“Yes, sir.”

Nora watched her turn and leave. What had at first seemed an incredibly stupid move was, she decided, actually incredibly clever: in a moment, the lieutenant had transformed herself from a willing accessory to a loyal army officer.

The CO turned to Corrie. “And you—you’re really an FBI agent?”

“What do you mean, really?” Corrie said angrily. “You heard Lieutenant Woodbridge! Get these handcuffs off us right now, and let me call my supervisor!”

61

THREE DAYS LATER, at ten o’clock in the morning, in the evidence collection room, Special Agent Corrie Swanson had carefully laid out everything the FBI team had recovered at the residence of Charles Fountain. It was quite a haul. Fountain, it turned out, had been running a sophisticated looting operation for more than three years, using a select group of the very same criminals he had defended as an attorney. Fountain was the only member of the group up at High Lonesome to survive the shooting—Watts had wounded him in the arm and, being no gunfighter, he’d lain low until it was all over. He hadn’t spoken a word since—not one word—even after lawyering up.

And so it was up to them to figure out what exactly Fountain and his gang had been searching for up at High Lonesome. Even a cursory look over the mass of documents showed that it wasn’t the Victorio Peak treasure, as Fountain had confirmed to Watts during the gunfight. No: there was something else, something of great value, hidden up there. But what? The documents recovered from Fountain’s walk-in safe were as voluminous as they were confusing.

In preparation for stepping back and letting Corrie take full control of the investigation, Morwood had asked her to assemble all the documentary evidence for a group review. It was a common FBI trick for analyzing large amounts of confusing evidence—lay it all out and get everyone in the same room looking at it.

Corrie was nervous. This was a big deal. She glanced over and saw the coffee was on and fresh, and everything else was in its place. It was 12:55. The group would be arriving in five minutes. She had set it up before lunch.

She adjusted her suit, straightened the lanyard holding her badge—and just then, she heard voices in the hall. Morwood entered, his hand heavily bandaged, followed by Nora Kelly, Sheriff Homer Watts, Milt Alfieri, Don Ketterman, and Nigel Lathrop. And coming in last was someone Corrie rarely saw: Special Agent in Charge Julio Garcia, head honcho of the Albuquerque Field Office.

“This is quite a spread, Corrie,” said Morwood, carrying a clipboard with the master evidence list. While he hadn’t actually said anything to her yet about discovering the gold and unmasking the general—or, for that matter, the medicine bag’s disappearance from FBI custody—her gut told her that she’d pulled off a major coup. “Let’s see if we can make some sense out of it, shall we?”

“Yes, sir.”

Morwood consulted the list. “Why don’t we start with the master plat of High Lonesome itself.”

Corrie quickly located it, drawing it out of the mass of evidence and spreading it on a second table. They all gathered around.

“Excellent,” Morwood went on. “The aerial photos would be useful as well, for comparison purposes.”

Corrie glanced over to where she had laid out the pictures and started searching through them. “Which aerial photos, exactly?” she asked, a sinking feeling in her gut.

“The blow-ups. The ones with the most detail.”

Corrie searched, then searched again, while a silence fell. “I don’t seem to have them.”

Morwood raised an eyebrow but said nothing. “Okay,” he resumed a few seconds later, “how about the plat showing the interior of the structure?”

“Yes, sir.” Corrie went to where she’d placed it that morning. It, too, was gone.

She swallowed. “It’s not here.”

Another silence fell. “What do you mean, not here?” Morwood said. “Are you saying that evidence has gone missing?”

Corrie felt her face flaming with chagrin. “It seems so.”

“Who’s been in here?” Garcia asked sharply. “Who has access?”

“I don’t know,” Corrie said. “I laid out all this evidence this morning. The plat was here then. But now … ” She swallowed.

“It must be a mix-up,” said Morwood, trying to cover for her. “Corrie, why don’t you look back on the shelves and see if you inadvertently left out a box?”

Corrie knew she hadn’t, but she didn’t want to disagree. “Yes, sir.”

She walked back into the storage area with her copy of the evidence list, but the shelf that contained the Fountain haul was bare. She had taken everything. And there was no other place it could be.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she returned, “there’s no evidence there. This is all of it.”

“How can this be all of it,” asked Garcia, his voice climbing, “when key pieces are missing?”

Corrie stared at him, flushing in confusion. “I don’t know, sir.”

“You don’t know?” Garcia said, staring at her.

Corrie felt like dying. All her hard work, all the danger she’d endured, the plot she’d uncovered, the treasure …

Somewhere behind her, she heard the faint sound of a door opening, and then a honeyed voice spoke in disdain. “May I inquire when this coffee was made?”