He thought on it a while, put some of the items back in the house, came out and wet his finger by poking it in his mouth, held it up. There was no wind to speak of.

Back inside he got some matches, lit one to a pile of newspapers. The papers were so mildewed and stuck together, the fire went out. He got some kerosene and spread it throughout the house in a winding trail. On his way out the door he struck a match to it.

Outside, Clyde watched, hoping the wind wouldn’t change and carry it to the woods. He was amazed at how fast the house caught. Pretty soon flames were licking out of the open door and broken windowpanes. He could hear things popping and crackling inside. All the printed news that was news for the last ten years was on its way to the gods, via a trail of smoke.

Fire licked up through the gaps in the roof and pretty soon the roof caught and the flames made a wavy hat and black smoke poured out of the holes in the roof and out of the fireplace. Glass in the windows popped to pieces. In less than an hour the house was consumed, except for the chimney, but with nothing to hold it up, it fell to the ground with a thunderous crash, tossing bricks in all directions. From the time of starting the fire to the time of flames licking at blackened lumber, broken glass and shattered bricks, about two hours passed.

After a while, Clyde took the shovel he had saved from under the tarp and went over and started stirring things with it, spreading the last of the fire out so it would die. He took water from the well and poured buckets of it on what he deemed trouble spots, places that might flare up again if left alone.

He had spared the chairs, placed them under the tarp, and now he picked one and sat and drank from something else he had spared. A bottle of whisky. It was cheap stuff and it tasted like it, all bite and no sugar. By late afternoon he decided it tasted pretty good and drank it all, fell asleep in his chair.

He did so with new plans in his head for a place to live. He would build a new house. One without newspapers and junk, mold and mildew, a leaky roof and a smell like chicken shit. This one would be fresh and it would be painted white and the roof would be fine, with a brand-new chimney made of red bricks and plaster.

He slept, wishing he could burn himself down and rebuild, maybe in Hillbilly’s image.

Was there a blueprint for that?

The smoke had gone from black to white and from rolls to puffs, and pretty soon there wasn’t even that, and by late afternoon, while Clyde slept, a soft rain came and stirred the ashes and made fresh smoke.

Lightning flashed and thunder crashed, but Clyde never knew it.

About the time Clyde was snoozing under the tarp and the rain was falling on what remained of his smoldering house, Zendo drove up in his pickup and parked in front of Sunset’s tent.

He got out and went cautiously up to the tent. He didn’t take hold of the flap. He stood a respectful distance away and called out.

“Miss Constable. Miss Jones.”

Sunset and Hillbilly and Karen were sitting on the business side of the tent playing cards. They got up and went out. It was raining lightly.

Zendo had moved back to his truck, and was holding his hat in his hands, turning it like a steering wheel. The rain was running down his face and his clothes were damp with it.

“Zendo,” Sunset said, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No, ma’am. I ain’t seen no ghost. I seen something worse.”

Karen, much to her dismay, was made to stay at the tent. Sunset and Hillbilly followed Zendo in Clyde’s truck. Hillbilly drove. They followed Zendo to the tree where they had first spoken, pulled up under it, parked and got out.

Zendo had unharnessed his mules, tied them to two separate trees near the oak to keep them from crossing up. His plow lay on its side, a middle buster attached to it.

Zendo came over, said, “I’ll show you now.”

He started walking, and they followed.

“I done decided to bust up a bit more of my land. Add a few rows here closer to the woods, to where I found that jar with the baby in it, and, well, my plow cut into it.”

Zendo was pointing.

They looked down. There was a dark, round object sticking out of the ground and the top of it was covered in something stringy and oily. It had been cut open with the plow and it was dark inside where it had been cut, looked like old wet cork.

“Is that some kind of vegetable?” Hillbilly said.

“No sir, it ain’t,” Zendo said. “Come on around here.”

They followed him. “Look down there now.”

Sunset squatted, turned her head. The big turnip had an eye socket. It was full of black dirt. Below the eyes was a flap of nose and below that a lip, and part of it was gone, and what was left looked to have dried up like a worm on a hot stove. The lip was curled in such a way Sunset could see dirt-stained teeth.

“My God,” she said.

“Is it a watermelon?” Hillbilly asked.

“No,” Sunset said.

“Naw, it ain’t no watermelon,” Zendo said.

Hillbilly bent over, looked, said, “Nope. Not a watermelon.”

It was long, slow, and careful work because pieces of it kept coming off, but when they dug the body up, they found it had been planted straight down, like a post.

The corpse was covered in something black and sticky. Zendo said, “That’s just the way that baby was in the jar. All oily.”

“Is that in your soil?” Hillbilly asked. “That oil?”

“Ain’t no oil in this soil,” Zendo said.

“No maggots,” Sunset said. “So it may not have been here long.”

“Reckon it’s that oily stuff. It’s kept the body from rotting outright. Or some of it. Maggots done eat what they gonna eat. Rest, they leave alone.”

“Who’d think a maggot had taste buds,” Hillbilly said.

“Way the weather is, hot as it is,” Sunset said, “it still amazes me it ain’t nothing but bones.”

“There ain’t no way figuring weather or what it’ll do,” Zendo said.

“Body ain’t got no clothes on,” Hillbilly said, “but I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.”

“It’s a woman,” Zendo said.

“How do you know?” Hillbilly asked.

“Hip bones, way they spread,” Zendo said. “She probably done had a baby.”

“I wonder if she was white or black,” Sunset said.

“She was white,” Zendo said. “That stringy stuff on top of her head ain’t colored hair.”

Sunset took hold of the hair, rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. It was coated in oil, but it was fine and smooth.

“Probably right,” Sunset said. “You got some kind of sheet or old blanket or something, Zendo? Something we could carry the body out with?”

“I can go up to the house and look,” Zendo said.

“Would you?”

When Zendo drove off, Hillbilly said, “He sure is certain it’s a white woman. I can’t look at that hunk of rotten meat and tell much of anything. But he knows it’s a woman and he knows she’s white.”

“Think he would come and get us if he did it?” Sunset asked.

“Could be to throw us off.”

“No,” Sunset said. “He’s as nervous and messed up about it as we are.”

“Killers can feel bad about what they done… What do you think this oil business is about?”

Sunset shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s odd. And that baby was coated in oil. I don’t get it. And why in the hell are they burying them here on Zendo’s patch of land?”

“You’re too innocent, Sunset.”

“I don’t think I’m near that innocent anymore,” she said.

“Watch out for Zendo. I don’t trust him.”

“I think he’s all right,” Sunset said. “We take the body in, don’t mention anything about Zendo or where we found it. Just say it’s law business for now. Okay?”

“All right.”

They waited about fifteen minutes before Zendo showed up with a ratty-looking patchwork quilt. “We had this for the dog to lie down on. I didn’t want to use a new one. Will this be all right?”