One week later
IN THE HQ tent, Nora Kelly stepped back and examined the skeleton she had carefully reassembled. The bones and fragments were arranged on black velvet in a tray, every bone in place. After a maddening temporary shutdown of the site while the dust settled, everything was now back on track. All the other bones from the excavation of the Lost Camp had been packed away and were headed to the lab in Santa Fe, except for this: the skeleton of Samantha Carville.
For the first time in 175 years, Samantha Carville was whole again, the butchered, scorched, and gnawed bone of her leg restored to the rest of the body.
One task remained before Nora could pack up the work tent and the last of the equipment and leave the valley of the Lost Camp to the deer and the crows and the snow and rain. Using long rubber tweezers, she began transferring the bones of Samantha Carville from the tray to a small coffin she had constructed. It was made of rough, unfinished pine, with no adornment and no lining, as required by the religion of Samantha’s family—of which, as far as she could learn, no descendants remained.
“Knock, knock?”
Nora turned to see Agent Swanson poking her head in the tent flap.
“Hi, Corrie, come in. You’re just in time for the interment.”
Corrie entered, her arm still in a sling. “I want to introduce you to someone very special to me.”
Nora looked up as Corrie pulled aside the tent flap to allow the entrance of a man. He slipped in: tall, pale, dressed in black, two eyes that glittered like diamonds set into his chiseled features. For a moment Nora thought she must be hallucinating: the man was the spitting image of Special Agent Pendergast.
It was Special Agent Pendergast.
“Greetings, my dear Nora,” Pendergast said, stepping over and extending his hand.
Nora took his hand in hers. “Agent Pendergast. What…what the heck are you doing here?”
“Wait,” said Corrie, looking from one to the other in astonishment. “You two know each other?”
Pendergast turned with a mischievous smile. “Nora and I worked on several intriguing cases back in New York.”
“What?” Corrie cried. “But you never said a word. I’ve been sending you updates on this case for weeks!”
“I ask your forgiveness. When I heard you two were working together by sheer happenstance, I admit that I withheld the fact I knew both of you. I simply cannot resist a bit of drama.” He spread his hands.
Nora gathered her wits. “Sorry about my shock. It’s nice to see you again. But how do you know Corrie?”
“I am pleased to serve as a sort of Dutch uncle to her, in her previous life and now in the FBI. She helped me on an unusual case in Kansas some years ago, and we worked together on another little difficulty in Colorado. I encouraged her to go into law enforcement. What a charming coincidence that her first case would involve you.”
Nora laughed, shaking her head. “You’re full of crazy surprises. I’ll never forget the first time you visited my museum office. Almost gave me a heart attack, sneaking up like that.”
“I take exception to that characterization,” said Pendergast. “I never ‘sneak.’ I glide.” He moved toward the coffin and peered inside. “Who is the dear departed?”
“These are the restored remains of Samantha Carville, a six-year-old girl who died in the camp.” Nora took a deep breath. “I’ve decided to bury her here. Properly.”
“Really?” Corrie asked. “You’re not going to send her remains to the lab?”
“No. She’s already been positively identified, so no DNA test is necessary. It seemed the right thing to do—lay her spirit to rest, I mean.”
“Right here?”
“Yes. Right here—right now.”
“What about a clergyman?” Corrie asked.
“Samantha and her parents were Quakers. Quakers don’t bury their dead with ceremony, music, clergy, or even a grave marker. Just a plain coffin, put in the ground in the presence of friends.” She continued to transfer the bones and fragments, one by one, into the coffin. “What news on the case?”
Corrie hesitated. “I’m sorry, it’s confidential.”
“Naturally.” Nora raised her eyebrows quizzically.
Corrie grinned. “Okay, but this is for you only. Fugit flipped, trying to save her ass, and laid it all out for us. It was pretty much as we figured—an effort to weaponize the prion protein by some shadowy international organization.”
“Who?”
“The ever-present, ever-elusive ‘shadowy international organization,’” Pendergast said, arching his eyebrows. Whether he was serious or not, Nora couldn’t tell.
