“Why are you taking orders from some fuckhead with no jurisdiction.” Beale swatted Caudill’s hat from his head. “Who you work for, boy?”

“Y-You, Sheriff.”

Cherry stepped forward. Though I’d seen the flash in her eyes when Beale slapped the hat from his hapless deputy, she was dealing with politics and needed to walk a thin line.

“It was important to get the jack out here, Sheriff. Detective Ryder made the phone call to Officer Caudill, but he made it for me.”

“Cuz you’re in charge of things, right?”

“A combined effort, Roy. We do a better job when we’re united.”

“You like being in charge, don’t you?” Beale sneered. “Makes you feel important.”

His voice was so condescending I was amazed Cherry kept her cool. “It’s a task force, Roy. I’m not specifically in charge.”

Three passengers emerged from the second vehicle. Two were men in dark suits and dark ties, the third a woman in the feminine version of the uniform, black pinstriped pantsuit and navy blouse. She was five eleven, maybe six feet tall, with the kind of blonde hair that doesn’t grow naturally, bright enough to shame a lemon. The hairdo truncated above her shoulders, curling forward into points like horns. She liked makeup, but needed more skill at blending face into neck, giving the impression of a mask with cobalt blue eyes and purple-pink lips. It was not an unattractive mask, the cheekbones high and features even. She looked fit. I put her in her middle forties, but fighting it tooth and nail.

The new arrival inspected the sudden-hushed scene while slowly unwrapping a stick of chewing gum. She popped the gum in her mouth and smiled without a touch of mirth.

“You’re right about not being in charge, Detective Cherry,” she said, displaying a gold shield with an eagle above. “I am.”

The Federal Bureau of Investigation had arrived. It appeared Bob Dray had missed the boat or had a sex change.

15

The Special Agent in Charge was named Gloria Krenkler. It turned out Dray’s case lingered into extra innings and Ms Krenkler had been placed in his slot.

“I’m happy to meet you, Agent Krenkler,” Cherry said, hand out. “You’re a welcome addition to the team.”

The cobalt eyes studied Cherry like Hernán Cortés viewing the welcoming natives. “Team?” she said.

Time for the official meet’n’greet amenities. I pasted my most charming smile on my face and waved across the dozen feet. “I’m pleased to meet you, Agent Krenkler. I’m Carson Ryder and I’m sort of, uh, consulting on the case.” The eyes studied me through a slow and silent five-count, like she was sorting items into boxes and trying to figure out what container I’d require.

“Ah yes, the vacationing cop who received the call from nowhere. Who called you?”

I shrugged. Krenkler said, “I heard it was Detective Cherry.”

Beale grinned and I realized he’d fed Krenkler his version of events.

“That was my initial belief,” I said. “I was wrong.”

Krenkler arched a perfectly drawn eyebrow. “Really? I heard Detective Cherry discovered you were nearby and called for help.” Krenkler turned to Cherry. “You’d call a vacationing cop before you’d call the FBI?”

“I assure you that I didn’t call Detective Ryder,” Cherry said evenly.

“But he was surely called by someone in local law enforcement, right?”

“That’s the safe guess, Agent Krenkler,” Cherry said. It was a subtle poke, and if Krenkler recognized it, an impression didn’t register. Cherry continued. “However Detective Ryder was alerted, he’s been tremendously generous with his time and input. We all owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“I just arrived,” Krenkler said, affecting puzzled. “Why do I owe him anything?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, no one wishing to venture an answer. I cleared my throat. “It’s true,” I said, trying to steer back toward civility. “I’ve simply been helping gather what little evidence has presented. In fact, new evidence came to light about the methodology of Mr Burton’s murder, and Detective Cherry and I were documenting it for the Bureau’s review.”

Krenkler approached me with arms crossed. She stopped a foot away, an uncomfortable incursion of personal space. “And just where is this new evidence, Detective Ryder?”

I gave it two slow beats.

“You’re standing on it, ma’am.”

Krenkler looked down. Her icepick-pointy black flats were dead-center on the dolomite. She stepped back and we studied one another, neither happy with the input.

She said, “I’m sure you’ll be glad to get back to your vacation, Detective Ryder.”

“I can help here, Agent Krenkler. I’ve had experience with—” I was addressing her retreating back. She gestured Cherry to her with a crooked finger, as if summoning an errant child. They spoke, Cherry’s face growing red. I walked to the other agents with my hand out. The older man shook my hand and mumbled, “Rourke.” The other kept his hands in his pockets and nodded to the air beside my head.

I leaned against a hemlock until Krenkler dismissed Cherry. We drove away, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“It’s officially Krenkler’s investigation,” Cherry said, voice tightly controlled. “She was officially asked to take over by Beale, who is officially in charge of the county and officially allowed to request any assistance he needs.”

“And you are officially what?” I asked.

“Fucked.”

It was the only word she said on the drive back.

16

Two days passed. I resumed my climbing lessons and afternoon hikes, occasionally seeing a law-enforcement vehicle speed by, Beale’s county mounties or one of the FBI’s dark cruisers. The Bureau berthed at two cabins by the park. It looked like they’d brought in a couple additional agents, or maybe clerical types to keep the paperwork straight.

I knew they’d start by interviewing anyone who’d ever had a beef with Burton or Powers or who’d done time in prison or psychiatric observation. They’d check locals with violent backgrounds. Evidence - what little there was - would be shipped to the Bureau’s labs, waiting for that one hit: the partial fingerprint, the molecule of DNA in Burton’s truck or on Powers’s clothing.

I hoped the Feds could identify Soldering-iron Man, the anomaly, the victim with no known ties to the area.

Gloria Krenkler and I hadn’t harmonized at our initial meeting and I’d judged her harshly based on my natural aversion to arrogance. I had been wrong about people before - often to my detriment - so I called John Morgenstern, a long-time FBI buddy. Harry and I had met John when he instructed us in behavioral psychology years ago. He was a straight shooter who gave me background info, knowing I’d never pass it on.

“Carson!” came the happy exclamation at the far end of the line, the Bureau’s training academy in Quantico, Virginia. “How they hanging?”

“Off a cliff this morning, John. I’m on vacation in Kentucky, getting in some rock climbing.”

“Keep a tight grip, buddy. What can I do for you?”

“Got a mean case nearby and I’ve got a fingertip in the proceedings. A state detective got bumped hard by one of your field agents, Gloria Krenkler. I was just wondering about Krenkler’s capabilities.”

“She’s been based in the New York office for over a decade. Working mail fraud, mainly, heavy detail work, sitting at a desk and poring over reams of paper. We’re short-handed, homeland security issues. I imagine it was felt she needed to get back out in the field a bit and—”

“You’re giving me everything but an answer, John.”

Morgenstern loosed a long sigh. “Let me put it like this, Carson: Krenkler’s smart, but not creative. She makes up by being dogged, getting the job done a half-inch at a time. If Gloria Krenkler was an auto mechanic she’d tear down the engine to get at the tailpipe.”