39

“I’M AFRAID IT would be better if you went in alone,” said Watts, sitting behind his ancient, scuffed desk. “If you go in there with a cop like me, that won’t start you off on the right foot.”

“You know people in Mescalero,” said Nora Kelly. “Can you at least give me an introduction? I can’t walk in cold.”

Watts nodded. “Sure, I can give you a name.” He leaned forward and flipped through an old-fashioned Rolodex on his desk. He copied down a name and address and handed it to her. “Emmeline Eskaminzin. She’s on the tribal council, and she’s an attorney who’s been involved with missing indigenous women cases. I’ve helped her, following up on leads in Socorro County.”

“Thanks.”

“She also happens to be the great-great-great-granddaughter of Geronimo.”

“Wow.”

“But don’t mention that unless she brings it up.” Watts placed his hands behind his head and leaned back, the old wooden chair creaking in protest. “That’s sacred stuff in that medicine bag, you know. It might be pretty hard to get anyone to talk about it.”

When Nora didn’t reply, he continued. “If you want my advice, this strikes me as a wild-goose chase. It’ll be a miracle if you can find out who that bag belonged to. And even if you do, what then? The man’s long dead.”

Nora gathered up the photos and put them back into a manila envelope. “At least it will get me away from here.”

Watts’s smile turned to a frown of concern. “Still no word on those guys that tried to ambush you at High Lonesome?”

“Not that I know of. From what Corrie tells me, they covered their tracks like professionals.”

“I heard you gave one of them a souvenir. Maybe one that will never go away.” Watts paused. “You’re getting awfully involved in this case, aren’t you? I mean, this isn’t exactly archaeology.”

You think I don’t know that? Nora managed to swallow this remark instead of say it. Time was running out on her permit at the Tsankawi site; Adelsky, her graduate student, had finished all the work he could do without her supervision; and for a senior curator, she’d spent remarkably little time at the Institute recently. “I’d take this as an object lesson, Sheriff: when Corrie Swanson asks for your help, be careful what you promise. This whole thing started as an afternoon visit to High Lonesome. Now I’m hip-deep in it.” She paused. “I’m intrigued as well.”

Watts’s smile returned. “Good luck, then.”

*

The town of Mescalero lay in the mountains east of WSMR, in a pretty river valley surrounded by pine-clad hills. It could have been in Wyoming or Canada, thought Nora as she slowed down on the approach to town. Hard to believe the brutal desert was only twenty miles away.

She turned off the main road into the parking lot of a modest tribal building and community center. Grabbing her backpack, she entered the building and was greeted by a receptionist in a small lobby and waiting area.

“I’m here to see Emmeline Eskaminzin,” Nora said.

“Third door on the right.”

She went down the hallway, trying to suppress feelings of nervousness. The door was open, and a woman, sitting behind a desk in a small office, rose to greet her. She was strikingly tall and athletic-looking, dressed in a conservative suit and silk shirt straight out of a corporate law office. The only nod to Apache culture was her hair, pulled back in two braids, their ends tied with colored twine. She appeared around thirty.

“Dr. Kelly, right? Please, have a seat.”

Nora sat down in a chair opposite the desk.

“What can I do for you?” The woman folded her hands with a smile. “You were a bit mysterious on the phone.”

Her voice was quiet and low. In her mind, Nora had run through several ways to spin this delicate request; but now, facing this no-nonsense person, she decided to lay it out as straightforwardly as possible. “I’m an archaeologist,” she said, “and I’ve been doing some consulting work for the FBI. I’m trying to identify the owner of a particular medicine bundle that we found during a recent excavation. I think it belonged to an Apache.”

“A medicine bundle?” Eskaminzin asked. “How do you know it’s Apache?”

“I’m not sure, but the objects inside appear to be Apache. And the Mescalero are the tribe closest to where it was found.”

“Do you have it with you?”

“Yes.” She took the container out of her backpack and put it carefully on the table. This woman, she thought, would never know how much wheedling, cajoling, and threatening it had taken to convince Corrie Swanson to let her borrow the evidence.

Eskaminzin eyed the box but did not touch it. “May I ask where you found it?”

“In a ghost town called High Lonesome, in the foothills of the Azul Mountains at the north end of the Jornada del Muerto. Do you know the place?”

“I’ve heard of it. You mentioned the FBI. Is this a criminal investigation?”

“No,” said Nora, “at least not yet. The bundle’s owner is not implicated in a crime at all, and besides, it’s at least seventy-five years old.”

Eskaminzin pursed her lips, staring at the box, and a silence settled in the small office. Nora had the feeling she was one of those people who didn’t speak until she had carefully gathered and considered her thoughts. “In Apache culture,” she said slowly, “the medicine bundle is considered private. It’s not meant to be shown to anyone. It’s very unusual to find one abandoned.”