“Fuck,” she said again, but this time quietly, deliberately. She stood, swept up the broken pot and sad little cactus and dumped them into a trash can, and tossed the copy of Proust underhanded onto the beanbag chair. One thing was sure: wallowing in self-pity was the worst choice she could make.
Here’s my private number.
She went into the bedroom, pulled Garcia’s card from her bag, and—before she could reconsider—dialed his cell number. The phone rang twice.
“Garcia,” came the voice.
“Mr. Garcia, sir?” she said. “It’s Corinne Swanson.”
“Yes?”
When he said nothing more, she plunged ahead. “Look, sir. I, ah, I really appreciate the offer of a week off. But I’ve given it some thought, and I’d rather be of use…one way or another,” she ended lamely.
There was a brief pause. “Are you sure about that, Swanson?”
“Yes, sir. I am. I need to stay busy.”
“Very well, then. It might be a good thing, after all. As it happens, we may have an interim mentor for you.”
“Interim?” She hadn’t known there was such a thing.
“Somebody willing to ghost you on a temporary basis until we can find a permanent replacement. He’s been working in the D.C. area for a few years, but has just arrived in Albuquerque to gather evidence on a complicated fraud case. He’ll be here for a while, and his background includes a little mentoring work. How about it?”
“Of course. Thank you, sir!”
“In that case, I’ll reach out and see if he’s interested.”
And before Corrie could thank him again, the line went dead.
28
SKIP WAITED AT the rendezvous point, feeling increasingly alarmed. Noam was now more than two hours late, the sun was touching the horizon, and Skip could see no sign of him.
“Mitty, where the hell is he?”
Hearing his name, the dog perked up his ears and looked at Skip with searching eyes. Skip scratched him behind the ears, glad for the company.
Skip had spent the last hour searching for Bitan, following his footprints in the dry lake bed, which was easy enough, but they completely disappeared when Bitan had entered the grassy hills. Skip climbed a few hills to get a better view but could see no trace of him. He finally returned to the rendezvous in a rising panic.
A dozen scenarios ran through his mind: that Bitan had fallen and hurt himself; that Bitan had found the crash site and become so enthralled he’d lost track of the time; that Bitan’s GPS had run out of juice and he’d gotten lost; that Bitan had been bitten by a rattlesnake.
He had turned off airplane mode on his phone to send Noam text messages, but reception was nonexistent, even on top of the hills. All it did was run down his battery, which was now at 5 percent. He’d finally turned off the phone entirely to preserve the last bit. It was at least six miles back to the camp, and without his cell phone’s GPS, he wasn’t sure he could find his way to the cliffs in the dark, where the old trail went up to the mesa top.
Moments later, the sun disappeared below the horizon in a boil of golden light, and twilight fell. Darkness, Skip knew, came quickly in the high desert, and now this had become an emergency. Something had happened to Bitan, and Skip needed to get back to camp and get a search launched. But he’d be returning in the dark—on a night with no moon.
He rose and swept his eyes across the dry lake bed one last time. Then he turned and looked back toward the distant rimrock of Diablo Mesa, a black line on the horizon. He couldn’t see the watchtower ruins—they were too far away. He needed to figure out which direction to go, and for that he had to turn on his cell phone. He would get the heading and then turn it back off.
With trepidation, he switched it on and waited. The Apple logo appeared, much to his relief.
Still he waited as the phone booted up. The lock screen finally appeared, but the phone chimed and the battery monitor was red. He cursed as he hit the Google Earth app. Now he had to wait for his phone’s GPS receiver to acquire satellites and load the app. The GPS in the phone worked even without data reception, of course, and the requisite images had been downloaded, but the program still needed to acquire his position. The GPS receiver used a whole lot of juice, and his battery symbol was just a sliver of red.
As if on cue, the screen went black.
“Son of a bitch!” he cried.
His heart began to pound. The sky in the west was deepening to purple. He had been stupid—very stupid. He should have started back to camp an hour ago. But he’d been too afraid Noam would return and not find him—and be angry.