TCI

Huge swaths of the high plains still lay under snow that first fell in November of ’42, but it was a dry cold and the roads were clear. From the air Headwater looked like an abstract map drawn in fine black ink on paper bleached an unearthly white.

The victim was found by a man in his eighties named Tashunka. He was older than the town of Headwater, a mere boy of the People when the Golden Gift came to Wanica in that final hunt. The biggest animal he ever killed was a coyote baited with a rabbit he caught in another trap.

Tashunka almost didn’t see the girl. Her body was dangling at a road- side attraction that had always bored him. On a map somewhere one line terminated on another. Three states came together at this place, but even when there was no snow Tashunka had never seen any lines. What caught his eye was not so much that the dead girl was naked but how her head and arms drooped back, and how her feet didn’t touch the ground, as though she were nailed to an invisible cross. So he backed up his truck and parked in the little tri-state corral.

There were two other set of tire tracks in the snow and two sets of footprints which became a tangled net near the body. Tashunka tried to be careful in his approach to leave the site clean for the sheriff. He could see no movement of the girl’s chest and no condensation from her mouth. The dead girl was too pale to be one of the People. Of a cer- tainty she had part of the White Wing of the Church of Green Dome. Her ponytail gave that away. And Tashunka wept with frustration that he could not do the simple kindness of closing her frozen eyes staring out upon eternity.

Tashunka recognized the dead girl at last: Kimberly Zinter. He wept more deeply, knowing why she was murdered and guessing who the killer must be. Of a certainty the unhappy union of the Red Wing and White Wing of the Church was finished. He retraced his steps to the truck.

An hour later Tashunka returned with Sheriff Roddy Walker to the lit- tle fenced-off area nigh to the road. The tri-state marker was a wood- en beam embedded in the ground, one foot square with a sloping top, and Kimberly’s back rested on this, held fast by frozen blood.

The sheriff told deputy Bill to start snapping pictures while deputy Bob followed Roddy around with a notepad and took down a running com- mentary.

“I need to steal your sole with my camera, Chief,” Bill said, “so lay it out there.” Tashunka smiled and lifted one leg as best he could. Bill got a photo of the bottom of both the old Indian’s boots to make sure they could differentiate his footprints from that of the perps. Then Tashunka was left behind as Bill methodically photographed his way to the girl’s body. Roddy and Bob followed in his wake.

Old Tashunka watched from the road. When the sheriff and his depu- ties completely surveyed and documented the murder scene they all pitched in, lifted Kimberly free of the survey marker, and laid her gently on a foldaway stretcher that sheriff Walker had brought with him.

Tashunka was surprised to hear the sheriff shout an oath. Roddy has read the plaque that Kim’s body was covering and realized they were at the exact place some surveyor decided the corners of two states ran flush against the border of a third. At a stroke that made the case Federal.

Then they walked the body out of there, pausing a moment for Tashunka to get another close look at it. “This was Kimberly Zinter,” he told them, and he put his fingers on her face just long enough to melt the eyelids so he could close them. “I’ve seen her at Temple.”

The sheriff dug around in the glove box of his truck and came back with a manila folder containing a photo, which he compared to the dead girl’s blood-streaked face. “The gentleman is right, boys. This was the local girl the FBI was looking for. One of the two, anyway.”

After the deputies carefully loaded the body of the girl in the canopy of the department’s green 1940 Dodge half-ton truck, Bob said, “So this wasn’t gonna be our case from the gitgo, even if she wasn’t lying dead spread out over three states. What do we do now, sheriff?”

“We’re going to do our job ’til somebody says different, Bob. Go back to the marker and start walking around it in a spiral that grows four feet wider on every turn. Try and find something that could be the murder weapon. Looks to me like that would probably be a knife.”

Tashunka said, “I remember when you were just a boy, sheriff, and I remember when you left us. None of your men are Greendomites. You might not be up on Church politics and they can’t help you. I don’t know who did this terrible thing to the girl but I can tell you why.”

But inactivity had cooled the sweat under Roddy’s coat and he shivered in the face of a stiff wind from the frozen plains. “This is not the place, Tashunka,” he said, “This body must go to our little hospital. But if you meet me at the station in an hour I will listen to you.”

After that Sheriff Roddy drove deputy Bill and the body around the large hill near the crime scene which was named Green Dome. It was almost five thousand feet above sea level, but only eight hundred feet above the town of Headwater, and it was never green at all in January.

“I just can’t win, Bill,” Roddy lamented. “Half the male population of Headwater between 18 and 45 is off killing Japs and Krauts and Eye- talians. Things were getting real quiet around here. Then the FBI sets up shop and stay all summer. Now I got my first homicide.”

