And so, over the years, it’s been passed down: with the watch gone—it was first a sort of family curiosity. But so many years have passed that now it’s more like an heirloom.” He paused. “So—what do you think of that?”

“I’m not sure what to think,” said Corrie, struggling to follow his ramblings.

“You were on the right track, though,” Jesse went on. “In my great-grandfather’s time, most people would have thought his precious item fit only to line a henhouse with. But over the years it’s gained value. Maybe a lot of value. Even if Pertelote is still the only one who can enjoy it.”

“And so you refrained from selling this precious thing, even while you sold all the other relics in that shed?”

“Are you trying to make me mad? Here I am, making a peace offering to you. An important one, at that.”

“So tell me why this thing is important.”

“My great-grandfather, carrying a fabulous gold cross, dying of radiation from the Trinity test … This other treasure of his was important to him, so surely it must be important to you.”

Corrie tried to suppress her irritation at his coy teasing. Was this just another come-on, where she’d drive all the way out only to find him turning from Jekyll to Hyde yet again?

“You’re saying this object could help further my investigation?”

“I don’t think it could hurt.”

Corrie sighed. “Why don’t you just tell me what it is, Jesse, instead of all this bullshit.”

“You have to see it. Really. I can’t explain.”

She thought about this. It was just worth a trip. “All right. I have some paperwork to finish up here. I’ll try to leave within an hour.”

“I’ll fry up some eggs for us. If you want anything to drink besides water or malt liquor, you’ll have to bring it yourself.”

41

CORRIE ENDED UP wrestling with her casework for two hours, rather than one. It felt strangely pleasing to be working with documents involving one’s own case … even if Morwood was in the process of taking it over. At last she rose from her desk, trotted downstairs, got into her car, and drove out of town. She wondered if this “precious object” wasn’t just more bullshit.

The drive was as long as she remembered, but she was relieved that—although the sun had set and the roads had no lights—she found the way without getting lost. On one of the last stretches of dirt road, a big F-250 passed her going the other direction at high speed, which really pissed her off. She tried to catch its license plate in the rearview mirror, but the truck was so filthy with dust and dried mud that the plate was obscured. Men and their trucks—they were like boys playing with Tonkas. It raised a huge cloud of dust, and she had honked in annoyance, but the burly vehicle had been moving so fast it was gone and out of hearing. She spat out a mouthful of dust, then closed the windows and put the air-conditioning on recirculation mode. One thing she’d never get used to was the damned dust. Southern New Mexico made Kansas look like a tropical oasis by comparison.

She slowed as she approached the ramshackle Gower farm, then turned in at the spavined, tilted mailbox. Beyond the large collection of objectionable lawn art, the house looked dark. Surely this wasn’t going to be Jesse’s attempt at a candlelit supper?

She got out of her car, looked around slowly. All was silent.

“Gower?” she called out.

Nothing.

“Jesse? You there?”

When there was still no answer, she reached into the car and took out her flashlight, checked her gun to make sure a round was chambered, and then cautiously approached the house.

“Jesse?” she called again.

Where the hell was he? The property was small enough that he’d be able to hear her calling from any location. He didn’t seem the type to play some kind of practical joke. Was he in the house, high on crank, headphones blasting, having totally forgotten the conversation they’d had a few hours earlier? She sniffed the air, but there was no odor of ammonia or weed—only the faint stench of bird shit from the henhouse.

When she called out again and there was still no response, she fell silent.

The old treads squeaked as she ascended the porch. Shining her light around, she noted nothing different. The screen was long gone, and the door itself was hanging ajar. She pushed it open with her foot, stepped inside, and then paused, slowly sweeping her flashlight beam over the living room as she took it all in.

The place looked like it had been hit by a tornado. Old sofas were overturned, their stuffing torn out; bookshelves pulled away from walls, contents flipped through—she could see little notes, probably Jesse’s, peeping here and there from the pages. A dresser stood askew in one corner, empty drawers grinning in her beam of light, the contents scattered. Manuscript pages covered everything like bunting. Pictures were torn from the walls, standing lamps sprawling, the TV staved in and knocked over.

She stepped carefully through the maelstrom of destruction, her flashlight continuing to roam. She considered turning on a light to see if there was power, then thought better of it.

She’d never seen the inside of the place, but she knew one thing: however Jesse lived, it wasn’t like this.

Reaching the far end of the living room, she scanned the kitchen that lay beyond. It, too, was a whirlwind of devastation. One thing caught her eye—four eggs, broken, on the floor in front of the old stove.