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her. She’d need it. What was going on over at the Martins’?
    Tuesday, 7:46 A.M., Martin farm, east of Cherrystone
    The morning sunlight poured itself slowly over the striated hillside like syrup, exposing the shattered ruins of the Martin house and a parking lot of Cherrystone police cars, two aid cars, and assorted sedans, including Emily Kenyon’s much-maligned Honda (“an American cop ought to drive an American car,” Sheriff Kiplinger had said, but didn’t press it further because the officer’s car allowance was less costly than leasing a new vehicle). None of the observers of the scene had ever taken in such a disturbing sight as the remains of Mark and Peg Martin’s farmhouse.
    And it was about to get worse. Far worse.
    “Can I get the photog over here?” a call came from one of the Spokane police techies. He was about thirty-five, tall and lanky, and had arrived on the scene with a pristine lab kit and an unmistakable countenance of superiority. The look on his face just then, however, was utter horror. He stood about twenty-five yards into the debris pile on the southwest side of the property.
    “Pretty ugly,” he said recoiling at what he was seeing. “Looks like his arms were pulled off.”
    Emily Kenyon balanced herself on a large piece of Formica countertop from what had once been a seventies-era kitchen. It annoyed her that the Spokane tech was taking over the scene. She moved closer, to claim her turf.
    Mark Martin had been a handsome man, in good physical condition for someone in his early fifties—lean and muscular. He worked for the local power utility as its chief engineer and was known to bike the dozen miles to the office in the summer. His curly silvering hair was matted with mud. His blank eyes stared into nothingness.
    “Let’s shoot stills and video and get him with his wife,” Emily said, kneeling by the body and studying every inch of its battered form.
    Peg Martin’s body was already ziplocked and ready for the ambulance and the ride to Spokane where she’d be processed as if she were nothing. Not the bake-sale lady. Not the woman who did everything for the community whenever anyone asked. Peg was an apparent murder victim. Emily looked at Mark Martin’s battered and nearly sanded-off skin. He had on boxer shorts and a single sock. He might have had on a shirt, but it was gone with his arms.
    She was sure he, too, had been the victim of a gunshot wound. A scenario played in Emily’s mind. It was a familiar one. She’d worked at least three cases of similar presentation back in Seattle. She thought about the position of the wounds and whether or not they were dealing with a murder/suicide. She hadn’t heard there were any problems between the Martins. She had checked. There had never been a single domestic violence call from their residence to the sheriff’s office. Not a single one. They had seemed a happy couple, though they did tend to stick to themselves. Peg did her school stuff like a trooper, but Mark was a more introspective type—the typical engineer.
    “The kind that snaps,” Emily said to herself.
    A gentle breeze blew from the north, picking up a little dust and fiber. The scene was not really the type to yield much in the way of trace forensics. A tornado had likely stripped away any scraps of evidence. The processing going on now was more about documenting that everything had been done properly when the defense got Emily on the stand. She doubted it would ever get that far, though. It seemed like the shooter was dead. The only question was where were the boys?
    Emily caught the loose tendrils of her long ponytail and stuck them behind her ear. The wind blew harder. It seemed that time stood still. People were frozen in their duties, digging through the debris, ferrying a body bag to the second victim. Even the flashing lights atop the cruiser seemed to become still. Her heart stopped, too. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something she didn’t want to