They passed the stretch of national grasslands where the Bureau parked their trailer but there were no lights on, no smoke from a wood stove.

Bill said, “The FBI was here last summer but now people are saying they saw some G-men back in town, staking out the bus station and ask- ing people of they’ve seen our victim and another girl named Sofie Krause. Those girls were in federal custody somewhere for half of last year, but apparently they’ve escaped and made the FBI look … hell, they are incompetent.”

“But they wouldn’t kill the girl for doing that, if your thoughts are trending on those lines, Bill.”

Roddy drove around the northern slopes of Green Dome and Headwater came into view, the biggest town for a hundred miles around. The popu- lation was down to a thousand, now, owing to the war. Bill asked, “What do you want me to do after we give the body to Dr. Wahkan?”

“Develop the film and file it,’ Roddy told his deputy. “Then get back to the scene and help Bob look for the murder weapon. I didn’t see any prints leading away from the marker so I figure the perpetrator either tossed it away or kept it. To know which option he chose would be a good thing for me to know.”

The town’s one doctor was known as Wahkan to the People, but the whites called him Plenty Practice. No one had ever died under his knife, but even a local legend such as Doctor Wahkan could not call back the dead. “Kim Zinter,” he said when he saw the bloody corpse. “Heartbreaking.”

Dr. Wahkan donned a pair of rubber gloves. “I have never carried out this protocol for you, Sheriff, and for your father of happy memory I have only dones so five times.”

He felt behind the girl’s head and discerned the bump had opened to become a bone cup as he knew it would last year.

“I last saw her last year,” said Dr. Wahkan. “And also the other girl, the one named Sofie. They both had the same symptoms.”

“Symptoms?”

Dr. Wahkan gently rolled Kim’s body a half-turn so Roddy could see the open bone cup and the bristle of black pins, like little hairs.

“I’ll be damned,” Roddy said, when the doctor lifted the girl’s pony- tail away so he could see.

“We call this the Change,” Dr. Wahkan told him. “Naturally both girls were alarmed when it started to happen to them, but they are quite safe. The Change is known among the Kuwapi people. I told Kim and So- fie it had been present among some members of the Red Wing for a human lifetime and more, but they wouldn’t listen to me. I tried to explain it to their mothers, but they insisted on a second opinion. Now Head- water is infested with outsiders.”

“Headwater is a good place, Doctor, but my hand is forced simply by where the killer chose to leave the body. I must report to the very outsiders who have made things not so good here over the last few months. Please help me learn who did this to her, and why.”

The town of Headwater, true to its name, sat at the source of the Squaw River. Paved road ended there, as did the railroad. There were no hotels. West, north, and south of the town was nothing but empty grasslands. No one from outside of town ever spent the night in Head- water because no one ever passed through. The Bureau had to crane off a trailer just to have a place for its agents to sleep.

The Church of Green Dome had steadily lost adherents since peaking in 1917 but there were still many congregations scattered across America and even a few in Europe. When families of the deceased came to Head- water for the Last Rite often the only place for them to stay was the Temple itself.

The C Wing had six modest rooms which were offered to visiting fami- lies for their brief stay of a day or two. Klaus Hansen had never giv- en them much thought. As far as he knew or cared the beds made them- selves, so when he arrived at the temple with Paul Bergin in tow he was startled to find Dory and Gabriel cleaning the rooms.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“It went with the position of Extraordinary Lay Minister of the Last Rite,” Gabriel replied. “Somebody has to get the rooms ready, and now I guess the Deacon does it.”

“Then what’s she doing here?”

“Cousin Dory is pitching in.”

“I’m reclaiming Sundays for the White Wing. I only want Red Wingers to be here on Wednesdays.”

Dory and Gabriel, being Red Wingers both, made as though to leave, but Klaus said, “Not you, boy.”

“I’ll pick you up at five, cuz,” said Dory on her way out.

When sha was out of earshot, Klaus asked, “How’s your back?”

“The same as last time, sir.”

“Last time? You’ve been flogged before?”

Gabriel nodded hez head. “Lotsa times, sir. The fellas I run around with, we whip each other every now and then just to see how much we can take. And they’re not just love taps, let me tell you.”

“Where’s the Golden Gift?”

“It’s right here in the Temple, sir, just as we agreed.”

“How do I know that’s true?”

“This is the Temple of Green Dome, sir. Liars have no part in the life to come.”

“Show it to me.”

“Sir, Mike told me to only bring it out at need.”

“Who’s Mike?”

“Michael, sir. As in the original Michael.”

