Corrie stared at Morwood, feeling a flush of anger. “So what, exactly, did Huckey say?”

“He said—take this with a grain of salt—that you were difficult to work with, insulting, and uncooperative.”

Corrie waited a beat. “Anything else?”

“That you misidentified a bone he recovered and interfered with his search protocol.”

“And you believe him?”

Corrie hadn’t meant to assume such a challenging tone, and the question seemed to take Morwood aback. “No, I don’t, except to the extent that it represents a failure on your part to get along.”

Corrie took a deep breath. “I’m perfectly willing to get along with unsavory, retrograde, obnoxious, and even criminal people as part of my job.”

“I’m glad to hear it, but—”

Corrie interrupted him. “Excuse me, sir, but what I’m not willing to do is put up with co-workers like that. There’s a difference. Right from the get-go, Huckey was loud, insulting, arrogant, and sexist. He disparaged me in front of Sheriff Watts, he treated the site with contempt instead of respect, and when we were inside the mine, rather than acknowledging the tragedy that took place there, he thought it would be amusing to drop an old case of TNT at my feet. His behavior was unprofessional from start to finish.” She took another deep breath. “Are you telling me I should put up with that?”

Morwood frowned. “Well, in principle—”

“Then forgive me if I just come out and say it: I won’t put up with it. Not from co-workers, and especially not from someone technically subordinate to me. That undermines my authority as a special agent. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

A long silence filled the room. Morwood gazed steadily at Corrie. At last, he asked: “Was he really that bad?”

“Worse. And I might also point out that I was willing to let it go. It was Huckey who complained—not me.”

“He reported you called him, among other things, a ‘dickless wonder.’ That’s not exactly professional on your part.”

“Perhaps not. But I still maintain that if he’d treated a guy like he treated me, he would’ve gotten his butt handed to him.”

Morwood nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. “Okay. I hear you. I don’t want my agents to have to deal with that kind of behavior.”

“Thank you, sir.” She almost asked him what he planned to do about it but realized that might sound like she was angling to have Huckey reprimanded. Frankly, she didn’t give a shit what happened to him, as long as she didn’t have to work with him again. A guy like that was never going to change.

Morwood nodded crisply and turned to the door. Corrie finished packing away her stuff, heart beating like a drum in her chest. Had she just screwed her career? Or was standing up for herself a good thing? She had no idea one way or the other and was filled with confusion. She knew only one thing: she was never going to put up with a bully like Huckey again. It was too much like her miserable high school days.

She emerged from the conference room to find Nora waiting for her in the hall.

“Sorry that took a while,” Corrie said.

“No worries.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Heading back to Santa Fe. And you?”

“I’ve got to drive down south to some godforsaken hole and interview someone who might be a relative of Gower’s.” Then Corrie added, almost without thinking: “Want to come?”

“Me?” Nora said in surprise. “Why?”

“Because it’s a long, boring drive … and, well, I could use the company.”

Nora hesitated for what seemed a long time. Then she nodded. “Sure.”

21

JESSE GOWER LIVED in a log cabin with a tin roof, surrounded by ponderosa pines and looking out over the Magdalena Mountains. A battered chicken coop—still populated, judging from the occasional cackling noise—stood across a dirt yard from the cabin, next to what looked like a shuttered toolshed. It would have been a nice place, Nora thought, if the yard weren’t full of old cars, two refrigerators, a washing machine, rolls of barbed wire, a broken cattle gate, and other miscellaneous junk. Since the phone had been disconnected, Watts had suggested they go there and hope to find him at home.

Nora had been struck by Sheriff Homer Watts. He was utterly different from what she’d expected—he was a tall, skinny guy, ridiculously young, with an easygoing, aw-shucks manner. But it was his cowboy hat she particularly noticed. It was glorious, a 100X beaver Resistol in silver belly that she was sure cost well over a thousand dollars. Watts babied the hat, brushing every bit of dust off and keeping it immaculate—and no wonder, because when he wore it he looked remarkably like a young Gary Cooper. She couldn’t help but wonder if something might happen between him and Corrie, despite—or maybe because of—the awkward formality of their interactions, all “Agent Swanson” and “Sheriff Watts” and that sort of thing.

He’d been surprised when Corrie suggested that Nora come along but had voiced no objection. They had all gone together in the sheriff’s car, and now Watts pulled up some distance from the house. “I think we’d better wait a bit,” he said. “Not a good idea to surprise the guy.”