“Look, you were the one who came out to my dig site, practically begging for my help. You’re the one who got me interested in all this—at just the wrong moment in my own career. Now we’re going to do the right thing, uncover the history of what happened. Or I’m done.”

“Jesus.” Corrie let her head fall back on the pillow. “I’ll figure something out, okay? Meanwhile, get some rest. And be careful. Looks like we both have our work cut out for us.” She hung up.

*

About twenty miles to the southeast, in a small soundproofed room full of electronic equipment, General Mark McGurk watched as Lieutenant Woodbridge clicked a mouse button, pausing the audio and recording software that were running on her computer. She then saved the file and looked up at him.

“Five by five?” he asked.

She scrolled back through the recording—the scrubbing needle on the screen moving quickly over the digital waveform—then played back a section at random. Nora Kelly’s voice sounded through the monitors: He could tell us what really happened. Fill in the rest of the story. He might even be able to lead us to the treasure.

“Outstanding, Lieutenant,” the general said. “Outstanding.”

“And if they learn the location, sir?”

“If they do,” McGurk said, his voice going low and soft, “I know just the way to make sure they keep that knowledge to themselves.”

37

“SO A SECOND person was working with Gower,” Morwood said. “A partner.”

“Yes, sir,” Corrie replied. It was shortly after lunch; Nora and Skip Kelly had come by her office as requested, given their statements, along with partial descriptions of their attackers, and then left. Morwood, his eyes red-rimmed, was now paging through Corrie’s initial report and its accompanying photos.

“A partner who hadn’t been with Gower that day but who—when he saw the dying man come back to camp—made tracks like a bandit.”

“That’s what Dr. Kelly believes.”

“And yet he had time to bury Gower, shoot the mule—and leave the gold cross behind.”

Corrie sighed inwardly. It was true, this made little sense to her … and probably even less to Morwood.

“But these discoveries—suppositions—of Dr. Kelly’s don’t seem related in any direct way to the assault on them last night.”

“No direct link has been discovered, sir.”

“We’ll see about that.” He froze, looking at one of the photographs. “Sweet mother of God. Is that a Zero Tolerance blade?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the archaeologist was packing it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Looks like a limited edition. Belongs behind glass, not in somebody’s pocket.”

“Well, she used it to take a good slice out of whoever came at them. We’ve taken blood and tissue samples off the blade, along with a full battery of photographs.” She didn’t mention that, beyond these steps, Nora had declined to submit the knife as evidence.

“Well, if she’s fast with a knife, that’s a good kind to have at hand. We shouldn’t have any problem following the blood trail.” He put Corrie’s report to one side and picked up another. “I’ll be sending a team out to secure the entire site.”

“What site do you mean? High Lonesome?”

Morwood nodded tersely.

Corrie almost asked a question but then suppressed it. But Morwood already seemed to know what she would say. “Yes. I’m taking over supervision of the case.”

In the stunned silence that followed, Morwood opened the second report. “The full autopsy report is back on Rivers, and an analysis of his blood chemistry and other indicators show persuasively that he died of—” he consulted the report—“Brugada syndrome.”

Corrie found her voice. “Brugada syndrome?”

“I’ve never heard of it, either. ‘Brugada syndrome, brought on by injection of carbamazepine.’ As best I can make out, people in questionable health, or with latent cardiac issues—and our friend Rivers ticks off both those boxes—can have malignant arrythmias induced by an injection of epilepsy sodium blockers. Of which carbamazepine is one. There are lots of other big words in this report, too: polymorphic ventricular tachycardia; myocardial voltage-gated sodium channels; dilated cardiomyopathy. You’re welcome to read it for yourself.” He tossed the report back on his desk, where it landed atop Corrie’s. “What it all adds up to is homicide. Rivers was murdered, probably by someone who knew him well enough—or was well connected enough—to know his general state of health. Rivers was also involved in various unsavory kinds of work, including fraud and the sale of antiquities, illegally acquired or otherwise. We’re pretty sure that figure in the hospital video is the killer. With Rivers’s death being a homicide, the canvas—Gower, Rivers, Trinity—has suddenly grown larger, and far more complex. That’s why I’m getting involved.”

“You’re taking the case from me?” As soon as she spoke, she realized how pathetic and whiny the question sounded and regretted asking it.

“Don’t take this personally, Corrie,” he said. “It’s standard procedure that any case handled by an agent during their probationary period be assumed by their supervisor if certain criteria are met. In this case, those criteria have been met—in spades.” He smacked the papers on his desk in emphasis. “You should be proud of this work. A lot of the early heavy lifting, particularly when it comes to Gower, was done by you. And your gut instincts, especially in the hospital, have been proven right, in more ways than one. But the fact is, even now we’re still not sure if the two dead men are connected—but to find out, we have to escalate the investigation. Do you understand?”