THE WOMAN CAME to a stop in the firelight and looked over the group, an uncertain expression on her face. Closer up, she looked even younger than Nora had first thought, with a small upturned nose, pale face, and short brown hair in a choppy but professionally layered pixie cut. She stood just outside the circle, as if respectful of their space. Her body might have been still, but her eyes were busy, taking everything and everyone in.
Burleson rose. “I see you’ve ridden one of our horses up here,” he said.
“I did,” the woman said. “I rented it from your ranch. I…I’m sorry to intrude on you like this.” She hesitated, then pulled a badge out from under her coat, hanging on a lanyard. “I’m Special Agent Corinne Swanson of the FBI. I’m here as part of an investigation.”
Nora stared in disbelief. An FBI agent? This had to be a joke. What kind of investigation would take place out here? Anyway, she didn’t look old enough to be an agent—she looked barely out of high school.
Burleson was the first to recover. “Welcome, Agent Swanson.” He turned to Wiggett. “Drew, could you please take her horse over to the corral?”
Wiggett got up and took the reins from the woman, leading the horse off into the darkness. Agent Swanson stood there, looking uncertain.
“Well,” said Burleson, “won’t you sit down?”
“Thanks.” She came forward and took a seat in one of the folding chairs around the fire. “We didn’t have a way of contacting you in advance. I was hoping to get up here before sunset, but the ride was longer than I imagined. They told me to bring a guide. I should have listened. I got lost once or twice along the way.”
She gave them a slight smile and brushed back her short hair. “I imagine you’re all wondering what I’m doing here.”
“That’s an understatement,” said Maggie. “Was somebody murdered?” Her tone sounded almost hopeful.
“I’ll be glad to explain.” The girl—woman—shifted in her chair. Nora wasn’t sure what an FBI agent was supposed to look like; she had known only one, and he was obviously in a category all his own, but Agent Swanson was about as far from what she’d imagined as possible.
“I just want to say up front that no one here is suspected of any wrongdoing,” she said.
“That’s good,” said Wiggett, “because I was ready to panic about that damn speeding ticket I tossed two years ago in Utah.”
A ripple of forced laughter went around.
“I’m investigating a case involving grave desecration, homicide, and a missing person.”
At this the laughter dropped away and a silence fell.
“What does this have to do with us?” Nora asked, speaking up for the first time.
“In the past seven months, three graves have been illegally opened and the remains disturbed. A woman in Arizona has recently gone missing under suspicious circumstances.”
“Oh, Lordy,” said Maggie, pouring herself another glass of wine.
“It turns out that all the individuals I’ve just mentioned, including the missing woman, share a commonality.”
“Whoa, you said ‘graves illegally opened,’” Maggie said. “You mean grave robbing? Did they steal the corpses or something?”
“Well, this information is confidential, but, yes, portions of the remains were removed.”
“Holy crap.”
“So where do we fit into this?” asked Nora.
“The commonality I referred to. All four individuals were descended from a single person: a man named Parkin.”
Nora saw Clive start in surprise. “Albert Parkin?” he asked. “Of the Donner Party?”
“Exactly. And I’ve been led to understand he’s one of the individuals in the camp you’re excavating.”
“And how did you come by this information, exactly?”
“As a by-product of my investigation into the violated Parkin graves, the family ancestry came to light—including their link to the Donner Party. I learned of your expedition and contacted the president of the Institute, who provided the rest of the details—including a list of the missing persons you hoped to locate.”
“But hold on,” Nora said. “If Parkin died here, how did he leave any descendants?”
“He abandoned a wife and six children back in Illinois.”
“The plot thickens,” said Maggie with relish. “But wait—didn’t you mention a homicide?”
“A body was found shot to death in one of the disturbed graves. We believe he was hired to uncover the body.”
This brought a silence, which the FBI agent eventually broke. “So. Have you identified any remains belonging to Albert Parkin?”
“No,” said Nora. “We’ve only identified three individuals so far: a child, Samantha Carville, and two male adults named Spitzer and Reinhardt. Even those are only provisional IDs, since we’ve not yet done DNA testing.”
“How many individuals have you uncovered?”
“It’s hard to say, given the fact that a lot of the bones are broken and commingled. Including the three people I’ve already mentioned, we’ve located six partial or complete skulls so far.”
“So you may have already uncovered Parkin, but don’t yet know it?”
“It’s possible.”
Clive broke in. “This is very interesting, but I fail to see how what we’re doing could be connected to these grave robbings. You’ve already said that none of us are under suspicion.”
At this Swanson shifted, and Nora could see that the veneer of confidence she was trying to project was not very robust. “We’re in the information-gathering phase.”
“In other words,” said Burleson, “it’s a fishing expedition.”
“It seems quite a coincidence that the very person whose descendants were being dug up illegally was also being dug up at the same time.”
“Yes, but dug up legally,” said Nora. “You’ve talked to Dr. Fugit. So you obviously know our excavation is fully authorized, with federal and state permits, not to mention being sponsored by one of the leading archaeological institutes in the country.”
Swanson responded to this in a level voice. “Tomorrow, I’d like to go to the dig site and examine the human remains. I would also like the opportunity to ask you and your staff a few questions—if you don’t mind, of course.”
“You’re free to ask all the questions you like,” said Nora. “But like Clive said, it’s hard to imagine what a man’s death in 1847 has to do with his descendants getting their graves robbed almost two hundred years later.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to determine.”
“This is an active and extremely sensitive archaeological site,” Nora said, “and as director of this dig I can’t have uncredentialed individuals tramping around, touching things. Shouldn’t you have some sort of warrant?”
Swanson said, her voice as flat as a Kansas prairie: “This is federal land. I am a federal agent. I don’t need a warrant to search federal property or conduct whatever investigation I see fit. But just to reassure you, I have a master’s of science in forensic anthropology from John Jay College of Criminal Justice.” She paused. “And from what I know of your CV, posted on the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute website, I am at least as ‘credentialed’ as you to handle human remains, Dr. Kelly.”
Nora stared at the young woman’s face in the flickering firelight—determined and yet, at the same time, lacking confidence. For someone so seemingly qualified, she was awfully defensive.
Nora had the sudden insight that this was probably her first case.