Russ pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "She's here because the victim worked for her church."

"Have you investigated her thoroughly?" Scheeler asked.

"Uh…" Not as thoroughly as I want to.

"Because a clerical collar can hide a lot."

Clare's neck bared, her eyes closed, the hot pulse in her throat-Christ. He adjusted his pants under the guise of redistributing the weight of his rig. He was as bad as one of those seventeen-year-old boys, creeping around the old stones, hoping to score. Worse. He knew better.

The area was lit up like a used-car lot with the additional lamps Lyle and Kevin had set up. "Doc Scheeler," Lyle said. Kevin was stringing police-line tape around trees and stones. Lyle stepped over the tape and held it down for the medical examiner. "Hadley's on her way. And the state tech team, although they say it may be another hour."

"Let's see what we can ascertain before they get here." Scheeler snapped his gloves on. They walked one after the other, in Lyle's footsteps. Russ kept his eyes moving as he pulled on his purple gloves, hoping against hope to see a hair, a fiber, a track, anything that might-

They stopped. Russ stepped around the pathologist for a better view. Scheeler sucked in his cheeks. "Holy Mother of God," he said. Russ lifted his eyes and met Lyle's. The older man looked as grim as Russ had ever seen him.

"All right," Scheeler said. "All right. Let's see what he can tell us." He opened his case and knelt, laying it next to the body. He began removing instruments and evidence bags.

"The VFW was up here on the third," Lyle said, "putting in flags. We may be able to place someone on the scene later than that, but that's a positive."

"Dumped," Russ said. "Already dead."

"Probably," Scheeler said from where he knelt. "The ground's so dry, it would have soaked up a lot, but active bleeding would have stained all these dead pine needles." He slid one long, rust-colored needle from beneath the body and held it up. "Dry," he said. "And unstained. When did he go missing?"

"June twenty-third," Lyle said.

"So. Two weeks."

"How long has he been dead?" Russ asked.

"Very preliminary estimate, twenty-four to thirty-six hours." The ME's assured voice thinned out. "Whoever did this kept him alive for a long time."

A silence followed that observation. After a while, Lyle said, "Different gun than the other three."

"I can tell," Russ said. Whatever had finally put Esfuentes out of his misery was a lot bigger than a.22.

"They're not just getting rid of witnesses. They wanted information," Lyle said.

"Jesus. You think?"

Lyle turned, his expression stung. Russ waved a hand in apology. "Sorry. I'm just… yeah. Information. If he had been meant as a warning, he would've turned up someplace a lot more public than this."

"Whatever they wanted to know, this poor bastard couldn't tell them," Scheeler said. He gently lifted one hand with a slender steel rod. "This was done while he was alive. After the third finger, he would have told them anything." The medical examiner slipped an evidence bag over the hand, concealing it from sight. "Who in God's name was this kid?"

Russ's throat tightened. "Nobody. Just a hardworking farm boy who came north for a decent job. He thought we were keeping him safe."

"We did everything we could at the time." MacAuley's voice was rough. "Don't start second-guessing yourself."

It was good advice. Russ had passed it on to more than one young officer in his day. It didn't make him feel any better.

"Russ?"

He snapped around at the sound of Clare's voice. He could just see her outline in the unlit dimness behind the police tape, silhouetted against the whirl of white, red, and blue lights in the distance. He strode toward her.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I don't want to interrupt. It's just that the boys have left, and I didn't know"-he was close enough to make out her face, now-"nobody told me. I wanted to find out." He stopped in front of her. The shivering police tape drew a line between them. "Is it definitely Amado?"

He balled up his hands to keep from putting his arms around her. "Yeah. It is."

"Oh, God." She looked up at him. "Are you sure?" Before he could say anything, she answered herself. "Of course you're sure." She looked away. Wiped her eyes with both hands. "Can I see him? I won't touch anything or get in the way. I just want to-"

"No," he said.

"I've seen dead bodies before, Russ." She straightened her spine. "I won't break down."

"No. Listen," this time he didn't stop himself. He gathered her against him, holding her tightly, hating to be the one to tell her. "Clare, he was tortured. Before he was killed. It wasn't-" He shook his head. "I don't want you to see-Christ, nobody should have to see something like this."

He felt her inhale. Then stillness. Finally, she said, "Are you all right?" Her voice was unsteady.

"Yeah. Or I will be." He took her shoulders and pushed her to arm's length. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For last winter. For letting go. For treating you the way I did. I've been an asshole, Clare, but I love you, and I swear to God, I'd rather die myself than see you hurt." Lyle's words about letting the press know there was nothing to be found at St. Alban's took on a new and terrible urgency. "Whatever the hell piece of information we're missing, these guys looking for it want it bad. And they're junkyard-dog vicious. I don't want you alone until we've found them. Go to the Ellises' house, get your deacon to move in with you, whatever you have to so you're not by yourself."

"I can't promise that." He couldn't tell if it was anger or anguish in her voice.

"Russ!" Lyle called.

"Please, Clare. I don't expect you to do anything because I ask you to." She flinched at that. "But do it for Amado. His death at least gives us a warning. Don't waste it."

"Russ!" Lyle was impatient.

He left her with one glance over his shoulder. Walked back into the circle of cold light, inching his fingers into his glove once more. All around, the oak and maple leaves whispered and hissed in the wind.

"Take a look at this," Lyle said. He and Kevin-pale, stiff-faced, but functioning-had rolled the body to one side. Doc Scheeler, kneeling, was tweezing some sort of short hairs or fibers from where they had crusted on the blood-soaked shirt. There were a lot of them, black and pale golden and tan where they weren't stained with blood.

"What are they?" Russ asked.

Scheeler held a small tuft up before slipping it into an evidence bag. "I can't be certain until I inspect this under the microscope, but I'm pretty sure it's hair. He brought it with him; it isn't on the pine needles beneath the body. I'm just finding them in one area, here, where the body rested on the ground, but that may not signify much. They could have appeared elsewhere and then blown off while he was exposed up here."

"Maybe he was laid someplace where there was a lot of hair," Lyle said.

"Or wrapped in a rug or blanket," Russ said. "That would jibe with his being transported here. If somebody didn't want to get blood all over the trunk of his car."

"A dog blanket," Kevin said. He looked at Russ. "You know. You put an old blanket on the sofa or on the backseat of a car? So the dog won't shed on the good stuff underneath."

Russ examined the hairs again. Sharp-tipped, two or three inches long. Black and tan. He remembered their last visit to the Christies: Kevin hurtling into the cruiser, half an inch away from being savaged. He looked at the young officer. Saw him nod.

"German shepherds," Russ said.