For the record, the turducken was delicious, and the consensus at the table was that being shot at increases the appetite.

Congressman William Graves or, more correctly, former Congressman Graves entered a plea of guilty to manslaughter and was sentenced to serve his time at the medium security facility in LaGrange, Kentucky. Todd Grayson, in response to the media’s hyped outrage at the plea, made a statement that Harlan has framed now and hanging on a wall in the kitchen.

“My sworn duty is to take the criminal off the streets. We have done that in the case of William Graves. He has been isolated from the possibility of committing further crimes. To those of you who proclaim that he should be made to pay for his crime, I say this: The very idea that anything could be considered sufficient or even partial payment for what he did is obscene.”

Bobbie’s story won a Pulitzer Prize. When it was submitted, it included a part four, the part about the sniper incident. She is still conferring with Harlan and Gloria about the book and movie rights. The offers are significant.

Doctor Donna Brodigan did not get a ride in the sidecar.

Harlan did not get a ride in the Nash Metropolitan…at least, he has not yet.

After the plea was entered for Graves, the State released the whisky barrel, the one from Cooper’s cellar, to the distillery. They, in turn, provided it to the bidder. The eleventh barrel was destroyed, to Deanna’s dismay.

The Trappist Monks continue to offer hospitality to Cooper. The charges against him were not prosecuted.

The Aldergast Distillery and Restaurant are prospering. They now sell a line of pork products—ham, bacon, and lard.

Harlan Stone is in the final stages of planning his first truly illegal undertaking. He has decided that the mineshaft provides a perfect setting for distilling his own moonshine.

Major sections of Kentucky, well south and west of the center of the state, are wilderness. The two lakes, Kentucky and Barclay, which were created by the TVA, are a major recreational area and attract a flood of visitors through the spring, summer and fall. In winter, the area is isolated and desolate. It is miles to any significant population centers. There is some bottom-land farming. There is still some coal being mined. There are miles and miles of countryside empty of people and nearly empty of the signs of people.

During spring break, a young couple from SIU in Carbondale, Illinois, sneaked away for three days of togetherness at one of the few year-round motels in the Land Between The Lakes area, at less than half the seasonal rate. During one of their breaks from the otherwise non-stop togetherness, they drove, then walked out in the woods. In a small clearing, far removed from the main road, they came across the partially burned remains of an old hunting cabin. There was a pickup truck parked next to it. They looked through the window opening on the front of the cabin and saw enough to think there was a dead person inside. They left the woods quickly, drove back to the motel, and phoned the State Police. After making their statements and being assured there would be no need for follow-up, they left the area. Both were supposed to be somewhere other than together in a motel during spring break.

The State Police processed the license on the pickup truck, finding it listed as the vehicle of someone with an outstanding warrant, in Kentucky.

Phone calls came in to Harlan and Gloria from three different people, almost simultaneously. Shelby Logan called first. Bobbie called within an hour of the first phone call. Jack Lutz called later that same day, and all three carried the same news.

Calvin Fuller had been found.

“What the hell is a turducken?” Gloria yelled from one of the bedrooms. She was putting out fresh towels and making sure the rooms were ready for company. Fritz had called to inform them that he was bringing a culinary triumph for their Thanksgiving meal. He instructed Harlan to have his oven ready to go when he and Bobbie arrived, a slow oven in which the turducken would be roasting all night.

“I don’t know,” Harlan called back. “Check on Google if you can’t stand the suspense.”

The weeks since Bobbie had run the story on the mystery motorcycle couple had not been as bad as Harlan and Gloria had thought they would be. The answering machine had filled up with a mix of polite and not-so-polite requests for interviews from the local stations in nearby Evansville. Harlan had taken the task of returning the calls and declining the opportunities. Gloria had, tongue-in-cheek, noted that she, perhaps, was not the one most suitable for interacting with the media.

Harlan’s sister, Ann, called and passed along an offer from her friend Deanna. She said that Deanna would be honored to take on the job of publicist for them and take over the burden of dealing with all of the media inquiries. Harlan allowed as how it didn’t seem like a good use of funds to pay someone to say no. He thought he could handle that pretty well himself. Ann agreed.

The gate Harlan installed at the top of the driveway from the road was working out well. He had located it a hundred feet or so from the highway, so it was not in plain view. It spanned the black top at a point where steep banks and trees came right down to the road surface. As a result, they did hear the occasional vehicle having to reverse out of the driveway. The gate had a latch, not a lock, but it looked like a lock. Invited visitors or those who knew they were welcome easily opened the gate and drove in. Jack Lutz, from the sheriff’s office, was a daily visitor. He told Harlan that he would be visiting until there was some word on Calvin Fuller.

On today’s visit, Jack brought two entire tenderloins of venison, wrapped and frozen.

“This time of year,” he explained to Harlan, “every one of us carries a tarp, a knife, and the gear to dress out a deer. Call comes in about a car hitting a deer, the race is on. Luck of the draw, I’ve been on the spot four times this season, and three times it was a doe and two of those were still living. I had to put them down. We all help each other out, cover for the time spent on the deer, share the meat around. Anyway, these are two tenderloins from does, sweetest meat in the world. Don’t mess around with soaks or marinades. Just cook it up like a piece of prime roast beef. Maybe drape a little bacon across the top.”

Harlan thanked Lutz and gave him a case of ‘two-bottle-stupid’ for his Thanksgiving feast. Lutz had just solved the ‘what’s for dinner?’ problem. Christmas Eve was always Chinese carryout. Thanksgiving eve did not have a tradition for the Stones. Harlan had given some thought to going into town for Chinese. Now he didn’t have to.

The coverage on Congressman Graves had ebbed. Only the Fox news cable continued to milk the story, mostly with lurid tales of sexual misconduct in the hallowed halls of Congress. They ran segments with obscured faces and distorted voice interviews with former interns claiming to be in fear of retribution. Even those stories had started to ebb. Harlan and Gloria didn’t notice. Fox was not one of their primary sources.

Bobbie and Fritz were due to arrive sometime in the afternoon. Bobbie was certain she remembered how to get to the spot on the highway where Harlan’s driveway began. Harlan had explained to her the operation of the gate. Craig, Harlan and Gloria’s son, was driving in Thanksgiving morning. He did have a new woman in his life, and they had reached a compromise with her family: Wednesday evening with them and Thursday morning in Newburgh. Craig suspected that his parents’ celebrity status helped with the compromise. He promised autographed pictures.

Fall weather was moving in for the holiday weekend. Lows overnight would be in the twenties and highs Thanksgiving Day would be in the low forties. The leaves had dropped. Actually, they had been hammered down by a driving rain the past weekend. Harlan swept and mulched the accumulation of leaves on the driveway and around the house. The rest he left to nature.

They had decided that they wouldn’t be traveling any more that season, so Harlan had gone ahead and winterized the RV, running the grain alcohol solution through the pipes after multiple flushing on the gray water and black water systems. The RV’s hard stand was on the east side of the house, protected from the weather, most of which came in from the west. The leveling jacks were in place, taking some of the pressure off the tires. The schedule for starting and running the engine was already posted in the kitchen.

Harlan walked up to his kitchen. He was baking salt-rising bread for use tonight and tomorrow morning. He had four loaf pans sitting at the back of the stove, filled with expanding dough. The awful smell the salt-rising bread causes happens in the early stages of the making, when the potato water really begins to ferment. At the final point, there is no bad smell and, when it was in the oven, the wonderful smell of baking bread would take over. He checked under the damp linen towel and found the dough ready to bake. Turning on the oven, he put some water on the stove to boil.

While the heat was building up in the oven, he opened the secret passage and put two cases of beer out on the kitchen floor. After resealing the passage, he took the cases out onto the porch next to the door. The outside air would chill them nicely, and the alcohol content would protect them from freezing overnight.

Back at the stove, he carefully removed the towels from the loaf pans and set them at the front edge, ready to go into the oven. He used a large metal ladle to dip boiling water into a shallow pan at the bottom of the oven, then quickly put all four loaves in to bake. The steam would give the bread an extra-crisp top crust. He closed the oven and set the timer, the one he carried on the hammer loop of his overalls when he was cooking. He had learned that a timer is useful only if you and the timer are in the same place when it goes off. Clipping it to his overalls was the solution, once he figured out that staying in the same place was rarely likely to happen.

When Fritz announced that he was bringing the main course, a turducken, Harlan agreed that he and Gloria would be responsible for all of the rest of the meal. Gloria had pies in the oven all afternoon—mince and pumpkin. Everything else would be prepared tomorrow morning, after breakfast. Fritz promised that the turducken would generate ample pan juices for a bounty of gravy, calling for a bounty of potatoes. The stuffing was somehow already incorporated in the turducken thing.

Just in case they were in the mood for it, Harlan set up the big fire pot just below the porch toward the down slope side of the house. He brought out chairs, set up the big pot, and loaded it with firewood. He had no doubt that they would use it at some point during the long weekend. Bobbie and Fritz were planning to stay until Sunday afternoon. He was back at the kitchen, about to go inside, when he heard a car approaching.

Harlan guessed he was subconsciously expecting Fritz and Bobbie to drive in her Metropolitan. Instead, he saw a late model van—a Voyager or Caravan or something. He stopped on the path and watched carefully as the car approached. Then he saw Fritz’s face through the window and then Bobbie’s. He checked the timer on the hammer loop  and determined that he had enough time. He picked up an opener from the porch rail, grabbed three bottles of beer in the fingers of one hand, and headed across to the apron where they were stopping, in front of the garage.

Bobbie and Fritz were both out of the car when he got there, stretching legs and shaking arms. Gloria came out the side door of the house and walked along the porch to the front. Everyone met at about the same time.

“Well, there you are, and welcome,” Gloria said. She stepped off the porch and walked toward the van. “What’re you doing with a soccer mom car?”

“Fritz’s idea,” Bobbie answered. “Says he likes them. They do drive well, I have to admit.”

Harlan popped the tops off the beer and handed them to Fritz and Bobbie.

“Thanks,” Fritz said. “You do run a great welcoming party.” He took a big swig of the beer.

“What do you need help with?” Harlan asked.

“The guest of honor,” Fritz said, smiling. He opened the sliding door and disclosed a large block of Styrofoam, larger than any standard cooler.

“Yeah,” Bobbie said, “that’s why we’re a little late. Dr. Kaplan had to put the finishing touches on his work of art. Then we had to lug it out through the carriage house to the alley and load it. I thought sure we were going to get nailed by the traffic, but it wasn’t bad.”

“What kind of cooler is that?” Gloria asked, walking closer to look.

“You don’t want to ask,” Fritz said. Gloria stopped short and looked at him. He just smiled. “Have to keep that baby cool until it goes in the oven.”

“If it’s in a body bag, I don’t even want to hear about it,” Gloria snapped, then backed away from the van.

The timer on Harlan’s overalls began to beep.

“You have a pager?” Fritz asked.

“No, it’s my bread paging me,” Harlan answered. “I have to get it out of the oven. Want me to grab one end of the cooler and we’ll take it up now?”

The foam box had handles and was more bulky than heavy. Harlan and Fritz carried it easily and set it on the porch next to the beer. Bobbie and Gloria took the luggage out of the van and into the house.

“So, this is the kitchen,” Fritz said. He walked around, checking things out while Harlan pulled the loaf pans from the oven. “Bobbie said the coal mine entrance is back here. Right?”

“That woman can’t keep a secret,” Harlan said, pretending to be miffed. “Guess that’s why she’s a reporter.” He closed the oven. “When do you want to start cooking the turducken?”

“As late as possible,” Fritz said. “It needs about thirteen hours, so if we put it in at ten, we can pull it at eleven tomorrow. Gives us plenty of time to work on gravy and stuff.”

“Sounds like we’ll eat at one,” Harlan said. “That works. Craig and his lady will probably be here by ten.”

“Coming in from . . .?”

“Cincinnati,” Harlan supplied. “He’s in banking in Cincinnati.”

Harlan was tipping the loaves out of the pans and setting them on racks to cool. They were a deep golden color, and the crust was beginning to crackle as the loaves cooled. Fritz stood beside Harlan and studied the bread. “What is it?” he asked.

“Salt-rising bread,” Harlan answered. “Best bread in the world, I think. Especially toasted for breakfast. It has flavor that plain old sourdough could never achieve.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Fermented potato water,” Harlan said.

“Aha,” Fritz, who knew his biochemistry, said. “That’s why you got kicked out of the house.”

“It was the straw, so to speak,” Harlan admitted. “You want to see the mine shaft?”

“I do, I do,” Fritz answered. “I have to see if it’s as eerie as Bobbie describes it.”

Harlan released the panel and pushed it inward, then stepped through and flipped on the light string. Fritz stepped in behind him.

“Yep. Exactly as eerie as Bobbie said,” he commented, staring down the shaft to where the lights ended. “And you’ve been how far into it?”

“The first time we checked it out,” Harlan said, “we went quite a ways in, down far enough to get into some water. That was with my son and a couple of his friends. They seem to know their way around in the mines pretty well. Youthful activity about which Gloria and I knew nothing.”

Fritz ventured down the shaft about half the length of the lighted section, then returned.“Okay,” he said, smiling. “I did it.”

“Gloria thinks I should install a forged iron gate down there, to keep the . . . well I’m not sure what. Anyway, to keep whatever out. She can’t accept the logic that there ain’t nothing going to be coming from that direction.”

They stepped back into the kitchen, and Harlan eased the panel closed.

“Let me grab a couple of these loaves, and we can head down to the house,” Harlan said.

“Do you have a big stockpot up here?” Fritz asked.

“Think so,” Harlan said and pulled one from a cabinet. “Is this big enough?”

“Perfect,” Fritz said. “I’d like to get the stock going now, if that’s okay. I have a huge sack full of bones.”

“I’ll fill the pot, you get the bones,” Harlan said.

Fritz opened the large cooler and retrieved a clear plastic bag that contained all of the bones from the three birds that were the turducken.

“See,” he said to Harlan, “no body bags, just good old, store-bought storage bags.”

Once the stockpot was squared away, the two men washed their hands, grabbed the bread, and headed for the house.

“When we put the turducken in to roast tonight, I’ll set the stockpot out on the porch, if that works for you.”

“Absolutely,” Harlan said. “I am a proponent of natural refrigeration.”

<<<   >>>

Bobbie and Gloria hauled the personal bags in through the side door. Gloria set her share in the entranceway to the hall.

“There’s four bedrooms down there. Nobody has dibs on any of them. You guys can use one or two, doesn’t matter. When Craig gets here, they’ll use only one. He never brings someone here unless the relationship has gone past the separate bedrooms stage.”

“Thanks. I’ll put the stuff away and be right back. You need any help with the kitchen?”

“Harlan got some venison today from the guy we know who works for the sheriff. I think he plans to get Fritz to help him cook it.”

“Sounds both easy and yummy,” Bobbie said, and disappeared down the hall with the luggage.

When Harlan and Fritz came in, the group gathered near the fireplace and settled in. Harlan went to the freezer and came back with a stoneware jug.

“Shelby Logan, the detective, brought us some moonshine, sort of in exchange for the beer I gave him,” Harlan explained. “The only way to drink it, I’ve found, is from a narrow-top jug and straight from the freezer.”

He took a swallow and passed the bottle to Bobbie. Bobbie just stared at it, then at Harlan.

“I think Fritz can confirm that germs don’t have a fighting chance against that stuff,” Harlan said.

“And don’t worry,” Gloria added, “take a small sip the first time. I think you’ll like it.”

Bobbie took her sip and passed the jug on to Fritz. The she sat back in her chair and swallowed. Her eyes widened and she smiled.

