Diablo Mesa(59)

“How far is it from here?” Vigil asked.

“About eight miles.”

“And how long will the excavation take?” Kuznetsov asked.

“We don’t know how deep we need to go,” said Nora, “but it looks like ground similar to here. I would guess a week or even less. It’s a more compact site. By the way, just to be safe, I’ve reviewed our permits. We’re clear to proceed. All we have to do is report the change of venue to the Department of the Interior.”

As she sat down again, she was aware of a strange dynamic in the room. Everyone was clearly excited by this discovery. On the other hand, there was every reason to believe the government had gotten there first. But gotten there and done what? She just wasn’t willing to accept it was some alien UFO. She even felt—ironically enough—her skepticism reasserting itself, as if in reaction to her feelings for Tappan. After all, it could have been an advanced missile, or an unusual meteorite, or an experimental aircraft—any one of which could have been retrieved by the government, and the site then covered up.

But she didn’t mention any of this. And when there were no further questions, Tappan adjourned the meeting.





38



WATTS EASED HIS sheriff’s vehicle down the road through the cottonwood trees until the view suddenly opened up to reveal a broad sandy beach—and beyond, the braided ribbon of the Rio Grande. The sun was just rising over the river, turning it into molten gold.

He brought the Explorer to a halt, powering down the windows and turning off the engine. He reached into the back and removed a coffee carrier. He handed Corrie a giant lidded cup and a foil-wrapped burrito. “Coffee and breakfast. As promised.”

Sitting in the passenger seat, Corrie gingerly accepted them, spread some napkins in her lap, and took a grateful slug of coffee, noting the extra cream and sugar.

As if reading her thoughts, Watts said: “I remembered how you like it, sweet and thick.”

Corrie had expected breakfast in a café, not this. This was, she thought, more like a…well, a breakfast date. She quickly pushed the thought out of her mind. FBI agents did not date county sheriffs. Especially over breakfast.

“When I was a kid, we used to ride our horses down here,” Watts said. “It’s one of my favorite places. We waded across the river and rode into the Bosque del Apache, that giant grove of cottonwoods on the other side. You being recent to New Mexico,” he continued, “I thought you might like to see it.”

He was talking fast, uncharacteristically nervous for such a laid-back guy.

“It’s beautiful,” Corrie said. “I’m glad you brought me here.” And it really was beautiful, even magical, with the whispering sounds of the river; the sun shining through the cottonwoods; the distant purple mountains.

She looked over at him, seeing his relief that she wasn’t bored. It would be easy to dismiss a man this young as a cliché, she knew, with the six-guns and holsters and expensive cowboy hat. But like an iceberg, Watts had a lot more to him than you could see at first glance.

She took another long sip of coffee and a bite of her burrito, listening to him talk.

“Bosque del Apache means Apache Grove. It’s called that because the Warm Springs Apache used to camp there in the old days. Some of the biggest cottonwood trees you’ll ever see can be found over there, trunks thirty feet in circumference. They go on for miles. And in those sand hills behind the forest is a lost Pueblo city called Senecú. The ruins were visible until the eighteenth century, when it was totally covered with windblown sand. Now its location is forgotten.”

Corrie couldn’t help but be impressed by his deep affection for the land and its history.

They continued their breakfast in silence for a while as the sun climbed higher in the sky.

“I guess we’d better talk shop,” said Watts. “Since that’s why you came down.”

“Right,” said Corrie, vaguely disappointed.

“I spoke to Buford about the case. It seems pretty straightforward. He thinks Bitan walked off the job and will eventually turn up. I tend to agree—especially considering those lights that were seen in the area where he disappeared. Buford speculated Bitan might have had some hidden agenda.”

Corrie hesitated. She wasn’t so sure about that, but she didn’t have evidence either way. And, as Morwood had drilled into her, FBI agents never voiced hunches.

But Watts sensed her doubt. “You don’t agree?”

Corrie shrugged. “I agree the evidence points to him taking off. But it seems a strange way to do it, in the middle of the desert, leaving Nora’s brother alone like that. Anyway, it’s not my case.”

“Speaking of your case, this digging up the Roswell site sounds batshit crazy to me.”

“It is.”

“What can you tell me about it?”

Corrie wondered if it was kosher to share the details with him; she decided it was. She quickly sketched out the background, from Nora Kelly’s involvement and the billionaire backing the project, to the double homicide they’d discovered—and, finally, to Morwood’s death in the fire. When she was done, a brief silence settled over the vehicle.

“I read about Morwood’s death in the Journal,” Watts said at last. “That must’ve been pretty tough.”