“What are you doing?” Corrie asked.

“I’m going to tell you which way to go.”

She walked around the vehicle and examined the dividing tracks: one going right, the other straight. Then she turned and got back in.

“Take a right,” she said.

Corrie stared at her. “How’d you do that?”

Nora couldn’t suppress a smile. “Tire tracks. You were in here a couple of days ago, right? So I looked for the fresh tracks in the dirt. I mean, it’s not likely anybody else is going to be out in this godforsaken place. So you keep driving and stop at each turn, while I figure out which way to go.”

Corrie nodded, looking put out—whether at the discovery that she was lost or at not anticipating the ease of the solution, Nora didn’t know.

They drove on, and at each fork Nora got out and examined the tracks, looking for a soft spot where tread marks would be preserved. Finally, around eleven thirty, they came around a ridge—and there, suddenly, was the town of High Lonesome, stretched out in front of them.

When Nora emerged from the vehicle, she was stunned. She’d seen her share of ghost towns, but nothing like this. All of a sudden, the drive seemed worth it.

“I can’t believe a place like this could survive into the twenty-first century,” she said, looking around.

“I thought you might say that.”

As Nora walked down the main street, she paused to look at the buildings on either side, some with weathered signs still intact. There was a two-story hotel (Hotel High Lonesome, Saloon, Rooms), a livery stable, a bath house, and at the far end of the street, a church. The first story of the church was made from stone and adobe. The spire was of weathered wood and remained standing, but crooked, like the tower of Pisa.

The town was perched on a mesa, looking out over a desert so vast it was like infinity made real. She could see, in the far distance, the immense expanse of the Jornada del Muerto, a brutally harsh desert patched in tan, red, black, and gray, running up against the mountains. It was a crisp fall day, the sky a robin’s-egg blue, the air cool and refreshing. Nora was suddenly glad Corrie had talked her into this, and what was left of her irritation melted away.

“Not bad, right?” Corrie asked, brushing her short brown hair out of her face and looking around.

“Hell, no,” Nora replied. And, after a pause: “This is why I love New Mexico. It’s full of amazing places like this. You’re lucky to have landed in the Albuquerque office.”

“Think so? Albuquerque seems like such a dump.”

“It has a few charms. You just have to find them. And look at the bright side—you’ll never be bored, considering its sky-high crime rate, underfunded police department, and incompetent DA’s office.”

“Do I detect a note of disparagement?”

Nora laughed. “I’m not telling you anything that everyone in New Mexico doesn’t know already.”

They got back into the Navigator and drove slowly down the main street, veering right at the church. As if on cue, a conspiracy of ravens, disturbed by their arrival, flapped out of the belfry, croaking their annoyance. They passed a bedraggled schoolhouse overgrown with chamisa, surrounded by a picket fence. Reaching the end of town, they approached a building that stood off by itself, partially collapsed, its eroded adobe walls like so many rotten brown teeth. Corrie brought the car to a halt and they got out.

“I wonder what this big building was doing out here, all alone?” asked Nora.

“Whorehouse, I’ll bet.”

“You know,” said Nora, “I actually think you’re right.”

Reaching into the rear seat, Nora pulled out the backpack containing her excavation tools, water, and lunch. She shouldered the backpack and breathed deeply of the fresh air. High Lonesome. If ever a place lived up to its name, this was it. Despite all the work still waiting for her at Tsankawi, this was going to be an interesting day—perhaps very interesting.

It was unlikely, she thought, that the body would turn out to be a homicide—it was probably an accident, someone who got lost and died of thirst or heat. She took a moment to examine the ruined building. Dry, split vigas lay strewn about where the roof had collapsed. A cellar door, half-buried in sand, opened on the basement, into which fresh footprints led.

“It’s down through that cellar door,” Corrie said, “against the far wall, partially exposed.”

Nora nodded. “Okay. Let me take a look.”

“Do you mind if I come down and watch? I promise to stay out of the way.”

Nora hesitated. She didn’t particularly like people breathing down her neck as she worked. “Looks kind of cramped down there.”

“It’s actually something I should do, as the agent of record on the case. If possible.”

That was Corrie all over again, pushing the limit. “Okay,” said Nora after a moment. “Watch out for rattlers.”

She took off the backpack and pushed it through the old door, got on her hands and knees, and crawled through and then down the slope of sand. Once at the bottom, there was just enough headroom to stand up. Here and there, small holes could be seen: exploratory trenches or—more likely—the amateur relic hunter, digging for finds. As her eyes adjusted, she saw against the far wall an area where the drifting sand had been cleared away. She went over and saw an exposed skull and forearm.