“Wow!” she whispered, “that is warm all the way down.”

“Knew you’d like it,” Gloria said.

“I’ll do supper in little while,” Harlan said, “with Fritz’s help. We got some venison tenderloin from a friend.”

“Venison?” Fritz asked. “How the hell do you get venison?”

“The way Jack tells it, this time of year, when all the deer are out roaming around and getting in front of cars, there’s a race any time a call comes into the police. First one there claims the deer and everyone helps out dressing it.”

“So you’re saying we’re having road kill for supper?” Bobbie asked.

“Jack said he had to shoot this one when he got there, so, no, technically it’s not road kill,” Harlan explained. “Besides, this is the only way to get doe meat. It’s illegal to hunt does.”

“You ever hunt, Harlan?” Fritz asked.

“Nope. Never did,” Harlan answered. “Gave the firearms my dad had to my little sister. Her husband hunts. We don’t have a gun in the house.”

“What the hell is a turducken?” Gloria asked out of the blue.

“Simple,” Fritz answered. “It’s a turkey, duck and chicken, all completely boned and left intact. Stuff the chicken with one kind of stuffing, plain old sage and onion. Then put the chicken inside the duck and add the cranberry and wild rice stuffing to the duck. Then put that inside the turkey with the sausage and corn bread stuffing. Pull it all together just right and it looks like a roast turkey. Cook it forever and, tomorrow, you’ll swear it’s just a golden roasted turkey. Then you’ll marvel as we take a long knife and slice it like a jelly roll.”

“You get all three meats and all three stuffings in one big piece,” Bobbie added. Gloria looked at her quizzically. “Fritz explained it on the drive over.”

“It’s all set to go,” Fritz added. “We can put it in right before bedtime, let it cook all night.”

The afternoon gave way to evening. The jug passed around a few times, then Harlan put it back in the freezer. He and Fritz prepared the venison roast simply and served it with game chips and a salad. The foursome loaded their plates in the kitchen and returned to eat by the fire. Gloria and Bobbie had jug red wine with the meal. Harlan and Fritz drank the beer. The weather channel played continuously in the corner of the room, the sound muted.

Later in the evening, Bobbie went to the bedroom and brought back a portfolio.

“This is the series of stories printed out on special paper,” she told the group. “I brought it for you two to have. There’s also a bunch of prints from the photo visit. There’s some really great shots we didn’t have room to use.”

“Well, thanks,” Harlan said, accepting the package.

“Harlan’s sister sent us a copy cut out of the paper and all folded up,” Gloria said. “We read the story on line and saved it to disk. This’ll be nice to have.”

When the yawns started, Harlan stood and signaled to Fritz. They walked up to the kitchen through the crisp, chilly air to get the turducken started. Bobbie and Gloria picked up the remaining bottles and glasses and stacked them in the kitchen.

“What time’s reveille around here?” Bobbie asked.

“Don’t take this as a challenge,” Gloria said. “Take it as a statement of fact. You’ll never be up before Harlan or me, so don’t worry about it. When you roll out, just wander on into the kitchen. There’ll be coffee, guaranteed.”

One of the many, many things that no one knew about Agnes Morehouse was that she had an astrologer she consulted regularly, had for the past fifteen years. She had always wondered about such things, particularly when it came out that Nancy Reagan had used an astrologer and her husband had listened to the advice. When the name and contact number of one of the ‘good’ ones had come across her desk, she kept it, then finally made contact. The guidance she received had been on the money, more often than not, and she never stopped going back for more.

Her advisor’s name was Christine, not some trumped-up, Gypsy-sounding thing. She lived on the West Coast, and Agnes had never met her, probably never would. She was the genuine article, Agnes thought, and when the charts had bad news to deliver, Christine didn’t pull the punches. The night before had been one of those bad news charts, all murky and foreboding without being able to pinpoint anything in particular. That was unusual, and both Agnes and Christine had said so.

“Honestly, Agnes,” she had said on the phone, “with charts like this, about the only guidance I can offer is stay in bed.”

Well that wasn’t going to be possible, Agnes thought as she shuffled into the kitchen to make the coffee. This was a busy day, and she had to be there. The boss was flying in from Washington, one of the ‘whisky’ flights, they called them—a private Beechcraft King Air belonging to one of the big distilleries. She had set up the car and driver to meet the flight, made sure the office was shipshape, reminded the staff about dressing well, and gone home, knowing everything was set. Then the call with Christine.

“Stay in bed,” Agnes muttered as she headed to the front porch to retrieve the paper. She opened the paper, a Courier-Journal, on the table in the breakfast nook and scanned the headlines while waiting for the coffee to finish. Nothing of particular note jumped out at her. When the coffee was ready, she stood, sipping from the large mug and reading the paper more closely. Still nothing to grab her attention. The brief attention from the media about that little tramp had blown over quickly, like those things always do. No worry there. She hadn’t heard a peep out of Fuller since their little encounter. That was good. There were no rumors touching on her or the boss floating around, not that she could detect. That was good.

At times like this, Agnes sincerely wished that Christine’s analyses had been wide of the mark more often than they had been. Then she would feel more comfortable brushing it off and getting on with the day. Well, comfortable or not, she had to get on with the day.

She was in the office by eight. The rest of the staff was there and working steadily by nine. At about half-past ten, Agnes saw the Lincoln TownCar drive past the front of the office and head for the parking lot in back. Agnes walked back and opened the door to the parking lot, then the back door to the Congressman’s office that opened off the corridor. She knew he preferred to go straight into his office and get squared away before he saw anybody.

The Congressman got out of his car and headed in the door. He nodded to Agnes. The driver got out and walked the Congressman’s carry-on and briefcase around the car and handed them to Agnes, then headed back to the car. He was pulling away when Agnes looked across the parking lot as she was going in the door, and saw a Kentucky State Police cruiser drive onto the lot. She thought nothing of it and closed the door behind her. She carried the bags to her office, where the boss would expect to find them if he needed anything.

She heard the front door of the office open and looked up to see Todd Grayson, someone she knew on sight, enter with two uniformed State Troopers behind him. He walked through the waist-high gate on the fence that separated the working office from the public area and approached the door to the boss’s office.

“What are you doing?” she sputtered as she hurried across the room to try to place herself between Grayson and the door.

“Is the Congressman in his office, Agnes?” Grayson asked, sounding formal.

The two Troopers were standing just behind and to either side of Grayson.

“He just arrived. He needs some time before he’s ready to see anyone,” Agnes announced. “Did you make an appointment?”

Grayson stepped around Agnes and knocked on the office door. The two Troopers stayed at Garyson’s sides as he did this, effectively blocking Agnes from any interference.

“Congressman Graves,” Grayson said loudly, “please open the door.”

Everything in the office came to a standstill. All eyes turned in the direction of the activity by the boss’s office door. Nobody even noticed the two people, one with a digital camera, who had entered and were stepping to one side of the public space to get a good view. Another photographer was still outside, getting pictures of the cruisers parked in front of the office with the election posters prominent on the windows. The outside photographer worked his way around to the back and caught the cruiser parked by the rear door on film as well.

“Congressman,” Grayson said again and knocked loudly.

The door opened inward, and Congressman Graves stood there. He had a puzzled look on his face. Grayson was pleased. The lockdown on the information had been successful. Nothing had leaked, and no one was forewarned.

“Congressman William Graves, I am Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney Todd Grayson,” Grayson said. “Sir, I am placing you under arrest on the charge of murder in the second degree. . . .”

Agnes shrieked and started to move toward the group. One of the troopers placed his body between her and the action.

“If you could just step back, sir,” Grayson said, “we could complete this with a little more privacy.”

Graves stood stock still, unmoving, in shock.

“Very well,” Grayson said, after a moment and then read the Congressman his Miranda rights. He signaled the trooper to move in and handcuff Graves. There was no resistance. Graves was still inanimate, apparently unable to comprehend what was happening. Agnes was still standing and had partially collapsed sideways against a wall. She had begun to sob.

“Trooper,” Grayson said, “let’s move through the office and go out back.”

The group, with troopers on either side of the Congressman, moved through the office to the private back entrance. The cruiser was in position near the door when they came out. The second photographer was in position to catch a number of shots of the Congressman, handcuffs apparent, being led to and helped into the cruiser. Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. Grayson and the remaining trooper walked around the outside of the building, got into their cars, and left.

The Courier-Journal reporter and photographers sprinted to where they had left their cars. The reporter was on the phone instantly, dictating from her notes. The photographers had their laptop computers fired up and were setting up to transmit the digital pictures back to Louisville. Even though the Courier-Journal was a morning paper and would not be carrying the story until the next morning, it would go out on the wire under the Courier-Journal name as an exclusive. The story and the photos would be available to their broadcast affiliates in Louisville, as well. Within the half hour, the news would be on the air.

The reporters drove away in their cars, heading for the inevitable press conference, and missed the second visitor to the Congressman’s office. A sheriff’s cruiser pulled up and stopped at the curb. The deputy got out and walked into the office, where he found the staff all gathered around someone in a chair. They were fanning with sheets of paper. One was holding a paper cup of water. The deputy cleared his throat, and the group looked his way, straightened up, and backed away to expose Agnes, collapsed in the chair, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

“Agnes Morehouse,” the deputy said, “this is a subpoena from The Grand Jury, compelling you to appear before them. The dates and the matters they are investigating are spelled out in the document.”

He stepped over and held the papers out to Agnes. She didn’t move, didn’t reach to take them. The deputy reached over and placed the papers on top of her hands in her lap. Then he turned and left the office. Agnes gasped and jerked her hands up to cover her face, spilling the papers onto the floor. Then she started another chorus of sobs. The staff was stymied. Agnes, for all of them, was an unemotional, unfeeling ogre. There was no nice way to say it. She was barely civil to them, all the time. She never pretended to like them or care about what was going on in their lives. There was no warmth, no empathy. For them, it was like watching an inanimate object suddenly begin to move. A shock, perhaps, but not emotionally disturbing. Finally, one of the more senior of the group went to the phone and contacted the office in Washington. She got the senior staffer there on the phone and detailed what had just occurred. The Washington staffer told her he would handle it, then hung up.

Quietly, while the warrants were being served, Cooper rode to the courthouse with his lawyer and Joe Samuels. Grayson had made arrangements with Samuels to bring Cooper in so they could serve the warrant, arrest him, arraign him, then release him on his own recognizance. When that process was complete, Cooper left with Brother Samuels and returned to the monastery.

Grayson had phoned Marcus, at the distillery, the day before and explained that the subpoena was being issued. Marcus thanked him for the call and, during the day, had all of the old records moved into one room. When the subpoena was delivered by a deputy, together they sealed the room until such time as the legal staff working for the Grand Jury could either take possession or, more likely, set up shop in the room to study the documents. Marcus had already offered the accommodation when he spoke to Grayson.

The arrest warrant for Calvin Fuller was issued, and a cruiser with two troopers drove out to the Fuller residence. No one was home to answer the door. The grass was long and shaggy, and there was a general air of abandonment about the place. They peered through the garage door windows and determined that no vehicles were inside. Then they returned to the post and listed the warrant as un-served and outstanding. They also listed the two vehicles registered to Fuller in a bulletin.

A press conference was announced for two that afternoon. One news van was stopped for speeding, trying to get to Elizabethtown in time for the conference. Despite the short notice, a sizable group from the press was gathered on the steps at the courthouse when Grayson approached the podium.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, appearing confident and at ease. “Thank you for attending on such short notice. This morning, at ten forty-five, Congressman William Graves, of Elizabethtown, was arrested and charged with the murder of Sarajane Lewis in nineteen-seventy-nine. He has been arraigned and is in custody, awaiting the arrival of his lawyer. Warrants were also issued for Calvin Fuller and Harley Wayne Dowdell in connection with the murder and the subsequent concealment of the body in a whisky barrel at the Aldergast Distillery. Mr. Dowdell has been arrested and charged. Mr. Fuller is, officially, a fugitive. The charges are all separate and individual. The absence of Mr. Fuller will not impede our forward progress toward a speedy trial for Congressman Graves.”

“What about Dowdell?” a voice called out.

“We will also be able to move forward with the legal process regarding Mr. Dowdell,” Grayson answered. “I will not be able to discuss any of the details of our investigation or of our evidence at this time. It would be inappropriate to do so before the defense has had an opportunity to review it.”

“What about statute of limitations?” another voice called out.

“Kentucky law contains no statute of limitations, no matter what the crime,” Grayson answered. “In the case of murder, I don’t believe any state or commonwealth accepts a limitation on a charge of murder.”

“Is this a capital charge?”

“No, it is not a capital charge,” Todd answered. “We have entered a charge of second degree murder.”

“Can you explain that?” another of the reporters asked.

“No sir,” Grayson answered calmly, “not without addressing the details of the evidence, which we will not do today.”

“Is your action based on some new information?” a reporter asked. “Did you find something new, or did you time the arrest to affect the elections?”

It was an impertinent question. All of the media people in the group would agree with that assessment. Nevertheless, they listened intently for the response. Grayson paused, but he did not lose his cool demeanor.

“Can you identify yourself, please?” he asked.

“Mike Barnes, Washington Post,” the reporter answered.

“Thank you,” Todd went on. “A question like that needs a name attached. We received new information, critical to our case, very recently. Until we had that information, it would have been possible but reckless to move forward with the arrests we have carried out today.”

“Mr. Grayson, Julie Newsome, GNN. Did the mystery motorcycle people have anything to do with the new information?” Luanne, the stringer who had fed her the original question about the motorcycle couple had urged her to ask about them. All she had was a gut feeling about it. Julie was growing to trust this girl’s gut feelings.

This time, Grayson was able to smile at the mention of the mystery motorcycle people. “Yes, Miss Newsome,” he said. “I can confirm that they did supply my office with information critical to the case we have assembled.”

“Can you tell us who they are?” she continued.

“No. They are private citizens who are in no way officially connected to the case,” he replied. “If they choose to reveal their identities, they can. We will not.”

“Are they witnesses?” someone else asked.

“No,” Grayson answered. “As I said, they are not in any way officially connected with the case.” Then hurriedly, to stave off further questions, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, that will be all for now. Thank you for being here.”

<<<   >>>

Bobbie’s editor was standing in his office watching the news conference unfold when the question about the motorcycle people was asked. He glanced through the glass and saw Bobbie at her desk. She wasn’t looking his way. He walked to the door of his office and spiked a chalk board eraser at her. It hit the top of her desk, startling her. She looked up and saw him waving her to his office. As she entered his office, he was rewinding the tape of the news conference. He stopped it and hit play so Bobbie could watch the news conference with him.

“Is it ready?” he asked her abruptly. “Can we run it tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, we could,” Bobbie said. “It’s long, feature length. You might want to start it tomorrow, and tease it to two more parts.”

“Can you keep specific identity out of part one,” he asked, “so we can at least get in two days of exclusive before the world lands on them?”

“Sure,” Bobbie said, “in fact, I’ve kept specific ID out of the whole story. They’ll get found, no doubt, and they know it. But I didn’t write the story in a way that puts a big target up on their backs.”

“Is the copy ready for me to read?”

“I’ll send it across right now. When do you want to see the art?”

“As soon as I’ve read the copy,” he said. He was excited. They had an exclusive story on the wire about the arrests, complete with pictures. Now they would have an exclusive on the mystery motorcycle couple. It just didn’t get better than this.

When Bobbie returned to her desk, she tagged the files with the story parts and sent it to her editor. Then her phone rang.

“Bobbie Fisher,” she said as she hit the send button on the computer.

“Miss Fisher, do you remember me—Sarajane’s roommate?” the voice on the phone said.

