“How long a drive is it to the resort?” Darling asked.

“Not quite an hour. Maybe longer in the rain.”

“With you driving, definitely longer,” Zeke said.

Rob ignored him, pulling out of the parking lot and turning east.

“You really think our DB might be one of the Roadside Ripper’s vics?” Zeke asked, looking back at their passengers.

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” Gould said.

“What’s the body count now?” Zeke asked.

“We believe we have twenty-one confirmed kills.” Gould’s voice was pleasant. She might have been discussing the weather.

“I almost applied to the FBI,” Zeke said. “I didn’t want to have to wear a fucking tie all the time.”

Rob managed to swallow his snort. He glanced in the rearview mirror as he merged onto OR-62 West and briefly met Darling’s eyes. Darling’s mouth quirked in a sardonic not-quite-smile.

“Excuse my French,” Zeke added for Gould’s benefit.

“Pas du tout,” Gould returned.

Zeke gave her his biggest, widest grin. She smiled back, but he was wasting his time there. Gould was so far out of his league she might have been from another planet.

Again Rob’s gaze rose to the rearview and again he met Darling’s ironic regard. Darling did not blink, did not look away.

Wasn’t green supposed to be the most rare eye color? Rob could believe it in Darling’s case. He’d never seen eyes quite that shade. Maybe Darling wore contacts.

Either way…that was one very direct, very intense regard. In other circumstances, it might mean a couple of things. Even in these circumstances that look might mean a couple of things. Unlikely, but still…

Zeke asked, “How many of those twenty-one vics were in Oregon?”

“Seven,” Gould replied.

“But that doesn’t mean they were killed here.”

“True.”

“They might just have been unloaded here. He’s using the I-5 as his dumping ground, right?”

Darling was now directing his laser stare at the back of Zeke’s head. Rob would not have been surprised to see Zeke’s hair burst into flame, but then that was always a danger given how much hairspray Zeke used. Way more hairspray than straight guys generally went in for, in Rob’s opinion.

“That’s the current theory,” Gould said.

“How many members on your taskforce?” Zeke asked. “The whole West Coast is involved, right?”

“It’s one of the largest ever formed,” Gould answered. “Even we’re not sure of the exact number of team members.”

Obviously not true, but more polite than what her partner was clearly tempted to tell Zeke.

“You guys okay?” Rob asked. “You hungry?”

“Yeah, I’m hungry,” Zeke said.

“We had a two-hour layover in Seattle,” Darling said. “We’ve eaten. And we’re on a tight schedule.”

Gould glanced at her partner. What she said was, “Gosh, it’s green here. We could use some of this rain in California.”

“We’ve never had a homicide in Nearby,” Zeke said with an edge to his tone. “I know it’s same old same old to you, but to us it’s a big deal.”

“We don’t know we’ve got a homicide now,” Rob said, with a warning look.

It was wasted, of course.

“Right,” Zeke said. “Maybe it was suicide. Maybe John Doe buried himself beneath that rock pile.”

Sunday afternoon, campers had discovered human remains buried in a shallow grave covered with rocks on a decommissioned logging road off Route 140. Not exactly the Roadside Ripper’s stomping grounds, but for some reason Frankie—Sheriff Francesca McLellan—had decided to call in the feds just to be sure. Which just went to prove what a high profile case the Roadside Ripper was. High profile enough that even in their corner of the woods, they’d heard about it.

But the chances that this unlucky John Doe was one of the Ripper’s? That seemed pretty far-fetched to Rob.

All the same, twenty-four hours later, FBI Barbie and Ken had shown up on their doorstep.

“How long have you been with the Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Lang?” Gould inquired.

“Six years.”

“How do you like it?”

There was nothing Zeke liked more than talking about himself, and he was off and running. Off at the mouth. Agent Gould kept him primed with the occasional comment, but it was clear to Rob she was just making conversation—or maybe avoiding discussing their case.

Their case being the operative attitude.

Well, let ’em have it. One of the advantages of working out in the boonies was he didn’t have to deal with the territorial bullshit that came with larger LE agencies. No thanks. Best case scenario, in Rob’s opinion, was that John Doe was one of the Roadside Ripper’s vics, and the feebs could take over the whole damned investigation. But, though he hadn’t followed the case, the bit he had picked up indicated the unlikelihood of that. John Doe had been found just too far off the beaten track.

Zeke was still offering the highlights of his career in the Sheriff’s Office. Gould was still making polite sounds. Darling stared out the SUV window at the wet and glistening tall trees lining the road leading deep into the national forest. Rob pressed the gas and the SUV leaped forward.

“We don’t have a morgue in Nearby.” Pulling up in front of Mountain Mortuary fifty minutes later, Rob interrupted Zeke’s lengthy yarn about how he’d single-handedly nabbed the “butt-naked” RV bandit of Blue Rock Cove. Zeke gave him a reproachful look, but Rob ignored him. “Doc Cooper, the Klamath Falls ME, has a vacation home up here, and he’s doing the autopsy.”

“Quaint,” Gould said. It was unclear whether she was referring to the autopsy arrangements or the black wrought iron fencing which made the small yard in front of the brick and white clapboard building look like a miniature graveyard.

Rob turned off the engine and undid his seatbelt. They climbed out of the SUV and went through the ornate gate, which shut behind them with an unmusical clank. The rain had stopped for the time being. The air was cold and smelled of pine trees. Sodden autumn colored leaves were plastered to the walkway; the white wooden steps were slick and wet.

As they reached the glass double door entry, Frankie pushed open the door and leaned out. “Did you take the long way? I was starting to think you got lost.”

Before Rob could answer—not that he’d have bothered—Zeke said, “You shouldn’t have let Grandma drive.”

Frankie ignored him. She nodded in greeting at Darling and Gould. “Agents. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

She offered a tanned, freckled hand to Darling, who shook with her saying, “We appreciate the heads-up, Sheriff. I’m Agent Darling and this is Agent Gould.”

Frankie held the door wide for Gould, who got a shrewd look—beige pumps to coiffed hair—as she passed. “We realize this is off your beaten track, but it never hurts to be sure.”

Frankie had probably never worn a pair of heels in her life. Or at least Rob couldn’t picture her in heels, let alone a dress. She was a short, stout woman in her mid-fifties with a ruddy, weathered face and frizzy, rust-colored hair. It wasn’t her looks that had gotten Frankie elected to four consecutive four-year terms as Sheriff. But despite her non-glamorous appearance and brusque demeanor, she was liked and respected by the citizens she had served for so long.

“Doc Cooper is the Klamath Falls ME. He’s doing the honors today.”

“So we heard,” Darling said as Frankie led the way through an obstacle course of empty caskets and urns stuffed with silk flowers. The showroom—if “showroom” was the right word—smelled of formaldehyde and air freshener, and Rob was glad in hindsight that they hadn’t stopped to eat.

A gust of rain-washed air from the open door ruffled the silk petals and sent a couple of soulful portraits of praying children knocking against the walnut paneled walls. There was a weird ambiance to the place, an uncomfortable mix of commercial and mournful. An ordinary, modern morgue probably would have been less disturbing.