has a lot to answer for.” Nora stood up. “I’ll be back.”

After getting the number from Corrie, she went out again into the driving rain and staggered over to Fugit’s horse. It looked miserable, soaked and steaming. Nora swung into the saddle and set off, a fresh blast of rain hitting her face.

Under the downpour, the empty camp looked bedraggled. She tied up the horse and went into the equipment tent, found the phone, and dialed the number Corrie had given her.

An Agent Morwood answered immediately. “Swanson?”

“Nora Kelly. It’s an emergency. I’m up at the campsite with Agent Swanson—”

“The campsite? In that storm?”

“It’s a long story. Corrie’s injured. She’s got a broken arm. There’s been a shooting. Clive Benton is dead, Dr. Fugit is shot and badly wounded. We’re going to need a medevac up here.”

“What the devil happened? Can I speak to her?”

“She’s uptrail. Too much to explain. Just get a medevac to the dig site.”

“Right, I’m on it. Stay by the phone.” He hung up.

Nora shut the phone, took a pack from storage, put the phone in it, tied on two sleeping bags, and went back out into the storm.

She arrived at the dig site ten minutes later, shivering afresh. She tied the horse outside the tent and carried in the sleeping bags. One she unzipped and laid over Fugit as a makeshift blanket. She took the other one to Corrie.

“Can you get out of your wet clothes and in here?” Nora asked. “You’ll be a lot warmer.”

“I think so.”

Nora helped her remove her sopping clothes and slide naked into the sleeping bag. She was shocked by how many bruises covered Corrie’s body. It must be the avalanche; Nora probably looked the same herself.

“What did Morwood say?” Corrie asked, clutching the bag to her chin.

“He’s getting a medevac.”

She nodded, still shivering.

At that moment the phone rang. Nora answered it, putting it on speaker.

“Agent Swanson?” came the voice. “Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Tell me how you’re hurt.”

“A broken arm, some bruises. I’ll be fine. But Fugit’s going to die if she isn’t medevac’d out of here soon.”

“I’ve been working on it. It’s hell to put a bird in the air in this storm. But they’ve got two heavy-duty search and rescue choppers flying up from Sacramento: a primary and a backup. We’re looking at ninety minutes. Can you hold out?”

“Nora and I can. Not sure about Fugit. And, sir—Fugit should be put under arrest.”

“What did she do?”

“Murder, attempted murder.”

“Jesus. I’ll send in a marshal with the chopper.”

“Thank you.”

A pause. “Corrie,” said Morwood. “What in God’s name is this all about?”

Corrie seemed to hesitate. “It’s about Parkin, sir. Parkin’s skull. Beyond that, I’ve no idea.”

51

AFTER THE CALL, Nora prepared hot tea and dumped in extra Cremora and sugar.

“More ibuprofen,” said Corrie.

“I already gave you—”

“Just hand it over.”

Nora fished one more tablet out of the bottle. Corrie swallowed it with a gulp of tea. The storm shook the tent, the rain sweeping across in gusts.

Fugit groaned. She seemed to be regaining consciousness. Nora checked her bandages and saw that blood was soaking through. Rather than remove them, she added another layer and applied pressure.

After a long silence, Corrie spoke again. “Why would Parkin’s skull be more valuable than a boatload of gold?”

“We can worry about that later.”

Corrie winced. “I want to worry about it now.”

“Why?”

“It matters to me. I feel like…” Corrie hesitated. “Like I’ve got all the information I need and should be able to put it together. I don’t want to face Morwood and have to tell him, Sorry, five people are dead and I don’t have a clue why.”

Nora didn’t respond at first. The whole business was stranger than she’d ever imagined. A skull, apparently worth millions—how could that possibly be? “Maybe there’s some crazy collector out there, willing to pay a fortune for a historic skull. Look what some people pay for a baseball card.”

Corrie shook her head. “This skull isn’t old enough to be rare. We’re not talking about Taung-1 or Cheddar Man.”

“True,” Nora said. “Then perhaps someone wants the skull for DNA identification to prove a family inheritance.”