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higher ground. “Carlisle Wilson,” he finally replied.
    Brewer frowned. “Governor Carlisle Wilson?”
    â€œHis daughter, by all reports.”
    â€œAw, man,” said Brewer, suddenly sympathetic. “This could get bad. That old bastard’s got enemies in every county in the state.”
    â€œEnemies who’d go after his daughter?” asked Cochran.
    â€œI don’t know.” Brewer shrugged. “Maybe.”
    Too much heat for Brewer, Cochran thought as the agents lifted Lisa Wilson into the back of an unmarked van. This puppy’s going to be all mine.
    â€œYou know we’ll help in any way we can,” Brewer said tepidly, beginning to distance himself.
    â€œThen when you get her to the lab, make sure John Merkel does the post-mortem,” said Cochran.
    Brewer snorted. “That fruit cake usually doesn’t come into the lab until midnight.”
    â€œI’ll get in touch with him,” said Cochran. “He’ll be waiting when you get there.”
    Brewer gazed at the now vacant spot under the pine tree. “Have you told Carlisle Wilson about this yet?”
    Cochran shook his head. “I want to talk to the guy she was working for first.”
    Brewer gave him a sympathetic slap on the back. “I don’t blame you, buddy. That’s one next-of-kin call I’d put off as long as I could, too.”

    Brewer helped him cordon off as much of the area as possible—then he left to go to Winston-Salem, promising to return first thing in the morning. As Cochran headed back to his cruiser, he paused at the cabin, remembering his adolescent terror. Back then the place had seemed huge—dark and foreboding as a castle. Today, it was just a mean little shack, furred with moss, slowly being cannibalized by wild grapevine and trumpet flowers. Still—something about the place made him edgy.
    â€œYour ghost was probably just some old brain-fried dude with a still,” he told himself as he walked up on the porch and gazed in the open front door. “Probably laughed his ass off at the two little punks who didn’t have the balls to steal a condom.”
    â€œSay what?” A voice ripped through the air behind him.
    Cochran jumped, turning in mid-air. He was ready to rack a shell when he saw Saunooke standing at the bottom of the steps.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing here?” asked Cochran angrily.
    â€œDetective Clark took over the interviews.” The young Cherokee shrugged. “So I came back here. Sorry if I scared you.”
    â€œNo problem.” Cochran lowered the gun, his heart beating fast. “Though you might want to announce yourself next time you come up behind somebody holding a Winchester.”
    Saunooke walked up to stand next to Cochran. He peered into the graffiti-rich rooms, now speckled with white fingerprint powder. “Creepy as hell, isn’t it?”
    â€œKids come up here to get scared for a reason,” said Cochran.
    â€œ Deegahdoli ,” said Saunooke.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    Saunooke laughed. “That’s what the Cherokees call this place.”
    â€œ Deegahdoli means Fiddlesticks?”
    â€œNo. There’s supposedly a ghost up here— deegahdoli means eyes.”
    â€œCome on,” said Cochran, heading back down the steps. “Let’s get over to the bird center. I want to positively ID this girl before I rattle Carlisle Wilson’s cage.”

    Half an hour later Cochran and Saunooke pulled up in front of the staring faces of a totem pole that stood above a sign that read “Pisgah Raptor Rescue Center.” Cochran got out of his car slowly, examining the totem pole for any of the same odd squiggles carved on Lisa Wilson’s body. He didn’t see any, but he still found it odd to come face to face with a Northwest Indian artifact here in Cherokee country. He turned to Saunooke.
    â€œYou guys don’t put up totem poles