“The FBI doesn’t know—and may never know. The organization covered its tracks with incredible care and layers of intermediaries. Their reach and sophistication suggests a government is behind it, engaged in a search for potential weapons of mass destruction. It seems their research focused on the Donner Party cannibalism, and the interesting fact that everyone in the Lost Camp who ate Parkin went mad—with all the classic symptoms of prion disease. They concluded Parkin was probably an exceedingly rare genetic carrier of a fast-acting form of CJD. And that’s what started this whole thing.”
“So they needed to get his skull?”
Corrie nodded. “They had to sequence Parkin’s genome to find out exactly how the prion protein was made before they could start to weaponize it. In addition, they needed a sample of the prion protein itself—which is only found in brain tissue—for synthesis. So they undertook a two-pronged attack: They set out to find the Lost Camp and retrieve Parkin’s skull. And they started digging up or even killing Parkin descendants to see if they carried the genetic code. The latter didn’t work. But the former did.”
“And where did Clive come in?”
“They hired him because of his expertise in Donner history. The fact he was a descendant of the Donner Party was icing on the cake. We can’t be sure, but it appears they put him on the trail of Tamzene’s journal and dangled in front of him the possibility of a grand discovery that would both bring him renown and clear up the lingering mark on the Breen family name. They topped it off by offering Clive a massive sum of money, which they probably never intended to pay—easier to kill him instead. By the time Clive realized who he was working for, it was too late and backing out would have meant certain death. After finding Tamzene’s journal last fall, Clive tried to locate the camp on his own and failed—hence the campsite I found. He realized he needed expert archaeological help—and he turned to you.”
“And Fugit? How did she get drawn in?”
“She was insurance. They brought her on board when they grew worried Clive might have second thoughts. He’d been reluctant and hard to seduce. But Fugit, it turns out, was eager for the money and morally flexible. She was subverted last winter, while the expedition was being put together. Finding Parkin’s remains in the Lost Camp was the group’s last chance to get the necessary prion samples and DNA—and so they weren’t taking any chances.”
“And the gold?” Nora asked.
“It had nothing to do with the case. A distraction. Except that Wiggett was secretly looking for it when he happened on Clive at the tarn, where he’d hidden Parkin’s skull by sinking it into the pond in that waterproof box. That’s why Clive killed him, of course. After reclaiming the skull from Peel. Clive discovered Peel stealing the bones and took advantage of the opportunity to follow him, kill him, and throw most of the bones over the cliff while keeping the skull. In this way he hoped to confuse the issue and maybe even cover up the fact that the skull was missing. Clever man. But you put all those bones back together.”
Nora shook her head. “All those deaths, for such an awful purpose. And we didn’t even find the gold.”
“I’ll bet it’s long gone,” said Corrie.
“The investigation,” said Pendergast, “has moved up to the highest levels at the Department of Homeland Security. I doubt even I will hear of the final disposition. Parkin’s remains are now being guarded under exceptional secrecy. And, more to the point, Corrie’s career at the FBI has gotten off to a promising start.”
“That’s something, anyway.” Nora put the last bone in the coffin. “Help me with that lid.”
Together, they fit the lid on, and Nora screwed it down through predrilled holes. “Let’s go.”
Corrie and Nora raised the coffin to their shoulders—it was quite light—and together they brought it out of the tent and into the brilliant sunlight, Pendergast following. Nora led the way up the valley a few hundred yards to where she’d dug a grave. It was a dramatic if not exactly cheerful spot, with dark cliffs all around, framed by the skeletons of dead trees.
Using a pair of ropes, they lowered the coffin into the ground.
“Now we each say a few words,” said Nora. “That’s the Quaker way.”
A silence, and then Corrie said: “I don’t know who led Maggie and the rest of us to Wiggett’s body, or who it was that pulled me out of the snow. But if that was you, Samantha, thank you. May you rest in peace, little one.”
Nora said: “Your life was short and your death tragic. But I find inspiration in your courage and spirit—both during life and after. The least I could do was make you whole again. May you rejoin your family in a better place.”
Both women looked at Pendergast. He raised his head and cleared his throat. “Samantha Carvilleae ossua heic. Fortuna spondet multa multis, praestat nemini, vive in dies et horas, nam proprium est nihil.”
Corrie looked at Pendergast. “What exactly does that mean?”