“Nevermind. Fuck Mike. You need to show it to me.”

Gabriel unlocked a supply room similar to the one downstairs in the temple basement. A red butter cookie tin sat on a shelf. It was empty but Gabriel needed the can for his trick. When che reached outside of the universe it always looked like somebody chopped hez hand off with an ax, which would need explaining. Gabriel produced the relic. To Hansen’s eyes it looked like che pulled it out of the tin.

“How do I know that’s not just something you whipped up in metal shop and painted gold? Make this box disappear for me.”

Paul Bergin set down a cardboard box he was carrying.

“What’s in the box, sir?”

“Old clothes and shoes. Never mind what’s in the box, just make it disappear with your alleged relic.”

Gabriel squeezed the Artifact. The hissing shifted down in pitch as the black rip in reality grew, drinking in the light and air of the room. Hez ponytail tossed in the growing breeze as he lapped up the box into nothingness. He tried not to damage the floor but it was unavoidable.

Neither Klaus Hansen nor Paul Bergin had never been so close to the Golden Gift in operation and they were entranced by the sheer other- worldliness of it. Gabriel was amazed at hez self-restraint for not slicing the men in half where they stood.

“Alright, Gabriel,” said Hansen when the thrill of the Golden Gift wore off, “put it back in the can and lock this room back up.”

Gabriel gave a very convincing performance of putting the Artifact away. A clever slight-of-hand never entered the mind of Klaus.

When it was done Klaus told hem to hand over the key and the look on his face seemed to dare hem to show even a twinge of insubordination, but he got nothing. “Who else has a key?”

“Paul does, sir,” replied Gabriel. “He never returned it after he quit.”

“I never quit,” Bergin said.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Hansen said. “Your wife is dead.”

“Oh, I know, sir.”

“What do you mean, you know? You don’t seem too cut up over it.”

“Cut up. I get it, sir.”

“The last thing I need from you is your mouth, boy.”

“She predicted it would happen, sir,” Gabriel said. “Besides, our Lord himself said, ‘He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”

“Do you know what I believe, son? I believe the death of your wife makes me the Prophet of the Church, and I believe that in turn makes Paul the Apostle. We’ll be in the office making it official in the founder’s Green Book. And I believe you still have some rooms to clean.”

Tashunka waited outside the sheriff’s office long past when Roddy said he’d meet him, trying to stay warm inside his running truck. Roddy apologized for the delay and invited the old fellow to come indoors for some fresh coffee. “Doctor Wahkan had some interesting things to say,” the sheriff told him.

Tashunka followed Walker inside and sat shivering in his seat until the coffee was ready. “And what of the three stupid boys who took a bullwhip to a plains Indian and didn’t think he’d have friends who could do something far worse in retaliation?”

“The three stupid boys were still there looking perfectly miserable until they laid eyes on the dead girl. That seemed to make their whole day. Would that Headwater had a bigger hospital. They wouldn’t tell me what was so funny. I figure you’re about to tell me.”

Tashunka leaned back in his seat nursing the coffee. His eyes landed on a photograph of the elder Sheriff Walker, now deceased. Two years already? “Everyone greatly respected your father, Roddy, both White Wing and Red Wing alike. I was there at his Final Rite.”

Roddy flushed with sudden anger, but it was not directed at the old Indian. “And I, his only son, trained to replace him, was not permit- ted to be there at his precious Rite because I don’t believe in fairy tales about angels and sun gods and killing relics and I made the mis- take of letting everybody know that.”

“Sheriff, if you allow your heart to grow black then you will take everything I tell you as coming from the left hand of the damned. What you call the ‘killing relic’ sets the Church of Green Dome apart from all other faith assemblies. It is evidence of divinity which can be seen.”

Roddy glared at him while he took another sip of coffee, then lowered his eyes. Soon he was calm again and said, “You are absolutely right, Tashunka, and I know how important the relic is in the life of your Church. So let us call it by its right name, the Golden Gift.”

“You know Mark Lange was the first Prophet of the Church, and Wanica was his Apostle. When Wanica died, Prophet Lange chose Peter Two- feathers to replace him. Then Lange himself died, making Twofeathers the Prophet, and he in turn chose Klaus Hansen to be the Apostle, though he was very reluctant to do so. Years intervened before he was pressured to name Hansen.”

Roddy nodded. “Yes, I know authority in the Church moves from White to Red Wing and back, over and over so long as heaven and Earth last. That was the theory, anyway. It worked like a charm until the day the authority actually moved to the Red side and the White side didn’t much like it.”

