“When did he disappear?”

“A couple of years after they stole his ranch.” He thought for a minute. “I’d guess in the midforties, based on what my father told me.”

“Did anyone search for him?”

“The government people and the sheriff organized a halfassed search party for a few days and then gave up. So you found his body up there in High Lonesome?”

“What makes you think that?” Corrie asked.

“You said the body was found in a ghost town some miles away. High Lonesome’s the only one that comes to mind.”

“As it happens, that’s correct. The body was found by a relic hunter.”

“What was he doing up there?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Corrie said. “Do you have any thoughts?”

He shook his head. “Not a clue. How did he die?”

“We’re looking into it. Could be homicide, could be an accident. Any rumors or stories passed down in your family about him?”

He looked at her with suspicion—or maybe, Nora thought, paranoia. “Not really. So he was carrying something valuable? Was it his gold watch?”

“Gold watch?” Corrie asked.

“Yeah. Pocket watch, with constellations engraved on the spring cover. A flyback chronograph.”

“A what?” Watts asked.

“Flyback chronograph. I think they called it a repeater back when it was made, in the 1920s or thereabouts.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Corrie said.

Gower shrugged. “My dad knew something about repairing timepieces. That watch meant a great deal to my great-grandfather. It was worth a lot of money.”

After a pause, Corrie went on. “We found something made of gold. But it wasn’t a watch. It was a cross.”

“A cross?” Gower seemed to have difficulty picturing his ancestor with such an object. “How much is it worth?”

“We’re looking into that as well.”

“I’m the only descendant. It belongs to me. The rightful owner—just like you said.”

At this, Nora leaned forward. “It would be helpful to us if you could give us a sketch of your family history and relationships. A family tree.”

“My great-grandfather, your dead man, had one child. His name was Murphy Gower. He was taken by his mother to her family’s homestead—this place, here—when she left her husband. Murphy Gower was my granddad. He inherited this place and married Eliza Horner, my grandma, and they had one child—my dad. His name was Jesse, too. He spent some time in Culver City, California, then came back here and married my mom, Millicent. They tried to get a ranch going outside of Magdalena. That’s where I spent my first twelve years. Then the ranch went bust, my mom left, I got a scholarship to Harvard, my dad died—and I dropped out.”

“Harvard?” Nora blurted out.

“Yes, Harvard. Full scholarship. Don’t look so shocked. I was at Harvard for two years and did very well.” For the first time, some color came into his face: the blush of shame.

“Go on,” said Corrie.

“So I went to New York, did some writing. Didn’t work out. I needed peace and quiet. So I came back here to write my novel. I’m still working on it.”

A silence.

“What’s the title of your novel?” Corrie asked.

“Lamentable.”

This was followed by another silence.

“And then what happened to you?” Corrie asked, a sudden edge to her voice.

Gower’s pale face became splotchy with color. “What do you mean? Nothing happened. I’m living off the eggs from that henhouse over there. And writing my novel.”

“For ten years?”

He shifted. “James Joyce took seventeen years to write Finnegans Wake.”

Corrie leaned forward. “What I mean is, when did you become addicted to drugs?”

Gower’s face flushed with anger. He lurched to his feet. “Get off my fucking property.”

Corrie rose, as did the others. “And you,” she said. “Get yourself clean—or you’ll die.”

“What about my cross?” Gower asked in a cracked voice.

“When it’s no longer needed as evidence, there’s a process that will allow you to claim it. If you are indeed the only heir—and aren’t dead by then.”

He stared at them from the porch as they returned to the Jeep.

“Jesus,” said Watts, “you were awfully hard on that fellow.” He carefully hung his hat on a wire hat rack and got behind the wheel, looking at her curiously—as did Nora. The outburst was so uncharacteristic.

“Harvard—and now this?” Corrie said angrily. “That’s a fucking tragedy. And … ” She hesitated.

“Go on,” Nora said.

“I … ” Corrie paused again. “I saw the same shit in my family. I’ve got no tolerance for it.”

22

CORRIE DESCENDED THE concrete steps to the basement of the Albuquerque FO building. It seemed asleep, windows dark, parking lot empty—not surprising, considering it was five o’clock in the morning. She had awoken from a bad dream, a rerun of her missed shot, and after that, sleep had been impossible, and at last she had given up and gotten out of bed. After showering and eating a granola bar washed down with two cups of coffee, black and strong, she’d gotten in her car and driven to work. The mule skeleton had been bothering her—Lathrop had been particularly possessive during his examination of its bones, and she’d barely managed to peer over his shoulder while he worked. At the time, she’d let him have his way, thinking the mule less important than the examination of Gower. But she still had some unanswered questions—in particular, why the animal had been shot—and she wanted time to have a closer look without the interfering old pathologist hanging around.