He looked. Just a Baggie. He reached in and pulled it out. Filled with Marty's stash. He looked at it for a long moment then wrapped it in paper towels, which he soaked under the low-pressure water tap and wadded up. This he dropped into a brown paper bag, crumpled that up and then stepped outside and tossed the whole thing into a refuse basket.

Pellam hefted the suitcase, wheezing painfully from the effort, and left the camper. He walked stiffly through the cold autumn sunlight to the Greyhound depot, which took up a small portion of a gas station on Main Street. He paid to have the bag shipped to Marty's parents.

The clerk stroked the leather. "That's a fine suitcase."

"Yessir," Pellam said, and as it joined other luggage on a baggage cart, walked listlessly outside.

He was reminded of the last time he went hunting with his father-in his hometown, Simmons, New York, probably no more than sixty or seventy miles from where he now stood.

Walking then through the same stubbly grass he now limped over, smelling the same scent of damp foliage, bathed in the same pale cast of light. Twenty-five years ago Pellam Senior had struggled through the fields, lifting the long Browning shotgun with an effort and missing even the slowest of pheasants. Two days later the man had collapsed with the first of the heart attacks that would eventually finish him.

Pellam associated the hunting trip with his father's death.

That memory came back to him now and would not leave.

He walked slowly, favoring his left foot to ease some of the dull ache in his back. Should've taken the damn cane the doctor had offered him, he thought again.

The top of the park had been roped off by the police. A thin yellow tape that said, "Sheriff's Department," every few inches stretched from one thick rusted pipe to another. There was a chain on the ground attached to one pipe; they could have used that to bar the entrance but Pellam guessed the cops wanted the chance to use all their crime-fighting gear. He walked around the pipe and started to climb toward the summit of this hill.

Pellam, breathing hard against the pain, reached the top of the drive and stopped.

Obliterated.

He walked to the center of the parking area-what had been grass and gravel was now just a pile of rich dark earth and the surrounding mess made by the dozer, whose tread marks he'd seen on the way up but hadn't thought anything of.

Obliterated.

In the exact center-probably just where Marty's car had been-there was no trace of scorch marks, no trace of footprints, no car treads. Just a dry foamy powder of dug-up dirt like a huge round grave. He stayed here for a long time. Mostly just walking around in slow circles, listening to the birds and the whiplashing wind in the leaves; there was really nothing to see. Nothing at all.

"What happened?"

"Happened?" the deputy asked.

They were standing outside the camper, parked on Main Street. The beefy deputy looked familiar. Pellam thought he was maybe the same one who'd helped him to the clinic after his accident. (What was the driver's name? May? Mary? No, Meg. That was it. Meg.) The law enforcer stood with his arms pushed out from his body by a lot of biceps muscle. He noticed the man's.357 had rubberized combat grips. He wondered if the gun had ever been fired anywhere but on a range.

This deputy also had teardrop-shaped glasses though his had lavender-tinted lenses.

"I get to where the accident was," Pellam explained, "and the ground's all plowed over."

Lavender?

"Oh, that. What it was, they figured it would be, you know, discouraging for people to see where it happened."

Discouraging? "How do you mean?"

"Wasn't my decision. I don't really know. I just heard, what with leaf season here and all, it might hurt tourist trade."

"Discouraging?" Pellam asked in exasperation.

The deputy answered in a monotone. "It was kind of unpleasant. A bad fire, you know. Blood. We get a lot of hunters too. We-"

"Then why was the tape still up?"

"Tape?"

"The police tape. That'd discourage tourists too pretty fast, you'd think."

"Oh, the tape. You're right, sir. We forgot about it. But thanks for bringing it to our attention."

"You're welcome," Pellam said. "What happened to the car?"

"Car?"

The miniature troops with needles were climbing up and down Pellam's back, working hard. He thought about the Demerol. He thought about tequila, with or without worms. The pain was bad and he was losing patience fast. "My friend's car, the one that burned?"

"Yessir?"

"I'd like to take a look at it."

"Don't think that'd be possible."

"Why not?"

Not a nick in his deputy soul. The man was a real side of beef. "Well, sir, it just wouldn't."

"I see. That explains it." The men stood facing each other, the deputy scanning the street for crime. Pellam scanning the man's face. "If you could just tell me where it might be."

"I really don't know. I just know it was hauled away after the investigation."

"You do any forensics?"

"I really-"

"Got it," Pellam said. "Never mind." They both did the street scan this time. Pellam looked back and asked, "I don't remember what the company was. Would you know?"

"Company?"

"Where my friend rented the car."

"We don't have any Avis or Hertz here. Or nearby."

"It would be more helpful to know where he did rent it, rather than where he didn't."

"Sillman's Garage, I think it was. Up the road a quarter mile."

"Thanks."

The deputy said, "Kleman's Funeral Home's made all the arrangements."

"Thank you, officer. Appreciate it."

"Not at all, sir. I was to L.A. once. Me and the wife went to Disneyland. You know, the real one."

"Uh-huh."

"Suspect you'll be going back for the funeral. The mayor's got an airline ticket-"

"No, I won't be going."

There must have been a flicker somewhere in the brain, but there's wasn't one in the eyes. "No?"

"I'll be staying around for a while."

"Around here?"

"That's right."

"Oh. We expected you'd be leaving."

"Yeah, well, I won't be. Now, I'd like to see the police report. And-"

"Can't do it, sir."

"What?" Pellam felt the anger popping like fire-crackers.

"That's not public record material."

"Public record material?"

"That's right, sir."

"Well, I'm not public. I was his friend."

"Sorry, sir."

"How about the coroner's report? Is that public record material too?"

"Nosir, it's not. But all it says is he died as a result of injuries caused by a fire of his own making. I'm pretty much quoting."

"Officer, someone killed my friend. There were incidents of vandalism against our camper before he was killed and…"

"In Cleary?"

"That's right," Pellam said.

"I don't recall you reported them."

"We didn't. I didn't think anything of them until this happened."

"Yessir. Let me ask you, you drive into any small town, the local kids probably go fooling around some with your vehicle, don't they? Pranks. That's happened before, hasn't it?"

"Sure, but-"

"There you go."

"But it's never happened the day before one of my friends is murdered."

"Murdered? Nosir. The coroner said it was accidental."

"I guess there's not much more you can tell me."

"That's right, sir." The sunglasses went back on and the big man's eyes turned a delicate shade of purple. He said, "You staying around, sir, I'd be a bit careful. Already, these couple accidents. Maybe you're kind of a bad luck fellow."

Pellam said he'd be careful, but he was thinking there was a good chance the deputy was right.