The Scorpion's Tail (Nora Kelly #2)(13)

“Mummified?” She found herself intrigued—but only a little. Corrie was selling this pretty hard … but the fact was, she couldn’t even consider it. And it would be better if she didn’t hear anything more.

She shook her head with what she hoped was finality. “Your salesmanship is first-rate, Corrie, but your timing is awful. My back’s against the wall here.”

Corrie looked at the ground for a moment, almost hesitantly, then looked up—first at Adelsky, then at Nora. “So is mine. Look, I really need this. I’m in a bit of a shit storm back at work.” Another hesitation. “Actually, I’m drowning in one, to be honest. You heard about the shooting in the Sandias?”

“I did.”

“I was one of the agents involved. I kind of fucked things up. So they dumped this case on me. I think it’s sort of a penance. Or more likely, the first stop on a lateral arabesque to some desk job, investigating white-collar crime.”

Nora frowned. “What do you mean, fucked things up? From what I heard, what happened in the Sandias was a success. They—you—rescued that little girl with barely a scratch.”

Corrie winced, then waved a hand as if to shoo away something painful. “I can’t go into the details.” She glanced again at Adelsky. “But I hope what I’ve said will make it clear just how important this is to me.”

There was nothing else Nora could say, so she remained silent.

After a moment, Corrie spoke again. “I just thought, you know, given what happened in the Sierras, when I, um … ” She stopped. “Well, I hate to bring this up, but—not to put too fine a point on it, I did save your life.”

For a moment, Nora was speechless at this brazen combination of honesty and lack of tact. Then, suddenly, her irritation vanished and there was nothing left for her to do but laugh. “You’re relentless!” she said, shaking her head. “Wow, I guess you really must be in deep shit. Okay. Thank you, again, for saving my life up there in the Sierras. And by the way, you’re welcome for my preventing your death from hypothermia.”

Now it was Corrie’s turn to say nothing.

Nora spread her hands, palms up. It was hard to turn down an appeal like that. And maybe, she thought, giving a little pro bono assistance to the FBI would help shine up the Institute’s reputation and give her promotion an additional push. “Since you put it that way, how can I refuse? What the hell—I’ll do it. When? With some fancy footwork I can probably squeeze in a day off sometime next week.”

“The thing is,” Corrie said, “we’re worried about word getting out and other relic hunters coming around. Apparently they’re endemic around here—but I don’t need to tell you that.”

This was true; Nora had seen more than her share of looted or desecrated prehistoric sites. “So you’re saying you need this taken care of soon?”

“Like, um, tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

Corrie flushed. “The sooner the better.”

“Yes, but I just finished explaining that—”

“What’s the point of your agreeing, if by the time we get there everything’s been looted? Speaking of that—” and she turned to Adelsky—“everything you’ve just heard is privileged information, and if you repeat it, you risk, well, a felony.”

“Repeat what?” Turning away, Adelsky busied himself finishing up his sandwich.

Corrie turned back to Nora. And, for the first time since she’d arrived at the mesa, she smiled. “Why not just get it over with? I’ll pick you up at—say—seven thirty in the morning? It’s a bit of a drive.”

There was, Nora had to admit, real value in just getting it over with.





8




CORRIE HAD ARRIVED at Nora’s apartment at dawn. She drove up in a big black Navigator with tinted windows—the quintessential FBI car—the rear filled with plastic evidence boxes and bags and containers. The “bit of a drive” turned out to be over four hours—two from Santa Fe to Socorro and then, Corrie warned her (belatedly), another two over bone-breaking dirt paths across the mountains. Nora felt a little aggrieved at the lack of prior warning—until she realized just how much additional time on the road Corrie would have to put in, picking her up and dropping her off, given that Albuquerque was itself another hour’s drive from Santa Fe.

After passing through Socorro, they turned east and entered the mountains. Corrie had her GPS out and consulted it constantly, along with some hastily scribbled notes, as they bumped and lurched along one Forest Service road after another, each worse than the last, until Corrie halted the car at a fork in the track.

“Crap. No GPS signal.”

“Are we lost?” Nora asked, her irritation rising.

“No, no! Just not sure … if this is the right turn.”

Nora waited while Corrie fiddled with the GPS. “Damn, I thought these things worked with satellite signals. The map has gone blank.”

“They do,” said Nora, “but you have to download the underlying maps ahead of time if you’re going out of cell range. It’s a trick we archaeologists know only too well.”

“Crap,” muttered Corrie again.

Nora started to get out of the Navigator.