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now, do you?”
    Saunooke laughed. “Only for the tourists.”
    â€œThat’s what I thought.” Cochran frowned at the stylized faces of an eagle and an owl. “Let’s go see what else is up there.”
    â€œDon’t we need a warrant?”
    â€œNo. We’re just informing of a death today,” Cochran explained. “We’re friendly and respectful, but we keep our eyes and ears open, just the same.”
    They turned left and walked along a gravel path that led uphill. Though the woods were just as thick as at Fiddlestick’s cabin, Cochran sensed no silent, underlying malevolence here. Birds chirped, bees buzzed. An innate busy-ness hummed about this forest that made the silence at Fiddlesticks’s place even stranger. They hadn’t gone more than fifty feet when they met a wiry old man limping toward them, a huge bald eagle perched on his gloved right arm. When he caught sight of Cochran and Saunooke, he stopped immediately, the bird rousting its feathers at the abrupt surcease of motion.
    â€œHowdy.” The man respectfully touched the bill of an ancient Braves baseball cap with fingers that were sheered off at the second knuckle. “Something wrong?”
    â€œAre you Nick Stratton?” asked Cochran.
    He squinted up at him as if even this soft, leaf-filtered light was too bright. “No, sir. I’m Artie Slade. Nick’s up yonder at the cabin.”
    â€œCan you take us to him?”
    â€œSomething wrong?” Slade asked again as the bird opened its beak and let out a shrill, whistling shriek.
    â€œWe’d prefer to talk with Mr. Stratton,” said Cochran.
    â€œThen come ahead on.” The old man tightened his grip on a long leather strap that secured the eagle and turned around, heading back in the direction he’d come. Cochran and Saunooke followed, finally stopping at a cabin nestled between two tall sycamore trees. Recently built of new lumber, a wide porch surrounded it on three sides. On that porch two men stood talking. One slouched against the porch railing, smoking a cigarette while the other stood tall, with surfer-blonde hair.
    â€œYo, Nick!” called Artie Slade. “Law’s here!”
    The two looked up, startled. For an instant both gazed at Cochran with hard eyes, then the tall surfer came down the steps.
    â€œNick Stratton?” asked Cochran.
    The lanky man nodded. “I’m Nick Stratton.”
    â€œDo you have an intern named Lisa Carlisle Wilson?” Cochran noticed a deep scar that bisected the man’s upper lip.
    Stratton frowned. “I do. Is she in some kind of trouble?”
    â€œMr. Stratton, at approximately nine a.m. this morning, we got a call from the east side of Burr Mountain. A twenty-one-year-old white female named Lisa Carlisle Wilson was found dead—the apparent victim of a homicide.”
    â€œA homicide?” Stratton looked at Cochran incredulous, as if he were someone dressed as a cop, playing a joke. “Are you serious?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou mean Lisa’s dead?”
    Cochran nodded, knowing that it took awhile for people to wrap their heads around such grim news.
    Stratton asked, “What about the other kids?”
    â€œThey’re fine. Downtown now, giving statements.”
    â€œHoly shit!” The second man shook his head as he stubbed out his cigarette on the porch floor. “Here we were figuring they were just laid out drunk somewhere.”
    â€œI warned them that cabin was bad luck,” said the man who held the eagle.
    Stratton just stood there, looking like a man suddenly short of air.
    â€œI understand that this Lisa is the daughter of former governor Jackson Carlisle Wilson,” said Cochran.
    Stratton nodded.
    â€œDo you have any contact information for her?”
    â€œYeah,” he said, his voice a croak. “Come inside and I’ll get it.”
    While Stratton headed back to his cabin,