“‘Here lie the bones of Samantha Carville. Fortune makes promises to many, keeps them to none. Live for each day, live for the hours, since nothing is forever yours.’”
“That’s rather dark,” said Corrie.
“It’s a favorite quote of my ward, Constance. Besides, the graveside is no place for pleasantries.”
All three took turns shoveling, dirt hitting the coffin lid with a hollow sound. When they were finished, Nora packed down the area and restored the clumps of grass she had removed earlier.
“You’d never know it was there,” Corrie said.
“I’ve recorded its GPS location in case we ever need to find it again.”
As they began walking away from the gravesite, Pendergast murmured: “Tell me more about this missing gold, if you please.”
Nora gave him a quick summary of Wolfinger, his withdrawal of gold from the bank, his murder, the death of the two killers at the Lost Camp, and the gold pieces she and Clive had found in their boots.
Pendergast listened intently. “A curious story. And where exactly have you searched?”
“We scoured the lower sections of the cliffs, from the base to about twelve feet up.”
“And why did you choose that area?”
“We figured that the two men must have hidden the gold before the wagon was broken apart for a shelter. We know the snow was six feet deep at the time of the breakup, in mid-November. So we figured it had to be in the cliffs somewhere between six and twelve feet up. Six feet would have been ground level, relative to the snowpack. Twelve feet was in case they put it as high as they could reach. The cliffs are the only place to hide something, since the ground was frozen.”
Pendergast nodded. “All perfectly logical.”
“We searched every damn hole on both sides of the valley. Below the six-foot level, too, in case they buried it in some crevice beneath the snow line. Yesterday I even searched the area underneath the cornice that fell on us and broke Corrie’s arm. Nothing.”
Another slow nod from Pendergast. “And you have a record of snow depths and dates?”
“Yes. Tamzene Donner kept a chart in her journal.”
“When did the two robbers die?”
“Spitzer died on January twenty-first, and Reinhardt on January twenty-eighth.”
“And what was the snow depth on January first?”
“I’d have to check the journal. It’s in the tent.”
They reached the work tent and Nora took out the photocopied journal. She turned to the page where Tamzene had recorded snow depths.
“On January first, it was eighteen feet.”
“And on January fifteenth?”
“Um, let’s see. Twenty-one feet.”
“And January twenty-eighth?”
“Still twenty-one feet.”
“And the maximum depth?”
“It reached twenty-six feet by early March before it started to go down.”
“Most intriguing.”
“I’m not sure of the relevance of the later snowpack. They had to have buried it back in November, when the snow was a lot shallower.”
But Pendergast simply wandered back outside and stared up at the cliffs, his silvery eyes glittering in the sunlight. “Investigating every hole and crack up there would be an exercise in futility.”
“You’re not kidding,” said Nora.
“You mentioned earlier that the camp was marked by the profile of an old woman in the cliffs, since fallen. Where was that?”
Nora pointed. “See that area of lighter rock along the upper bluff? That’s where we believe the old woman was.”
Pendergast squinted up at the bluff. “Would you, perchance, have a pair of binoculars?”
“Right here.” Nora pulled a pair from her day pack. Pendergast took them and examined the cliff face for some time. He handed them to Nora.
“Do you see those holes below the patch of lighter rock?”
Nora raised the binoculars. “I see.”
“Count five holes down.”
“Done,” Nora said, peering up.
“The treasure is in that hole.”
Nora lowered the binoculars. “But that’s over twenty feet high!”
“Indeed.”
“Why would it be way up there?”
Corrie snorted. “He’s pulling our legs. We’re going to climb up there and find nothing, and he’ll be laughing his ass off.”
Pendergast turned to her. “Agent Swanson. I do not engage in low pranks and ignoble humor. I assure you, the gold is there. Or, just perhaps, in one of the holes directly above or below.”
“And what makes you so sure?”
“I’ll explain once the treasure is safely in our possession.”
Nora looked at Corrie. “The climbing gear is still in the tent. You want to belay while I go up?”
“Why the hell not?”
Nora unpacked the gear and they brought it to the base of the cliffs. Nora climbed into the harness, buckled on the carabiner, and tied a figure eight knot. Corrie put on her own harness and braced in a belaying position.