“Yes, I do,” Bobbie said. She could tell that her caller was crying.

“I just had to call. Did you have anything to do with what I’m seeing on TV right now?”

“Well, yes I did,” Bobbie said.

There was a pause and the sound of gulping as her caller tried to regain some composure. “I just want to thank you,” she said, the end of the sentence getting swallowed up in the crying. “You . . .you have no idea. . . .”

“I think I do,” Bobbie said, “and you are welcome. I think you should know that what you told me made a big difference and never had to be repeated. Everything we talked about is still confidential.”

“I’m sure that will make a difference later, but, right now, the way I feel, I wouldn’t care if it wasn’t.” There was a pause. The caller was gaining more control. “Do you think they really have him?”

“Yes, I think they do,” Bobbie answered. “They have him definitely as the father, so you can at least be sure that his time in Washington is over.” Bobbie knew about the DNA match from Fritz. She felt no compunction about revealing it to her caller. “And, I’m no lawyer, but I really think they have him on the murder.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,” the voice said.

“Really, my pleasure,” Bobbie said. “You have no idea how much of a pleasure. Now, you take care of yourself, put it behind you. It’s finally over. And, look, if you ever need someone to just sit and talk to, you call me. Okay?”

“Okay,” the voice said. “Goodbye.”

After hanging up the phone, Bobbie just sat, to let her emotions begin to ebb. She didn’t trust herself to look around or speak or anything. She had, in her career, been thanked before for the effect her writing had had on people and situations. Never had she experienced what she was feeling now.

When she had regained some control and was sure she could look up without her eyes leaking all over her face, Bobbie got up and walked to the coffeepot, poured herself a cup, and returned to her desk. She picked up the phone and dialed Harlan’s cell phone number. “You watching TV?” she asked immediately.

“No, I’m up in my kitchen. What’s going on?”

“They arrested him,” Bobbie almost shouted, “this morning.”

“Keep talking,” Harlan said. “I’m heading down to the house now.”

“You guys got a mention,” Bobbie continued to talk as Harlan nearly ran for the house. “Some cable reporter asked about the mystery couple, and the prosecutor actually acknowledged that you guys helped.”

Harlan bounded onto the porch and burst through the door. Gloria was standing in front of the TV screen. She was waving her hand behind her, at Harlan—a signal to be quiet. He moved up next to her and watched as the news conference was played back again. While Grayson was making his announcement, the Courier-Journal’s still photos of the arrest and the movement to the cruiser were on the screen. Then the picture went back to the conference in time to catch Grayson’s face smiling at the question about the mystery motorcycle people.

“Are those your guys’ pictures?” Harlan asked, quietly. Gloria looked at him quizzically. “It’s Bobbie,” he explained, indicating the cell phone at his ear with a nod of the head.

“Yep,” Bobbie answered. “They were johnny-on-the-spot, thanks to you-all.”

When the replay of the conference was over, Gloria lowered the volume on the TV. She had no interest in what the talking heads had to say, never did. In fact, whenever she tried to watch them, or when she slipped up and didn’t have the mute button at hand, everything she heard reconfirmed her often-expressed opinion of their marginal intelligence and even, on occasion, their parentage.

“Okay,” Harlan said into the phone. “Guess you’re feeling pretty good, huh?”

“I think it’s called cloud nine,” Bobbie said. “Heads up. My story on you all is going to break with part one tomorrow morning.” Harlan’s call waiting signal beeped in his ear and he ignored it. Five seconds later, Gloria’s phone chirped. “There are no direct references to your exact location, but you know they’ll track you down.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to go ahead and put up a gate. Gloria wants one, but I’ve been resisting. Don’t know why.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Bobbie offered. Gloria, on her cell phone, mouthed, “It’s Craig” to Harlan.

“So, it runs tomorrow,” Harlan said. “What’s the earliest anybody will see it?”

“Oh, about nine tonight,” Bobbie said.

“I’d better get off and get busy,” Harlan said. “What about Thanksgiving?”

“Fritz said yes, enthusiastically,” Bobbie said. “He’s going to call you with some idea he has about the food. It’ll mean we have to get there Wednesday.”

“Perfect. Sounds great,” Harlan said. “I’m going now.”

“Me too,” Bobbie said. “See ya.”

Todd Grayson was finishing up a briefing session with his boss, the elected Commonwealth’s Attorney. He had kept him minimally informed on the whisky barrel case, telling him just enough to allow him to be ‘fully’ informed, but not enough to get him into political hot water should the case ever move forward. At the present time, it did not look hopeful.

“What I have is half a murder case,” he explained. “I have a body, and I can link that body to a location with witnesses and with forensics.” The carpet fibers from the old carpet, the square cut from underneath, were a match. “I have body hairs from two separate contributors, if I ever come up with anything to match them to. I have two people I can charge with obstruction of justice. One of them seems to have disappeared. I have some circumstantial evidence linking the activities of the evening the girl was killed to a known person, but it’s not enough to move forward on.”

Grayson was purposely omitting the mention of the Congressman. He had no way to indict, and unless and until he did, he was not going to be throwing the name around, even to his own boss. At this point in time, only Grayson, George Elliot, and Shelby Logan knew the full content of Cooper’s statement. Logan had also shared Gloria’s fervent assertion that Graves was guilty. Grayson was assembling his briefing papers, preparatory to leaving when the intercom buzzed.

“There’s a call for Mr. Grayson on three,” the voice said. “It’s Detective Logan.”

“I’ll take it out there,” Grayson responded, then took his papers and left the office. At a spare desk, he picked up a phone and punched a button. “This is Grayson,” he said, then listened. “Okay, I’ll be there in a minute.”

He left the office and headed for his own, farther back in the building. When he got there, Shelby Logan was waiting. They went into his office and closed the door.

“I just got a call from the mystery motorcycle people,” Logan began. “They think they’ve come up with something that’ll help the case.”

“What is it?” Grayson asked him.

“I don’t know. They didn’t tell me,” Logan said. “They want to meet with you, and here’s the twist: They don’t want to come here. In fact, they don’t want to meet anywhere in Kentucky.”

“What is this?” Grayson snapped, “some kind of fear of prosecution. Are they crazy?”

“Well, Todd, they might be crazy,” Logan said. “Even so, the odds are that when they say they have something, it’ll be worth hearing. Don’t forget, she had the name of the body nailed down that first day and he’s the one who flushed Cooper. These people are worth hearing from.”

“So what do they want?” Grayson asked. “Am I supposed to go to their place?”

“I asked, and they said no,” Logan answered. “They suggested sort of a halfway point: Cannelton, Indiana.”

“Why there?”

“I guess it’s a pretty easy drive for them,” Logan explained, “and it has the only bridge over the Ohio between Brandenburg and Owensboro. We could drive from here in about two hours, give or take.”

“When?” Grayson asked, resigned to the idea.

“I’m supposed to call them back, set a time.”

Grayson looked at his desk calendar.

“Okay. See if we can do it tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll take your car, leave after breakfast. If it doesn’t take too long, I can still check on things here before the end of the day.”

They met for breakfast at the diner from which one deputy sheriff was notably missing. The information from the sheriff in Indiana had caused a speedy career change for the deputy responsible for the phone call.

“So, where are we meeting them?” Grayson was asking.

“Place in town called The Castlebury Inn. They say they’ll be there by ten and will make arrangements for a room where we can meet.”

“What’s the route?”

“We’re stuck taking Highway Sixty all the way,” Logan said with a groan. “There just isn’t any other way to get there, really.”

Highway Sixty runs the full length of Kentucky, along its northern border, for the most part following the Ohio River. In Eastern Kentucky, it is called the Appalachian Highway. In the western half of the state, it isn’t called anything, at least anything someone would put on a sign. It’s a two-lane highway winding through the tail end of the western slope of the mountains. It has curves for its entire length that locals refer to as ‘dead man’s curve.’ Logan’s groan was sincere. It is not a road to choose if there is any possible alternative.

They arrived in Hawesville by eleven, crossed the river, and drove into downtown Cannelton. The Inn was easy to find and stood out because of the beautiful restoration efforts someone had made. They parked and entered. Harlan and Gloria were standing in the front hallway, surrounded by mid-nineteenth century furnishings. The sight was almost comical in its contrasts, the two Stones in motorcycle leathers, holding their helmets in the manner of the medieval knight, standing before the monarch. The two pairs stood motionless, for a moment, gazing at each other. Logan broke the ice.

“Mr. Stone, Mrs. Stone,” he began, “this is Todd Grayson.”

“Yes, we spoke,” Harlan said, stepping forward and offering his hand.

“It’s always good to put a name to a face,” Logan said. “Very nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Stone.”

“Can’t we get over that?” Gloria said. “I’m Gloria and this is Harlan—okay?”

“Works for me,” Grayson answered. “I’m Todd, and you already know Shelby.”

“We have a parlor room down the hall, here,” Harlan said, stepping back and sweeping his arm in the direction of the hall. “Coffee service is set up, so we don’t have to interrupt once we get going. Restrooms are just to the left there.”

“I’ll make a quick stop,” Grayson said, “then let’s get going.”

They settled into the room, which looked like a parlor straight out of the nineteenth century. The chairs, facing the couch across a low table, were large and comfortable. Logan and Grayson took the two chairs. Harlan and Gloria settled into the couch. The coffee service was on the table between them. The door was closed.

“I’ll start,” Harlan offered. “Gloria and I discussed this, and we want to be very sensitive to the position you’re in, Todd. So, other than ‘pass the sugar’ or ‘nice weather,’ we think we should do all of the talking. We will set up the situation as we see it and then provide the information Gloria found. You can leave here without ever saying anything, if it becomes necessary for you to claim that at some point in the future. Agreeable?”

The two men from Kentucky nodded yes.

“Okay, here goes,” Harlan said. “You have half of a murder case.”

Grayson gulped, hearing his own words coming across the table.

“You have the body, the location, the people who disposed of the body, and even a possible motive: the pregnancy. You have DNA evidence, not only from the fetus but also from the hairs found in the barrel with the body. We think that you also have some evidence from Cooper that he was cautious about not letting us hear. We also think you have a prime suspect but insufficient evidence to announce or indict.”

“And we know that with a high profile suspect, you can’t afford to go fishing,” Gloria jumped in.

Grayson looked sideways at Logan, who was eased back in the chair and seemingly enjoying the show.

“See, if you only had some DNA to compare your evidence to, everything would get a whole lot simpler is what we think,” Gloria continued. “So, I asked myself, if the sexual escapades that go on in Washington are anything like the picture we’ve gotten, then doesn’t it seem extremely unlikely that this one little mistake, this one little slip of the condom, was a one-time occurrence?”

Grayson’s jaw dropped open, and Logan’s smile broadened into a grin.

“Well, yes,  I answered myself, it does seem unlikely. Extremely unlikely. In fact, I figure the lecherous old bastard has probably been spraying his seed around pretty liberally, inside the beltway, so to speak.”

Logan just went ahead and laughed out loud. Grayson broke a smile, then glanced over to make sure the door was closed.

“Murder is not a particularly desirable form of birth control, so I figure the one murder was unique. In fact, I would bet it was a spontaneous overreaction, in the passion of a moment, not a pattern of behavior—the murder, I mean”

“So, I didn’t go looking for murders or suspicious disappearances, things like that,” Gloria continued. “Instead, I went looking for the tracks a perverted libertine might leave.”

“She actually calls them pecker tracks,” Harlan offered. Both of the men from Kentucky laughed.

“So, I went looking for paternity suits, settlements, funded endowments, things like that,” Gloria said, “and guess what I found?” She paused and poured some coffee for herself. No one else moved.

“Peterson v. Graves, in Maryland, suit for support payments for a child, Graves accused of paternity. For some reason, this thing made it into court, wasn’t settled quietly. Unfortunately, the girl, Tracey Peterson, lost the case. There’s no doubt our Congressman Graves had visited the plaintiff on occasion—perhaps many occasions…at least, no doubt in my mind. Problem was, she was a very sociable person and simply picked the wrong ‘donor’ to take to court.”

“Oh, my God,” Grayson said. The implications were beginning to hit him.

“So, to cut to the chase,” Gloria said, “somewhere in Maryland’s judicial system, a copy of Congressman Graves’s DNA profile is on file and I believe they would be public records, right? If he had settled, paid her off, there wouldn’t be. So, hopefully—and I don’t want you to think I am a vindictive person—we will watch the bastard’s petty little triumph  over that girl turn to ashes on him.”

“Hoist on his own petard,” Harlan added.

Logan’s grin was as broad as it could get. He did feel like he was the sponsor, so to speak, of Harlan and Gloria, that he was the reason this little meeting had taken place. He was both proud and excited.

“Okay, I’m going to talk, now,” Grayson said, sitting forward. “Where did you find all of this?”

“LexisNexis,” Gloria answered.

“You use LexisNexis?” Grayson asked, incredulous. Access to the service was a constant budget battle for him, up against the old-timers who remembered clerking in dusty law libraries.

“It was a birthday present,” Harlan said, as though that explained everything.

“Do you have the cites?” Grayson asked. Gloria handed him the sheets of paper she had printed out. “Are these for me to keep?”

“Well, sure,” Gloria said. “I don’t have any use for them.”

“Don’t think this is rude, please,” said Grayson, stuffing the papers into his briefcase, “but, I want to get right back, I mean. . . .”

“I think you’ll find that Gloria thinks the same thing, that you need to hit the road, go fast, and get to work on this,” Harlan offered. They all stood. “First, if you want to take advantage of the facilities before you go, I believe Detective Logan and I have some private business to transact.”

Logan’s eyes lit up. Harlan indicated the door with a nod of his head, and they moved out and down the hall. As they walked out the front door, Harlan said, “I was able to fit a case in the sidecar. I hope that’s enough.”

They walked to the sidecar; Harlan unlocked the little trunk and extracted the case of dark bottles with no labels. He carried it and followed Logan to the trunk of his car. Logan popped the lid and turned to take the bottles from Harlan. As he straightened up, he had a brown bag in his hand.

“I can’t get home brew,” he explained, “but I do have access to other types of homemade things.” He offered the bag to Harlan. “It’s cut to about ninety proof, crystal clear, and some of the best stuff in our area. I know the guy personally.”

“But, isn’t that against the law or something?” Harlan asked, taking the offered bag.

“If you study up on it a little,” Logan said, “you’ll find that all of the conflict around moonshining is a Federal thing, not a state thing. It’s the Feds who want their pound of flesh, and the revenooers are just that, ATF guys looking for the tax dollar. Guess I’m sort of a hard-nose State’s Rights kinda guy…know what I mean?” Logan winked.

“Well, thank you,” Harlan said.

“Don’t mention it,” Logan said, as Gloria and Grayson emerged from The Inn.“ Literally.”

Harlan deposited the bag in the trunk of the sidecar as Grayson approached.

“So, this is the mystery motorcycle,” he said.

“Seemed appropriate to use it for this meeting,” Harlan replied.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Grayson said. “I can’t thank you all enough. I do believe you’ve made it possible to move this thing forward, and quickly.”

“Our pleasure,” Harlan said.

“And don’t be too long about it,” Gloria added. “I’ve got other things I need to concentrate on, and until this thing is out in the open and moving, it’s all I can think about.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Grayson said. “I’ll get right on it.”

Harlan and Gloria reentered The Inn as Logan and Grayson drove away. They settled the bill and retrieved their helmets.

“Lunch here or at home?” Harlan asked as they came out.

“Home, I think,” Gloria answered, and began to zip up her leathers. “I want to call Bobbie, give her a heads-up. What were you putting in the trunk when we came out?”

