THE TWO SHOTS were not quite simultaneous. The first came unexpectedly from behind, knocking Fugit off balance just enough to make her own shot go wide, the gun flying out of her hand. Another shot punched her over the saddle horn. The horse, terrified, reared up and bucked, throwing Fugit’s body up and to one side, and it somersaulted through the air before slamming to the ground. Despite all that, the Institute president was still alive: she screamed shrilly, grasping and tearing at her clothes in the most horrible way, as if trying to find a wound.
Nora whirled to one side and saw Corrie—bleeding, sodden, the snowy Glock in her hand—stumbling toward the edge of the avalanche debris. She fell to her knees, still holding the Glock. She struggled to stand again.
Nora rushed over, catching her before she collapsed and easing her to the ground.
“Help me,” came a feeble voice. Fugit.
Ignoring her, Nora leaned over Corrie. “You’re hurt,” she said.
“I’m alive,” said Corrie.
“How—?”
“Air pocket. And just enough room to work my way out. Thanks to you.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“If you hadn’t grabbed my hand and heaved me up, I would be dead.”
Nora stared at her. “I didn’t grab your hand.”
“Of course you did. I was blacking out when I felt your hand grasp mine…” Corrie’s eyes fluttered as she began to drift in and out of consciousness.
Nora said nothing. Obviously Corrie’s oxygen-starved brain had been hallucinating.
“Please help me,” came the pathetic voice of Fugit.
Nora went over. The president lay on her back, blood staining her shoulder. Nora quickly unbuttoned the woman’s shirt and pulled it aside, revealing an ugly exit wound on her anterior shoulder. Shivering, she tore off a piece from her own shirt and balled it up, handing it to Fugit. “Press down with this.”
Fugit took it. “I’m cold,” she said.
Nora’s teeth were chattering. “We’re all cold. You just keep pressing.”
She went back to Corrie, knelt, and took her hand. The agent’s eyes fluttered back open. “Nora?”
“Yes?”
“Go…see what’s in that blue box.”
Nora turned. Fugit’s horse was standing fifty feet away, sides heaving, still frightened. The box bulged inside the left saddlebag, one corner peeking out.
“That can wait. We need to get you out of this rain.”
Corrie pressed Nora’s hand. “Please go see what’s in the box.”
Nora realized she wasn’t going to leave the subject alone. She stood up and approached the horse, holding her hands out and speaking soothing words. The horse took a few nervous steps back before Nora could grab the lead rope and stroke his neck reassuringly.
She untied the saddlebags, slipped them off, and draped them over her shoulder. Then she tied up the horse and returned to Corrie, who was now sitting up.
Corrie nodded for her to open it.
Nora slipped the blue box out of the saddlebag, unlatched it, and handed it to Corrie. She removed the lid. A wan smile spread across the agent’s features as she stared inside. “I knew it.”
“What?”
“Parkin’s skull.”
She handed the box to Nora, who looked inside. “What the hell? How is this supposed to be worth more than gold?”
“That,” said Corrie, “is the twenty-million-dollar question.”