•   •   •

LAURENT GOT A SPOT at the end of the field, where he could look down at the three people on the blanket, while Lucas watched from the other side. The two uniformed cops stayed down by the end of the field, near the car where the woman had gotten the backpack.

The woman finished putting the mask on the first man, put one on the second man, then packed up her makeup kit and put it in the backpack. She said something to the men, one of them nodded and dug into a bag he’d had beside him, and sparked off a fatboy.

The woman took a long drag, then another, passed the joint back, said something else, and started back toward her car. Lucas’s phone beeped: Laurent. “She’s moving, you see her?”

“I got her. She’s going back to her car,” Lucas said. “Let’s close in on her, see if we can grab her without too many people noticing. Let’s you and I do it. Tell the uniforms to get a car ready, but not to move until they see us grab her. We want her in the car, cuffed and gone in ten seconds, no muss, no fuss.”

“Got it.” Laurent rang off, and Lucas ambled down the field, twenty or thirty yards in front of the woman. She was moving a bit faster than he was, and he slowed enough that she’d catch him about the time she got to the car. As he came up to the car, he glanced back and saw Laurent moving up on the woman. Lucas angled toward the car. From where he was, she’d walk down the far side of it; he touched the call button on his phone, and Laurent said, “Yeah?”

“Follow her as she goes around the car. I’ll be on the other side, we’ll have her between us. Roll the patrol car.”

The woman never saw them until they were right there. She popped the trunk lid, and Laurent came up beside her, and Lucas slightly behind her. The cop car was already rolling up, and Laurent said, “Excuse me, miss,” and when she looked up, he showed her his badge and said, “I’m the Barron County sheriff, and you’re under arrest. Put your hands on the trunk lid, please.”

She sputtered, “What? What? What did I do?”

She tried to back away, but bumped into Lucas, who said, “Put your hands on the trunk lid, please.”

She put her hands up on the trunk lid as the patrol car stopped directly behind her and the driver got out. Laurent quickly patted her down, and then the deputy cuffed her as a crowd started to congeal down around the squad car.

A woman called, “What’d she do?”

“She escaped from the hospital,” Laurent said. “She’s a nurse, she’s got the Ebola virus. We’re trying to keep her away from contact with other people. We don’t think she’s really a danger, so don’t be worried. Well, not too worried.”

The crowd thinned, and the cuffed woman said, “I do not, I do not—”

Lucas said, “They all say that,” to the crowd, and to the woman, “Do what the doctor says. We’re trying to help you.”

The uniformed cop read her rights from a recital card—more mumbled than read, Lucas thought—and five seconds later, she was in the back of the patrol car, on her way out of the park. Lucas and Laurent followed, leaving the reserves behind to watch the park, and keep an eye on the woman’s two clown-faced friends.

•   •   •

THE UNIFORMED COP had been told not to talk to the woman; they wanted what they had to say to be a shock. They caught up with the patrol car halfway to town, and followed it in.

At the sheriff’s office, a female clerk gave the woman a more thorough search, took a thin back-pocket wallet away from her, and a cell phone, and then the uniformed deputy locked her in the holding cell.

Lucas and Laurent walked over to Pat’s to get sandwiches and soft drinks, sat at a picnic table outside on the sidewalk, ate, and took their time getting back to the woman. Lucas checked her wallet: it had seventy dollars in cash, a California driver’s license for a Melody Walker, and a Visa and Macy’s credit card for the same name.

Lucas called the driver’s license information into the BCA and asked for a complete sheet on the woman. She’d been in the holding cell for more than half an hour before they turned on the video camera in the interview room, then went down to the holding cell.

She was frightened. When they opened the door, she was huddled in a corner, her hands in fists in front of her chest, her head slumped down. “I didn’t do anything,” she wailed. “What are you doing to me?”

That was an opening that Lucas had hoped for: she’d had her rights read to her, now the problem was to get her to ask questions and to talk.

“We’re taking you to an interview room—it’s just down the hall,” Laurent said. They escorted her out of the cell and down to the interview room, and Lucas said, “Sit down.” He pointed at a chair on the far side of a narrow table. She quickly sat down, while Lucas and Laurent loomed over her.

“You’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder on a Wisconsin warrant, Melody. That woman at the Hayward Gathering died. But you know that, because you helped kick her to death.”

“I did not. I wasn’t there, I didn’t even know about it until yesterday,” she blurted. “I was down by the bonfire, they had to come and get me.”

Lucas looked at Laurent and spread his hands, a “There it is, and on tape” gesture. Laurent tipped his head and then nodded.

The woman said, “What?”

“When were you expecting Pilate to get here?” Lucas asked. “Or is he already here?”

“What do you know about Pilate?” she asked.

“Quite a bit. We know all about your little ritual out in the Black Hills, when you crucified Henry on that pine tree. We know about the dead drug dealer in Hayward, and we know about Skye. We believe you killed an actress out in Los Angeles. I might mention that both California and South Dakota have the death penalty—”

“I didn’t have anything to do with any of that,” she said. “Nothing. I never hurt nobody.”

“How many people are traveling with Pilate, anyway?” Laurent asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Mmm, eight or nine cars and the RV, I guess. Two people in every car, except for Jason, so . . . maybe nineteen people.”

“Who actually killed Henry?” Lucas asked. “Who actually used the knife?”

Her eyes narrowed now, and she said, “Say, aren’t I supposed to have a lawyer?”

Laurent nodded. “Absolutely. That’s why we read your rights to you back at the park. All you have to do is ask.”

“But there’s a problem with that,” Lucas said. He was walking an exceptionally narrow line—she’d asked whether she was supposed to have a lawyer, but hadn’t actually asked for one, or demanded one. “I’m not trying to talk you out of getting a lawyer. In fact, I’m sure you’re going to need one. The problem we’re facing is, we’ve got a lot of you California killers running around out there—”

“I am not a killer!”

Lucas continued, “. . . and we have no time to fool around. Everyone we arrest is looking at the death penalty, except those who provide us with some substantive help. If you help us, you may avoid the death penalty. Normally, getting a lawyer wouldn’t be a problem—and we’ll get one for you right now, if you want—but lawyers take time. We don’t have time. We have to find somebody to help us, and that’s the person who gets the break. How much of a break, I don’t know—but some break. Everybody else is going down. If we leave you with a lawyer, and find somebody else to help us before you get back to accept the offer—then the offer is no longer good.”

“That’s not fair,” she said.

“Melody, do you think nailing Henry Fuller to a tree was fair?” Lucas asked. “Was it fair to kick Skye to death?”

“I had nothing to do with that,” she said. “That was almost all the guys, and, well, a couple of the girls, but most of us girls, we could hardly stand to watch.”

Lucas and Laurent looked at each other for another long moment, then Lucas said, “You know what? I think we should get her an attorney whether she wants one or not.”