“You know I brought Shelby some beer,” Harlan said, “and he brought me some moonshine. Two quarts, in Mason jars, judging by the feel of the package.”

“Moonshine?” Gloria said. “I’ve never tasted moonshine. Is it good?”

“Very good,” Harlan replied.

“Okay, home it is. I feel the need for a celebratory drink, and what’s more appropriate than moonshine.”

Harlan had pulled the blue tarp off of the motorcycle so Shelby Logan could see it and admire it.

“So you completely redid the thing yourself?” Logan asked as he circled the machine.

“Mostly,” Harlan answered. “I mean, I sent various pieces off to be sand-blasted and painted. I didn’t do the painting. And I have a guy up in Indiana who knows the BMW inside and out. I hit a problem, I take it up there and he talks me through it—doesn’t do it for me—just talks me through it while he keeps working on his own stuff. He is amazing.”

“I’ll bet,” Logan said, leaning in close to look at the engine.

“Mr. Logan,” Gloria called through the kitchen window of the RV, “would you like a glass of tea while we talk?”

“Sure would, if it’s no trouble,” he answered.

“No trouble at all,” Gloria called back.

Harlan had called Shelby Logan that Tuesday morning and arranged to meet at the RV in the campground. He wanted to have the comfort of home turf for the conversation. Logan arrived just after ten and found Harlan folding the tarps and stowing them. Harlan had decided that the mystery was over and that they would not have to hide out any longer.

The morning was warm enough for them sit outside. Harlan had set out the chairs under the awning. Gloria came out with the iced tea glasses and a pitcher and set them on the table. The three settled into chairs and just sat, sipping the tea.

“So, you all call yourselves amateur sleuths?” Logan started.

“Well, no, we don’t,” Harlan said. “I think that’s what some other folks have started calling us. What we do, when we’re home, mostly, is try to figure out crimes before the officials do, just using the media and the Internet. It can be a fascinating game. We have never been out in the field like this time, and, I venture to guess we never will again. This was a fluke.”

“And you say you figured out who the victim was the first day?”

“It was actually pretty easy,” Gloria chimed in. “The stuff from the distillery pinpointed the time window accurately. The rest of it was Internet stuff.”

“All that on the Internet. It does seem hard to believe,” Logan said.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Gloria said. “Shelby Logan, born in 1949, Whitesville, Kentucky. Two sisters and a brother. The name, Shelby, is probably from your maternal grandmother’s maiden name.”

Logan stared at Gloria, dumbfounded.

“Went to Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green, pre-law,” Gloria continued. “There’s more where that came from. Want it?”

“No,” Logan said, chuckling. “I believe you, I really do.”

“So, what can we do for you, Detective Logan?” Harlan asked.

“I guess our biggest question is whether you have any more thoughts or ideas on this thing,” Logan said. “You know, about the murderer, the motive. Hell, we wonder if you have any ideas about Cooper’s trailer burning down last Thursday morning.”

The trailer fire had not made the papers, had not come to official attention, even after Agnes had warned the sheriff. Both Harlan and Gloria were caught off guard by the news.

“Is he all right?” Harlan asked.

“What happened?” Gloria asked right on top of him.

“Cooper’s fine. He wasn’t there,” Logan said. “As for what happened, nobody knows. You have any thoughts?”

“Detective, despite the appearances, we are more in the dark than you are,” Harlan said. “I’m sure you already know things from Cooper that he didn’t tell us. You have the forensics, the hairs, and the carpet fibers.”

“Now, isn’t that interesting,” Logan interrupted. “Get that from the Internet, did you?”

Everything stopped for a long moment.

“You see, you make my point for me,” Logan continued. “You all are resourceful, that’s all. I don’t care where or how you’re getting your information. Neither does my boss, although I think we’ll be seeing some classes on how to use the Internet in our future, once he hears about that. We’re just saying we’d like to know if you have anything else that you might share with us. Unofficial, no tape recorders, no statements. Just us, sittin’ and shootin’ the breeze, so to speak.”

Everyone sat still, sipping tea and letting the thought sink in.

“What about Cooper’s trailer?” Harlan asked.

“Guy that works Cooper’s farm, Harvey Miller, driving by Thursday morning, saw it. Nothing but a pile of ashes with half a toilet and an ice box sticking up. Those trailers, you get a fire started in one of them and it’ll pretty much take it to the ground.”

“Is there an investigation?” Harlan asked.

“There wasn’t,” Logan said, “but now that Cooper’s a witness, maybe there will be. Don’t think it’ll do any good. Fire like that is too easy to start without leaving traces of strange stuff.”

“I bet they would find that it started outside, not inside,” Gloria said. “That would be worth knowing.”

“Yes, I reckon they could figure that out,” Logan said, nodding, “and it would be worth knowing. You’re right. See?”

“Well, you know it was that guy, Fuller,” Gloria declared.

“You think so, huh?” Logan said. “That’s interesting. Our Mr. Fuller doesn’t seem to be around. No one home out to the house. No one’s seen him at the local diner. Looks like he might have gone for a vacation. What do you think?”

“I met him, you know,” Harlan said, “and I didn’t like what I saw. I think he was behind some calls back to our home, trying to get information on us. I think he even made some hang-up phone calls to our place. Won’t know for sure ’til we get home. He called the Courier-Journal and tried to warn off a reporter.”

“Cooper didn’t name any names to us,” Gloria said, “but we’re positive he was working with Fuller that night they hid the body.”

“Well, unofficially I can tell you that you’re right,” Logan said.

“And we think he knows who was sitting in the car at the diner,” Harlan said, “the one who passed over the key.”

“Yep, probably,” Logan said.

“So, he’s gone missing?” Harlan said.

“I’m just saying he’s not around,” Logan said. “Like, when you all are away, people don’t say you’re missing, do they? They just say you’re away. Fuller’s away. Interesting timing, I will say that. At some point, I’m afraid I’ll have to go looking for him. Right now, he’s just away. What else are you thinking?”

“I think you might hook up with those new folks at the distillery,” Harlan offered. “I don’t know how deep your investigation is going to go, but they have a ton of old records and documents, from back when the old guy was running it and, from what we hear, a lot of other things around there.”

“Tom Aldergast,” Logan said, shaking his head. “I’m happy I don’t have to tangle with that mess. Good point, though. Anything else?”

Gloria was getting impatient.

“I can tell you there isn’t squat in the sheriff’s files from when that girl went missing,” Gloria said. “I can tell you that Cooper said he never touched the body; he just assembled the barrel.”

“Mr. Stone, anything?” Logan asked.

“I’m sorry,” Harlan said, coming back to the conversation. “I am not real happy about Fuller being places unknown. Do you know him?”

“I’ve met him a few times,” Logan said, “but mostly I just know the stories, some of the same ones you’ve probably heard.”

“I just wish you all had a handle on him,” Harlan said.

“Or a big old piece of rope, right around his neck,” Gloria added, edgier than before.

“Well, we’ll get going on that sooner rather than later,” Logan said.

Gloria couldn’t stand it any longer. “Are you going to charge him?” she blurted.

“Who, Fuller?” Logan asked. “I’m sure we’ll. . . .”

“No! Not Fuller,” Gloria interrupted. “The Congressman, Graves. Are you going to charge him with the murder?”

“Why, do you think we should?” Logan said, and he wasn’t being coy. The knowledge of the vanity license plate was very closely held.

“Well, you know he’s the father of that poor girl’s unborn child. The DNA will show that,” Gloria rattled off. “He probably is the one whose hairs are in the barrel contents. DNA will show that, too. Everyone knows he was in that old man’s pocket. I don’t know how you’d prove that. But, he’s the one, no doubt in my mind.”

Logan shifted his gaze from Gloria to Harlan.

“Boy, that Internet,” he said in mock wonder, “it just keeps on amazing me.”

Gloria stood and strode into the RV. Logan watched, and Harlan held his tongue. She returned almost immediately with a handful of paper. “You go talk to the people on this list, the former interns,” she said, handing the papers to Logan. “They’ll tell you about Congressman Graves, I bet.”

“Have you talked to them?” Logan asked.

“No. Not yet,” Gloria answered.

“But you’re planning to talk to them?” Logan continued.

“If I have to,” Gloria stated. “The thought that he could get away with this just because he’s a Congressman…well, it just burns my butt.”

Gloria sat down, her little rant over for the moment. Logan squared the edges of the paper stack and set them on the table. Harlan just watched.

“Mrs. Stone,” Logan began, softly, “if there is reliable evidence that the Congressman did this thing, or was involved in any way, and if my boss can get his hands on that evidence, he will take the man to trial, Congressman or no Congressman. I just want you to know that. He’s a good man. He is not a politician, doesn’t want to be. If he can put the case together, he will prosecute, have no doubt.”

“Well, good,” Gloria said.

“As close as you have been to this thing and as smart as you are,” Logan continued, “I’m sure you see the problems.”

“Just one,” Gloria said, “getting his DNA.”

“Let me ask you,” Logan went on, “do you think my boss, Todd Grayson—do you think he thinks what you do?”

“He’d have to,” Gloria said, “except, he hasn’t been looking at it as long as I have, so, maybe not. But, he will.”

“And, just out of curiosity,” Logan said, “who else knows what you think happened?”

“Just two others,” Harlan answered, “friends we made here in town. We can both vouch for their discretion.”

“I hope so,” Logan said, “because, if this is the way it goes, life will be very difficult if things get leaked out and lawyers start building barriers and all that.”

“We’ve thought about that,” Harlan said, “and we came to the same conclusion.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask if there’s anything else,” Logan said, smiling.

“No, I don’t think so,” Harlan said.

“May I hang onto these papers, Mrs. Stone?”

“Sure. I brought them out for you,” Gloria said.

“Thank you. What are you folks planning to do now? Is this over for you?”

“Pretty much. Gloria’s still snooping around online, but it’s over,” Harlan said. “We’ll probably head home in the next day or two. I’m out of beer, the stuff I make myself, and there’s stuff to do around the place to get ready for cold weather.”

“You make your own beer?” Logan asked.

“Sure do. If I weren’t fresh out, I’d be glad to give you some,” Harlan said.

“Good home brew,” Logan said wistfully. “Sure wish I had some.”

“Well, if this thing brings us together again, I’ll make it a point to bring some along,” Harlan said. “Or, if you’re ever in our area, let us know. You have our number and you can reach us there. Same thing if you think of any other questions.”

“Thanks, I will,” Logan said, “and when I get word on Fuller, I’ll call and let you know.”

“I would appreciate that,” Harlan said.

Logan made his way to the car, got in, and drove away with a wave. Harlan and Gloria remained standing outside long after he was out of sight.

“You think he didn’t know about the Congressman?” Gloria asked.

“My gut says he didn’t,” Harlan answered.

“You want to get your sister out for dinner tonight?” Gloria asked.

“Sure, that works,” Harlan said. “Maybe hit the road tomorrow.”

“Um-huh,” Gloria said, still staring off, thinking. “So, the whole thing is going to hinge on that old fart’s DNA.”

“I think he’s a year or two younger than me,” Harlan said.

“Like I said,” Gloria continued. “Can’t ask for the DNA unless you can prove you need it. Can’t prove you need it until you have it. Humph! Isn’t that just one hell of a mess.”

“I’d say so,” Harlan said. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’m going to keep looking.”

When the sensational tape of the discovery of the body in the barrel started running nearly non-stop on the network that owned it, and on the news affiliate that was owned by the same umbrella corporation, everybody sent at least a reporter to Kentucky. Most sent camera crews as well. The flurry died quickly when there was nothing to film, no one of interest to interview, no ID of the victim and therefore no grieving families upon which to intrude.

By Wednesday, the crews were gone to cover some other newsworthy events, the reporters with them, mostly. One of the cable networks left a stringer in place to look around, knowing that the officials would have more to announce at some point. It was her job to get a feel for the place, scout camera opportunities, chat with the locals, work on background information. So she was sitting in the diner, nursing a cup of coffee, when Calvin Fuller came in Wednesday afternoon and sat at the counter near one of the deputies there. She overheard Fuller ask him to check around, see if anyone had seen an old motorcycle with a sidecar. When the deputy asked if it was about the thing at the distillery, the reporter saw Fuller cock an eyebrow, saying nothing. She noted it in her journal.

On Thursday, when the other networks were scrambling to get their on-camera talent and camera crews back to Bardstown, in response to the announcement of the identity of the body, the stringer was back in the diner and overheard a conversation between two deputies sitting at the counter. A man named Harvey Miller had said that he met the motorcycle man, talked to him. Said he was from Indiana and stayed out to the KOA. She noted all of this in the section of her notebook she had labeled ‘Motorcycle Mystery’.

Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, the news reporting throng was still having trouble finding someone to interview and something to shoot. They tried the local offices for Congressman Graves and found the blinds drawn and the door locked. They tried, repeatedly, to get something worthwhile from the sheriff and the deputies and kept coming up empty. The problem was that the law enforcement people had nothing to either tell or withhold. They stormed the local courthouse, in Bardstown, but found no one had anything to say or deny. The courthouse, at least, made an interesting backdrop for the shots that they did feed back to their respective networks.

The only place in the area that still seemed to be a solidly justified newsworthy location was the distillery. The stringer was there, sitting at the bar Friday afternoon, when Shelby Logan came in looking for the manager. She overheard the entire part of the conversation that happened before Tim suggested that the detective come with him to his office while he looked for the card. She added to her notebook that a Commonwealth’s Attorney was looking for the mystery motorcycle and that at least one of the passengers had, indeed, visited the distillery earlier in the week. She stepped outside the restaurant and dialed her cell phone. She called her office.

“Brian, this is Luanne. Yeah. I’m in Kentucky on the body in the barrel thing. Look, I need to know, what’s a Commonwealth’s Detective? Okay, when you find out, call me. News conference where? Elizabethtown? Yeah. I’ll head out right now. Who’s the talent? Okay, I’ll find her and the crew and fill her in. You call me back as soon as you can.”

So, the stringer, Luanne, was able to feed the question about the motorcycle mystery to the network’s on-air talent before the news conference. The news conference was to announce that the Commonwealth’s Attorney for the Ninth Circuit was in charge of the case of Sarajane Lewis. Before the conference got underway, Brian called back from the network with the information that a Commonwealth’s Attorney was Kentucky’s name for a State’s Attorney—because Kentucky is not a state; it is a commonwealth. A Commonwealth’s Detective is an investigator assigned to the prosecutor’s office, to assist in the development of evidence and cases, so it was an official position.

The press conference had been set up outside, with the old courthouse as a backdrop. It was not nearly as impressive as the one in Bardstown, but it was better than a number of other choices that the staff had considered quickly as they put the event together. An indoor location was out of the question—the crowd of cameras and reporters was too large. So the podium was placed on the top of the steps so that the crews would know where to place the microphones.

Mrs. Henderson was inside the office, waiting for the copier to spit out more than a hundred copies of the simple, one-page statement, declaring that Sarajane Lewis’s death had been a wrongful death, a homicide, that it had occurred in Hardin County and was, thus, being prosecuted by the Commonwealth’s Attorney in the Ninth Circuit. It stated that the prosecutor’s office was investigating and following up on leads at this time and had no further comment. It stated that the case was being handled by Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney Todd Grayson, Esq.

Grayson was a career lawyer. He was not holding his current position with aspirations to, at some time, go into politics. He would be more likely, as a career move, to go into private practice. He had a handful of standing offers from established firms. In keeping with his non-aspirations, he did not employ the services of an image consultant and had not spent time being coached in on-camera technique. He depended on his skill and training as a prosecutor, his abilities at public speaking in the courtroom. He was adequate, even competent, in front of the camera.

