“Yes, sir,” Corrie heard herself say. Her voice sounded oddly far away.

Morwood smirked, shook his head. “Sure you do. But you hate it nonetheless. I would, too. Try to look at the bright side: You’re involved in a much larger investigation than you ever dreamed of that first day you went out to High Lonesome. And you’re still going to be in charge of vital investigative avenues—the forensics, the irradiated corpse, the origin of the gold cross: avenues that, you’ve reminded me several times, are where your expertise lies. You’re going to find your hands full.”

The bright side. But Corrie nodded and said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

“But—” Corrie began. Despite her shock at this announcement, she still had things to say: the possibility Rivers was working for someone else; where White Sands and General McGurk figured into all this; if she could have permission to temporarily sign out the medicine bundle to Nora Kelly. But when Morwood looked up impatiently, Corrie heeded the warning bells in her head and simply nodded, turned, and exited the office.

The medicine bag and the rest of it would just have to wait.

38

CORRIE SWANSON PARKED down the street from the Space Harbor Bar in Alamogordo. She got out of her car and took in the place. Alamogordo had turned out to be a much bigger place than she’d imagined, spread out at the base of the Sacramento Mountains. It had the feel of a government town, charmless and functional.

She’d heard that the Space Harbor Bar was supposed to be a favorite hangout of soldiers posted to WSMR and air force personnel from Holloman AFB. As she stood in the street, with the last of the evening light dying in the empty sky, she almost decided to get back in the car. This was a stupid idea, she told herself; it was throwback behavior. On the other hand, Morwood hadn’t forbidden her to look into the WSMR angle—as long as she was quiet about it. She had nothing fresh to go on—the almanac she found had been carefully examined and determined to be of no value to the investigation. And there was nothing illegal or unethical in a young woman going into a bar and having a few drinks, FBI agent or not. If someone said something, and she accidentally overheard it—so much the better.

Since Morwood hadn’t seemed open to further conversation on the subject, she might as well go on a fishing expedition of her own—a fishing expedition in the middle of the desert.

She took a deep breath, smoothed down her skirt, shook out her hair, and headed toward the bar’s blinking neon sign: a depiction of the Space Shuttle taking off. Pausing inside the door, she looked around and pondered again whether she should proceed. It was eight o’clock, and the place seemed busy, especially for a Thursday night. There were many soldiers in uniform, and she was glad to see a surprising number of them were women. It wasn’t very cozy—an unfortunate mixture of chrome and Naugahyde—but it was clearly a respectable joint, the atmosphere lively but restrained.

She pushed in and headed over to the bar. A soldier immediately slid off his stool.

“Offer you a seat?”

Corrie gave him an encouraging smile. “Well, sure. Thanks.” She took a seat on the still-warm stool.

“Name’s Billy.” He held out his hand like a kid, and Corrie shook it, amused. He was just a kid, barely twenty-one, with the usual whitewall cut. She reminded herself that she wasn’t all that much older.

“Corrie.”

“Nice to meet you, Corrie. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Well, why not?” She glanced at the row of beers on tap. “I’ll have an Alamogordo Pilsner.”

The soldier ordered the beer, dropping a twenty on the bar, and ordered another for himself. He had obviously had several already.

“Do you live around here?” Billy asked, turning to her and standing a little too close.

“Albuquerque.”

“Albuquerque. You’re a ways from home. Whatcha doing down here?”

“Work.”

He nodded, draining his beer and ordering another.

Corrie had hardly sipped hers. She quickly shifted the subject. “You based at WSMR?” she asked, pronouncing it “wizmer” as the locals did.

“Sure am. I’m an EOD technician.”

“EOD?”

“Explosive ordnance disposal. We dismantle and destroy bombs and IEDs, using blast-proof suits or robots. I’m in training at WSMR, and then I’ll be assigned somewhere else.”

“That sounds fascinating.”

Billy had now waved over another beer and sank his mouth into it. Corrie had never seen anyone drink so fast.

“It is, it is.” He leaned toward her. “You staying around here?”

That didn’t take long, thought Corrie. “I’m staying with my father.”

“Oh. So you have family down here?” He chugged down his glass.

“Yes.” She had to get this conversation focused, and fast. “EOD, huh? What’s it like working at WSMR? You ever have any contact with the commander, General McGurk?”

“General McGurk?” The soldier seemed confused for a moment. “Oh, no, we don’t have any contact with him.” He raised his hand and fluttered his fingers in the air. “He’s way up there, a mucky-muck, you know?”