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ticket for riding your machine on the beach. That’s against the law. But I’ll just issue warnings on the helmets.”
    Toliver said. “You think this is a joke?”
    “A joke? Professor, there’s about two dozen tribals back there, decked out in war paint and carrying some very nasty-looking weapons. The last thing I think is that this is funny. You stir a hornet’s nest, you’ve got to expect to get your sad butt stung.”
    Dr. Toliver set his jaw. “That knife cuts two ways, buddy boy.”
    Katsu was alone by the time Service and Sedge got back to him.
    “Toliver seems pretty insistent about his permits.”
    Katsu said, “I’m telling you, the Office of the State Archaeologist
can’t
permit him legally because there
are
remains here. It would be a violation, a desecration—not that such things ever stopped
wabishi
in the past.”
    “Have you talked to this archaeology office?”
    “They only talk to other archaeologists. Seems to us the State
wants
Toliver to dig here, only we can’t figure out exactly why.”
    “Historical reasons?”
    “Or black-market artifacts,” Sedge interjected.
    Service stared at her. “
Artifacts
… here?”
    Sedge walked over to the four-wheeler and opened a storage case mounted on the handlebars. “If Toliver’s honorable, why’s he carrying a shovel? Archaeologists don’t dig in the dark.”
    “Emergency kit for the four-wheeler?” Service countered.
    Sedge extracted a trowel, a whisk broom, and a small bucket with wire mesh across the bottom. “This stuff look to you like four-wheeler emergency equipment?”
    She had a point, and Service felt a rumble in his stomach, a sure sign that he had rolled into the middle of something he sensed he was totally unprepared to deal with. They chained the four-wheeler to a tree, told Katsu to keep his people away from the machine, and headed out.
    Sedge said nothing during the long hike back to their trucks. Hers wasparked next to his. Suddenly she pivoted sharply and raised a fist. “Who in the
hell
do you think you are, horning in on
my
case!”
    Holy shit. She’s a damn wildcat
. “Whoa,” he said, raising his hands. “I’m not horning in on anything.”
    “I’ve been working this goddamn case for months. I just got an assistant attorney general up to speed, and
that
asshole jumped ship to another job without a goddamn word. Now I have to start all over.”
    Once some of her fire had been tamped down, Service said, “Look, you don’t want me in this, I’m outta here; color me gone. It’s that simple.”
    She looked up at him and gnawed the inside of her cheek. “No, you’d better come to my place after we patrol and let me bring you up to speed.”
    “That mean you want me in?”
    “Take my word,” she said strangely. “You’d like that.”
    He had a feeling she wasn’t talking about the case. Talking to her was like running through an unmarked minefield.
Keep your mouth shut
, he advised himself. It was Friday, and he was tired.

5
Bomb Shelter, M-123, Luce County
SATURDAY, MAY 5, 2007
    They did not get to her place until well after midnight. Service felt vaguely sore from hiking, and he was famished.
    As McKower had told him, the old gas station was right on M-123, just before the Middle Branch of Linton Creek. A large and rusty metal Mobil Oil sign squeaked as the morning wind pushed against it. “That thing looks like it’s gonna come down someday and cause some damage,” Service said, trying to look at the woman without being obnoxious. She stood no more than five-foot-five, had her hair stuffed under her law enforcement baseball cap, and looked like she was borderline anorexic. “You follow my tracks in last night?” he asked her.
    “By the Five-Pack,” she said, adding, “I’m Donna Sedge, but call me Jingo.” She did not stick out her hand. “Saw your truck on the AVL.”
    “Jingo’s a different kind of name,” he said.
    “I’m a different kind of person,” she muttered.
    Service