Nora began to climb. It was not difficult, the pockmarked basalt offering numerous hand- and footholds. In no time she reached the hole in question. She anchored a piton and threaded the rope while Corrie took in the slack. She peered inside.
“Oh, my God!” About three feet in, she could make out the dull outline of an iron strongbox. “It’s here!”
“Excellent,” the dulcet voice drifted up from below. “Most excellent.”
Nora reached behind and pulled a small cargo net out of her pack, slipped it around the chest, and dragged it to the edge of the hole. She rigged up a pulley, fixed it to the piton, threaded a second rope through it, and dropped the end of the rope to the ground.
“That’s for lowering the box. Someone grab the end and hold tight, because this sucker must weigh at least fifty pounds.”
Pendergast took up the end of the rope. Nora tightened the slack and eased out the chest, letting it swing free. She steadied it with her hand.
“Ready to lower.”
Pendergast played out the rope and the chest slowly descended. When it reached the ground, Nora climbed back down, removing the pitons as she went.
The box sat in the grass, rusty but intact, with a brass padlock. “Should we break the lock?” Corrie asked.
Pendergast knelt. A pale hand slipped into his suit jacket and brought out a small, strange-looking tool. He fiddled with the lock and it clinked open.
Nora felt her heart quicken.
Pendergast opened the lid. Inside were various leather-wrapped packets; where the leather had rotted and shrunk, it revealed gleaming stacks of gold coins.
The Wolfinger treasure.
Nora stared. “I can’t believe it. There’s a thousand holes up there. We’ve been looking for weeks. And in ten minutes you point to one hole—and bingo. How?”
Closing the lid, Pendergast reattached the lock and rose. “It’s all about snow depths. You were undoubtedly correct in assuming that Spitzer and Reinhardt originally hid the chest in that six-to-twelve-foot range. But the snow kept falling and growing deeper. They still hoped to be rescued and wanted to keep close track of the gold’s precise location. So as the snow deepened and threatened to bury the gold and make it inaccessible, they moved it up. And up. They kept doing so until they became too weak to move it any further. Given that they died at the end of January, I estimated that point came early in the month, when the snow was eighteen to twenty-one feet deep. So I examined the cliff face for a hole at about that height.”
“Clever. But there are still countless holes at that level all over in these cliffs. How did you know exactly where to look?”
“I asked myself what landmark the two would have chosen—and the face of the old woman you mentioned sprang to mind. Based on what I can see at present, it must have been the only distinctive landmark. And that cliff is like Swiss cheese: if the treasure had been hidden in any other hole, it would have been very difficult to find again. Knowing that, I looked to the holes directly beneath where the old woman’s face had been situated before it fell. I saw likely holes at around eighteen, twenty, and twenty-two feet. I guessed the one in the middle. Correctly, as game theory could have predicted.”
“Jesus,” said Corrie. She turned to Nora. “Why didn’t you think of that?”
“Because she didn’t follow the logic to its bitter end,” said Pendergast. “A common human failing, even among quite intelligent people.”
He hefted the strongbox. “My goodness, what a lot of gold! And now, I think we are well and truly finished here. I suggest you arrange to get this out at the earliest possibility—perhaps by helicopter, then armored car to a suitable safe deposit vault at the Golden Pacific Bank in Sacramento.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” said Nora.
“I congratulate you both on solving this case. I understand Agent Morwood is to receive a commendation for his excellent work.” He paused with a cynical smile.
“And not Corrie?” Nora asked.
Corrie smiled ruefully. “Aloysius tells me I’m learning the ways of the Bureau.”
“Indeed. Your turn will come.”
“Can’t come soon enough.”
Pendergast looked from one to the other. “The forensic anthropologist and the archaeologist—one wonders if you two might have reason to partner on a future case?”
“Professionally?” Corrie scoffed, with an amused sideways glance at Nora. “Seems unlikely. Nora can be a real pain in the ass.”
“And you’re a short-tempered punk.” Nora turned to Pendergast. “I’m a pain in the ass? That goes double for her. We’d be at each other’s throats.”
“And that,” Pendergast replied placidly, “is precisely why such a partnership just might work.”