“And he wouldn’t have taken the rifle into the mine with him,” Nora said.

Corrie nodded. “Which means the rifle could still be there—somewhere—at High Lonesome.”

“Brava, Agent Swanson!” Pendergast cried, putting his hands together. “And if Lawton’s rifle was worth 1.2 million dollars, what do you think Geronimo’s rifle would be worth?” He tapped the plat of the old boardinghouse where Smith had lived. “He would have kept that prize close. So it’s in those ruins somewhere. Perhaps we should go take a look?” He paused. “And shall we bring Charles Fountain, Esq., with us? I feel confident the discovery of that rifle would be just the psychological impetus needed to get him talking.”

62

NORA KELLY HAD no interest in participating in the search, nor was she asked to. Pendergast was obviously not going to dirty his impeccable suit, either. As a result, the two of them stood side by side, watching the FBI Evidence Response Team, directed by Corrie and Morwood, searching the old ruined boardinghouse—the same building from which she had excavated the body of James Gower. Some team members had metal detectors and were sweeping the grounds and interior. It was a fall day of stunning perfection, the air crisp and cool, the old ghost town flooded with golden sun. Between them—at Pendergast’s request—stood Charles Fountain, arm bandaged, shackled and silent.

“Tell me, Nora,” Pendergast said, “what happened after the general fled into the desert? I still haven’t heard the details.”

“The navy delivered us to the FBI, where we were debriefed. And then let go—thank God.”

“I understand your brother’s covetousness turned out, ironically, to be a stroke of genius.”

Nora smiled. “Serendipity, more like.”

“And the general?”

“They found his body a day later. He’d shot himself in the head. The remaining soldiers were caught trying to drive the two trucks full of treasure out of the range. It was all recovered. We’ll be studying it—and its historical importance—for years to come.”

Pendergast shook his head. “Every man now worships gold, all other reverence being done away. So said an Augustan poet about the Roman Empire. The same could be said today.” He turned to Fountain. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The lawyer did not reply.

“It was a very clever setup,” Pendergast continued. “You and a cadre of like-minded men—well-to-do, pillars of the community—had the resources and knowledge to research the most likely spots where valuable artifacts might be found in ruins and historic sites. The background work would be scrupulously done. And then, you’d make a surgical strike—at night, with heavy vehicles or even a helicopter—plunder the site, and leave. Usually, you’d be careful to leave the site looking untouched … untouched but strangely empty. When that wasn’t possible, you caused a lot of damage, to disguise the clever theft as an act of mindless vandalism. And then, you’d sell what you recovered on the black market to a circle of oligarchs, sheikhs, and billionaires with a passion for collecting certain things.”

“For an FBI agent, you have a very active imagination,” Fountain said.

“Except that, as time went on, the sites that could be found by research alone began to thin out. And that’s when you’d stoop to a little slumming—paying for tips that couldn’t be traced back to you. Even, at times, buying items of dubious value … from people like Jesse Gower.”

“Just try to pin his death on me,” Fountain said.

“Why would I, when you had nothing to do with it? That was the general’s doing—he’d hacked into Agent Swanson’s phone using advanced, classified army methods, and he thought young Gower had the last piece of the puzzle. His men got a little overzealous in their interrogation. Ironic, really, because a gang like yours would be the obvious suspects. But you’d allied yourself with Pick Rivers. I imagine you used him, at one remove, for making initial sorties into new projects of yours. Projects you felt insulated from; that gave you deniability. No wonder Rivers seemed to have come into a bit of money recently. Except Sheriff Watts caught him—and Rivers panicked and drew his gun. Rivers didn’t confess, of course—he knew that was more than his life was worth—but your associate who called himself Bellingame didn’t want to take the risk of letting him live. More proof of the value of the artifact hidden here.”

Fountain smiled thinly but did not reply.

“Do you really think they’ll find the rifle?” Nora said. “If it is a rifle. Maybe someone took it long ago.”

“Why, Nora, the doubt in your voice wounds me. I have no doubt it is Geronimo’s rifle.”

“If it really is, who would it belong to?”

“An interesting question. After its use as evidence in criminal prosecution, I would think it should be turned over to one of Geronimo’s descendants, if any should exist. It would be quite a windfall, I would imagine.”

Nora couldn’t help but smile. “I know at least one exists.”

He nodded toward the searchers. “But whether they can find it is another matter. No doubt it’s well hidden.” He paused to examine the progress of the evidence team. “As it happens, I believe they’re getting rather warm.”