Meredith gave me a funny look, like she was surprised. “Before you arrived, I detected small amounts of shrapnel in the epidermis, along with some residue that I haven’t had time to identify. For example.” She pointed to a chunk of metal in the corpse’s belly. “All burns are post-mortem. Ergo, cause of death is most likely smoke inhalation. There was enough skin, however, to take fingerprints. If she has any record in AFIS, we’ll find her.”

I began examining the corpse’s fingertips, wondering how Meredith could ever see the prints, just as Sheriff Hoyt barged through the curtains and into the room.

"Sheriff!" Meredith said. "What bring you here this time of night?"

“Well, hell, Abner,” Hoyt said, “if this ain’t a pleasant surprise. Except it ain’t pleasant, and I sure ain’t surprised to see you sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”

Abner glanced at the doctor, who stared at Hoyt. Neither of them was happy about the intrusion.

“Sheriff,” Meredith said. “Dr. Zickafoose is here to assist me.”

Hoyt tossed a manila folder on to the table. “The fire investigators filed their final report, and there’s no sign of foul play. Y’all go home. I’m taking possession of the body right now. This autopsy is over.”

“I haven’t finished my work,” Meredith protested. “I can’t file a complete report about the identity of the victim.”

“That ain’t your problem anymore. And you two,” Hoyt said to me and Abner, “will be leaving. Right now.”

I walked toward Hoyt. “This is a public building, sheriff, and you’re out of your jurisdiction, so whether we leave or stay is none of you business.”

“Suit yourself.” Hoyt turned back to Dr. Windsor-Smith. “Tag and bag the body, professor. I’ll be taking it back to Allegheny County with me. Far as I’m concerned, this case is closed.”

“Dr. Zickafoose, Boone, let’s go.” Meredith pulled off her latex gloves and threw them at Hoyt. “You already took possession of the body, sheriff. We’ll leave the bagging and tagging to you.”

SATURDAY

1

It was past 0200 hours when I got home. The weather had turned cold and windy. I drove down the driveway with my lights off and left my boots on the porch. I tried to be quiet. Mom slept like the dead, but Lamar dozed off and on. It was easy to wake him.

My effort was wasted. When I got to my room, I started to close the blinds and saw Lamar. He was standing on the pond’s floating deck, staring into the water.

What was he doing out there? It was still four hours before he normally woke up to feed the animals. It wasn’t like him to go for moonlight strolls.

Then I saw the flicker of a lighter’s flame, the glowing ember of a cigarette. That explained it. He was sneaking a smoke. He had quit years ago, but he’d been known to sneak one or two when something was eating at him.

Guess I wasn’t the only one with a trouble mind.

I closed my blinds and burrowed under the covers.

Sleep didn’t come easily. My mind was racing with its own problems. The fires. The dead woman. The graveyard. There had to be a pattern here, an underlying set of dots I couldn’t see but knew in my gut were there.

Then there was Cedar. Her comment about accelerating kept coming back like acid reflux. What did she want accelerated? Our relationship? How was I supposed know? She had thanked me for not pushing when we snuggled in the barn, but now, she was put off because I was going too slowly?

Long before the alarm clock went off, I climbed out of bed. In the bathroom I pulled on a pair of nylon running shorts and a shirt. I added a Carolina hoodie for warmth.

“Feel like a run?” I asked the cat as I passed through the living room.

The gold and white tabby looked up from her rug. She hissed. Exercise clearly was not on her agenda. Maybe we needed a beagle like Chigger to motivate her.

Outside, I trotted down to the driveway. I limbered up beside the cars. Then I took off. My hands and feet were cold at first, but the air was still humid enough to work up a sweat. I trotted for a few minutes, then lengthened my stride and turned from the dirt road leading to the highway.

Mist rose from the creek like a blanket. In the summer months, the creek would be noisy from the noise of croaking frogs, but now it was quiet. The only sound was thud of my sneakers on the pavement and the rise and fall of my breath.

I made a mental note to go by the auto parts store later. The patch job on my oil line needed to be repaired correctly, or I’d find myself with a locked up engine.

The oil line reminded me of Eugene Loach. What a waste of carbon. The man was a racist bastard who had fixed his hate on all “Mexicans.” According to Lamar, Latinos had turned up in the hospital, hurt but afraid to talk. The farmers in the western part of the county were complaining that they couldn’t hire enough labor to bring in the crops because the workers had left the county. It all added up an organized campaign against the Latino community, and I was sure that Loach and his boys were involved. But were they smart enough to conduct an organized attack? Was someone else behind it? Or maybe I was just connecting dots that weren’t there.

The house was empty when I returned. Mom had left a note letting me know she would be late for dinner. She had a meeting with her attorney, whom she was consulting about the Tin City graveyard project.

As Lamar had predicted, the sheriff hadn’t shown much interest in old dead bodies when he had a fresh one to occupy his time, but Mom wasn’t about to let that stop her.

I showered, got ready to meet Cedar, and was about to let the cat out when I heard footsteps on the gallery, followed by a revving engine and tires spinning out.

“What the hell?” I yelled, then opened the door to a fire. “Holy shit!”

Flames poured out of a bundle of sticks piled up outside the door, and a rivulet of fiery liquid spread down the gallery.

Wrapped in a bath towel, I stepped back inside and grabbed the mini extinguisher from the pantry. As I doused the flames with foam, I realized this wasn’t some kind of prank.

It was a warning.

The sticks weren’t just stick. They were switches, freshly stripped and stacked neatly for burning, an old-fashioned way of delivering a message that had once been favored by the Klan.

Somebody was sending me a message:

Back off.

With a broom, I swept the pile of switches and foam into the yard. Just in case they were still watching, I raised my middle finger and sent a message of my own.

2

Cedar and Dr. K were waiting for me when I finally reached the lab. Cedar sat at the table. Chigger was in her lap.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I was putting out fires at home.”

“Metaphorically speaking, I hope,” Dr. K said.

“Nope. Someone set fire to a bundle of switches on our porch. Probably just a prank.”

“We’re glad you’re here, then.”

There was a round table in the middle of the room. The table was stacked with circuit boards, a black box, and something that looked like a black sock stuffed with cotton.

“Boone,” Cedar said with a tinge of excitement. “Hope you don’t mind, Dr. K’s trying to help me calibrate the N.O.S.E., and Chigger keeps acting up. That’s a problem because technically, no dogs are allowed in school, even in the name of science.”