The interrogation might have gone on to daylight hours, but Wigge’s heart quit a little after three o’clock in the morning and he died.

He’d given them one name.

The scout called the shooter, and the shooter said, “Maybe he really didn’t know the last man.”

“He knew,” the scout said. “But he was a hard man. Harder than he looked.”

“So now-we have the Indian and the Caterpillar man.”

“And a dead man at the rest stop,” the scout said. “Now we have to move, or we could be closed down.”

“The thing that worries me is that the Indian has no ties-he might just leave, and if he’s out roaming the highways, we might never find him,” the scout said. “We should concentrate on him. The Caterpillar man has a home and family, if Wigge was truthful, and I think he was. The Caterpillar man will be there.”

“The coordinator has an idea about the Indian,” the shooter said. “We need to meet. You may have to work yet tonight.”

“We’ve got no time,” the scout said. “Everything has to go fast.”

“Huh.” The shooter looked at the dead man. “Poor soul,” he said. “This poor soul.”

The scout said, “Operationally… taking him to the monument is crazy.”

“But necessary,” the shooter said. “The sooner we do it, the better. We need the darkness. Call the coordinator from your car. I’ll take this poor soul in the van.”

VIRGIL WAS in the shower, tired but feeling pretty good, the best he’d felt since Bunton had whacked him. He was washing his hair, taking care with the bruise behind his ear.

Whatever Mai had done, it had worked. He turned the heat up, let the water flow over his neck, did the second wash… and his cell phone went, and he said, “Shit,” and almost simultaneously thought, Mai? and he dripped shampoo all over the bathroom and half the motel room going after it.

The caller ID said, “Bureau of Criminal…”

“Yeah? Flowers.”

“Dan Shaver. I got the duty tonight.” Shaver worked with the BCA. “You looking for a guy named Ray Bunton?”

“Yes. You find him?”

“No-but he’s calling you,” Shaver said. “He wanted your cell phone-I didn’t give it to him, told him to call back. He said he’s moving, but he’ll call from somewhere else. Doesn’t have a cell. Anyway… should I give him your number?”

“Yes. Absolutely. Did he say when he’d call?”

“He said he’d call me back in fifteen minutes,” Shaver said. “That was two or three minutes ago. He said he had to drive to another phone.”

VIRGIL JUMPED BACK in the shower, rinsed off, brushed his teeth, got dressed, stared at the phone. More than fifteen minutes: then the phone rang, and he looked at the caller ID: “Number Not Available.”

He clicked it: “Virgil Flowers.”

“Flowers?” An old man’s voice, harsh with nicotine.

“This is Virgil. Is this Ray?”

“Yeah. Listen, man, some really heavy shit is going down,” Bunton said; slang from the sixties.

“That’s what I want to talk to you about, Ray,” Virgil said.

“Fuck that. I don’t know what’s happening, and neither do you. I’m digging a hole. Anyway, what happened is, two guys got shot up at the rest stop on I-35. The one up past North Branch. The one on the side going north. Maybe… half hour ago. I was there, but I didn’t have nothing to do with it. Some motherfucker come out of the woods with a fuckin’ silenced pistol and started mowing people down… Jesus Christ, it’s like some kind of acid flashback…” And he made a huh-huh-huh sound as if he’d started trying to weep but couldn’t get it done.

“Ray, Ray, stay with me, man. Two guys shot. Are they dead?” Virgil asked.

“I think so, man. I think they’re gone. This motherfucker was a pro. I ran for my life, got the fuck out of there. I’m going to Wisconsin, man, you gotta get this motherfucker.”

“Ray, you gotta know what’s going on,” Virgil said.

“Fuck it, what I could tell you, that helps, is that the guy who got shot is John Wigge, he used to be a cop with St. Paul. Crooked motherfucker, too. Gone now. Gone now, motherfucker. They’re way down at the end, off to the side, there’s a, like, a shelter back in the woods. Dark, you can’t see shit back there.” After a second or two of silence, Bunton said, “I’m getting the fuck outa here.”

“Ray, goddamnit, you gotta come in. We gotta talk. This looks really bad, man, you gotta…”

“Fuck you guys. I’ll come in when you get this asshole,” Bunton said.

And he was gone.

VIRGIL GOT on the line to the BCA: Shaver took the call.

“We may have a homicide. Bunton says two guys got shot at a rest stop on I-35 up past North Branch.”

“Let me look on the map,” Shaver said. Then: “Yep, I see it. Haven’t heard anything. I’ll talk to the Patrol, get somebody started. You going up?”

“I’m on the way,” Virgil said.

VIRGIL WAS FIVE MINUTES from the I-35 junction in St. Paul, and fifty miles from there to the rest stop, running hard through the night, forty minutes, listening to Kid Rock singing “Cadillac Pussy.”

Made him think of Mai: how in the hell could a woman who grew up in Madison, Wisconsin, as a dancer, for Christ’s sakes, not know about Hole? Courtney Love had been every girl’s hero-well, every girl of a certain kind, of which Mai was one. She must’ve been crying her eyes out when Kurt Cobain bit the big one… Not know Hole?

Virgil looked at his watch on the way up: just after midnight. Fumbled out his cell phone, found Davenport ’s cell number, and punched it.

Davenport answered on the second ring. “You know what time it is here?”

“ Washington? Should be just after one o’clock,” Virgil said. “You’re always up late-what’s the big deal?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“You know the band Hole?” Virgil asked.

“Sure. Courtney Love. Pretty hot, twenty years ago.”

“Thought you’d know,” Virgil said.

Davenport said, “So-who’s dead?”

“Bunton called me,” Virgil said. “He and a former St. Paul cop named John Wigge apparently got together at a rest stop off I-35. He says some guy, who he describes as a motherfucker and an asshole, shot and killed Wigge and another guy, whose name he doesn’t know. I’m on my way; we got the Patrol on the way.”

“Where’s Bunton?”

“He says he’s gonna dig a hole in Wisconsin,” Virgil said.

“Gotta dig him out.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“You know Wigge?” Davenport asked.

“Yeah. Not well. He’d retired when I made detective. I ran into him a few times at crime scenes,” Virgil said.

“I heard that Wigge might take a dollar or two,” Davenport said.

“I heard that. Bad guy. That was my feeling. Made a lot of cases, though,” Virgil said.

“He went to a security service…”

“Paladin,” Virgil said.

“That’s the one,” Davenport said. “Armed-response guys, celebrity bodyguards. You know who Ralph Warren is?”

“The money guy? The real estate guy?”

“Yes. He owns Paladin. The word was, when Warren was building that shopping center/condo complex on the river, the lowlife was screwing up the ambience. So Warren sent in some of his security people to clean the place up, and Wigge covered for him. He got the job at Paladin as a payoff.”

“Huh. I was probably still in Kosovo when that happened. How far did Wigge let it go? I mean, beating people up? Running them off? More than that?”

“Don’t know. A couple of mean old street guys just… went away. What you heard was, they were screwin’ with Warren, hanging out on the corner with ‘Work for Food’ signs. Wanted to be paid to stay away. Then they went away. Supposedly, if you ask Wigge about these old guys, he’ll tell you they went to Santa Monica.”

“Wonder if Utecht and Sanderson and Bunton were involved with Warren?” Virgil asked.