Duck was a wide place in the road only a few miles from Galax. If I hurried, there was time for a quick look around the burned farmhouse there before my next class.

It took longer than expected to find the house. It was set off from the highway, hidden behind a pine forest owned by Carolina Pacific. I passed it three times before finally stopping at a roadside vegetable stand to ask directions.

“Who’s wanting to know?” the old man running the stand asked.

I flashed my badge. “Fire investigation.”

“Bout time somebody came poking around.”

“You think the fire was suspicious?”

“An empty house gets blow to hell in the middle of night. What d’you think?”

I followed his directions. But when I finally reached the driveway, I lost hope of finding any useful evidence.

The house looked like ground zero. There was nothing left except a stone foundation and a toppled chimney. The fire had burned fast, and it had burned hot.

I parked nearby.

The foundation was twenty feet square. A small house. Built by hand. The stones were smooth. Probably river rock mined from a stream nearby. The back corner was crushed. I walked around to take pictures and found something interesting.

A crater.

There was a hole at least six feet deep in the crawlspace. Rubble, chunks of plaster, and ashen timber filled the hole. Mixed with the aroma of burnt plastic and wood, I noticed the stink of rotten eggs.

Sulfur.

This wasn’t kids playing with matches. Somebody had set off a bomb. Just like Abner predicted. Just like Stumpy said he’d heard at Tin City.

I checked my watch. It was getting late. The sun was sinking toward the tree line, and my class was due to start. The search could wait till tomorrow. The evidence wasn’t going anywhere.

Neither was I. Not until I had at least taken a look around.

My search path started outside the foundation. It widened in ever-growing circles until it reach a small creek nearby. It wasn’t more than a foot deep in the middle. The bed was lined with smooth rocks like the foundation stones.

I checked my watch again. I was about to go when something shiny caught my eye. A chunk of metal, uniformly curved and jagged, was stuck between two rocks.

Still in my boots, I waded over and pried it out. The chunk was the size of my palm. It was cast iron pipe, the kind once use for the toilet stack in old houses. The pipe was covered in black residue. I scratched it with my knife blade, removing carbon and a fine silver power. I rubbed the powder between my fingers and smelled them.

Sulfur.

I carried the pipe back to my truck. There was a box of freezer bags in the glove box. I zipped the pipe inside one and used a laundry marker to note the time and location of the find. Next step was to get the pipe analyzed.

My phone alarm went of. Twenty minutes till my North Carolina History class started. The analysis would have to wait until I’d learned about farm bills during the Great Depression. All things being equal, I’d rather run into a burning building than sit through that lecture.

My truck was only a half-mile down the road from Duck when Cedar called.

“What’s up?”

“Change of plans,” she said. “I need a little favor. For Luigi.”

“Well, if it’s for Luigi. Because if it were you, then we’d be square, and I’d be off the hook for dinner.”

“You want off the hook?”

Oh no, she wasn’t going to catch me in that little trap. “I say what I mean, and mean what I say.”

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” She sounded relieved. “So. Could you take Luigi to meet his benefactor tonight? My coach called an emergency meeting for seven, the same time as his social thing.”

“Be glad to. If you can do something for me.”

“What does this favor entail?”

“Not much, just take a trip to Stumpy Meeks’ house. I’ve got to get to class, but there’s an item he’s wants me to pick up.”

“An item like what?”

“A finger.”

“Any of his fingers in particular?”

“Not his. The one he keeps in his fridge.”

“Boone Childress,” she said with a tone mixed with disgust and fascination, “you’ve got some explaining to do.”

9

The new jewel in the Allegheny County Medical Center’s crown was the Ethel Landis Children’s Hospital, a state-of-the-art facility for children. It boasted wings dedicated to birth and delivery, neonatal care, pediatrics, and teen health. It was paid for by a capital campaign led by the Titan Foundation, a philanthropic group created by the late Ethel Bayer Landis, wife of G.D. Landis and mother of Trey Landis, the siren chaser from the Tin City fire and as it happened, Luigi’s benefactor.

The Titan Foundation also funded student exchanges with foreign countries. Ethel Landis was a world traveler, and she believed that the school children of Allegheny County deserved to study other cultures. Since she couldn’t fly the children to the countries, her foundation brought foreign students to Allegheny County. Luigi was one of several recipients of an exchange grant. The grant dictated he visit the sponsor to formally give thanks.

“It sucks to be you right now,” I told Luigi as we approached the Titan Foundation office.

“It is expected.” Luigi was dressed in a gray herringbone suit. His spiky hair had been tamed with a comb and a handful of hair gel. “But thank you for accompanying me.”

“No problem. I’d like to see Mr. Landis up close.”

I pulled the door open. Wind swept in, lifting a stack of paper off the receptionist’s desk. The receptionist slapped them down, set a paperweight on the pile, and glared at us.

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t know it it was so blustery.”

“It’s fine,” she lied through her teeth. “Do you have an appointment?”

Luigi pulled out a business card. He offered it with two hands while bowing. “My name is Ryuu Hasegawa. I have an appointment with Mr. George Deems Landis, III.”

“That’s Landis.”

“Yes.”

“You said Randis.”

“Ah,” Luigi said. “Forgive my pronunciation. My English is not so good.”

Her English wasn’t so good, either, but she didn’t see us making fun of her accent.

She flipped the card over. His name was written in English on the front and Japanese on the back. She spent a few seconds puzzling at the kanji. “I’ll tell Mr. Trey you’re here.”

When she was out of earshot, Luigi asked, “Who is this Trey?”

“The man you’re supposed to meet. George Deems the Third. His nickname is Trey. It’s an idiom.”

“It sounds like an object for serving tea.”

“Or for carrying a cafeteria lunch.”

We laughed until the receptionist returned.

“This way.”

She led use to an office, knocked, and waited. I surveyed the building. Plush carpeting. Maple paneling. Solid core doors. Several large modern paintings hung on the walls. One looked like a Pollock.

“Mr. Trey’s personal collection,” she said. “He wanted to be a painter, but the family business was his true calling.”

To the left, I noticed a door ajar. The nameplate read G.D. Landis, CEO Emeritus.The office was furnished with an oak desk and a plush leather sofa. Parked near the windows was an electric wheelchair. A man with silver hair slept in the chair. His head was tilted to the side and resting on a neck pillow.

“Josie?” Trey Landis called the receptionist from his office. “Y’all can come in now.”

“Go on in, boys.” Josie frowned at me. “Just don’t touch anything.”

“Ryobi!” Landis came around the ten-foot-long glass desk with his hand extended. “Come in, come in.”

Luigi bowed and offered his business card.

Landis waved him off. “No formalities here, boys.” He stuck a hand out to me. “I don’t believe I know you. Trey Landis.”

“Boone Childress.”

“Not Mary Harriet’s boy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Your mama’s a damn fine vet. My daddy’s got this old cat he’s had since before they invented sliced bread. If it wasn’t for your mama, it would’ve been dead and buried years ago. Truth is, I should’ve put to sleep three times over, but Daddy’s so fond of it.”