If Grayson had been inclined to deal with image and if he had assembled a cadre of advisors, he would probably have been told not to entertain questions, simply to read the statement and promise updates as the information justified such. He didn’t, so when he had completed reading the statement, copies of which had already been distributed, the standard questions peppered him. ‘Do you have a suspect?’ ‘What was the cause of death?’ ‘Is there a trial date set?’ ‘Will you question Congressman Graves?’ All of the questions were easy to field with the standard responses, so standard that no one in the pack of journalists even bothered to write them down. As he began to straighten the edges of the three sheets of paper on the podium in front of him, preparatory to turning and leaving, one more question came from the crowd.

“Mr. Grayson, Julie Newsome, GNN. What can you tell us about the mystery couple on the motorcycle that your office and the sheriff’s office are trying to track down?”

Probably the best image consultants in the world and the most intensive training could not have prevented the look on Grayson’s face when he heard the question. It was a look of wide-eyed, slack-jawed shock.

“Are they suspects in the crime?” Julie continued in the silence.

Grayson’s thoughts were simple. ‘What the hell is this? Who are those people. How did the media find out? I just heard about them myself.’ His expression of shock and dismay continued unchecked. He had a quick mind, but, in this instance, not quick enough to come up with a response measured to defuse the situation. The best he could do, and it wasn’t as bad as ‘no comment’ would have been, was, “We have nothing further to report at this time.” With that he left the podium and headed across the street to the sanctuary of his office.

When the cameras had stopped rolling, Julie scanned the crowd, found Luanne near the network truck and gave her a big smile and a thumbs up. Then the rest of the gathered newsies descended on her, trying to pump her for information.

Shelby Logan, the Commonwealth’s Detective, entered Grayson’s office less than ten minutes after the three men had departed. He was a fair-skinned, sandy-haired man, somewhat overweight and with a complexion that signaled either high blood pressure or heavy drinking, although actually, neither was the case—he just had that sort of complexion. It did work to his advantage at times, looking that way. It could make others think that he was a plodding, besotted bureaucrat, and that wasn’t true either. What no one knew for certain is whether he did have really bad or at least no taste in clothing, or whether his manner of dress was calculated to add to the persona he maintained. His brown pants with the pleated front rode below his belly. The plaid sport coat looked like he probably couldn’t button it. The pockets bulged and drooped. The clashing plaid shirt struggled to stay tucked in, like shirts from the discounters with no tails. The brown loafers were scuffed and worn down at the heels.

Grayson filled him in quickly on the situation, then sent him down the hall to find the three men and make the arrangements for retrieving the barrel.

“Shelby,” Grayson said as he headed back to his office, “keep your cell phone turned on and stay in touch. As soon as the barrel is squared away, get back to me. I may have some other stuff for you by then.”

Back in his office, Grayson checked with Mrs. Henderson about the disposition of the case.

“Not assigned, yet,” she told him.

“Good,” he said and picked up the phone. He needed to speak with the clerk in the Attorney General’s office.

“Charlie, this is Todd Grayson in Hardin County. How are you today?” he said into the phone.

“Just fine, counselor,” the man replied. “And how are things in Elizabethtown?”

“Busy, Charlie, busy,” Grayson said. “Charlie, something important just walked into my office this morning, something material to the Sarajane Lewis girl, the one in the barrel.”

“Yes, I know the one. Have the paperwork right here.”

“Based on information I just received, the death occurred here in Hardin County,” Grayson went on.

“My, you are working fast down over there,” the man responded.

“It was out of the blue, Charlie, and of course I’ll take full credit,” Grayson said and both men chuckled. “Charlie, I need that case assigned to my office. If the AG or anyone else has questions about it, I’ll be glad to talk to them.”

“I don’t see a problem. Last time I looked, those boys over in the tenth circuit weren’t hammering down my door looking for work. What about your boss?”

“As soon as I can, I’ll brief him, but, Charlie, this may turn into a case he’ll want to stay arms’ length on,” Grayson said.

“Political? Congressional intern? Yep, I can see that. So, consider it yours. I’ll fire off the docket numbers and the paper work,” Charlie said.

“Great. Can you fax me the medical examiner’s report right away?” Grayson asked.

“Consider it done,” Charlie said and hung up.

Grayson pressed the intercom button. “Mrs. Henderson, we have the case. Charlie will be sending over the information. First, though, he’s faxing me the medical examiner’s report. Bring it in as soon as it arrives, please. Thanks.” He replaced the phone in the cradle.

Todd Grayson was what’s called a quick study. Less than thirty minutes after receiving the faxed report, he was dialing Dr. Donna Brodigan at the University of Louisville.

“Doctor Brodigan, this is Todd Grayson, Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney for the Ninth Circuit in Elizabethtown. I’ve been assigned the Sarajane Lewis homicide,” he said as soon as she was on the phone.

“Yes. The body in the barrel,” she answered, “cause of death, a blow to the head.”

“Correct,” he said. “I am reading your report and want to ask you a few things. First, do you have the DNA work-ups back yet?”

“No. I don’t expect them until Monday, and that’s just the DNA on the girl and the fetus. The hairs our forensics people filtered out of the barrel contents are going out today. I can already tell you that at least two other people contributed hairs, and we’ll have to screen for all of the people who were around the body after it was discovered. Mercifully, there were only a few.”

“Good, good,” Grayson said as he made notes.

“Oh,” Donna continued, “and you should also know that they found fibers—probably carpet fibers.”

“Good,” Grayson said, and made a quick note about a search warrant for the Dixie Motel. “I think I know where to look for a match on those.”

“My goodness,” Donna said, “you certainly seem to be ahead of the game on this. I didn’t even know it had been assigned yet.”

“Just happened an hour ago,” Grayson said. “But, speaking about being ahead of the game, if I read this right, you had a Jane Doe and somehow also had an ID file from a missing person case more than twenty years old right there with you.”

“Yeah,” Donna answered, “I bet that looks strange at best. A colleague of mine, Dr. Kaplan, ordered up that file. He had a source, and the source turned out to be right on the money.”

“Who was the source?” Grayson asked.

“You know, I don’t know,” Donna answered. “Fritz said something about amateur sleuths and some motorcycle with a sidecar.”

“Damn,” Grayson exclaimed, “who are these people?”

“What, is something wrong?” Donna asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Grayson said. “This is the second time the mystery person on the motorcycle has come up, and no one seems to have a name.”

“Why don’t I get Fritz—Dr. Kaplan—to give you a call,” Donna offered. “I’d tell you to call him, but with his crazy schedule, you’d get stuck in a phone tag circle for sure.”

“I’d be appreciative of that,” Grayson answered.

“No problem,” she said. “Anything else?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Now that the case is assigned, all of the results will get to me automatically. So, just thanks for your time.”

“You’re welcome,” she responded and hung up.

Grayson dialed another number.

“Shelby, this is Todd Grayson,” he said into the phone. “How is it going.”

“We’re out here, got ourselves a truck. I just called for a couple of strong backs, though. Getting that barrel out of the cellar and on a truck ain’t the work for old detectives or old lawyers or preachers, for that matter.” Sounds of protest in the background came through the phone.

“Good. Paperwork, chain of evidence and all that. As soon as you have the barrel secured, I need you to see what you can find out about these people on the motorcycle. Start with Cooper, see if he can tell you anything else,” Grayson said.

“Sure thing,” Logan replied. “Are these suspects or what?”

“No,” Grayson said, “not suspects, but they sure do seem to know a lot about this case.”

“Okay, I’ll ask around,” Logan said, “and I’ll let Mrs. Henderson know when we have the barrel locked up. Taking it over to the jail unless you have a better idea.”

“Sounds okay,” Grayson answered, “but I want a seal with your signature on the cell door.”

Grayson hung up the phone and began to re-read Cooper’s statement. He checked the facts against the medical examiner’s report from time to time. Then he picked up the phone and asked Mrs. Henderson to come in.

“We need to get a search warrant for the old Dixie Motel out on Thirty-one,” he started as she sat and began taking notes. “It pertains to the Sarajane Lewis homicide—you should have the case numbers from Frankfort by now.” She nodded. “In the request, note that a contemporary witness has placed the body at the motel, that forensics has carpet fibers and that our search is for the purpose of retrieving sample fibers from the carpet there, specifically in what was,” he checked his notes, “room forty-five.”

“Do we have any idea who owns it?” Mrs. Henderson asked. “It was part of the Aldergast estate, along with the distillery, the old house, and some other stuff.”

“You get going on that request; I’ll run downstairs and dig out the ownership information,” Grayson said.

When Grayson returned to the office, he was shaking his head and smiling a little. He had learned that the Dixie Motel had been owned by Aldergast Distillery, not by Mr. Tom directly. Since the offer Marcus Voyles had made to the heirs included maintaining the name and buying the business, the motel had been included in the transaction. He stood at Mrs. Henderson’s desk and read off the contact information as she filled it in on the request. She printed it out; he signed it.

“This should only take a few minutes,” she said as she stood to leave the office. “Everybody is in town. It’s just always so much easier to get things done when vacations are not getting in the way.”

Grayson checked his calendar while she was gone and made the snap decision to execute the warrant himself. Technically, he was a recognized peace officer in the State of Kentucky. He was even authorized to wear a firearm. He didn’t. He walked to the area of the offices where the detectives worked, when they were in. He secured the necessary bags, gloves, and tweezers to get the job done, then returned to his office. True to her word, Mrs. Henderson was back in ten minutes with a signed warrant.

Grayson looked up a phone number and dialed. When the receptionist on the other end answered, he identified himself and asked to speak with Marcus Voyles.

“Mr. Voyles, this is Todd Grayson, Commonwealth’s Attorney over in Elizabethtown,” he said.

“What can I do for you?” Marcus replied.

“Mr. Voyles, I have a warrant to gather carpet fibers from a room in the Dixie Motel out on Thirty-one,” Grayson said.

“Okay. And . . . ?” Marcus said.

“Well, you own it…at least, your company does,” Grayson said.

“Omigod, that’s right,” Marcus blurted. “I’m sorry, I forgot all about that. So, you need permission, you have it.”

Grayson chuckled. “No, I have all the permission I need right here in my hand. I was hoping you could meet me there with the keys. I know it’s a derelict, but there doesn’t seem to be any call to damage it, you know, using a crowbar, breaking a door.”

“Yes, I can do that. I do at least remember where the padlock keys are stored,” Marcus answered. “When would you like to do this?”

“Now,” Grayson answered. “I can be out there in about thirty minutes.”

“Okay. I’ll leave now and meet you there,” Marcus said, and the conversation was over.

<<<<<<      >>>>>>

Marcus pulled into the motel lot and stopped next to the only other car there. He got out carrying an old cigar box and set it on the hood of the car as he walked around the front to greet Grayson, who was standing in front of his car, staring at the front of the old motel with its warped and bleached-out plywood covering all the windows.

“Mr. Voyles, Todd Grayson.” He held out his hand to shake.

“Good to meet you,” Marcus said. “Can we just make it ‘Todd’ and ‘Marcus’, or is this some sort of formal inquiry?”

“That would be fine,” Grayson answered. “The formal part,” he said as he slipped the folded papers from his breast pocket, “is I hand you these. They specify that I am here to retrieve carpet samples from room forty-five.”

Marcus turned to the old cigar box and rummage through the mass of keys, all intertwined with the yellowing paper tags on strings. He untangled one set of keys, double-checked the tag, and held them out to Grayson. Grayson accepted the keys and turned toward the far end of the motel.

“You actually know which room that is?” Marcus asked as he kept up.

“Oh, yeah,” Grayson said as they walked. “I suspect there’s a whole generation of us who know about room forty-five, the stories whispered quietly after checking to see who’s within earshot.”

“No kidding?” Marcus said. “What’s this about?”

“Unbelievable as it might sound, I’ve come into some evidence that indicates that the young woman found in yourall’s barrel over there may have died here, in room forty-five.” They stopped at a door on the back side of the motel. “Right in there.” Grayson handed the keys back to Marcus, insuring, in his own mind, that the entry was with the complete cooperation of the owner.

“There’s no electric,” Marcus said as he struggled to get the old lock to release. “Hopefully there will be enough light through the door.” The lock opened, and he lifted it out of the hasp. The original lock, in the doorknob, wasn’t even engaged. Marcus twisted the knob and pushed the door open.

The Dixie Motel had finally closed down when old Mr. Tom slipped far enough downhill that he never asked about it. It was an orderly and abrupt shutdown. The help was notified and paid off. A crew from the distillery came over with plywood, hasps, and locks, and sealed the place up. The televisions were not worth salvaging, and the thought of salvaging any of the furniture never even arose. In the ten years the place had been boarded up, there had been some break-ins, for partying purposes mostly, animals had found ways in for nesting, and rain and snow melt had found every way possible to get inside. Miraculously, no one had set fire to the place, accidentally or on purpose.

Marcus and Grayson stepped into the semi-dark room. Dust swirled in the shaft of sunlight that came through the door. Parts of the ceiling were sagging from the effects of the roof leaks. Some of the ceiling had given away and fallen to the floor. Grayson looked at the conditions and turned to Marcus.

“Look, if you don’t mind, I’m just going to cut a square of the carpet out instead of messing around with tweezers,” he said.

“I agree,” Marcus said, looking around the ruined room. “That would be the easiest way.”

Grayson got out his pocket knife, thankful that he kept a decent edge on the big blade. He found a spot of carpet between the foot of the bed and the credenza and knelt to cut a four-inch swatch of carpet. When he pulled it loose, he noticed a second layer of carpet underneath and cut a swatch of that one also. Beneath the second layer of carpet was concrete slab. He placed the two carpet samples in separate bags and went outside into the light to properly label them, then seal the bags. He now, officially, was required to keep the two bags in his direct possession until he logged them in to the evidence room.

“You need anything else in here?” Marcus asked from the door.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like just another minute in there,” Grayson said as he stepped back through the door. “I think a murder happened here and that, someday, I’ll be prosecuting someone for that murder. I just want to get a feel for it.”

He stood in the spot where he had removed the carpet samples and turned in a full circle. He touched the edge of the credenza, the top of the TV, the edge of the bed, still covered with a plaid spread. He stepped over and glanced into the bathroom. Then he turned and headed for the door, brushing his hands against each other to get the dust off.

Marcus had waited outside the room while Grayson completed his look around. When he returned, Marcus pulled the door to and replaced the lock. The two men headed around the end of the building to the front. As they reached the cars, a cell phone rang. The tones were similar to both men’s phones, and each man reached for a pocket. It was Grayson’s phone.

“Great, Shelby,” he said, after listening for a moment. “If the sheriff doesn’t mind, I think we’ll just keep using that jail cell for all the evidence. I’ll get a log set up for it back at the office.”  He listened for another minute, then said, “Fine. Now see what you can find out for me about the people on the old motorcycle. Did Cooper tell you anything more? Okay, just nose around, see what you can find out.” He flipped the phone closed.

“I couldn’t help hearing,” Marcus said. “You’re looking for someone on an old motorcycle?”

“Yes. Some mystery couple that seem to know something about the case. They keep popping up,” Grayson said.

“I’ve met them, or at least one of them,” Marcus said.

Grayson stopped, place the evidence bags on the hood of the car. “Who are they? What can you tell me about them?”

“Not much. He came by on Tuesday, I think, asking about old employees, people who would have been here when the barrel was . . .you know, filled,” Marcus told him. “In fact, I know I specifically mentioned Cooper, and I just heard you mention him. I can’t recall his name right off, but I do have his card somewhere in the office.”

“If I send my detective out there right now, is there someone who could find it and give him the information?” Grayson asked.

