BUT WHEN THEY knocked, Clive didn’t answer.
Standing just outside his door, they spoke in low tones. “Think he’s still asleep?” Corrie asked.
“He always seemed to be an early riser.”
“Well, he wasn’t downstairs at breakfast. And there’s not a whole lot of other places to go in town this early in the morning, with a storm bearing down on us.” Corrie knocked again, harder this time. As she did so, the door came ajar.
“That’s funny,” Corrie said, inspecting the knob. “Looks like the lock is stuck. If the shower in my room is any indication, the hardware in this fleabag is in as bad shape as the plumbing.”
Nora stuck her head past the open door. “Clive?” She could see the room was a whirlwind of disorder—suitcases open, drawers ajar, personal items scattered around. About the only thing that wasn’t a mess was the bed—it was still made.
“Doesn’t look like Clive went to bed last night,” she said. “But whenever he left, he left in a hurry.”
“That probably explains the door,” Corrie replied. “He locked it, but didn’t check to make sure he’d pulled it tight. Hey, wait—!”
As she was speaking, Nora stepped into the room.
“You can’t go in there,” Corrie said. “Not without a warrant.”
“What warrant? I’m the expedition leader. A friend. Clive left something in his room that belongs to me. I came to get it and found his door open.”
“What thing of yours would that be?” Corrie asked.
“I’m not sure. But I’ll know it when I see it.”
“I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.”
Nora gazed around at the disorder, trying to make sense of things, her friendship with and respect for Clive at odds with the inexplicable mess surrounding her. It didn’t look like he’d taken any clothes. Even his camera was still sitting on a nightstand. She approached the desk, which was covered with historical documents. Riffling through them, she found photocopies of old letters; contemporary newspaper reports; yellowed reproductions of microfilm pages; even penny dreadfuls purporting to tell the gruesome and unadulterated story of the Donner tragedy. There were dozens of items; Clive was nothing if not thorough in his research.
“Do you see a coat?” Corrie said, looking in through the door.
“No. He must have gone out.”
Nora continued sorting through the documents on the desk. She picked up a stapled photocopy of what she quickly recognized as Tamzene Donner’s journal. Clive, of course, had left the original back in Santa Fe for safekeeping. As she turned the well-thumbed pages, a single sheet fell out.
Curious, she picked it up. This was something new—new and strange. It was another photocopy, written in an uneven spidery script, with names and dates and biblical quotations and even grim little drawings that served as punctuation: tombstones and weeping angels and sheets of fire that, apparently, depicted the apocalypse. Here and there, she could see newer markings: a few highlighted lines and brief notes scribbled in the margin—in Clive’s handwriting.
This looked like an important historical document. But she had never seen it. If Clive had found it stuck into Tamzene’s original diary, he’d never mentioned it to her.
“He must have gone out,” Corrie said. “Let’s go.”
“Just a minute.” Nora carried the photocopy to the door and showed it to Corrie.
“What’s that?” Corrie asked. “Looks like the doodlings of a madman.”
“Maybe that’s what it is.” Nora folded the sheet and stuffed it in her pocket. “All right. Lead the way.”
* * *
At the front desk, the receptionist said Clive had left that morning before dawn, with a day pack. He had not said where he was going.
They looked at each other. Corrie pulled out her cell phone and dialed Clive’s number. It went straight to voice mail. She dialed again, this time the Red Mountain Ranch.
She spoke for a few minutes, then hung up.
“The folks at Red Mountain Ranch found one of their horses missing this morning,” Corrie told Nora. “Burleson thought it might have been you.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Of course not,” Corrie said, arching her eyebrows.
“Come on. Clive, a horse thief? Why would he take a horse—and in this weather?”
Corrie didn’t reply.
“You keep jumping to conclusions,” Nora said, her tone dubious. “Clive’s no criminal.”
“Everyone’s a potential criminal,” Corrie replied. “All it takes is the right incentive.”