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Hardy, who had changed into his uniform. They each grabbed a brass handle, then lifted the coffin and turned it toward the door with some haste on Dave’s end.
    “I made a call to the Army,” said the sheriff. “Oren, you know how this works. I had to account for your time while the judge was collecting those bones.”
    The coroner’s man and the deputy were in less of a hurry now. Though the coffin must be heavy, they lingered at the bedroom door.
    If this annoyed the sheriff, it never showed on his face. “The boss of your old outfit vouched for all your duty hours. He told me you were the best CID agent he ever met. He thinks I’d be a fool not to make use of all that talent. But I guess you know why I can’t do that.”
    “Yes, sir.” Oren well understood the reason: One day, two brothers had walked into the woods, and only one had come back alive.

Six
    The road was narrow, and new shoots of foliage reached out to touch the sheriff’s jeep, just a kiss of leaves in passing. As Cable Babitt traveled toward the coast highway, the dense forest was left behind, and he had a broad vista of town and sea and sky. He turned to the silent man beside him to make one more attempt at an actual conversation.
    “I hear the Army gave you a real fine education—a damn master’s degree in forensic science. They must think a lot of you, son. I’m surprised they let you go without a fight.” This was doubly surprising in wartime, when the military was strained and stretched thin, when National Guardsmen much older than Oren were pressed into active duty. “Your commanding officer didn’t say why you quit. I had the feeling he didn’t know.”
    A station wagon sped past. The name of a news program was printed on a sign anchored to its roof. Oren Hobbs turned in the passenger seat to watch this vehicle heading back toward the judge’s house.
    “Reporters,” said the sheriff. “Those guys are from a local radio station, and the signal’s pretty weak.” He pointed to the sky and a low-flying helicopter with station call letters boldly printed on the bottom. “Now that’s the outfit that worries me. They broadcast statewide.”
    “Turn around,” said Oren. “Take me home.”
    “Bad idea, son. But don’t worry. I’m the one who called Ad Winston. He’ll look out for your dad and Hannah. Nobody handles reporters better than Ad does.”
    “The judge doesn’t even like him.”
    “So what? Henry Hobbs is like royalty around here, and Ad would never miss a chance to do that old man a favor. It’s better if you stay away from the media. You know that, right?”
    “I know I’m the prime suspect.”
    “Son, you could confess right now, and I’d still put you to work.”
    Oren Hobbs was stunned and quiet for all the time it took to point the wheels of the jeep toward the county seat. In sidelong vision, Cable kept an eye on his passenger as the younger man struggled with the logic of this proposition—the absolute lack of legality, not to mention common sense.
    “You know I can’t help you,” said Oren. “You laid it out yourself back at the house. You told me—”
    “What I said back there—that was for my deputy’s benefit.”
    High school grudges were long-lived, and Dave Hardy would never forgive Oren for beating him bloody and senseless in front of half the town.
     
 
Isabelle Winston, Ph.D., stood upon a wooden deck that encircled her mother’s retreat, a tower room at the top of the lodge. The crisp, cool air was filled with spraying birdseed, loud caws, whistles and trills, and the rush of wings. Hungry birds landed at feeders hung all around the railing, and the sated ones took flight.
    The ornithologist ignored them. Birds were not her passion today.
    Her binoculars were trained on a helicopter landing in the Hobbs meadow. She could easily identify her father, Addison, as he crossed the tall grass, one hand extended to greet the reporters piling out of the aircraft. Overhead, a private jet