The detectives took the lead, with Cheticamp, Tic and me following them up the guest home’s front walk. My own dome had sat somewhere in this vicinity — hard to tell the exact spot, with so many landmarks hidden by darkness. Then again, who knew if the landmarks were even there? The rocks and trees of my childhood may have been cleared away to make room for the guest home’s croquet pitch.

The front door opened as we approached, and in we went to a relentlessly cozy lounge. Overstuffed chairs of leaner hide sat buff and bulgy around a circular flagstone hearth. The fire was burning bluebarrel logs; I could tell because their smoke had a stringy scent of strawberries, subtle but sweet enough to make my stomach growl. No one was seated near the fireplace, but an oldish Oolom woman wearing a wood-bead necklace stood behind a counter at the back of the room. She looked up, smiled, and said, "Good evening. May I help you?"

Fellburnie and Bleak produced ID cards. The woman (wearing a badge that said hostess) took Bleak’s card and pressed it against her wrist-implant for verification by the world-soul. We all nodded in approval — too many trusting civilians take a gold-embossed ID at face value. In less than a second, the world-soul triangulated on Bleak (or rather Bleak’s wrist-comm) and reported that yes, the real Detective Willis Bleak, officer in good standing of the Bonaventure Police, was no more than a step away from the card. The hostess handed back Bleak’s ID and asked, "What brings you to Sallysweet River, Officers?"

"We’re looking for a woman named Maya Cuttack," Bleak said. "She’s staying here?"

"Dr. Cuttack has a room with us, yes," the hostess replied. "She’s been here since autumn — she rents by the month. But I haven’t seen her in several days."

Beside me, Cheticamp stiffened. You’d expect cops to have a better poker face.

"Do you know where she might have gone?" Fellburnie asked.

The hostess whispered into her wrist-implant, then turned to a desk screen to read the result. "Dr. Cuttack didn’t tell us where she went," the hostess said. "She’s made several trips down to Bonaventure recently… and she has all-weather camping equipment too. You know she’s an archaeologist? It’s not unusual for her to spend several nights away now and then, examining various sites in the neighborhood."

Even though she never got a license, I thought to myself. Looks like our Maya doesn’t stand on legal niceties.

"Do you know where these sites might be?" Bleak asked.

"She was interested in abandoned mines. There are a number near here, dating back some three thousand human years. I can lend you an excellent survey map that shows the known sites… although I doubt if you’ll find Dr. Cuttack at any of them. Rumor has it she’s found a promising new site. But then, I never heard the doctor say that herself; someone on staff may have just been spreading speculations."

There were plenty more questions. When exactly was Maya last seen at the guest home? Two days before Chappalar died. Did Maya have friends who might know her current whereabouts? Dr. Cuttack kept to herself. Had Maya ever had any visitors? None that the hostess could recall.

In other words, nothing. Maya could have been a bona fide archaeologist, innocently pursuing her studies; or a killer biding her time in the back of beyond, occasionally disappearing on "expeditions" as a cover for more sinister activities.

When Bleak and Fellburnie ran out of questions, they turned to Cheticamp to see if he had anything to ask. He shrugged… and Tic immediately stepped forward, as if he’d only been waiting for the police to finish.

"Turiff" Tic said. Dear madam. "How much did Dr. Cuttack actually stay in her room here? Three or four nights a week? More? Less?"

The hostess thought for a moment. "A day here, a day there… perhaps it added up to a week every month. The rest of the time, she was visiting Bonaventure or camping on the land."

"Just one week," Tic said. "My, my. Wouldn’t it be less expensive paying by the night, rather than booking a month at a time?"

"That’s true," the hostess admitted. "Our monthly rate is an excellent value… but if Dr. Cuttack had only paid for the nights she was here, she could have saved a good deal of money. And for such a frequent guest, we’d gladly store her luggage between times if she didn’t want to take everything camping. Our manager once mentioned that to her — we don’t want our guests thinking we take advantage of them. But Dr. Cuttack said money was less important to her than convenience: being able to come and go without always signing in."

Tic tossed me a meaningful glance; I didn’t need it. In her letter to Chappalar, Maya claimed to be underfunded. So why was she blithely forking out cash for a hotel room she hardly ever used? Even in the off-season, the HSGH had to be a pricey place to stay.

Captain Cheticamp picked up on the implications too. "How did Dr. Cuttack pay for her room?" he asked.

The hostess hesitated a moment, probably weighing a guest’s personal privacy against whatever pressure the cops could bring to bear. Then she whispered into her wrist-comm and turned to the desk screen. "Charged to a numbered account, in the Free Republican Bank."

Tic beamed an angelic smile. I could practically read his mind. Maya. Murderer. Bankrolled by the Freeps.

Rattlesnake, Cheticamp mouthed to me.

Of course, the detectives asked to search Maya’s room. Of course, the hostess said they’d have to discuss that with the manager. Of course, the manager took a long time to find and a longer time to convince that he should let the police barge in without a warrant. Everyone accepted this as routine — a well-practiced waltz that the cops and hotel had to dance before Maya’s door would open.

When we finally got to the room, it was empty… by which I mean Maya’d left nothing incriminating. Yes, there were clothes in the closet — expensive-looking things, with labels from fashion houses in the Free Republic — and the loo contained the usual toiletries… again top-of-the-line stuff, and thanks to my darling Peter, I knew something about the cost of cologne. (The man loved perfume and loved all the women in his life to be wearing it. Unlike my other husbands, who didn’t notice, or wrinkled their noses and made little cat-sneezes.)

If you’re interested, Maya’s room contained a huge wood-frame bed made of paper-peel branches still covered with bark… a state-of-the-art comm console discreetly hidden in a wall niche… a small cleaning servo that followed Fellburnie around, fussily fluffing up the carpet wherever the detective’s TyeTye weight squashed down the pile… but nothing you couldn’t find in any other "woodsy-decor" hotel room on the planet. No jacking equipment that would allow Maya to program killer androids. No scribbled manifestos explaining why the Vigil should be eradicated. No crumpled purchase order for three dozen jelly guns. Nor did we find clues to where Maya had gone.

(Tic had me distract the others while he talked to the cleaning servo. The things I do for the Vigil. And according to Tic, the devil-be-damned machine didn’t have a word to say except, "Muddy boots. Muddy boots. Muddy boots.")

Bleak and Fellburnie slogged off for more legwork — questioning the staff and finding guests who’d spoken with Maya last time she was here. Cheticamp ordered half the ScrambleTacs back to the skimmer for a tour of the area, checking the known mines to see if Maya was camped in the neighborhood. At first he thought it would be enough to do an IR scan from the air… but I told him they should peek into the mine tunnels themselves. "If I were camping this time of year, I’d tell my tent to set itself up a little ways down the mine. Best to be out of the wind in case a blizzard blows up."