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was going to cross the river, he would have used the footbridge he rebuilt last fall. It’s down there in the forest beyond the orchard.’
    Nightingale looked across the field toward the woods. The glossy black trunks of the hemlocks against the tawny, dead high grass of the orchard looked like India ink that had been spilled across fine stationery. The dormant apple trees in the foreground resembled the jagged metalwork of busted umbrellas a winter’s gale had stripped of fabric.
    ‘Go talk to your boys,’ Nightingale said. ‘And, Paula, I’m so sorry for your loss.’
    Looking for tracks, Nightingale padded out through the high grass of the apple orchard toward the hemlocks. With every step the river’s roar became more deafening. And with every step Lawton Mountain loomed larger above her.
    In the shadowy light under the hemlock canopy, Nightingale found a pair of camouflage trousers that matched the jacket Hank Potter was found in. She discovered a pair of high rubber boots tossed in a raspberry patch. She used her flashlight to look for tracks in the soft, wet soil. But the storm had obscured all the footprints, made them indistinct and indecipherable.
    On the steep bank leading down to the footbridge, she came across shallow troughs in the mud that suggested heels had slipped down the bank. But there were no clear tread marks she could have used to say positively that Potter or his attacker had continued this way before dawn.
    The bridge footings were thick, discolored steel set into a granite ledge fifteen feet above the level of the river. New two-inch cables had been tied into the old footings and pulled taut across the thirty-foot chasm. Planks had been hooked to the cables with U bolts. Rope railings ran parallel to the cable.
    Nightingale walked out on the bridge above the rushing water. It swayed in the wind and she was forced to grip the ropes for balance. The bridge’s movement was greatest at the middle of the span, where she stopped and peered over. Black whirlpools swirled between the ledge walls. Knife-edged rocks slashed the river surface. She was about to turn when she noticed discoloration on the wood planking near the far shore.
    Blood. And more blood on the rope railing and splattered there on the exposed rocks below. If the blood matched, Hank Potter had been killed on the bridge that spanned the Bluekill.
    Nightingale hurried up the bank, through the hemlock grove and out into the apple orchard, where it was now dusk. She heard a cry. A door slammed. A towheaded boy of about eight raced pell-mell across the yard. He reached a makeshift ladder nailed to a white pine and climbed it toward a tree house. The wind raised water in her eyes and her stomach yawned.
    Paula Potter came out of the house looking for the boy and Nightingale went to her. ‘Paula, I have to ask you and your sons to go to Ellen’s house,’ she said. ‘I’m going to bring in evidence technicians.’
    Paula stared blankly. ‘Did you find something?’
    ‘Enough that I want to bring in help.’
    ‘Oh,’ she said, wringing her hands. ‘I … I was looking for Nathan, my oldest’
    Nightingale pointed to the tree house. ‘He’s up there. I’m sorry, but before you go to him, could you let me see the hunting locker you mentioned?’
    Paula looked from the tree house to the detective, then nodded uncertainly.
    The wind picked up again as they crossed back to the chicken coop, and they bent to it in silence. Inside, Paula went straight to the double-padlocked door. ‘That’s funny,’ she remarked, as she reached toward the locks unhasped in the rings. ‘Hank would never—’
    Nightingale grabbed Paula by the wrist. ‘Don’t touch.’
    She got out thin latex gloves from her pocketbook, then picked the locks out by their hasps. She flipped on the light and eased the door open.
    The locker smelled of cedar and was the size of a large walk-in closet. On the right, hard by the door, were high and low racks of various