Watts introduced Corrie, and Stoudenmire turned to her with the expression of surprise she’d come to expect. “FBI?”

Corrie shook his hand as he continued to stare.

“What brings the FBI out here?” he said.

“Shall we go inside?” Watts asked, pointing at the door.

“Of course, of course.” They followed him into the dim and unappealing trailer, which smelled of old bacon, and took their seats in a shabby living room full of Scotch plaid furniture.

“Mr. Stoudenmire, do you know about that body they found in the ghost town up yonder?” Watts asked once they were settled.

“I don’t get much chance to read the paper these days.”

“Well, a body was found in High Lonesome, and we’re investigating, the FBI and myself. We’re trying to identify it, and Agent Swanson here has some pictures she’d like to show you. Just in case you might remember. The man died around 1945.”

Stoudenmire nodded, his eyes lighting up with interest.

Corrie took out the first picture and handed it to him. He took it up as she gave him the spiel about not expecting a perfect match. After a lengthy pause, he tapped the picture with a long, dirty fingernail.

“Kind of looks like that old coot who was around here when I was a kid,” he said. “I’m trying to think of his name.”

“Here’s another,” said Corrie.

He took up the second picture, held it close up, then far away, squinting. “Yup, that’s him.”

Corrie felt her pulse quickening, thrilled that her reconstruction might have worked so quickly. “What was his name?” she asked.

“Jim …”

She waited.

“Jim what?” asked Watts, also on the edge of his seat.

Stoudenmire screwed up his face. “Damned if I can remember. He was an old feller, you’d see him in town from time to time. He had various half-baked ideas he was talking up, but none of ’em worked out. He bought a bunch of cashmere goats, but they all died. Then he thought he could make a business of buying and selling junk.”

“But you don’t remember his last name?”

He shook his head. “Everyone just called him Jim.”

Corrie suddenly remembered the gold ring with the initials on it. “The last name began with G,” she said.

“G,” the old man repeated. “Jim G … Jim Gower. That’s it, Jim Gower!”

Corrie leaned forward. “And you’re sure of the identification, Mr. Stoudenmire?”

“You bet. Old Jim Gower. That’s him.” A decisive tap with the fingernail.

“What else do you know about this Gower?” Fountain asked.

“He scratched out a living on a ranch in the Jornada somewhere. That’s hard country. After he lost the ranch you’d see him in town, sometimes drunk or sleeping on a park bench, or trying to sell some old coins or arrowheads and other useless relics. Harmless old duffer.” He shook his head. “Jim Gower. Brings back memories, don’t it?”

Watts raised his head. “There’s a Gower out by Magdalena. Jesse. Young guy, writer or something. Do you know if they’re related?”

The old man shook his head. “Don’t know of any other Gowers in these parts, myself. I don’t think he had much family, if any.”

*

On the way back to Socorro, the sun cast a brilliant gold light across the prairie, setting the hills on fire. During sunset, the desert actually looked beautiful. The rest of the time, Corrie thought, it was just plain burnt-up.

“What do you know about this Jesse Gower?” she asked Watts.

“Not that much. He was from around here somewhere, went away to college. Lived in New York City for a while, then came back and settled at his old family place to write a novel. But that was ten years ago and I guess things haven’t gone so well.”

“Your guess is correct,” Fountain said. “I heard he got his nose broken last year at a bar in San Antonio, spent the night in jail. My guess is he’s taken to drugs or drink—or both. He may not be of much help to you.”

“Maybe not,” said Corrie, “but if they share a last name, we have to see him. I can’t do it tomorrow morning—I’ve got to present the case at our weekly meeting—but afternoon is good, if that works.”

“Fine by me,” Watts said.

“Think I’ll pass, myself,” Fountain told them. “From what I’ve heard, visiting Gower won’t be pretty.”

20

NORA PUT ON her best suit for the occasion, and when she entered the FBI briefing room she was immediately glad she had. The room was wall to wall with well-groomed young men and women in immaculate blue and gray suits, polished shoes, and shining faces. This was a far cry from the jeans-andwork-shirt informality of the Institute. Even in New Mexico, it seemed, the FBI were totally buttoned-down. She was especially pleased to be there, as Weingrau had come by her office earlier and praised her for working so well with law enforcement. “What you’re doing,” she’d said, “is invaluable publicity for the Institute.” On top of that, the Institute’s press office had issued a release about the pro bono cooperation with the FBI, and the Albuquerque Journal had picked it up. Many details, of course, had been left out, including the gold cross, High Lonesome, and the body itself, but it was still a favorable story.