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sprinkled with clouds.
    “We’re going in?” Corrie asked.
    “The warehouse is to one side of the development, on the edge of the slopes.”
    The chief was waved through by a security guard, and they headed along a winding, cobblestone drive, beautifully plowed and cleared. No, not cleared. The road was strangely free of ice and utterly dry, while the verges showed no signs of piled or plowed snow.
    “Heated road?” asked Corrie as they passed what appeared to be the clubhouse.
    “Not so uncommon around here. The ultimate in snow clearance—the flakes evaporate as soon as they touch down.”
    Climbing now, the road crossed a stone bridge over a frozen stream—which the chief labeled Silver Queen Creek—then passed through a service gate. Beyond, screened by a tall fence, up hard against a ski run, stood several large equipment sheds built of Pro-Panel on a leveled area of ground. Ten-foot icicles hung down their sides, glittering in the light.
    The chief pulled up into a plowed area before the largest shed, parked, and got out. Corrie followed. It was a cold day but not desperately so, twenty or twenty-five perhaps, and windless. The great door to the shed had a smaller one set to the side of it, which Chief Morris unlocked. Corrie followed him into the dark space, and the smell hit her right away. And yet it was not an unpleasant odor, no scent of rot. Just rich earth.
    The chief palmed a bank of switches and sodium lamps in the roof turned on, casting a yellow glow over all. If anything, it was colder inside the shed than outside, and she drew her coat more closely around her, shivering. In the front section of the shed, practically in the shadow of the large door, sat a line of six snowmobiles, almost all of identical make. Beyond, a row of old snowcats, some nearly antique looking, with huge treads and rounded cabs, blocked their view toward the back. They threaded their way among the cats and came to an open area. Here was the makeshift cemetery, laid out on tarps: neat rows of baby-blue plastic coffins of the kind used by medical examiners to remove remains from a crime scene.
    They walked over to the nearest row, and Corrie looked at the first box. Taped to the lid was a large card of printed information. Corrie knelt to read it. The card indicated where the remains had been found in the cemetery, with a photo of the grave in situ; there was space to record whether or not there had been a tombstone and, if so, room for the information printed on it, along with another photo. Everything was numbered, cataloged, and arranged. Corrie felt relief: there would be no problems with documentation here.
    “The tombstones are over there,” said Chief Morris. He pointed to a far wall, against which was arrayed a motley collection of tombstones—a few fancy ones in slate or marble, but mostly boulders or slabs with lettering carved into them. They, too, had been cataloged and carded.
    “We’ve got about a hundred and thirty human remains,” said the chief. “And close to a hundred tombstones. The rest…we don’t know who they are. They may have had wooden markers, or perhaps some tombstones were lost or stolen.”
    “Did any identify bear victims?”
    “None. They’re traditional—names, dates, and sometimes a phrase from the Bible or a standard religious epitaph. The cause of death isn’t normally put on tombstones. And being eaten by a grizzly would not be something you’d want memorialized.”
    Corrie nodded. It didn’t really matter—she had already put together a list of the victims from researching old local newspaper reports.
    “Would it be possible to open one of these lids?” she asked.
    “I don’t see why not.” The chief grasped a handle on the nearest box.
    “Wait, I’ve got a list.” Corrie fumbled in her briefcase and withdrew the folder. “Let’s look for one of the victims.”
    “Fine.”
    They spent a few minutes wandering among the coffins, until Corrie found one that matched