The deputy and I gingerly examined the scene for evidence, of which there was damn little. Robin's tools and gunnysack were labeled and put into plastic evidence bags, then stashed in the back of the vehicle. The tiny fragments of cardboard from the shotgun shell were treated in a similar fashion. The device that had killed Robin Buchanon was bagged, with a few expressed hopes that fingerprints might be found. The plants were measured, counted, and assessed at more than ten thousand dollars, wholesale alone, although they were short enough to indicate they had been planted as late as midsummer. Retail (a.k.a. street value) could be as much as ten times higher. Six more booby traps were located around the perimeter-and very carefully left intact. At that point the deputy and I grimaced at each other. He returned to the vehicle for a body bag, and we forced ourselves to slide the remains into it. Then each of us found a private spot in the forest in which to vomit. I knelt for a long while afterward, thinking all sorts of crazy things that I still can't put into words. Which goes to show I was about as hard-boiled as the heroine of a Jane Austen novel.

Once the vehicle was loaded, I went back to make sure we hadn't missed anything. The marijuana plants were swaying just a bit in the breeze, like proud, bushy, green plumes. Once the investigation was closed and the son of a bitch was doing a string of consecutive sentences for murder, manufacture of a controlled substance, trafficking, reckless endangerment, and an assortment of federal charges, the patch would be cleared and burned. Maybe the ginseng would come back, I thought with a wry smile. If it did, I'd bring Hammet et al to the spot and show them their family legacy. Their mother's estate, so to speak.

I went back to the wagon. Merle was perched on the edge of the backseat, not real pleased by the bags (and odor) behind him. Sympathizing, I got in the front, rolled down the window, and told the deputy I was finished for the time being. As he drove our makeshift hearse down the road, I stared out the window. "This is my case, you know," I said without turning my head.

"So the sheriff figured you'd say. It's as much your jurisdiction as anybody's, and you did know the deceased. He may be being so generous because we're shorthanded, overworked, and underpaid. Ain't none of us had a decent vacation in the last six months."

I considered suggesting they take so-called vacations instead, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. I leaned back and closed my eyes.

"Looky there," Merle said suddenly, bruising my ear as he stuck his hand out the window to point at a clump of firs. "Do you recollect how I said earlier that I'd seen some kids courting along the road? Looks like they couldn't get their jeep to working again."

I'd forgotten about the courters. And I didn't like the word "jeep," which brought to mind the one that was supposedly parked in front of the PD. Because it now occurred to me-a mere three hours after the fact-that it hadn't been there earlier, when I'd raced over to meet the deputy. It hadn't been there the night before, when David Allen had driven us past too quickly for me to decide what was wrong. That flash of insight was a mere fourteen hours after the fact. Perspicacity is not among my sins.

The deputy jammed on the brakes. "It's under those firs. You got to look real hard to see it, but you can see a flash of red and the sunlight glinting on a taillight."

"Red jeep," I said, sighing. "Just for the record, Merle-who were these two lovebirds you met last night?"

He confirmed my worst fears. The three of us pushed through the brush to the jeep, which was empty of all signs of humanity except for a square of wax paper on the floorboard in front of the passenger's seat. At that moment I caught myself wishing the twosome had been et by a bear, but I put the fantasy aside and yelled their names. Pretty soon the deputy and Merle started yelling, but nobody waddled or stumbled out of the woods.

"They're damn lucky they're not here," I said through clenched teeth. "I've got a murder investigation on my hands; the last thing I need is a missing team of car thieves. If Kevin fell out of a tree in front of me right now, I swear I'd strangle him. If I could get my hands around Dahlia's neck, I'd strangle her, too."

"Shall I call in a grand theft auto?" the deputy suggested. "Destruction of government property? Malicious mischief? How about we put out an APB on 'em?"

"Do that, and stress that they're liable to be armed and dangerous. Maybe some trigger-happy cop'll save me the bother." I leaned back against the hood of the jeep and rubbed my face until it hurt. "This whole mess is too damn much for me. I've got a murder, a bunch of orphans, a stolen vehicle, two missing morons, a town full of loonies who communicate with dead ancestors, and a psychic who seems to know more than I do. I don't return my calls, my lipstick's crooked, and my mother thinks I'm a stagnant pond. I don't need this, guys."

I didn't burst into tears, but I toyed with the idea all the way back to town.

Mrs. Jim Bob nibbled a corner of the candy bar with her small, even teeth. Although her stomach was grumbling, she carefully refolded the wrapper and put the candy bar back in the bedside drawer. Rationing was essential, she told herself in a firm voice. She was in no danger of drying out too badly, what with the bathroom tap. But thirty-six hours into the siege, she was getting hungrier by the minute and she was having a hard time not just jamming the candy bar into her mouth.

She dialed the sheriffs department and dully asked to speak to Chief of Police Arly Hanks.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Jim Bob," the dispatcher said, "but she still hasn't called in. I swear I've been beeping her since your first call. I don't know what else I can do for you, dear. Are you sure there isn't anyone else who can help you?"

Mrs. Jim Bob wasn't about to admit she was at the mercy of four children, that she couldn't exercise her authority or even sneak past the little heathens to the kitchen for a meat loaf sandwich and a glass of iced tea. Why, the dispatcher, one LaBelle Hutchinson, was by far the biggest gossip in the whole county, and more than likely to tell the whole world about Mrs. Jim Bob's dilemma. LaBelle belonged to every auxiliary and missionary society in the county and it wasn't because of her dedication to all those worthy causes. She just knew everything that happened, from marital squabbles to drunken teenagers stealing the family car to filthy child abusers, and she wasn't above preening in the limelight while her tongue wagged harder than a duck's tailfeathers.

Mrs. Jim Bob caught herself wondering how to find a filthy child abuser, since she knew some candidates worthy of abuse. She scolded herself for such un-Christianlike thoughts, then told LaBelle to keep trying to locate Arly. She dialed Brother Verber's number, but it was still busy. The telephone company had run a check sometime in the now murky past, and assured her that the line was not out of order. They were real snippy about it, too.

She replaced the telephone receiver and went to the bedroom door to make sure it was still locked. As she returned to sit on the corner of the bed, she heard what sounded like an elephant thudding into the living-room wall. She didn't even wince, being long past the wincing stage.

"Well, at least it proves you were right," Mason said, keeping his distance.

"Did you have doubts?" Celeste snapped. She sat at the dinette table, a cup of tea in front of her. The tarot cards were pushed to one side, their corners bent and soft from a hard, all-night workout. "I told you to bring that woman here, and you did not. That is why I have doubts, Mason-doubts about your ability to follow simple directions."