"Why wait?" Joe asked.

"Because," Tassell shouted before hanging up, "that's what I do."

He had just rolled the maps into tubes for his trip and cleared his inbox when Mary Seels appeared at his office door and said, "Joe, your truck is on fire."

The only things he was able to save were the panniers he had packed in the back of his truck the night before. The cab and engine were engulfed in flames, loud, crackling, angry flames so loud he almost didn't hear the two biologists screaming at him from second-story windows in the building, "GET AWAY FROM THAT BEFORE IT EXPLODES!"

Which he did and it did, with a ground-shaking WHUMP,as he stood near the corrals with the scorched panniers at his feet. A huge black roll of smoke mushroomed from his pickup and hung in the air at roof level. The morning smelled of burning gasoline, oil, plastic, and melting rubber. His truck was a hot black shell by the time the fire department arrived. When the firemen turned their hoses on it the metal steamed and sizzled and the wet clouds of condensation rolled across the parking lot and made him gag as he attempted to duck beneath them.

As Joe circled the truck, marveling that the only thing that looked intact was the gear shift knob, Assistant Director Randy Pope showed up.

"How did this happen?" Pope asked, touching the metal of the window frame and snapping his hand back from the heat.

"I have no idea," Joe said. "I drove it to work this morning, parked it, and it caught on fire."

"Were you in it at the time?"

Joe shook his head. "I was at my desk."

No one had seen the truck catch fire. The few employees who were in the office had been in the lounge area, celebrating the birthday of one of the biologists. No one had been in the parking lot, and the lot couldn't be seen from the street in front.

"Did you smell anything burning when you drove it last?" Pope asked. "Did the gauges tell you anything? Were you overheating? Brand-new twenty-nine-thousand-dollar vehicles just don't catch on fire."

"No," Joe said, "nothing." But he thought how disoriented he had felt that morning, how dizzy he had been. Maybe some wiring was bad and he hadn't noticed it?

Pope stopped and shook his head. "Let's see," he asked rhetorically, "isn't this your thirddepartment vehicle that's a total loss?"

"I didn't do anything," Joe said, aware of how weak that sounded. "It just caught on fire somehow and burned up."

"When was the last time it was in for maintenance?"

Joe tried to remember. "When I got the bodywork done on it after I damaged the frame." He added, "I think. The maintenance log got burned up too."

Pope looked at Joe with condescension. "Three vehicles in five years is some kind of record, I believe."

Joe tried to remain calm. "Maybe someone torched it."

"Think so?" Pope asked. "Who have you made angry enough to do that? You haven't even been here a week."

Joe thought, Pi Stevenson, Smoke Van Horn, the society woman who killed the deer, Don Ennis … maybe even Sheriff Tassell. But he said, "I don't know."

From his office window, Joe watched the tow truck hook up his burned vehicle and take it away. He felt profoundly unhappy, verging on pathetic, he thought. He didn't have his family, his house, his horses, his dog. Now he'd lost his truck, along with his cell phone, weapons, and records. Plus, he still felt strange.

"How are you doing, Joe?"

He turned. Mary Seels stood at his door.

"Come in," he said. "I'm just waiting for them to bust in and take my clothes and my manhood."

She didn't laugh, but held up a key ring. "These are spare keys to Will Jensen's vehicle," she said. "There's no reason why you shouldn't use his old truck. It's perfectly fine, as far as I know."

Joe grimaced. The irony was inescapable. "I have a dead man's job, a dead man's house, the dead man's problems, and I've been mistaken for a dead man," he told her. "And now I have a dead man's pickup truck." He left out that he also had the dead man's ashes in an urn in the panniers he had saved.

She didn't respond.

He took the keys and thanked her, but she didn't leave, just lingered near the door. This time, he decided not to push her. After a few beats, she stepped back into his office and eased the door shut behind her.

"Joe, about a week before he died, Will said something to me."

Joe sat down.

"He was in pretty bad shape when he came into the office that morning," she said. "I thought he was hungover, and frankly, I wasn't very kind to him. Now, when I look back on it, I think he was sick, or really depressed.

"I gave him kind of a hard look, I guess, when I gave him his messages. He just stood there. He looked so lonely, but at the time I didn't feel sorry for him."

Mary stopped and took a breath, kneading her hands together, looking around the room as if she suspected someone might be listening. "Will said he thought they were out to get him, and they were closing in. He said he thought there was only one person he could trust in this valley. I thought at the moment he said it he meant me."

"He didn't?" Joe asked.

"No," she said, "he said someone else. That really hurt me, Joe. I know it's emotional, and irrational, but it really hurt me. I'd been covering for him for so long …"

"So who was it?" Joe asked.

Mary's face hardened. "He said the only person he trusted was Stella Ennis."

It was late afternoon before Joe set off for the trailhead in Will Jensen's pickup, the horse trailer hooked up behind. The interior of the truck was so similar to his own that when he realized he had not called Marybeth, he reached for the cell phone that wasn't there.

He cursed. He hadto reach her before he rode north, into country where he would be inaccessible. He stopped at a pay phone on the side of the highway, but it was out of order. Finally, he called the dispatcher over his radio and asked her to patch him through to his home number. He hoped Marybeth would be there, and maybe he could speak to Sheridan and Lucy since school was over. God, he missed them.

His wife answered, and the sound of her voice lifted his spirits.

"Marybeth, I'm glad I caught you."

"It's about time, Joe. I was starting to think you'd run off on me."

"Honey," he said, wondering how many game wardens, dispatchers, brand inspectors, and citizens with scanners were listening to every word, "I've been patched through on the radio. So this isn't a private call."

"Oh," she said, obviously disappointed. "Why didn't you call me on the cell? Or from your office?"

"My cell phone burned up. In fact, my whole truck burned up."

Silence.

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but my truck caught on fire this morning in the parking lot. I'm calling from Will's old pickup."

"Are you okay?" she asked.

"Fine. Don't worry about anything. Look, I'm going to be out of touch for three or four days. I wanted to check in with you before I go."

Her hesitation told him everything he needed to know.

"Three or four days?"

"At least," he said. "I'm sorry."