“Sure,” Marcus said and thought for a moment. “Tell you what—have your detective go by the restaurant and ask for Tim—he’s my partner. I know I remember this guy giving a card to both of us, and Tim keeps cards and never misplaces them. Tell him to ask for Tim at the front, probably better, at the bar. That’s where he stands to watch the dining room.”

Grayson dialed Shelby Logan, and Marcus dialed the number at the restaurant and asked for Tim. They both conveyed their messages and hung up.

“About the motel,” Grayson started to say.

“I know,” Marcus interrupted. “It’s an attractive nuisance, or something like that. I’m sure there’s some liability concerns. I’m going to make arrangements to have it torn down.”

“That’s just it,” Grayson said. “I would prefer that you not, until this thing is over. I can make that official, if you’re worried about the liability.”

“Now that I’ve seen it, I am,” Marcus said.

“Fine. I’ll get you an official letter saying that it is a critical part of an ongoing investigation, something like that,” Grayson said.

“So,” Marcus asked, “who’s the accused?”

Todd Grayson was thirty-six years old. His hair was in the same short, flat-top style he had been sporting since high school, with a little baldness beginning to take over the center of his head. He wore a short-sleeve white shirt with button-down collar and a dark, thin necktie. His glasses were dark-framed and, for the first time this year, held bifocals, the new kind without the tell-tale line. He was sitting up straight in the chair behind his desk, twiddling a pencil as he looked from face to face at the three men sitting across from him. The door to the office was closed, sealing out most of the noisy bustle in the outer office. The windows were open, letting in the fresh September breeze, and an occasional small gust would ripple the venetian blinds.

“So, counselor,” he finally said, addressing the man on the left side of the seated group, ”your client is here today to make a statement, and the statement he wishes to make could—in fact, will—incriminate him. Is that correct?”

George Elliot, the lawyer from Cooper’s church, who had agreed to represent him, nodded his head a few times, then cleared his voice and said, “That’s right, Todd.”

“Is this about an open case, something our office is already handling?” Grayson, Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney for Hardin County, asked.

“I’m pretty sure not,” Elliot replied. “It’s about that body they found in a barrel over at the old Aldergast Distillery.”

“But, that’s in Nelson County. You should be talking to. . . .”

Cooper interrupted. “Maybe I can make things go a bit easier if I just talk for a minute.”

Grayson held up his hand in a stopping gesture. “Mr.  . . .uh,” he looked down at the notes on his desk, “Mr. Dowdell, I think it would be better if your attorney and I do the talking for now.”

Bardstown and Elizabethtown were less than thirty miles apart, yet they were entirely separate communities. Cooper, known and beloved by many in the one town, was unknown in the other.

“Well, yes, sir,” Cooper continued slowly, “I reckon you would think that. What I have to talk through is why we are sitting here and not over in Bardstown. Everything I need to say as a statement is all written out, in my own hand, and ready to turn over to you.”

“That’s right, Todd,” Elliot said, opening his brief case and pulling out a document. “It’s all written out, signed, initialed and witnessed. At this point, nothing Cooper has to say can put him in additional jeopardy, and it won’t compromise you.”

Elliot offered the document, and Grayson reached across his desk and took it. He flipped through, checking the length, then turned to the three men.

“George, can you all give me fifteen minutes to read through this, then come back in and we’ll talk?”

“That sounds good,” Elliot replied.

“Is there someplace I can smoke?” Cooper asked.

Elliot stood. “I’ll show you, Coop,” he said and proceeded to usher the two men out of the office and down the corridor to the back door.

Fifteen minutes and three and a half cigarettes later, Grayson appeared at the door and gestured them back in. They followed him back to his office and sat down as he closed the door and returned to his seat. He leaned forward and placed his hands together on the desk, fingers steepled.

“Okay, why Hardin County?” he asked.

“Mr. Grayson,” Cooper said, “I don’t feel real comfortable over there, just at this moment. You noted that I named some names in my statement?”

“Yeah, this guy . . .” Grayson started to say and Cooper stopped him.

“Can you wait?” he said, then turned to Brother Samuels. “Joe, this is the part I’d rather you didn’t hear, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, Coop. I’ll just wait out front,” Samuels said, rising to leave.

“It’s because it’s dangerous, Joe,” Cooper added.

“I know. I know. Don’t worry about it,” Samuels said as he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” Grayson asked. “I mean, I know this Fuller guy was old Tom’s henchman, but Tom is dead and Fuller is retired. I don’t see how there’s any real danger.”

“Sometime early Thursday morning, Cooper’s trailer burned to the ground. He was staying with us and left his truck there, so it would have looked like he was home,” Elliot said.

“Arson?” Clayton asked quickly.

“Who knows?” Elliot answered.

“Well, the investigation . . .” Grayson started to say, then looked at the two men. “You mean, there’s no investigation?”

“Not so far as I could find out,” Elliot answered. “And, turns out Fuller was trying to spread a story about Cooper being drunk and smoking in bed. Fellows over to the co-op were saying you could see the color drain from his face when somebody spread the word that Coop wasn’t even there at the time of the fire.”

“And you think that . . .” Grayson started to say and was stopped by Cooper, again.

“Mr. Grayson, I’m not here about that. I’m here about what’s in those pieces of paper you just read. Now, I think you can see that having the place I have slept every night for the past fifteen years suddenly catch fire could make a fellow uncomfortable—even without making accusations. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do,” he answered.

“Now, George and I figure that little girl was murdered and that the murder happened right there in room forty-five of The Dixie Motel, and that puts it right smack in Hardin County.”

“Jesus, room forty-five,” Grayson whispered. He had heard of the place from some of the old timers. It was the stuff of legend. Fortunately, the place was already defunct and boarded up before Grayson and his boss, the Commonwealth’s Attorney, occupied the offices in the courthouse. Campaigning on a ‘clean sweep’ platform makes it real difficult to overlook things like room forty-five.

“So, technically, Todd,” Elliot continued, “the case belongs with you anyway, no matter where the body was discovered.”

“You’re right, technically,” Grayson agreed. He picked up his phone and pressed a button. “Mrs. Henderson, can you check with Frankfort and find out where the case on that girl they found in the whisky barrel is? Thanks.” He turned back to the two men. “It may not even be a case yet. That’ll be easier than having to reassign it.” Grayson looked down at the hand-written statement, lifted a page, then another.

“Well, Mr. Dowdell, what are your plans?” Grayson asked Cooper. The question caught Cooper off guard.

“My plans?” he said. “I suppose I thought . . .” Cooper stopped and turned to his lawyer.

“I believe we thought it would be up to you, Todd,” Elliot said. “What are your plans?”

“Well, let’s see,” Grayson began. “I have an unsupported statement here that appears to be a confession to, let’s say, obstruction of justice. It names Calvin Fuller as a participant, so things could turn into conspiracy to obstruct justice. This all assumes the girl was dead before she got put in the barrel, and that depends on the medical examiner. I have no established case yet. That may change in the next hour or two—in fact, I’m sure it will. I have Mr. Dowdell who, in addition to being a suspect, based on his own statement, is also a material witness. I have reason to believe he feels threatened, so I am responsible for  insuring that he will be present not only to face charges but also to testify. That means that I have to assure that he won’t flee prosecution and that no one is able to tamper with him. With me so far?”

Cooper nodded his head. He appreciated the quickness and intelligence this lawyer was showing. His decision to approach him, a decision his own lawyer had resisted, was turning out to be right.

“Seems to me,” Grayson continued, “that incarceration is unnecessary and, God knows, it would be uncomfortable. I take it, Mr. Dowdell, that you have no intent to flee prosecution.”

“No, sir,” Cooper answered, “I do not.”

“Good. You see, in order to place you in custody, I would need to make things a little more public than I want them to be right now. A warrant is a public document. The thing is, this license plate you saw on the white Chevy that night, you’re absolutely sure you saw it right?” Cooper nodded. “And do you have any idea who would have been driving with a plate that said GRAVES?”

“Yes, I do,” Cooper answered, “and I hate to admit it, but since that night, I have not once been able to bring myself to vote. Not once.”

“Right. So, I assume you asked Brother Samuels to step out because he doesn’t know about the plate,” Grayson continued.

“Joe knows only what I told him and those other two the day I decided to talk,” Cooper said. “I didn’t name names, on purpose, and I didn’t mention the plate.”

“Other two?” Grayson asked. “What other two?”

“I can’t exactly say,” Cooper said.

“George, what is this? Did you know about this?” He turned to Cooper. “What do you mean, you can’t say?”

“Mr. Grayson,” Cooper said, speaking softly, “I’ve been carrying this thing around for more than twenty years. I just never could find the gumption to say anything. All of the stuff they were doing out there about the old whisky barrels, it just made it worse. Then they opened that barrel and found her. I still didn’t say anything. Then last Tuesday, over at Jake Keith’s, this fellow comes in looking for me, and I knew he knew. Don’t ask me how, I just knew. I’d seen him at the tent during the festival, him and his wife. So, I said to myself ‘This is it’ and I told him to meet me out at the place next day. Then I called Brother Samuels and asked him to come out. So, that’s who was there when I finally managed to talk.”

“But, who were they?” Grayson asked.

“You know, I just don’t know,” Cooper answered. “I can give you a description of them. I can tell you they were driving an old motorcycle with a sidecar. I can tell you that my gut says they’re not a problem.”

Grayson was dumbstruck. He sat and looked back and forth between Cooper and Elliot.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Grayson,” Cooper continued, “I think there’s more important stuff to do. The original whisky barrel is sitting out there in the cellar, not even a lock on the door. Don’t you think we maybe ought to go get it?”

Grayson nodded and picked up his phone and punched a button. “Mrs. Henderson, can you check the schedule on the commonwealth’s detectives, tell me who’s available.”

He hung up the phone. “I can use one of our own detectives, if one’s available, and not have to widen the circle of people who know. So, is there anybody else, anybody that you’ve told?”

“No sir, just Joe and those two, and they don’t know all of it. I even asked Joe not to include his wife for the time being.”

The intercom buzzed and Grayson picked up the phone, listened and made a couple of notes. “Good,” he said, “thank you. Could you reach him and ask him to come see me, and ask the gentleman who’s waiting out there to come in. Thanks, Mrs. Henderson.” He hung up the phone.

“I’m going to ask you to accompany the detective to your place and give him formal permission to enter it and seize the barrel,” Grayson said to Cooper. “Is that okay with you?”  Cooper nodded. “That way, everything is legal, and I don’t have to go for a warrant.” Brother Samuels knocked, then entered. Behind him, Mrs. Henderson poked her head in.

“Shelby Logan is on his way, says it’ll be about fifteen minutes.” She ducked back out and closed the office door.

“Are you going to stay with the Samuels?” Grayson asked.

“Well, no. I wouldn’t feel right about that,” Cooper answered.

“I’ve made some arrangements that I know will be safe for Cooper,” Joe Samuels said, “and he won’t have to leave the area. Unless you insist, we’d like to keep them secret for now. Even George won’t know. You can always reach me, I carry a beeper, and I’ll be able to get to Cooper almost instantly.”

“In the area?” Grayson asked.

“Definitely,” Samuels responded.

“Okay. I’ll talk to Logan for a minute when he gets here, then you all can go get the barrel. I’ve got some phone work to do, tracking down the file and the medical examiner. George, I suggest you contact me first thing Monday and I’ll let you know where things stand.”

“I’ll do that,” Elliot replied.

“Mr. Dowdell,” Grayson turned to Cooper, “you keep yourself safe and, please, don’t talk to anybody.”

Cooper just nodded. He knew that Joe Samuels had made some churchly contacts, and he was about to spend some time with the Trappists, and he had heard that they all took a vow of silence.

Fuller resented the very idea that he no longer had a crew of henchmen he could call on for small assignments. That went away when he retired from the distillery. Oh, there were people he could reach out for, people who owed favors and who could have handled tonight’s little piece of business. Fuller simply didn’t want the circle of knowledge to be wide on this. Cooper, damn him, he’d managed to ingratiate himself with everybody in the county. He was well-loved, highly regarded, and Fuller would have to go well outside the area to find someone he could safely assign this little duty. So, here he was, creeping along the back road that led to Cooper’s place at three in the morning.

He was driving an old pickup that he kept around. It was, he hoped, undistinguished and unnoticeable. He had skirted town rather than cut straight through and, so far, he had seen no one. Now that he was on the old road to Cooper’s, he knew he wouldn’t see anyone—there was absolutely no reason for anyone to be out this way; there was nothing out here.

Fuller calculated that old Cooper would be sleeping off a snootful of beer. He made the assumption on flawed reasoning: namely, that someone who spent every afternoon and evening sitting in the same beer joint was guzzling beer. He assumed that Cooper was just another old drunk. He had to assume this because he didn’t actually know Cooper.

Starting right after the night he had worked on the clean-up job with him, Cooper had avoided Fuller. Then, with the consolidation of the barrel-making operation, Cooper had no longer worked for Aldergast and was not around the company grounds. So, for all practical purposes, Cooper was a stranger to Fuller, and Fuller was making the mistake of assuming that he knew him.

Fuller eased the truck off the road at a field entrance about a hundred yards from the pull-off where Cooper’s trailer sat. The old truck he was driving would blend into the surroundings and look perfectly normal parked there, if anyone were to happen by. No one did. Fuller grabbed an armful of old quilts and blankets and a packet of flattened cardboard boxes from the back of his truck and started up the road toward Cooper’s place.

Cooper was the only loose end that could lead an investigation of the body in the barrel to anything worth knowing. Agnes knew, but she wasn’t a loose end. Besides, all of the other stuff that she knew could cause a lot of people a lot of trouble. She had been around for years, first working for old Tom Aldergast, then moving over, at Mister Tom’s request, to head up the office operations for the new Congressman—“keep an eye on my investment,” old Mr. Tom would say. Agnes was fireproof.

House trailers, on the other hand, were not fireproof. People thought they were built of metal and supposedly fairly immune to flames. Fact is, they are mostly wood frame, pressboard, and synthetic laminates. Get a fire going in one of them, and the fumes from the plastics and the synthetic carpet would do you in way before the actual fire got you.

Fuller figured that setting the fire beneath the trailer and using old scrap material would provide enough cover. Once the fire got a hold, the whole place would go up, and there wouldn’t be enough left to determine where it started. Not that anyone would be looking real close — Fuller would see to that. Then he would judiciously drop the observation that old drunks shouldn’t smoke in bed—he would mention it down at the cafe during breakfast and over at the co-op. That should do the trick.

There were no lights on at the trailer when he got there. Cooper’s pickup was parked in its usual spot, and everything looked normal—peaceful and quiet. Fuller walked softly along the end of the trailer, looking for a spot where there would be a gap in the skirting. He found it lined up with what looked like bathroom windows, smaller windows set higher in the structure to restrict the view. He stood still for a long time, listening for any sound that might indicate that the resident of the trailer was awake. He heard nothing.

Fuller set the blanketing and cardboard down, then got on his knees next to the opening. He used a small mag-lite to check under the trailer and found that there was already an accumulation of stuff under there — wooden baskets, the gardening kind, nested five and six deep, wood-handled tools, cardboard peck-sized baskets, the kind with the thin wooden handles bent in an arc and stapled in place.  All good.

He dragged the materials he had brought into the opening and shoved them into the heart of the accumulated junk. Then he used a disposable lighter to get a flame going on one edge of the cardboard. When the flame was going well enough to sustain itself, he eased the cardboard piece into the middle of the pile beneath the trailer, watching to make sure the flame was still alive. It was not only alive, it was spreading quickly.

