Seconds later, a spreadsheet appeared below the map. It contained about twenty columns of data.

I skimmed the headers. Claim number. Claim status. Date claim was recorded. Acreage. Shape. Some abbreviations I lacked the expertise to interpret.

“McLeod was a busy boy.” Rainwater was scrolling down through the rows. “Ninety-seven claims. Most recorded in the nineties. All withdrawn or lapsed, save three.”

“Can you pull up information on the active claims?”

Rainwater hit some keys. “Looks like there are coowners on all three. Nellie M. Snook. Daryl G. Beck. Alice A. Ruben.”

Pulse galloping, I forced myself calm. “McLeod died in 2008. How would that affect his claims?”

“Unless the deceased party left instructions otherwise, I assume the claims would belong wholly to the coregistrants as long as all fees were paid and use requirements met.”

“Can you pull up one of the active claims?”

Rainwater tapped, and a block of green squares appeared on the map. They were dead north of Yellowknife, northwest of the Ekati mine, just below the border with Nunavut.

I stared at the cluster. Worlds were colliding. More accurately, separating.

Snook said it. I just didn’t hear.

The only thing Farley McLeod gave his kids was a quick shot of sperm and a worthless piece of dirt in the middle of nowhere.

Farley McLeod had left his children mineral rights on land he’d staked. Ruben and Snook each possessed samples rich in diamond indicator minerals, probably given with the warning that they be safeguarded.

The samples probably came from the land McLeod had staked.

Sweet baby Jesus.

Beck and Ruben hadn’t been killed in a battle over drugs. They owned mineral claims potentially worth millions. Someone wanted those claims.

But who?

A cluster of adjacent squares glowed the same bright green as those owned by Snook and her siblings. I pointed to them. “Are those active?”

“They are. Looks like someone snatched up the claims that McLeod let lapse.” Rainwater clicked on a square. Then another. And another. “All owned by an entity called Fast Moving.” He clucked his tongue. “The outfit’s not moving all that fast. It’s met the requirements for maintaining the claim but done nothing else.”

“Is it some sort of corporation?”

Rainwater chuckled. “Sorry. Not my skill set.”

The id cells had the band back together.

Fast Moving.

The name meant nothing to me.

While I was poking at my subconscious, my cortex conjured a terrible thought. Was Snook in danger?

“Thank you so much, Professor Rainwater.” I rose. “This has been very educational.”

Rainwater poured the sample back into the ketchup container. Handed it to me. “You are most welcome.”

I maneuvered around the desk. I was at the door when Rainwater spoke again.

“Dr. Brennan.”

I turned, surprised at the old man’s use of the title.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“What?”

“Catch the bastards.”

Chapter 37

I WAS BECOMING A REGULAR ON RAGGED ASS. STILL, THE atmosphere felt hostile.