The Rivers Run Dry by Sibella Giorello Page B

tobacco. I kneeled again, collecting pieces, wondering if this fire was just somebody’s bad attempt at a romantic moment. As I was collecting the pieces, Madame came around my side, licking my hand. I gently pushed her away.
    But she came around the other side. Again, she licked my hand.
    â€œIs that dog going to contaminate my evidence?” Jack asked.
    â€œGo on, girl,” I said.
    But Madame would not quit.
    She pushed her snout under my forearm, raising her head, flicking my hand off the rocks.
    â€œMadame, stop it!” My voice was harsh and she ran away, her claws scrabbling across the loose stones. I watched her turn behind the haystack outcropping. She started barking.
    â€œHere’s what I’m having trouble with,” Jack said. “You’re on assignment and you bring a clairvoyant, and you bring the dog—”
    â€œI didn’t bring the clairvoyant. And the dog won’t hurt anything.”
    I marked the evidence bag, placing it inside my pack, then stood. Madame was still barking from behind the rock, a sound that the wind captured and threw off the side of the mountain.
    â€œWhat’s her problem?” Jack said, seething.
    I walked across the stones, around the haystack, and found Madame at the summit’s lone tree. It had spindly limbs, the lopsided appearance of a divining rod, a shape cultivated by wind and rain and snow.
    â€œMadame, quiet,” I said.
    But she continued to bark. I saw a small bird, its dark talons clutching one of the tree’s emaciated branches.
    â€œMadame, hush.”
    At the sound of my voice, the bird tilted its head, the lidless eyes like polished ebony. It did not fly away as I approached. Its charcoal gray feathers were camouflage among the rocks. At the breast, the feathers turned white as fog.
    â€œThat’s a Camp Robber.” Jack came up behind me. “Just a stupid gray jay but they’ll steal a sandwich out of your hand.”
    I stepped closer. The bird tilted its head again, black eyes clicking over the scene. Something cracked under my feet, the bird flew away.
    â€œI might’ve guessed,” Jack said, “you’d be the first person to scare one of those birds.”
    I glanced down, trying to see what I’d stepped on. The fragments gathered between the rocks, a sandy detritus produced by erosion. But when I kneeled down, I could see plastic pieces, their concave fractures forming along unnatural planes. I picked up a piece. Madame licked my wrist again.
    â€œYou better say something nice about my dog.” I held out the plastic fragments.
    He leaned down, placing his large hands on his knees. I collected pieces of burnt plastic and dented shell casings, and when I lifted a pile of rocks behind the haystack that were gathered in a mound that defied gravity and erosion, I found a black plastic bag. The corners were sealed with duct tape. I cut it open with a pen knife and held it out for Jack to inspect.
    He tapped his fingers against the granules, rubbing the substance between his fingertips before touching it to the tip of his tongue.
    â€œGunpowder,” he said.
    I looked at Madame. She wagged her tail.
    â€œShe’s a search dog,” he said. “Why didn’t you say so?”

chapter nine
    D ry volcanic basalt drawled all the way across eastern Washington and on Monday morning I drove across it on Interstate 90, headed for the forensic geologist in Spokane. I carried with me the torn piece of fabric and the soil samples from Cougar Mountain, along with Jack’s evidence for counterterrorism from Mount Si.
    Although the highway ran straight as string across the desert, I could feel the road lifting and lowering, the rise so gentle, the descent so quiet that most people probably missed it. But those subtle shifts marked an earth-shaking scientific controversy, one that crystallized my views about science and man, and how we pursue the truth.
    For most of the