Fuller tossed the disposable lighter into the materials, scrambled to his feet and moved quickly back to the road, heading for his truck. He didn’t want to be out on the road if somebody spotted the fire. He was amazed, and a little gratified, at how fast the flames had caught. His scheme seemed to be working out just fine.

As Fuller reversed his direction and pulled out onto the road, keeping his headlights off, there was still no sign of the fire in his rearview mirror. He hesitated and considered reversing down the road to take a closer look, then thought better of it. Then, he caught a glimpse of smoke, curling into the sky, undisturbed with no breeze stirring. He felt better and pulled away, in the direction of home. It would still take him nearly an hour to get there, using the side roads. He wanted to be up early, taking his breakfast at the cafe. He wanted to be there when the news broke, and he wanted to be ready to sow his little seeds of rational explanation for the fire.

<<<   >>>

Just as Fuller had planned, the trailer caught and burned furiously. The disposable lighter exploded with a small poof, barely noticeable. Later, as the fire reached its peak, the propane gas cylinders went with a much more spectacular display of sound and light. By sunrise, the entire structure had been reduced to charred, smoking ruins. The sinks and the bathtub had not survived, being manufactured from a light-weight miracle substance. The toilet survived, in three large but recognizable pieces. The scorched outside of the refrigerator was recognizable, and, of course, the axles and wheels and the towing tongue on what had been the front of the trailer.

The fire had scorched the paint on Cooper’s truck but it had not caught the truck on fire. The utility pole, next to the trailer, had burned and fallen across the hood of the truck, taking the security light down with it. The single phase feed from the pole that had supplied power to the old house and to the well pump had gone down with the pole and shorted out, which is why the pump was not pushing water through the fractured pipes under the charred mess.

By eight in the morning, there had still been not a single car or truck past the site. What smoke was left was squirting out in small, insignificant puffs. Since the shorted electrical feed had opened a large circuit breaker up on a pole, the trouble-shooter from the RECC would be by at some point to check on it. For now, with no one calling to complain, the open breaker was not a high priority.

A 1954 Farmall Model Super C has a fourth gear, what the farmers call ‘road gear.’ In road gear at full throttle, it can reach a speed slightly faster than a flat-out run for a human being. Harvey never used road gear. On the chip-and-seal roads he mostly drove, the tractor was a little hard to handle at speed. The front tires were really only one, even though there were two of them — they were set so close together that the effect was like a tricycle. Any kind of force in the wrong direction against one of those front wheels could set the steering wheel spinning in a bone-breaking whirl. Harvey had experienced that more than once, one time even ending up in a cast for a few weeks.

Harvey was heading for the field today in third gear at half throttle. A person in reasonable shape would be able to walk beside the tractor at that speed. A person in very good shape could walk along and maintain a conversation. The tractor pretty much ran itself at that speed. Harvey was touching the steering wheel with the side of one knee, just to steady it, and cupping his hands to light a cigarette, when he first sighted the remains of Cooper’s trailer.

A tractor doesn’t have a gas pedal; it has a throttle lever. The lever is not spring-loaded. One just puts it at the speed desired, and it stays there until moved by hand. Harvey, who at that time of the morning was moving slower, even, than the tractor, spied the charred remains of the trailer over the top edge of his cupped hands. He did light the cigarette and blew the match out, a habit that saved him, on this occasion, from a burned finger. Then his eyes riveted on the disturbing scene. His cupped hands still in front of his face, he swiveled on the seat to keep the spot in view as the tractor proceeded past it. When he was facing almost directly to the rear of the tractor, he woke up, spun around and jabbed the clutch and the brakes. The tractor stopped instantly. He shifted to reverse and popped the clutch, watching the burned-out site as he brought the tractor parallel with Cooper’s truck. He reached over and killed the ignition and stepped down, leaving the tractor sitting in the middle of the road.

First he peered into the truck, through the driver’s side window, and found no one and nothing there. Then he slowly circled the burned out remains of the trailer, looking for and not wanting to see evidence of a burned body. He had no idea if any recognizable part of a human body would have survived a fire like this one must have been, but he had to look. He circled the spot once, slowly, and was relieved that he saw nothing that looked like a human body. Completing the circle, he headed back to the tractor and climbed aboard.

Harvey didn’t carry a cell phone. Harvey, in fact, didn’t even know anyone who carried a cell phone, had never seen one in real life, never touched or held one. Harvey knew he needed to call somebody about what he had discovered, but it didn’t look like an emergency, exactly. There was nothing to do, no fire to put out, no lives to save. So, Harvey made a practical decision. If he had turned around and headed home, he could have called within ten minutes. But then, he would have to retrace his route and, when the phone call was over, he’d be that far from the field he needed to work that day. If he continued in the direction he was headed, he’d reach a phone in about twenty minutes. But, when the phone call was done, he would only have to retrace about five minutes of his route to get to the field. Harvey chose the latter. He started the tractor, put it in third gear, not road gear, engaged the clutch, and moved the throttle lever to half power.

>>>   <<<

Calvin Fuller did not enjoy his breakfast. He was impatiently waiting for someone to arrive and announce the sad news, the demise of the beloved Cooper in a trailer fire of his own making…at least, that was the contribution Fuller intended to make. First the sheriff came in for breakfast and sat down right next to Fuller at the counter. Nothing. Then the head of the volunteer fire company, a local equipment dealer, stopped in for a coffee. Still nothing.

“Those folks you asked about,” the sheriff said quietly to Fuller as he used a piece of toast to sop up the egg yolk on his plate, “the ones with the motorcycle?”

“Yeah,” Fuller responded.

“They were staying out to the KOA, Bernie says. I’ll follow up today and maybe place a call,” he continued, simultaneously chewing the yolk-soaked toast. “Let you know if there’s anything.”

“I appreciate it,” Fuller replied.

“Hey, sheriff,” the waitress called from the back of the cafe, “someone on the phone for you.” She was holding the receiver from the black wall phone out.

The sheriff stood up with a grunt and made his way to the back of the space, took the phone, and then listened. After a minute, he hung the phone up and walked toward the cash register.

“Gotta go, hon,” he said to the counter waitress. He turned to the fireman. “George, you might want in on this. Harvey Miller just called in, said old Cooper’s place, the trailer, is burnt to the ground. Said he couldn’t tell if Cooper was, you know, there in the ashes.”

Fuller couldn’t wait. He jumped at the opportunity to get his two cents heard: “Guess that’s what happens when an old boozehound smokes in bed,” he said.

The sheriff, the fire chief, and the waitress all looked at him a little strange. They all knew Cooper, knew he wasn’t a boozehound, and sincerely hoped nothing had happened to him. Fuller’s comment fell with an almost audible thud in the silence.

The sheriff and the fire chief left, got in their separate cars, and headed out. As he was pulling away, the sheriff was on the radio. So was the fire chief. Fuller sat for a minute, then put some money on the counter and walked out to his car. He was telling himself that he had at least thrown a little doubt on the thing, a little bit of wondering.

>>>   <<<

“Anybody have any idea which end of this thing he slept in?” one of the firemen, rake in hand, asked the assembled group. Two men were there in a fire department utility truck — no need for fire fighting equipment. A deputy sheriff was there, along with the sheriff and the chief.

“No idea,” the sheriff said.

“Okay,” the man with the rake said. “I’ll just start at this end, see what we can find.”

The fire chief walked over to the sheriff. “Takes a fierce fire to completely destroy a human body, you know,” he said. “I’m thinking nobody was home, even though the truck is here.”

“I’ll get the office to track down Jake Keith, find out what time Cooper left the JollyO last night,” the sheriff said. “Maybe that’ll help.”

The man with the rake and his helper had raked through half of the trailer site when the call came back to the sheriff.  “Jake Keith says Cooper wasn’t in at all yesterday. Says he doesn’t know where he is,” the voice on the radio reported. The sheriff looked at the chief to make sure he had heard. Then he lifted his hat and scratched his head.

“Something’s not right, here,” he commented to no one in particular. The men continued to rake the charred debris, hoping they wouldn’t find anything, praying for a wild goose chase.

The distinctive gray Kentucky State Trooper patrol car drove slowly to the site of the trailer fire. All of the other vehicles were using or blocking access to the off-the road parking areas, so the driver of the patrol car simply stopped it in the middle of the road and switched on his light bar. The trooper stepped out of his car, hauling his hat behind him and putting it on after he straightened up. He walked over to the three men who were not raking, the sheriff, the deputy and the fire chief.

“Hey, Bill,” the trooper said, addressing the sheriff, “what you got here?”

“We got old Cooper’s trailer burnt to the ground sometime last night,” the sheriff responded. He was cool to the trooper. Too many times in the past, the home county law enforcement activities had been scrutinized and called into question by the troopers. “We’re just hoping that Cooper isn’t part of that bed of ashes there. So far, nothing’s turned up.”

“Cooper, huh?” the trooper said, “he’s not there.” The trooper nodded toward the fire site.

“What do you mean?” the sheriff, Bill, asked.

“Cooper was over at the barracks earlier this morning, him and his lawyer,” the trooper said. “They were making some kind of arrangements with the Colonel about seeing the Commonwealth’s Attorney. Something about that body in the barrel last week.”

“You don’t say,” the sheriff mused. The chief walked over to where the two men were raking and called them off. They smiled as they stepped out of the debris field and headed for the truck with their tools. They loaded up and got in the truck. Before they could leave, the trooper had to move his car, so everyone decided there was nothing more to do and within five minutes, the site was abandoned. No yellow crime scene tape. No signs. No guard. Just a burned spot beside the road that would be completely grown over by late spring.

Harlan and Gloria spent the rest of the day at the KOA, mostly sitting and staring off into space. The scene that morning—the way in which the confession had unfolded—had left them both speechless. The ride back had been silent. Neither of them had eaten anything like lunch—a banana, a yogurt , but no lunch per se. Gloria had retreated to her loft for a nap, a nap that wouldn’t happen. Harlan had strolled—wandered aimlessly, actually—around the grounds of the KOA. Both of them were replaying the mental tape of Cooper’s monologue endlessly, and both were dealing with their serious concerns about shlocking out in the real world.

Harlan knew that once they broke through and started talking about the things they had witnessed, the cloud of malaise would lift, a little at a time. He also knew that it wasn’t time to do that yet. He had long ago appropriated a phrase from Stranger in a Strange Land: ‘when the waiting is full,’ and he knew that it was not yet full. It was fortunate for their domestic tranquility that Gloria was in the same cloud. Those times when they were not in sync, when Gloria was ready to close out on something and move on and Harlan was not, the simple phrase ‘when the waiting is full’ was enough to send her ballistic.

“Let me tell you about full,” she’d start. “You’re full. Waiting is full, my sweet ass.”

Not this time. In fact, this time, for the first time, really, Gloria was finding a certain appreciation for the phrase. She knew she wasn’t ready to move forward, and she was seeing that nothing, short of waiting, would make a difference. Gloria began to get a glimmer of understanding about waiting and also could see that it was not a comfortable place to be. Maybe next time Harlan mentioned it, she’d be a little less quick to react…maybe.

They were not due at Fritz’s house for dinner until seven. Without speaking about it, with no signals passed, at five, both were ready to head into the city. Harlan selected two bottles of his home brew and wrapped them carefully so they wouldn’t bounce around in the little luggage compartment. Gloria put the map and instructions under the map strap on the tank of the motorcycle — all in complete silence. Harlan stepped back out of the RV, saw Gloria putting on her helmet, and pulled the door closed and locked it. Gloria climbed into the sidecar and settled in. Harlan mounted the motorcycle, kicked the engine into life, and they were gone.

They followed the same route they had used the first day in town: along I-Sixty-five into the downtown area, then exiting before getting caught up in the cross-river traffic and ending up in Indiana. Traffic was heavy in both directions, and they took it slow and easy—right-hand lane as much as possible. They exited and found themselves in the same area Harlan had seen on the first day, near the campus of the University.

Fritz lived in an area known as Old Louisville. It was a charming section of the city, built between 1850 and 1900. Construction had been primarily stone and brick, and the houses had withstood the ravages of time and of being a ‘declining’ neighborhood from time to time. Most of the urban mansions had served time at some point as boarding houses, then as University student apartments. None, fortunately, had ever been abandoned to nefarious uses, crack house or the like.

Louisville was an old river town. Just like there was money in whisky and money in tobacco, there was money in shipping, and that was the money that had built Old Louisville. The architectural mix was eclectic—Victorian Gothic, Italianate, Chateauesque, to name only a few of the mix of styles. At the present time, the area was revitalized and houses were choice prizes, rarely available and never inexpensive. Fritz had, indeed, been fortunate, as he already mentioned to Bobbie, to buy his house when he did for the price he did.

Fritz lived in a Richardsonian Romanesque mansion on Belgravia Court. It was massive, with heavy rounded arches at the doors and the windows. Even better, it faced onto Belgravia Court, which was a non-vehicular court, a walking court. The landscaping and the old sculptures and gates and fountains were delightful, almost like something from a fantasy.

Harlan and Gloria motored along St. James Court, as instructed, and spotted Bobbie’s Nash Metropolitan parked at the curb before they had seen the Belgravia Court sign. The pulled in just in front of her little car and parked. As they wandered up the court, Harlan carrying the two bottles of beer, they spotted Bobbie sitting on the front steps of the mansion. She was staring off into space, just like the two of them had been doing all afternoon.

“Thought we were early,” Harlan said as the reached the steps and sat, “then thought we were late when I saw your car. Seems we’re all early.”

Bobbie surveyed their faces. “Looks like you had something of a day.”

“I’d say that was accurate,” Harlan responded. “Looks like you didn’t exactly take a walk in the park either.” Gloria just sat down, didn’t say anything.

“I guess we’ll just wait ‘til we’re all present to start,” Bobbie said, after a pause.

“This place is unbelievable,” Gloria said, breaking her silence. “Harlan, look at these buildings. They’re like . . .I don’t know.”

Bobbie smiled a little. “That’s the first reaction of everyone I’ve ever brought here,” Bobbie said, “and you can understand why I think I hate Fritz for having this place. If you could even find one of these places for sale now, you’d have to be rich as Croesus to buy it.”

After a minute, Harlan spoke again. “Did you get your interview?” he asked Bobbie.

“Oh, yeah. I sure did,” Bobbie answered, nodding her head. “You all get yours?”

“And then some,” Gloria said, joining in.

Another period of silence.

“Is it over?” Bobbie asked. “If Fritz confirms the identity, can you . . .you know. . . I don’t know how to say it.”

“Can we walk away satisfied with winning another mental exercise?” Harlan said.

“Well, yeah,” Bobbie said.

“Not an easy question,” Harlan said.

“Not easy and definitely not simple,” Gloria added. “Part of the answer is a simple no—no, we can’t walk away. God knows, it would feel safer. Wish we could. Go home, watch the news, stay ahead of the experts, win the game.”

“And occasionally declare that they all have shit for brains,” Harlan added.

Gloria glanced at Harlan. That was her phrase. The silence moved back in. It was broken by the sound of the front door opening.

“My God, how long have you guys been out here?” Fritz asked. “Ever hear of a doorbell?”

“I tried it earlier, when I got here,” Bobbie replied. “How did you . . .”

“You have heard of back doors?” Fritz answered with a smile. “Come on in.” They moved to follow Fritz. “I almost never use the front door. Keep the bike out in the carriage house and go in and out from there.”

They followed Fritz into the house and down a long central hall to the kitchen. It was enormous.

“Oh my God, would you look at this,” Gloria blurted.

“Yeah,” Fritz said sheepishly, “Welcome to my one true passion.”

