Beyond the vehicles, the place was swarming. Corrie could see Morwood talking to the Evidence Response Team, standing around the well. As she approached, she could hear his voice—uncharacteristically loud. When he saw her, he broke off and came over.

“What’s this?” he asked with annoyance, staring at Nora and Sheriff Watts. “I was hoping to keep this incident under wraps!”

Corrie was surprised by his vehemence. “Sir, when I got the call, we were investigating an unrelated aspect of the case. It would have required a major detour, and delay, to drop them off.”

Morwood didn’t reply to this, but it seemed to mollify him somewhat. He looked at the group. “This is all strictly

confidential.”

“Understood,” said Nora.

“Come with me,” he told Corrie. Then he glanced at Nora and Watts. “You might as well come, too.”

Morwood led them to the site. A winch with a bloody stretcher dangling beneath it was still hanging over the well. The wooden well cover, old and worm-eaten to begin with, was broken in half, and next to the well, stretched out in an unzipped body bag, lay Huckey’s corpse. His head was covered with a folded plastic sheet.

“Smell that?” Morwood said, gesturing at the body.

Corrie hesitated. Smell what—the dead body? This was an odd request.

“Come closer.”

When Corrie did so, a movement of air brought the sudden strong smell of alcohol to her nostrils.

“Was he drinking?”

“He stinks of it, doesn’t he?” said Morwood. He gestured over his shoulder. “He was camped over there. The spot was littered with Southern Comfort miniatures, with more in his damn pack. We’ve taken blood to find out just how impaired he was.”

“How was he found?” Nora asked.

“He didn’t show up at work this morning. His wife was frantic, said he was supposed to be home Sunday night. We triangulated his cell phone pings. Hell of a job, too—the signal keeps cutting in and out this far from civilization; we were lucky to do it.” He turned to one of the ERT techs. “Tom, where’s that stuff you found on him?”

“In the evidence locker, sir.”

“Take a look at this.” Morwood went over to the locker. Inside, laid out in compartments, were several evidence bags. “We found all this in his pockets.” He pulled up some bags. “A gold coin, a ring, some old keys. The larger stuff is at his campsite. The guy was looting everything he could get his hands on. He had a metal detector and was digging holes all over.”

Watts shook his head. “Why did the FBI keep a guy like this on payroll? I knew from the first he was bad news. He came in here, breaking down walls, no respect for the place.”

Morwood turned to him. “Keep your opinions to yourself, Mr. Watts,” he said acidly.

Watts coolly removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and fitted it back on. “That’s not my style, Agent Morwood.”

Morwood turned away brusquely and said to Corrie, “Come with me.” He headed away at a fast walk. Corrie followed, Nora and Watts tagging along. God, she hoped the sheriff wouldn’t make any more antagonizing remarks. She had never seen Morwood in such a state.

The wall of a small outbuilding had been freshly knocked down, and Huckey had dug several holes under the adobe foundation of the small church. As Corrie looked around, she could see that while he had done some damage, fortunately he hadn’t had time to cause any real destruction before he fell down the well. They continued past the church to an area outside the town, peppered with holes.

Nora knelt among the shallow holes. “This area,” she said, “was probably the garbage dump of the town—judging by all the broken crockery and bottles.”

“Let’s check in with Alfieri and hear the latest.” Morwood charged across the old main street to where Alfieri was just stepping out of his Tyvek suit, red-faced and sweating.

“Fill us in, Milt.”

“It’s pretty straightforward,” Alfieri said. “The evidence seems clear that Huckey came up here alone. He had a metal detector and was sweeping the ground, locating objects and digging them up. Drinking all the while, it seems. We found his empty miniatures lying almost everywhere. At some point, judgment impaired by alcohol, he walked across that covered well. The rotten cover gave way and he fell a hundred feet to his death. We think it happened at night, because his broken flashlight was found at the bottom with him.”

“The well’s dry?” asked Corrie.

“Yes,” said Alfieri. “Dry as a bone. He, ah, struck the bottom headfirst.”

No wonder they covered his head with a sheet, Corrie thought. “Where was he camped?” she asked.

“Follow me,” said Morwood.

Huckey had pitched his tent in the lee of the wall of the old church. There was a small circle of stones where he’d built his campfire, a cooking pot, an empty can of Dinty Moore beef stew, more Southern Comfort minis, cigarette butts, and other trash. Lined up on an old plank were the other things he’d evidently found: a horse bit with silver engraving, a brass Spanish stirrup, old bottles, a china plate, a few pieces of flatware, locks and fixtures pried off doors, ivory piano keys, more coins.

Nora, who had lagged behind, now appeared as they were looking the campsite over. She knelt to examine the evidence.