Page 45 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

B ACK IN THE car, Corrie turned to Nora.

“So what does that strange design mean?”

Nora took the metal box out of her bag again, opened it, and showed the chunk of stone to Corrie.

On it had been drawn, quite carefully, a spiral design ending in a snake’s head.

“It’s from the Institute’s collection of items of Gallina origin.”

“How did you know it would get a reaction?”

“I didn’t,” said Nora.

“But a reverse spiral like this is known to the Pueblo Indians as a sign of evil. It is believed witches use the reversed spiral to project their evil power. The Gallina ones always have the Feathered Serpent as a head.” She paused.

“I took the trouble of getting an authentic specimen from the Institute collection—we could never put it on display, given its associations—because I thought that might get more of a reaction out of her than simply a sketch I made myself. She recognized it—but she didn’t talk.”

“I don’t think she’s ever going to talk,” Corrie said.

“I think she’s withdrawn from the world—and no wonder, with that monster of a father.”

Nora paused, wondering if this was the right time to mention something she’d been mulling over.

She decided that, with this unsuccessful interview concluded, there was no point in waiting.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said over coffee this morning,” she told Corrie.

“About the FBI’s tenet that if a person disappears from the public record, it means they’re probably dead.”

Corrie nodded.

“What about it?”

“Remember my telling you that a mutilated body came washing out from the Gallina River about a dozen years ago?”

“Sure.”

“The body was in pretty bad shape, but the mutilation kind of resembled the petroglyph I showed to Bastien just now.”

“No shit.” Corrie thought a moment.

“How common is this symbol?”

“To actually see a representation of this symbol is very, very rare. Most Indians around here won’t even discuss witchcraft, for fear of somehow bringing it upon themselves. But that’s not what I’ve been thinking about. I’ve been wondering if maybe that body that washed down from the upstream canyons might have been Oskarbi’s.”

She watched as, with admirable speed, Corrie followed her line of reasoning and put the pieces together.

“Wow. When was the body found?”

“Twelve years ago. Around the time Oskarbi supposedly went back to Mexico. And I looked up old newspaper stories about it—the body was never identified.”

“Wow,” said Corrie.

“This is amazing work, Nora.” She paused, her brow creased.

“The local sheriff’s department would have investigated the death. The autopsy must still be filed away somewhere. You know who could look into the possibility that the body was Oskarbi’s? Sheriff Homer Watts.”

Taking out her phone, Corrie dialed the sheriff, brought him up to speed, told him of Nora’s theory, listened for a moment, then thanked him and hung up.

“He’s on it,” she said.

“Gonna look at the evidence file and autopsy ASAP.”

“Thanks,” Nora said.

Then: “Do you have anything else to do this afternoon?”

“Just some paperwork on the case.”

“Would you mind if we swung by Edison Nash’s house? I’d like to see if the housekeeper knows where they might have gone camping.”

“You’re still worried?” asked Corrie.

“I’m more worried than ever.”