Bobbie walked into the room without hesitation, walking along the side of the kitchen where the stoves were arrayed, trailing her fingers over surfaces and taking it all in. Harlan set the bottles of beer on a stainless steel work surface and stood in one spot and turned in a circle.

“Guided tour will definitely occur,” Fritz continued, “but, first, what can I offer anyone in the way of a drink? I’ve got beer, wine, sweet tea, hard stuff. Just name it.”

“I’ll take a beer, “ Harlan said, “and you can put these away for some other time. They’re a little something I make at home.”

“Great,” Fritz said, gathering the two bottles and moving to the large, Sub-zero commercial refrigerator. He placed the two bottles inside and pulled out a beer and handed it to Harlan. “What about you two?”

“Wine for me,” Bobbie said as she continued her tour.

“I’ll just have water for now,” Gloria said.

Fritz saw to the drinks, pulled a cheese tray out of the refrigerator, grabbed himself a beer, and they all gathered in the group of lounge chairs that occupied one corner of the vast yet still cozy kitchen space. It looked and felt more like a gathering room, the heart of the house that so many older, larger homes used to have.

“All right,” Gloria said, “where do we start?”

Fritz held up his hand in a halt gesture.

“This is a little delicate,” he said, and turned to face Bobbie. “You are a member of the press, officially, and some of what I know from today I cannot, officially, say to a member of the press.”

Bobbie echoed Fritz’s halt gesture.

“Here’s the deal,” she started, “I am clearly on the job right now. But the job I am on is as a feature writer, not a headlines grabber. So “off the record” doesn’t work in this case because I intend to use what we are doing in a story or stories yet to be written. So, I offer this to you, Fritz. I will not take any information gained through our association public unless and until you say it has already been released officially. Does that satisfy your concerns?”

Fritz pondered for a moment, then reached across and held out his hand to Bobbie. “I say we have a deal,” he said.

“Me, too,” Bobbie said, shaking his hand. “As for you two,” Bobbie went on, looking at Harlan, then Gloria, “you are officially warned by this reporter that she is on the job.”

“Fine by me,” Harlan said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Same here,” Gloria added, “and back to my previous question: Where do we start?”

“Well, I can start,” Fritz offered. “Dental and fingerprints confirm that the body in the barrel was Sarajane Lewis. My colleague was completing the paperwork when I left, and she will forward it to the authorities. My guess is that someone from Frankfort will probably contact the family tomorrow morning.”

“What about cause of death?” Bobbie asked.

“Can’t tell yet. There was no obvious cause—no stab wound or gun shot. No caved-in head. Donna says she’ll be working the detailed analysis on the head and neck tomorrow. Oh, and confirming, she was dead before she went into the barrel, and, Gloria, the inside of the barrel was not charred.”

Gloria nodded.

“Okay, so that’s done,” Bobbie said.

“Not quite,” Fritz said quickly. “Sarajane was pregnant.”

“Any chance for DNA?” Bobbie asked quickly.

“Donna thinks so. She’s also, or rather, our forensic guy, Sharpton, is putting everything through a fine filter — the insides of the barrel, the clothing, the whisky itself. It’s just possible that stuff will show up in that analysis.”

“Why DNA?” Gloria asked.

“Establish the paternity,” Bobbie answered.

“You think that will be important?” Harlan asked slowly.

Bobbie rolled her eyes and nodded vigorously.

“After what I heard today, it will be more than important, I would say. It will be critical and probably dangerous.”

Harlan nodded slowly. “So, what happened?”

“I would rather, if no one minds, wait a bit before I try to talk about it. I’m still trying to put the pieces in place. Could you guys, “ she indicated Harlan and Gloria, “could you go next?”

“Who needs a beer?” Fritz interjected. Harlan held his empty up. “Bobbie, don’t act like company. The wine bottle is right there. Gloria, you want anything?”

“No, I’m fine for now,” Gloria answered.

Fritz retrieved another beer for Harlan and one for himself. Bobbie poured herself another glass of wine. Gloria, who had been actively nibbling at the cheese, sipped some water.

“Anyone mind if I do some prep work while you’re telling your tale?” Fritz asked, moving toward the cooking part of the kitchen. “I did promise dinner, you recall.”

“That’s right,” Bobbie said. “What are we having?” Bobbie jumped up and walked to the non-business side of the prep area. Fritz was assembling knives and other tools and pulling some stuff from the refrigerator.

“Where did you get these knives?” Bobbie asked. “I have never seen anything like these, and I admit I have a certain weakness for kitchen gadgetry.”

“What, those?” Fritz responded. “They’re not from a kitchen store.”

Bobbie continued to look around the kitchen area, inspecting the pans and bowls and implements that were on display. Her eyes settled on a very non-kitchen-looking appliance in a far corner of the counter area.

“What the hell is that?” she said, pointing. Gloria got up and moved to where she could see what Bobbie was pointing to.

“I think that’s called an autoclave,” Gloria said. “You see them in doctors’ offices. They’re for sterilizing instruments.”

Harlan had not moved from his chair. He sat there, taking it all in, and began to smile.

“You might want to take an even closer look at that wonderful, self-draining stainless steel work surface while you’re at it,” Harlan added. Fritz caught his eye and grinned a little.

“Wait a minute,” Gloria blurted, her eyes widening as she checked out the table, the autoclave and some of the knives Bobbie had mentioned. “This stuff is . . .is . . .”

“It’s straight out of an autopsy room is what it is,” Bobbie finished the sentence.

Harlan was chuckling by now.

“Okay, I admit it,” Fritz said, holding his hands up. “When I find a good tool, I don’t worry about what it was intended to do. I just grab it. Like, you wouldn’t believe what the autoclave does for steamed rice.”

Gloria was just beginning to figure out the likely source and intended use for the stainless steel prep tables and her face showed it. Bobbie was picking up knives and examining them. She then found a stainless steel hammer. Harlan was laughing out loud.

“I promise,” Fritz hurried to say, “that everything in this kitchen came straight from the manufacturer—it has never, ever been used for its intended purpose.”

Gloria squared off on Fritz, hands on hips, arms akimbo.

“Buster, if you’re serving anything that even sounds like sweetbreads, I’m out of here.”

Harlan was now suffering a fit of uncontrollable laughter, the kind that makes no noise. He was holding his sides and tears were streaming down his face. It was infectious. First Bobbie, then Fritz and, finally, Gloria joined in. It was the release of tension that  they all needed desperately.

When they had all finally stopped laughing and had started the face wiping and the sighing, Fritz spoke up. “I am planning to show off my indoor cooking fireplace and serve you all a mixed grill along with a nice salad, some grilled vegetables, and smashed potatoes,” he said, speaking directly to Gloria.

“Right,” she said, “and what’s in the mix? Better not be any vital organs.”

“Medallions of beef, shrimp, Thai chicken thighs, and chunks of swordfish,” he replied.

“All right, then,” Gloria replied. “Now I’d love a gin and tonic, if you have it.”

Fritz gathered the mixings for the drink, grabbed a fresh lime from the refrigerator, and assembled Gloria’s drink. Then he started to work on the meal, dumping the small, new potatoes into a pot of water and putting it on the stove. The elements of the mixed grill were already marinated and skewered and the vegetables were ready for grilling.

“Guess I can start our recitation of the day’s activity,” Harlan offered. “When we got to Cooper’s place . . .” He proceeded to relate the story of Cooper’s confession and included, with the occasional addition from Gloria, as much of the detail as possible. Fritz quietly rinsed the salad greens and sliced and diced the various ingredients, never taking his eyes off Harlan for more than a second or two.

“Where is Cooper right now?” Bobbie asked when Harlan seemed to have finished

“At the preacher’s house, I guess,” Harlan answered. “They talked about a lawyer who is part of the church group, so I assume that they plan to approach the authorities with the story.”

“That is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever heard,” Fritz said. “Did you even suspect it was going to happen like that when you went out there?”

“You know, I’ve thought hard about that, and, no, I didn’t expect it,” Harlan said. “Completely off guard. I knew something was going to happen, but I never for a second pictured it like it did happen.”

“Me neither,” Gloria added.

“This means we have answered two questions — the name of the body and how the body got into the barrel,” Bobbie said.

“Right,” said Harlan, “back to our conversation out front. Could we walk away now, having found those answers?”

“I don’t see how,” Gloria answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “I got to tell you, today spooked me. Seeing that barrel down in the cellar and hearing about that girl’s body from someone who actually did it.  I really wish I could walk away.”

“I suppose you’re saying it’s not over until the culprit is identified and brought to justice,” Fritz chimed in.

“Well, yeah,” Gloria answered. “Could you walk away right now?”

“Probably not,” he admitted, “even though my work puts me in this type of situation a lot.”

“So, now,” Bobbie picked up the conversation, “the search moves to finding the perpetrator, right?”

Everyone nodded.

“Maybe my interview today can get us started in that direction,” Bobbie said as she poured another glass of wine. “Should I just go ahead or wait until after we eat or what?”

“Just go ahead,” Fritz said. “I’m about to start grilling, so if you guys can hang around over here, I’ll be able to hear it all.”

They all moved to the opposite side of the prep table. Harlan retrieved a beer from the refrigerator, found a convenient stool and settled in. Bobbie brought the open wine bottle from the lounge area and also found a stool.

“Okay, I have a small issue of sensitivity first,” Bobbie started. “What I heard today was deeply off the record. Technically, I feel I can justify telling you all, but I have to have your assurances that it goes no farther than this room.”

Everybody nodded. Fritz placed the tomatoes and peppers on the grill and checked the pot of potatoes.

“Sarajane Lewis lived in an apartment with a roommate she knew from school. They both went to UK together. The roommate, like Sarajane, was a Congressional intern. She was in a different office because she was from Indiana and worked for a Congressman from her state. When Sarajane was reported missing, the roommate was questioned briefly. She was able to tell the police that her roommate had gone home for the Easter break, was expected back on Easter Sunday — trying to beat the travel rush — and that she never showed up. In fact, the roommate was the one who first reported Sarajane missing.”

Fritz checked the vegetables, then moved them off to the side of the grate. He drained the potatoes, added a large dollop of butter to the pot, then covered it and set it aside. Then he pulled the foil cover off of the dish of marinated meat skewers and began to place them on the cooking grate. Harlan noticed that the smoke was venting directly up the chimney.

Bobbie walked over to the lounge chairs and retrieved her purse.

“God, I wish I could have a cigarette,” she exclaimed.

“It’s okay by me,” Fritz answered. “Ashtrays are stacked there beside the fireplace.”

Bobbie looked at him with an expression of gratitude, then dug out a cigarette and lit up. She stayed by the fireplace, slightly away from the group, so the smoke would go up the chimney.

“The roommate reported it,” Gloria summed up, “and then the questioning started?”

“Started and finished,” Bobbie replied. “One visit from the Maryland police—the apartment was in Bethesda—and then nothing, ever. She even tried to contact the local police in Elizabethtown at one point and was told they’d get back to her if anything turned up. They never did.”

“I guess that’s not so unbelievable,” Harlan said. “As far as we’ve been able to tell, there were no reports of foul play.”

“I don’t know,” Bobbie said, “it doesn’t feel right. No one picked up on it, not the officials, not the press—no one.”

“Was that it? Was that all your source had?” Gloria pushed.

“No, and this is where we get into the sensitive part,” Bobbie replied. “The whole seamy, steamy side of the Congressional Intern saga in Washington. My source is reluctant to talk about that for two reasons. She is not very proud of her behavior back then and wouldn’t want to see it paraded around today for her kids, for example, to read about. The other reason is slightly more sinister. There is a long-standing system of veiled threats and, according to my source, when you finish your stint in Washington, someone lets you know that talking about it would generate consequences.”

“Say what you will,” Fritz joined in, “I would not want anyone associated with Capitol Hill to have a reason to come after me.”

“Exactly,” Bobbie said. She finished her cigarette and moved back to the prep table with the rest of the group. “Anyway, my source admits that she did go along with the partying circuit, the sex and power trip. Her boss was not a participant. Sarajane’s boss was, with all four feet, if you will. According to her, the sex escapades spilled over into their apartment on more than a few occasions. She can name some interesting names from those experiences.”

“I bet she could,” Fritz chimed in. “Did she? Did she name names?”

Bobbie dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “Even if she had, it wouldn’t be germane to our story. What she did confide is that Sarajane’s boss, the Congressman, started to show up at their place regularly. When she asked Sarajane about it, she got evasive answers. See, these were long-time friends, all the way through college together. You can’t lie to a roomy like that and pull it off. So my source is saying that Sarajane was smitten and couldn’t admit it, out loud, because of how crazy and impossible it would be.”

“The roommate actually saw a Congressman in their apartment?” Fritz questioned.

“She saw many,” Bobbie went on, “and some of them were there because of her. The other thing is, the roommate thought and still thinks that Sarajane had gotten herself knocked up. Sarajane never admitted it, but roommates just know things like that.”

Fritz was plating the dinner, adding some of each mixed grill selection, along with a grilled tomato topped with buttered crumbs and oregano, grilled asparagus and a large mound of the smashed potatoes. When all four plates were ready, he indicated with a nod of his head that they should move to the table. Everyone sat, and there was silence while they all tasted a little of each of the delicacies on the plates. Then they dove in and ate.

Gloria was the first to slow her eating, set her fork down, and continue the conversation.

“This Congressman, the boss, who was he?” she asked.

“Not was, my dear,” Bobbie said, “is. Still there, twenty-two years of seniority, established and wielding some measure of power. The Honorable William Graves from the Commonwealth of Kentucky.”

“Okay,” Harlan joined in, “can we reconsider the response to the question: Can we walk away?” He was half-serious.

“I have a better idea,” Bobbie announced. “Let’s forgo any further substantive conversation for the evening—give it a rest. I know I’ve about had it.”

“I’m there with that,” Gloria said. Fritz and Harlan both nodded agreement.

“Then we can talk sometime tomorrow, after things settle,” Bobbie continued.

“Maybe we should hold off,” Fritz said, “wait for the autopsy information and, frankly, wait to see what happens with this Cooper guy.”

“About that, Fritz,” Harlan said, turning to face Fritz, “the autopsy—doesn’t someone have to request any special tests, like DNA. Isn’t there going to be some police officer somewhere assigned to the case?”

“Technically, Donna was acting as an official medical examiner when she did the post today and that carries the authority to pursue the tests,” Fritz answered. “At the same time, I guess there will have to be a detective or something assigned.”

“And my guess,” Bobbie added, “based on the coverage the case is already getting, is that the State will take the case, which, I might add, makes me a little more comfortable than the thought of our friends at the sheriff’s office doing it.”

“According to Marcus Voyles, the guy at the distillery,” Harlan said, “old Mr. Aldergast had local officials, including some police, in his pocket. That wasn’t that long ago. I think I’m glad we all got our trips to Nelson County done with. I’m in no hurry to go back.”

“And I’m wondering if our little incident with the flagged files is going to surface,” Bobbie added. “I’ll get some extra sensitive ears tuned in at the paper tomorrow—you know, like whether anyone calls to check on my credentials.”

There was silence. The four conspirators were all caught up in their own thoughts, staring off into space. Bobbie stood and moved to the fireplace and lit a cigarette. Harlan stood and joined her there.

“May I?” Harlan asked.

Bobbie handed the cigarette package to him, then lit his cigarette with her lighter. Harlan sat on the raised hearth knowing that the cigarette, the first one in months, would set his head to spinning. The silence continued. Fritz walked to the fridge and retrieved a beer. He looked in Harlan’s direction. Harlan nodded and Fritz retrieved another and walked to the fireplace area and handed it to him.

Gloria broke the silence.

“I think I know where we should go next,” she said.