“Good plan,” said Sheriff Watts with a brilliant smile. He looked at his watch. “I’m starving, and we didn’t bring any lunch. There’s a nice café in Socorro, and if we hurry we can get there before it closes at three.”

Corrie wasn’t sure there was such a thing as a “nice” café in Socorro, but she, too, was hungry. And she was not looking forward to the long drive to Albuquerque, on top of another one just getting out of High Lonesome.

Fountain looked from one to the other. It was clear Watts hadn’t included him in the invitation.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said laconically. “I’m on a diet, anyway.”

“I’ll drop you off at your office,” Watts said. He put out a hand, and Corrie passed him the evidence bag. “Too bad the initials aren’t HW,” he said, peering at it and handing it back a moment later. “Looks like it might just be a perfect fit.”

“That would be felony robbery of the dead,” Fountain said as he got into the back of the car. “But don’t worry, Sheriff,” he continued as they set off on the long, bumpy ride back to civilization. “I could get you off.”

7

THE WALLS OF the small Pueblo cave dwelling had been plastered with mud and painted red, but the intervening span of six hundred years had taken quite a toll. Nora Kelly examined the back wall with her headlamp. It was stained with soot over a circular area that looked more thickly plastered than the rest of the interior. The longer she looked at it, the more she was convinced the plaster concealed a hole in the back of the shelter.

Her graduate student, Bruce Adelsky, entered and knelt, peering over her shoulder. “Funny-looking plastering job.”

“Just what I thought.” She reached out and, using the handle of her archaeological trowel, lightly tapped on the plaster. A hollow sound resulted.

“Holy cow,” he said. “There’s something back there!”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a burial. Which means we don’t touch it.”

“Come on. Really?” Adelsky asked, his voice betraying his disappointment. “Just to take a look?”

“The new president is even more of a stickler about protocol than I am.” Nora ventured a small smile. The reputation of the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute was currently in the toilet following a scandal involving the previous president. But the Institute had the money and power to climb out of that hole quickly enough—and, in the meantime, the current chief of archaeology was retiring in a month, and Nora was in line for the promotion. Securing the chief of archaeology position would be a big deal; it would put her in charge of the Institute’s “dirt herd,” as it was affectionately called, overseeing all the active excavations the Institute was engaged in. She had even allowed herself to think that, one day, she might be president herself. The current dig had been as much of a success as the last one was a disaster—ahead of schedule, no problems or controversy, strong support from the local Pueblo council, and beautiful results. And besides, none of the many problems that had occurred at the Donner dig could be laid at her door—her own work had been practically flawless.

“I find it interesting how they buried their dead right in their own homes,” said Adelsky.

Nora smiled at him. This was another plus: Bruce had proven an excellent graduate student, meticulous and reliable, fully capable now of running a dig on his own. “The ancient Pueblo people liked to keep their dead near them,” she told him. And she added, almost to herself: “It is interesting. But understandable.”

Then she checked her watch. “Let’s break for lunch.”

The two crawled out of the low entrance to the cave. Nora stood up and looked about, massaging the small of her back. This cave was one of hundreds carved into the volcanic tufa of northern New Mexico, part of an ancient Pueblo settlement called Tsankawi. It was tangential to the Bandelier National Monument, a complex of caves, ladders, trails, and a mesa-top ruin. The view from the mesa was amazing—the ancestral Pueblo people really liked their views—looking across the valley of the Rio Grande to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, twenty miles away, covered by a fresh dusting of snow. And all this, Nora thought, was a few scant miles from Los Alamos National Laboratory, where they had designed and built the first atomic bomb. The contrast between the ancient ruins of a vanished people and the birth of the nuclear age always gave Nora a creepy feeling of cognitive dissonance.

As she gathered up her day pack, she saw a figure approach along the trail. It was probably an intrepid tourist—a few did visit the Tsankawi ruins—but as it approached, it began to look familiar. More than just familiar.

“Damn,” she murmured under her breath.

“Uh-oh,” Adelsky said, staring. “It’s that fed again.”

Nora slapped the dust off her jeans with a sinking feeling as she watched Corrie Swanson approach. She wondered what the agent wanted now. She sure as hell hoped Swanson wasn’t going to throw her current dig into the extended chaos she had with the previous one. Reluctantly, Nora climbed down from the cave entrance to meet Corrie beneath the tent shade set up on the valley floor.

Corrie approached with her hand extended.

“Hi, Nora,” said Corrie, shaking her hand. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”