“Open,” he repeated.

Untying the leather thongs, she unwrapped the buckskin, revealing a heavy gold pocket watch, with engravings of constellations visible on its worn cover. The parfleche opened to expose an ancient sheet of parchment. On it was an Apache drawing of four horses with riders.

“Those are now yours,” he said.

Staring at them, Nora’s mouth went dry. “What are they?”

A long silence ensued while he closed his eyes again and took several long, deep breaths.

“I will tell you what it is you came to hear,” he said. “And then—then I can finally go.”

46

SITTING AT HER kitchen table as afternoon turned to evening, Corrie Swanson carefully laid out the piece of tinfoil she’d prepared on returning home the night before. She pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, opened the evidence box, and took out—yet again—the piece of parchment and the bundle it had been wrapped in and placed them side by side on the table. She moved a bright light over to it and picked up her magnifying glass.

The wrapping was an old-fashioned oilcloth, stiff with age. She had spread it out, looking for writing or designs. Though it had been hard to see through the dirt and stains of the years, it appeared to be free of any marks.

Now she turned her attention to the parchment. It was stiff and square, about eight inches on a side, and was covered with ancient lettering. Age had turned it a dark honey color. Three of its edges looked old and worn, but the fourth had been cut at a more recent date: under the glass she could see marks of a knife scoring back and forth in the parchment. The faded old lettering on that side had been cut off—clearly, this had once been a larger document divided in half.

She turned the parchment over and examined the other side. On it was a picture, drawn in color with what looked like crayons. Areas here and there were filled in with watercolor. It, too, had been cut. The section on her half showed two indigenous people wearing leggings, galloping, one on a black-and-white spotted horse and the other on a roan. They both carried bows and were chasing a cavalry officer, who was fleeing from them on horseback. The drawing had a childlike simplicity and clarity of exposition: every detail had been painstakingly rendered, including streaks of paint on the Indians’ faces, the bridles and reins, and the cavalry soldier’s uniform. It was lively and engaging and, despite the passage of years, still remarkably fresh.

On the other hand, the strange lettering on the other side—which she didn’t recognize but assumed was Spanish—looked very much older, so faded as to be barely legible. There were crossings-out and blots of ink that made her think it had been written in haste. The script was indecipherable to her. It was even hard to make out individual letters among all the curlicues and flourishes.

She sat back, speculating—as she had been doing all day. This was clearly the item that Jesse had spoken of. Nothing else made sense. But had his greatgrandfather treasured this parchment for the drawing, the Spanish text—or both? A quick computer search had told her Indian drawings like this, known as “ledger art” because old army ledgers had often been used as drawing pads, were valuable. Usually, they were drawn by warriors who wanted to depict important battles or courting scenes. The Indians had valued parchment because of its toughness and durability. It was remarkable Jesse had held on to it, despite needing money for drugs. It was hard to imagine an addict not cashing it in; it was that important to him. Or possibly he didn’t realize its value. But no, he’d said it himself: In my greatgrandfather’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.

She sighed. This was clearly evidence. Her responsibility was to bring it in to Albuquerque to be logged and examined in the lab. And the Spanish, or whatever that old calligraphy was, needed to be translated by an expert. But such was her annoyance with her supervisor that, though an entire day had passed, she’d hesitated to report it.

Maybe she wouldn’t ever. Morwood would probably just dismiss it, as he had her suspicions of the general, and give her another of his fatherly lectures about not going off on a tangent. But finally she shook off such thoughts. That was the old rebel thinking, not the new FBI agent. She had to follow the rules, and that meant notifying Morwood—even though it was six o’clock on a Sunday evening. Damn, she should have done this earlier.

She picked up her phone and called Morwood’s cell.

He picked up on the second ring. “What is it, Corrie?”

She told him about her hunch; about going up to Gower’s place; about finding the parchment. She didn’t mention exactly when she’d done it, and he didn’t ask. Instead, a long silence followed. As she waited, she prepared herself for the dismissive, perhaps even irritated, response. But instead, when Morwood spoke again, his voice had taken on an unexpected edge. “Can you send me some pictures? Just take a few with your cell phone while I wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

She photographed both sides of the parchment, the oilcloth wrapper, and the waxed string used to hold it together, and shot

them off to Morwood.

“Okay,” he said, “got them.”

Another long silence followed. “And how much did you estimate the drawing is worth?”

“Looking around on the web, I got the sense they sell for a lot of money. Like ten thousand dollars.”