Another silence. “And the Spanish script on the other side?”

“I have no idea what it is.”

“This could be a significant piece of evidence, Corrie. Did you log it yet?”

“Not yet. I collected it using all the evidence protocols, though, and documented everything.”

“Very good. We need to get that Spanish script translated. First thing tomorrow, bring it down to the evidence room and we’ll log it in. Ultraviolet light or multispectrum imaging ought to make the script more legible. Then get in touch with Dr. Kelly and see if their Spanish expert at the Institute will look at it and make a translation. We might also get an expert in ledger art to examine the drawing.”

“Yes, sir.”

A hesitation. “Good work, Corrie.”

She was surprised and gratified. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

After he had hung up, she looked once again at the document, with its curly faded script. She dialed Nora’s cell phone number, but it went immediately to voice mail. Nora had gone to the Mescalero reservation, trying to trace the old Apache; she probably wasn’t back yet. Corrie swallowed at the thought. The fact that Nora had insisted on taking the actual medicine bag they’d found at High Lonesome with her—her certainty that no substitute would do, and anything else would doom her investigation before it even began—made the compliment Morwood had just given Corrie seem almost ominous. If Nora didn’t get that back to her soon … In a sudden hurry, she packed everything back into the evidence box, then carefully sealed it, making note of the date and time on the lid. She was going to make damn sure the chain of evidence on this item was rock solid.

She thought back to her conversation in the bar. If General McGurk was really looking for the Victorio Peak treasure, she’d need to have evidence for it beyond hearsay. She knew enough about Morwood to mentally hear his little speech about the danger of rumor and innuendo in an investigation. Despite that, she could feel the pieces of the puzzle coming together. Gower and his partner had been looking for treasure, and Gower found it: that gold cross was proof. Gower’s great-grandson was tortured and killed, his place ransacked, by people trying to find something. Could that thing be this piece of parchment? Jesse knew it was precious to his greatgrandfather … and he had died keeping its secret. Was the general really involved?

The general was about forty-five, so he hadn’t been born yet when his father was at WSMR in the early sixties. But maybe he grew up hearing stories. She wondered how she could find out more about the general’s father—not rumor, but fact. The FBI could easily request his military records. It was done all the time. But she’d have to go through Morwood, and he’d hit the roof. He was busy looking into the death of Rivers, and he’d already warned her to keep her own investigation below the radar.

Rivers … he was another piece of this puzzle, she felt sure. Why else would he have been killed? Was he up there at High Lonesome, digging for the Victorio Peak treasure? It seemed everyone was hunting for the same jackpot.

She sighed. Enough speculation. Tomorrow she’d log the evidence, get in touch with Nora, and have the parchment translated—but not before retrieving the medicine bag and returning it to evidence storage, where it belonged.

47

CHARLES FOUNTAIN, ESQ., had a fine office in an old Territorial building in town, occupying the floor above the Sage Diner. But everyone knew that instead of sitting in his grand office, he could usually be found in the diner itself, tucked into the corner booth in the back, drinking coffee, meeting friends, and doing business. And this was where Watts and Morwood found him, even on a Monday afternoon, by himself, with a big pot of coffee and the table spread with papers.

As they approached, he gave them a smile and an outstretched hand. “Hello, Sheriff. And you must be Special Agent Morwood. I hope you don’t mind if I stay seated—I’m afraid in my middle age, I’ve developed a serious medical condition known as a potbelly.” The slight bulge around his waistline barely qualified for the term, but he chuckled at his own little joke and invited them to sit. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

He waved over the waitress, who brought two mugs. Fountain served them himself, then sent the pot back for a refill. “I apologize for the clutter,” he said, gathering up papers and stuffing them willy-nilly into an already bulging accordion briefcase. “A messy desk is a sign of contentment. I read that in a fortune cookie, so you know it must be true.”

Watts realized he still had his hat on, and he removed it, checked that the table was spotless, and gently placed it upside down. Morwood had asked him to take the lead in the conversation, since he, like everyone else in town, had known Fountain most of his life. Watts slipped out a steno notebook on which he’d jotted some questions. “Thanks for meeting with us, Mr. Fountain.”

“How many years have I known you? Charles, please. Same goes for you, Agent Morwood.”

Watts acknowledged the informality with a nod. “We’ve got some questions related to the Gower homicide. A search of the place revealed he was probably dealing in antiquities—relics and the like. Possibly selling them to support his drug habit.”

Fountain nodded. “Just like his great-grandfather. To buy alcohol instead of meth.”

“Right. A lot of those relics, in fact, would appear to be stuff his great-grandfather collected. There’s an old shed up at the ranch where the junk’s been sitting forever. Gower’s father or grandfather may have added to the collection as well. The kid was selling it off, little by little, to finance his habit.”