and I promise you, if he’s uncovered any evidence of foul play, it’ll be in tomorrow’s edition.” He looked around for her coat, but of course all she had was the Be-Dazzled jacket she’d been wearing yesterday. “And get yourself something to wear before you freeze.”

She let herself be maneuvered toward the door. “What are you going to do?”

“While I’m waiting for word of your sister, I’m looking into another possible story. Not related to the Keane murder.”

She paused at the exit, and for a moment he thought she might brace herself against the edges of the door and refuse to leave. “About what?”

“Animal cruelty.” On that note, he got her out of the building and his afternoon back on track.

He had called about the animals on a hunch, really. Patterns tweaked at him, and although he couldn’t have articulated what he thought was going on when a minister involved in a murder investigation asked him about a pig-butchering because one of her people had a lamb killed, the weird three-sided symmetry of it all had him on the phone to the MKPD almost as soon as Reverend Fergusson had hung up on him.

Names of victims in hand, he started by calling his previous contact, Dr. Underkirk. He didn’t get through to the doctor, of course-he wondered who did: spouses? stockbrokers?-but it only took a few remarks and laughing at a few ham-fisted jokes for Underkirk’s garrulous nurse to reveal the only thing the minister had asked about: the doctor’s snowplowing service.

It didn’t take him long to go through the remaining people on the list. Of those he could reach, every one had the same service.

Interesting.

He went on the Internet. It took him fifteen minutes to find Quinn Tracey’s LiveJournal, half an hour to read the entries, and no time at all to realize the kid was seriously torqued.

Ben discounted the poorly spelled, ungrammatical complaints about fascist parents, irrelevant teachers, and stuck-up, snooty girls. He had felt pretty much the same way when he was in high school, and it had never sent him out gutting livestock.

He also ignored the tedious recounting of television episodes and the pretentious album reviews. Half the Web sites and blogs on the Internet consisted of people telling you what they liked and didn’t like in excruciating detail.

But the other stuff the kid was putting up there-that was different. In a dark and unpleasant way. Spiels glorifying war and pain and the unkillable soldier dealing death at every turn. Rants against terrorists, Middle Easterners, immigrants. Fantasies of claiming vengeance against his enemies, with detailed descriptions of what that vengeance would be. Reading it was like picking through the mind of a skinhead who had seen one too many movies where a lone American hero gunned down a moving-van’s-worth of faceless baddies.

Ben knew that young men like to fantasize about the glory of carnage. Some of them daydreamed about martial arts prowess, while others pictured themselves infiltrating behind enemy lines with the SEALs. Violent but essentially harmless. Some kids acted on it and joined up; most enrolled in college and discovered getting laid instead.

Quinn Tracey’s stuff wasn’t like that. It made Ben want to scrub out his eyeballs.

He sent the entire slag heap to the printer and, as it was purring out into a stack of paper, went to find someone who could confirm what time kids would be getting home from Millers Kill High.

Mina Norris snorted at him. “Don’t you pay any attention to anything you’re not working on? Today’s a snow day. Didn’t you notice half the office is out?”

“Huh. It did look a little underpopulated. So, all the high schoolers would be home already?”

“Uh-huh. The only reason I’m here is because my two are old enough to stay by themselves.”

He went back to his desk singing, “Oh, the weather outside is frightful…” He flipped open his notepad, ready to transcribe first the listing, then the conversation. There were only two Traceys in the Millers Kill/Fort Henry/Cossayuharie directory. One was unfamiliar, the other the number he had called Tuesday afternoon to interview the woman who had found Linda Van Alstyne’s body. Well, Audrey Keane’s body, but they hadn’t known that then.

Beagle’s pencil went still over his notepad.

Meg Tracey. That was the name of the woman who had found the body.

Quinn Tracey was her son?

His hands shook as he punched in the number.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Tracey? This is Ben Beagle, with the Glens Falls Post-Star. We spoke on Tuesday?”

“Of course. I remember.” The woman laughed. “If you want my reaction to the latest development, it’s ecstatic. I can’t tell you what a miracle it is, having Linda restored to life like that.”

She sounded so emotional, Ben wondered if they were talking about the same “latest development.”

“Have you… heard from her?”

“No, no, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.”

“Ah. Great. I’m happy to get a quote from you, but as it stands, I called on a different matter. I understand you have a son who runs his own snowplowing business.”

“Quinn? Yes. He inherited it from his big brother when Seamus went off to school. Why? Do you need a plow?”

Ben wanted to be politic. “No. I’m doing a story, and I was hoping to interview him.”

“About his snowplowing? It is unique, isn’t it? The thing I like is how eye-catching it’s going to be on his college applications. Imagine admissions officers, seeing one fast-food job after another, and then a young man who ran his own business! Of course you can interview him. Hang on.”

The earpiece clunked as she put her phone down. Ben realized he was thwapping his pencil at high speed against the notepad. He forced himself to relax.

“Hi…” The young man who picked up the other end sounded like someone who had been frogmarched to the phone to talk with an unloved relative.

“Hi, Quinn. I’m Ben Beagle, with the Post-Star. Your mom said it was okay if I asked you a few questions. Is that okay with you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Great. You run a snowplow business, right? Can you tell me how long you’ve been doing it?”

“This winter’s my first one by myself. Last year Seamus and I did it together.”

“Getting the experience, yeah. How many customers do you have?”

“Uh… twelve regular, and two guys who call me if they’re too busy to snowblow their drives themselves. Plus I get a lot of pickups when I’m doing the plowing. Like, I’m doing one of my regulars and his next-door neighbor will coming running out with a twenty and ask me to do his drive, too.”

“Sounds profitable. How do you get your customers?”

“Most of ’em Seamus got, and they, you know, just kept calling up in the fall. My mom and dad talk it up, so I get some people who know them.”

“What do you use for the plowing?”

“I have an ’88 Ford Ranger with a fifty-four-inch Deere plow and cement blocks in the bed to weight it down.”

“Is it yours, or do you borrow it from your folks?”

“It’s mine. I bought it off of my brother.”

“Do you use it just for the business?”

“Naw, it’s how I get around. I mean, I don’t get great mileage during the winter, with the plow and the weights on, but I never get stuck, so it’s a good trade-off.”

“Especially on a day like today.”

The boy huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I’ll be way busy as soon as this lets up.”

Ben slid the list of reported animal losses in front of him. “Do you plow for John and Zoë Kavenaugh?” The couple he hadn’t been able to reach.

“Yeah.” Tracey sounded surprised.

“And Dr. Irving Underkirk.”

“Yeah…” Surprise turning to suspicion.

“And Herbert Perkins.”

“How do you know all this?”

“All three of them have had an animal killed within the last month. Throat slit, body hacked up, but the meat uneaten. So we know it’s not a starving coyote or panther coming down from the mountains. I’m thinking it must have been done with a knife.”