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forests, mountains, ponds, lakes, creeks, and swamps. His ability to identify the sex, race, and age of corpses earned him a solid reputation with law enforcement, and his research quickly turned from pre-Columbian mounds to modern burials.
    He lived in a sprawling timber frame house on Red Fox Lake. His property had a boat house and a dock. That’s where my call found him.
    “Zickafoose speaking.”
    “Hey, Doc.” It was always Doc. Never grandpa, granddad, granddaddy, and certainly, never, ever paw-paw. “It’s Boone, your grandson.”
    “Of course, it’s Boone, my grandson. I only have one, and his name is Boone. Or is it pain in the ass?”
    “Close enough. Listen, I need help with a case.”
    “A case of what?”
    “A forensics case.”
    “Too bad. I don’t consult anymore. I’m retired.”
    Abner was still moping about his forced retirement from the university. “It’s a fire case, Doc. A human finger was found on the scene.”
    While the line crackled with static, I got in the cafeteria line. The static was a good thing. It meant that Abner was actually considering it.
    “I’ll take a Big ol’ Burger,” I said to the cashier. “No onions. Absolutely no onions, unless you’d like me to die of anaphylactic shock in your parking lot. And an extra large coffee. Black.”
    “Onions?” Abner said. “What’s onions got to do with a finger?”
    “No, no,” I said.
    “No, no what?” the cashier asked.
    “No onions.” I pressed the phone against my chest. “And a large Coke, too. No ice. Yes, I want both coffee and Coke.”
    “No ice what?” Abner said. “Thought you said this was a fire case.”
    “It is!” I yelled. “Look, Doc, I’m ordering food. Hang on a minute, before the cashier decides I want my Big ol’ Burger with a side of spit.”
    “Why didn’t you just say so?”
    “I did!”
    “You always were a colicky baby.”
    “Inherited it from you.” I paid for lunch and found a seat in the corner. “Sorry about that. I was starving.”
    “You in school?”
    “In between classes.” I told him about the Tin City fire and the finger. “There was a similar fire to this last week in Duck. A sudden fire in a deserted farmhouse. Lots of unusual debris. I'm going visit the Duck site later. What kind of evidence do I look for if I suspect arson?”
    “Arson?” he said. “Hell, Boone. It’s worse than that. You’re looking for a bomb.”

    8

    As soon as the word “bomb,” left my grandfather’s lips, I knew there’d no waiting until tonight to investigate the fire that happened last week. I wolfed down my burger and ran for the parking lot.  
    Duck was only a few miles from Galax. If I hurried, there was time for a quick look around the burned farmhouse there before my next class.
    It took longer than expected to find the house. It was set off from the highway, hidden behind a pine forest owned by Carolina Pacific. I passed it three times before finally stopping at a roadside vegetable stand to ask directions.
    “Who’s wanting to know?” the old man running the stand asked.
    I flashed my badge. “Fire investigation.”
    “Bout time somebody came poking around.”
    “You think the fire was suspicious?”
    “An empty house gets blown to hell in the middle of night. What d’you think?”
    I followed his directions. But when I finally reached the driveway, I lost hope of finding any useful evidence.
    The house looked like ground zero. There was nothing left except a stone foundation and a toppled chimney. The fire had burned fast, and it had burned hot.
    I parked nearby.  
    The foundation was twenty feet square. A small house. Built by hand. The stones were smooth. Probably river rock mined from a stream nearby. The back corner was crushed. I walked around to take pictures and found something interesting.
    A crater.
    There was a hole at least six feet deep in the crawlspace. Rubble, chunks of plaster, and ashen timber filled the hole. Mixed with the aroma of burnt