So they waited and waited, but nothing happened, save a squawk and some activity from the henhouse.

After a few minutes, Watts shifted in his seat. “Why don’t you all stay in the car and I’ll go knock on the door?”

“Why don’t I go and you stay here,” Corrie said. “I’m less threatening. You’re big and tall and in uniform.”

“Well, now … ” Watts didn’t finish the sentence, but it was clear he wasn’t happy with the idea.

“I’m armed and trained,” Corrie said.

“I’m just wondering,” said Watts with a laugh, “how it’s going to look to people around here if I stay in the car and you get shot.”

“All the grievance warriors out there will give you a medal for recognizing gender equality,” said Corrie as she got out.

Nora waited with Watts while Corrie walked slowly up to the porch and waited at the base of the steps. “Jesse Gower?” she called. “You in there?”

No answer.

Nora watched while Corrie mounted the steps and knocked on the door. “Jesse, you in there? It’s Corrie Swanson.”

The door opened slowly, almost as if a ghost were operating it, and a scarecrow of a man appeared: dressed in pale clothes, face hollowed out, lanky yellow hair tied back in a messy ponytail that fell practically to his waist. His nose looked as if it had been broken, then healed imperfectly. Several day’s worth of stubble completed the picture of a terrifying wreck of a man. An addict for sure, thought Nora. Crank, or smack—or both.

“Who?” the man finally said.

“Um, Corrie Swanson. FBI.” Nora watched her lift her credentials, then drop them and offer her hand. The man stared at the hand as if dumbfounded.

“You can’t come in,” he said, starting to retreat.

“That’s okay, no worries, we don’t need to come in. We just have a few questions—”

But the door shut, and there was the sound of a lock turning.

Now what? Nora thought.

Sheriff Watts started to get out, but Corrie motioned for him to stay inside. “Mr. Gower?” she said through the door. “We found the body of a man named James Gower. We’re here to ask you a few questions.”

Nothing.

“He was found with a valuable object.”

Still no response.

“Are you a descendant? We’re searching for the rightful owner.”

At this, after a moment, the door slowly opened again and the specter stood in the doorway. “What object?”

“If you’ll allow me and my partners to sit down on this porch of yours, we can talk about it.”

He gestured slowly for them to come.

Watts got out of the Jeep and slipped on his amazing hat, while Nora followed. They climbed the stairs to the porch, where a torn sofa and several rickety chairs lay scattered about. They all sat down, and the unsteady Gower took a seat on a stool, his bony knees sticking up through holes in his pants. It was cool on the porch, and fragrant with the scent of pine needles—a lovely spot, Nora thought once more, as long as you ignored the yard of junk.

She examined Jesse Gower more closely. His pupils were dilated, and he looked strung out. Very strung out. She wondered how he got drugs way out here.

“So tell me about this object,” he said.

“First, are you related to James Doolin Gower?”

“I want to know about the ‘valuable object.’”

“You’ll know about it,” said Corrie, “once we’ve established your relationship with James Doolin Gower, if any.”

The official tone, or perhaps the insinuation, seemed to wake him up. He stood. “Fuck you all.”

“Okay,” said Corrie, “let’s go.” She turned to Watts. “Obviously, he’s got nothing to do with Jim Gower or that gold object.”

At this, the man paused. “Gold object?”

Corrie stared him down. “Mr. Gower, I need to know if you’ll cooperate.”

“I’ll cooperate. I will.” He eased back down on the stool. After a long silence, he said: “James Doolin Gower was my great-grandfather.”

Corrie pulled out a picture. “This man?”

Gower took the picture in a trembling hand. He stared at it. “Where’d you get this?”

“It’s a facial reconstruction, made from the skull of a man found in a ghost town several miles from here. A man tentatively identified as James Gower.”

“That’s pretty good. It’s him, all right.”

“I want you to be sure. Here’s another picture, and another.”

He looked through them. “I’m sure it’s him. He disappeared long before I was born, but I saw enough photos to know.”

Corrie took the pictures back. “Tell us about him.”

“Not much to say. He had a hardscrabble ranch in the San Andres. The government confiscated his ranch and everyone else’s in the area when they created the White Sands Missile Range.”

“The government took his ranch?”

“Oh, yeah. And after those government bastards stole his ranch and paid him almost nothing for it, he spent the last few years of his life trying to make a living. Or so my dad told me. He was sure the government took his land because they wanted something on it—oil, maybe, or gold. My great-grandma left him, and then he disappeared. Nobody ever heard from him again.”