Dan leaned down to look at a highlighted number. "It's not the same."

"Right. All the other haplotype sequences are a dead match except for that one, which means there was a mutation in Sylvia's germ cell that was passed on to her son, Josh."

"What about Liza?"

"Nope. But your mother has the same mutation."

Dan looked at the sheets, absorbing the implications of the highlighted numbers. "Is that possible?"

"Anything's possible. But this one is about as probable as two people having identical fingerprints."

"Not worth betting on."

"Not with my money."

"What do you need to sort this out?"

"I'd like to see if you have the same mutation."

"No problem." He punched up a familiar number on the cell phone. "Cheryl? Yeah, it all came through perfectly. Now we need mine for comparison." He winced at whatever she said. "Two pounds of really fine dark chocolate? A bottle of two-hundred-dollar champagne? Both. Right." He punched out.

"Bribery?" Carly asked, smiling.

"Grease makes the wheels go round."

"I'll get one of the test kits for you."

"No need." He went to his computer. "My genetic profile is already on record with the lab."

"Really? Why?"

"To make double-damn sure any remains that are found in some backwater are really mine."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"So far, so good. Gotta watch those climbing accidents, though."

Dan's e-mail pinged. He opened the file and printed it. "Here you go. Without your highlighting it all looks like the same old same old to me."

Carly grabbed the paper and looked at it. And looked again. She checked the date on the file. It had been created three years ago.

"That's because it is," she said, frowning.

"What?"

"The same old same old." Carly put Dan's genetic profile down next to Josh's.

They were identical.

EPILOGUE

TAOS

MARCH

CARLY SMILED AS SHE WORKED TO TRANSLATE A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY SPANISH document describing boundary markers on Castillo family common woodlands. Through a series of twists and turns that would have made Winifred grin, Diana Duran was now the legal owner of the Quintrell/Castillo lands, livestock, and buildings. At first Dan's mother had refused anything to do with the Senator's ranch. Then Dan had pointed out how much good would come if she turned the ranch into a safe place for children whose own homes were violent.

"Here it comes," Dan said.

Gus wandered in from Dan's kitchen, gnawing on a chicken wing. Garlic chicken, of course, and the house smelled like it.

Jansen Worthy's solemn face filled the TV screen at Dan's house. Slowly the camera pulled back. Behind him Governor Josh Quintrell, hands duly cuffed behind him, was being led by Taos TypeCounty sheriff Mike Montoya to a waiting squad car. Whatever Jansen Worthy was saying was muted. Dan didn't need a media spinmeister to tell him what was happening.

Carly set aside the papers and sat next to Dan on the bed. Together they stared at the governor as he stopped to face the herd of reporters shoving microphones in his face. He stood tall, straight, and faced the camera directly. Wind ruffled his silver hair and his eyes were as clear and blue as high-country sky.

"It took two months of legal wrangling," Dan said, "but they finally got the perp walk."

"Told you they would," Gus said. He tossed the chicken bone in the trash and wiped his hand. "It's not often you arrest a sitting governor and presidential hopeful for assault with intent to kill-that would be on you, brother-impersonation of a rightful heir, and two counts of murder one."

"Murder?" Carly asked. "Which ones?"

"Melissa and Pete," Dan said. "I had a talk with Jim Snead as soon as I saw the identical gene results. We scouted Castillo Ridge, found where the sniper waited, where he went down to the wreck, finished off Melissa, and took a roundabout way to a car he'd left along the road. It was the same blind he used when he nailed me," Dan added. "When the ice wasn't enough to send the Moores' car over, he shot out a tire and the truck took a dive over the edge. The bullet took a bite out of the wheel rim as well. It's now Exhibit A for the prosecution."

Carly shivered. "If we hadn't gone for a walk in a graveyard, that could have been us at the bottom of the ravine and no one would have known."

Gus made a rough sound. "Don't tell Mom."

"Don't worry," Dan said.

"It doesn't seem real." Carly shook her head and stared at the man standing erect in front of the camera. He managed to look sad and confident at the same time, a man worn down by family deaths and a vindictive prosecutor. "He looks too… honest. A jury won't buy his guilt."

"They will when the medical examiner gives testimony that Melissa's broken neck wasn't due to the accident," Dan said.

Carly rubbed her eyes. "Then why does the governor look so confident?"

Dan lifted her onto his lap and tucked her head into its familiar niche under his chin. "He's got a great game face. But he's going to lose just the same."

The instant the governor opened his mouth to talk to the reporters, Dan turned on the sound.

"I want to thank all the citizens who have written and called to tell me they are with me in my hour of trial."

"I'm going to hurl," Carly said.

"I'm sure that this foolish tangle of circumstance and malice will come unraveled in a court of law."

"Not a chance," Dan said. "No matter how good that murderer looks in a suit, he can't explain away the fact that his mtDNA and mine are different, and he sent mine to Genedyne under his name. He's no more the real Josh Quintrell than I am."

Gus smiled slightly. "I have to say, bro, your friends at the St. Kilda Society are ring-tailed terrors when it comes to digging up bodies."

"Mr. Steele takes a real hard line when someone shoots at one of his consulting team," Dan said with a certain grim satisfaction. "Especially when said shooter is being financed in large part by laundered Sandoval money. Steele hates narcotraficantes."

Gus straightened. "Now that's a story-"

"No," Dan cut in swiftly. "You have to live here. Settle for an inside exclusive on the governor's dual identity and murderous life. Let some East Coast hotshot break the story about the governor's laundered campaign money."

On-screen, the governor was tucked into the squad car by Sheriff Montoya. The way the sheriff closed the door said he didn't expect to be turning loose his prisoner anytime soon.

Dan turned off the TV. He'd seen all he had to. Randal Mullins, a.k.a. Josh Quintrell, was history.

"So what's the latest news you called me over to hear?" Gus asked.

"That's your cue," Dan said to Carly.

She reached behind him and pulled out a file that was as thick as Dan's thumb. Thicker, actually. The cover was stamped ST. KILDA CONSULTING. She riffled through the file rapidly.

Gus's eyes glazed over when he saw the stream of intricate color charts, graphs, numbers, and the like. "If I grovel, will you give me a summary?"

Dan snickered. "I said the same thing."

"You didn't grovel," she said.

"You didn't complain," Dan said.

She gave him a sidelong look and a very female smile.

Gus shuffled his feet.

"Okay," Carly said. "The year is 1968, the place is Vietnam. Randal Mullins is working as a forward scout aiding the outfit Josh Quintrell is in. There's an ambush. Everybody dies but Randal Mullins."

"According to the autopsy St. Kilda performed on the remains that were buried as Randal Mullins, the death wound was one shot to the back of the head from a rifle," Dan added. "Very close range. Execution style. The remains, by the way, have the Senator's Y-DNA and Sylvia's mtDNA. The dead man was the real Josh Quintrell."