"He was beaten to death," I said. "I understand that William Mead was also beaten to death. Two murders, in two different states, over thirty years apart, but the same _m.o."_

"You're reaching," he said, "with very little to go on."

"Give me more, then. Was Paul Grimes living with the Chantrys when William Mead was killed?"

"He may have been. I think he was. That was back in 1943, during the war."

"Why wasn't Richard Chantry in uniform?"

"He was supposed to be working in the family's copper mine. But I don't think he ever went near it. He stayed at home with his pretty young wife and painted pretty pictures."

"What about William?"

"He was in the army. He came here on leave to visit his brother. William was in uniform when he was killed."

"Was Richard ever questioned about William's death?"

The sheriff answered after some delay, and when he did answer he spoke with difficulty: "Not to my knowledge. I wasn't in charge then, you understand. I was just a junior deputy."

"Who conducted the investigation?"

"I did, for the most part. I was the one that found the body, not too far from here." He pointed east toward the New Mexico desert. "Understand, we didn't find him right away. He'd been dead for several days, and the varmints had been at him. There wasn't much left of his face. We weren't even sure that he'd been killed by human hands until we got the medical examiner out from Tucson. By that time it was too late to do much."

"What would you have done if you'd had the chance?"

The sheriff became quite still again, as if he were listening to voices from the past that I couldn't hear. His eyes were shadowed and remote.

Finally he said, with too much angry certainty, "I wouldn't have done anything different. I don't know what you're trying to prove. I don't know why I'm talking to you at all."

"Because you're an honest man, and you're worried."

"What am I worried about?"

"Mildred Mead, for one thing. You're afraid that something has happened to her."

He took a deep breath. "I don't deny that."

"And I think you're still worried about that body you found in the desert."

He looked at me sharply but made no other response. I said, "Are you certain that it was her son William's body?"

"Absolutely certain."

"Did you know him?"

"Not that well. But he was carrying his official papers. In addition to which, we brought Mildred out from Tucson. I was there when she made the identification." He went into another of his silences.

"Did Mildred take the body back to Tucson with her?"

"She wanted to. But the army decided that after we got finished with it the body should go to Mead's wife. We packed the poor remains into a sealed coffin and shipped them back to the wife in California. At first none of us knew he had a wife. He hadn't been married very long. He married her after he entered the service, a friend of his told me."

"Was this a local friend?"

"No. He was an army buddy. I disremember his name-something like Wilson or Jackson. Anyway, he was very fond of Mead and he wangled a leave to come out here and talk to me about him. But he couldn't tell me much, except that Mead had a wife and a baby boy in California. I wanted to go and see them, but the county wouldn't put up the expense money for me. Mead's army buddy got shipped out in a hurry, and I never saw him again, though later, after the war, he sent me a postcard from a vets' hospital in California. One way and another, I never did make a case." The sheriff sounded faintly apologetic.

"I don't understand why Richard Chantry wasn't questioned."

"It's simple enough. Richard was out of the state before the body was found. I made a real effort to have him brought back-you understand, I'm not saying he was guilty, in any way-but I couldn't get any support from higher authorities. The Chantrys still had a lot of political power, and the Chantry name was kept out of the William Mead case. It wasn't even publicized that Mildred Mead was his mother."

"Was old Felix Chantry still alive in 1943?"

"No. He died the year before."

"Who was running the copper mine?"

"A fellow named Biemeyer. He wasn't the official head at the time, but he was making the decisions."

"Including the one not to question Richard Chantry?"

"I wouldn't know about that."

His voice had changed. He had started to lie, or to withhold the truth. Like every sheriff in every county, he would have his political debts and his unspeakable secrets.

I wanted to ask him whom he was trying to protect, but decided not to. I was far out of my own territory, among people I didn't know or entirely understand, and there was a sense of unexpended trouble in the air.

XXI

The sheriff was leaning toward me slightly, almost as if he could overhear my thoughts. He was as still as a perching hawk, with some of a hawk's poised threat.

"I've been open with you," he said. "But you've been holding back on me. You haven't even told me who you represent."

"Biemeyer," I said.

The sheriff smiled broadly without showing any teeth at all. "You're kidding me."

"No, I'm not. The girl is Biemeyer's daughter."

Without any obvious change, his smile turned into a grin of shock and alarm. He must have become aware that he was revealing himself. Like a hostile fist relaxing, his face smoothed itself out into blandness. Only his sharp gray eyes were hostile and watchful. He jerked a thumb toward the mountain behind him.

"The girl you left up there is Biemeyer's daughter?"

"That's right."

"Don't you know he's majority owner of the copper mine?"

"He makes no secret of it," I said.

"But why didn't you tell me?"

It was a question I couldn't answer easily. Perhaps I'd let myself imagine that Doris might possibly be better off in a world quite different from her parents' world, at least for a while. But this world belonged to Biemeyer, too.

The sheriff was saying, "The copper mine is the biggest employer at this end of the state."

"Okay, we'll put the girl to work in the copper mine."

He stiffened. "What in hell do you mean by that? Nobody said anything about putting her to work."

"It was just a joke."

"It's not funny. We've got to get her out of that funny farm before some harm comes to her. My wife and I can put her up for the night. We have a nice spare room-it used to be our own daughter's room. Let's get going, eh?"

The sheriff left Fred in the deputy's custody and drove me up the mountain in his official car. He parked it in the lane behind Fred's old blue Ford. A dented white moon watched us over the mountain's shoulder.

The big house in the canyon was dark and silent, its stillness hardly broken by a man's random snore, a girl's faint crying. The crying girl turned out to be Doris. She came to the door when I called her name. She had on a white flannelette nightgown that covered her like a tent from the neck down. Her eyes were wide and dark and her face was wet.

"Get your clothes on, honey," the sheriff said. "We're taking you out of this place."

"But I like it here."

"You wouldn't like it if you stayed. This is no place for a girl like you, Miss Biemeyer."

Her body stiffened and her chin came up. "You can't make me leave."

The leader had come up behind her, not too close. He didn't speak. He seemed to be watching the sheriff with the detachment of a spectator at somebody else's funeral.

"Don't be like that, now, will you?" the sheriff said to Doris. "I've got a daughter of my own, I know how it is. We all like a little adventure. But then it comes time to get back to normal living."

"I'm not normal," she said.

"Don't worry, you will be, honey. What you need is to find the right young man. The same thing happened to my girl. She went and lived in a commune in Seattle for a year. But then she came back and found Mr. Right, and they've got two children now and everybody's happy."