“Not because Pilate punched me out.”

“A little bit because Pilate punched you out,” Lucas said. “The main reason is, everything is now so bureaucratic, so much talking on telephones and sending e-mails, that I don’t know if anybody else has . . . the feeling . . . I’ve gotten about this. This guy is a major-league wacko. There are three dead in Wisconsin, counting that Bony guy, and even Stern is acting like it’s another day in the flour mill. And Stern’s a good guy.”

•   •   •

WEATHER GOT UP at six o’clock, moving quietly by habit, but Lucas woke up and caught her naked in the bathroom for a little squeeze. “Letty is hoping you’re going to Michigan,” she said.

“Maybe. I’ll check at the office first,” Lucas said.

“You’re gonna fly?”

“Probably not. I looked online last night, and the absolutely fastest way I can fly there from here goes through Detroit, and from the time I have to be at the airport, until I get off the plane, is going to be seven hours or more. I can drive it almost as fast, and take all my gear.”

“You mean your guns.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t get shot, it’d be really inconvenient for everybody.”

•   •   •

LUCAS GOT CLEANED UP and slid out of the house before seven o’clock, Letty still sound asleep. At the office he checked notes and e-mails from his agents, got a note from Flowers that had come in before seven, saying that he was heading back to Mankato, where he lived.

Lucas called him, caught him in a diner: “What about the body?”

“Tillus said it was his mother. Said he went up to her bedroom one morning when he didn’t hear her stirring around, and she was dead. He was planning to bury her there on the farm, but never got around to it. He eventually got tired of looking at her up there, wrapped in a sheet, so he rolled her up in that rug.”

“You believe him?”

“Yeah, I guess. Ol’ Mom was just another pain in his ass. Tillus also mentioned something about her Social Security checks—he might still have been cashing them.”

“Good ol’ Mom, the gift that keeps on giving.”

“Yeah. Her arms and legs were mostly gone, but there was some mummification around her head and chest, so they’re shipping her down to the medical examiner to see if there are any wounds,” Flowers said. “But I kinda believe him.”

“Okay.”

“What about you?” Flowers asked. “What are you doing up at this time of day?”

“Going to Sault Ste. Marie, if I can get out of town. Gonna talk to Michigan about meeting somebody up there.”

“Yeah, good idea. It’s just a teeny bit out of your jurisdiction,” Flowers said. “You’ve cleared this with Sands, right?”

“Not exactly.”

“Lucas: clear it with Sands. Please, I’m beggin’ you.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lucas said.

•   •   •

LUCAS FIGURED THAT if he could get out of the office before eight-thirty, he could make it into Sault Ste. Marie before five, which would give him some office hours’ time to talk to the local sheriff and scout the site of the Juggalo Gathering.

Michigan was an hour later than Minnesota, but when he called State Police Headquarters in Lansing, he got kicked around between offices for a while, and finally gave up. He’d call from the truck, he thought.

Jon Duncan, one of the senior case coordinators, was in his office, and Lucas told him about the situation in Baudette. Duncan said he’d tell the Bemidji office to get in touch with the local sheriff, and see if any BCA help was required.

He left a message at Hennepin County Medical Center for Weather, telling her he was on his way to Michigan, and was on his way out the door when he ran into Henry Sands, the BCA director, coming up the steps.

Sands was unhappy: “Senator Moore got me out of bed this morning. He said Flowers ditched them for some other case.”

“I had to pull him off—not Virgil’s fault,” Lucas said. “Something came up, up in Baudette, and he was the closest one of my guys.”

Sands said, “Lucas, I don’t think you understand how important the Fergus Falls case is. Moore is really unhappy. He said Flowers was dragging his feet anyway, like the whole case really didn’t interest him.”

Lucas leaned into Sands and said, “Henry, the whole Fergus Falls case is bullshit. Moore is a bullshitter. Not only are we wasting our time, we risk becoming a laughingstock out there.”

Sands’s face flushed, and he said, “I don’t care what some hick farmer out there thinks, I care about what Moore thinks. He’s on the finance committee, and he can fuck us.”

Lucas said, “I gotta go,” and walked away, heading for the front doors.

“Where are you going?”

“Michigan.”

“What? What? What about Flowers?”

Lucas turned and said, “Flowers is working. He’s got real work to do. Leave him alone, Henry.”

The drive to Sault Ste. Marie was tedious. Lucas stopped twice in small towns to stretch and get a bite to eat, and along the way, made a few phone calls. He couldn’t drum up much interest from the Michigan state cops, who suggested that he talk to the local sheriff, and then he’d talk to the state cops, if that were really necessary. But the UP was such a long way from anywhere . . .

He talked to Del and Shrake, his agents, about their ongoing cases in Minnesota, and to Letty, who was spending her time in an easy chair in Lucas’s home office, reading and doing research on the Internet when he needed it.

Lucas had been told by several people, including Letty, Skye, and other Juggalos, that the Juggalo event was in Sault Ste. Marie. Now Letty told him that it actually wasn’t in the city itself, but at a county park in Barron County, southwest of Sault Ste. Marie.

“I think everybody says Sault Ste. Marie because it’s the closest real city,” Letty told him on the phone. “You’re not going to like what you find in Barron County. The county seat is Jeanne d’Arc, which is the French spelling of Joan of Arc. According to the Wiki, the population in 2000 was two thousand forty-six, and in 2010 was one thousand eight hundred and four, which means the place lost ten percent of its population in ten years. It’s on Lake Michigan.”

“The local beaver plant probably closed,” Lucas said, looking out the window at the passing landscape, which consisted of a two-lane highway, an unrelieved wall of dark green oak trees, a scattering of pines, and the taillights of a single car, far ahead of him.

“What?”

“Nothing. Who’s the sheriff?”

“A guy named Roman Laurent. Here’s another non-great thing. The county website sucks and I’m not sure about this, but he appears to have six deputies and a police dog. Total. There might also be some clerks and part-time help. They don’t have a jail—if they need to put somebody in jail, they rent space from Chippewa County, which is Sault Ste. Marie.”

“Ah, boy. What about Jeanne d’Arc city cops?”

“Let me look . . . Okay, there’s a picture, looks like they’ve got at least seven cops. But the Gathering isn’t right in Jeanne d’Arc, either. It’s ten or twelve miles out of town, at a lake at Overtown Park. I don’t know if the city cops would go there.”

“There’s gotta be some kind of mutual aid program, if they need it,” Lucas said. “What about motels?”

“Let me look . . . There’s a Comfort Inn and a Holiday Inn Express, both on Lake Michigan. Then there are a couple local places, it looks like.”