Tashunka said, “Red and White wings swap power but the Golden Gift stays in the Red Wing. God gave it to Chief Wanica, who gave it in turn to Twofeathers. Hansen says the Apostle should have it. Twofeath- ers thought it would quiet things to personally give it up, but he gave it to Gabriel Shybear.”

“Gabriel Shybear. That explains how he got his whipping. And he said his house and the Temple had been ransacked too. They must have been trying to beat the Golden Gift out of him. Oh, it’s a good thing I never embraced the faith of the Green Dome Church as my own, Tashunka. It’s much too violent for me.’

“It gets better,” Tashunka said. “Twofeathers said he was setting aside the rule that Greendomites can only marry their cousins, in just one instance, so that Gabriel could marry Kim Zinter. When they heard that the Apostle, Klaus Hansen, and half the Bunners stood up and walked out of the Temple.”

Roddy smiled at Tashunka’s use of the word ‘Bunners’. By strict canon law all Greendomites had to wear their hair in a ponytail, even the men, but in the White Wing this ponytail was done up in a bun, even for the men. He shuddered at how close he had come to being a Bunner. But even people who had nothing to do with the Church knew about their biggest hobby horse. For a time the Mormons had polygamy. The Greendo- mites have mandatory cousin marriage. Roddy knew a deep current of racism ran among the Bunners but the requirement for consanguineous marriages had kept a firm lid on it. Kim Zinter was fourth generation White Wing at least, she’d have no kin among the Red Wing. Her mar- riage and any subsequent children would have blown the door wide open.

As though he could read Roddy’s mind, Tashunka said, “Hansen would see this marriage between Gabriel and Kim as a horrible disease infecting the body of the Church. Their children would have marriageable cousins in both wings and it would just grow worse from there.”

“So now I have a possible motive,” the sheriff said.

Deputies Bill and Bob rushed in just then and threw a Cellophane bag on the sheriff’s desk containing the murder weapon. “We found it,” Bob said, “Just like you guessed, Sheriff, not more than throwing distance from the body.”

The blade was thin and flexible, nothing more than a steak knife per- haps.

Roddy picked up the bag and frowned with disappointment. “This game isn’t as fun when the other side isn’t even trying to win. Not a run- of-the-mill Sears Roebuck kitchen knife: no, something handmade, some- thing an admirer would make special just for the Church Apostle.’

Next came a duty Sheriff Walker found to be every bit as distasteful as his father described, the five times he had to do it. Roddy recal- led the recent death of Erik Zinter and he yearned to dodge the responsibility to notify Clara Zinter of the discovery of her daugh- ter’s body. How does one break it to a newly-widowed woman that her family has now been entirely wiped off the face of the earth?

The young woman who answered the door was not Clara Zinter. Her hair was a rich, dark red. She had eyes that were a light, icy green, striking for being so rare. She also had a pretty face but she was a little too chubby even for a time before film actresses and models made being skinny sexy.

“Are you…?” Roddy was looking at the spitting image of the deceased, Kimberly Zinter, standing in the doorway, patiently waiting for him to speak. He pulled out his file to be sure. Identical. He was not aware that Kim had a twin sister. “Is Mrs. Clara Zinter at home?”

“Mother isnt here anymore,” the young lady said, “I swapped places with her. Mom’s with her own folks in Pennsylvania. You’re Sheriff Walker, right? I’m Robyn. Do you want to come in? I’m sure you have questions and it will be better than standing here in the doorway.”

Roddy took off his hat and accepted her offer. The hardwood floors were covered with throw-rugs. He could smell the light odor of a gas furnace. A radio was playing “Ive Got a Gal in Kalamazoo” by Glenn Miller and His Orchestra, and Robyn turned it down.

“Please, Robyn, if you could turn the radio entirely off. Its hardly appropriate for what I must tell you.”

The girl complied, and invited the sheriff to be seated. He did so and got the overall impression that the Zinter family was firmly in the middle-class. Not destitute by any means, but not ostentatious either.

A small coffee table lay between them. Robyn smoothed out her plaid dress and Roddy saw that she wore bobby socks and saddle shoes. “You were about to tell me that you found the body of my sister,” Robyn said, “and that she had been brutally murdered.”

On one level Roddy felt relief. His duty to notify the next-of-kin had been mooted. But Robyn had stated things she should not know. “You dont seem to be too upset about it,” Roddy said, taking a small note- book and pen out of his jacket liner. The sympathetic bearer of bad news was a detective again. “When did you know your sister was dead, Miss Zinter? Did an old Indian fellow pay you a visit today?”

“Just Robyn, please,” she said. “One name. Robyn. Not Miss Zinter. No- body else has visited me today. I find it difficult to say how I knew she had died. If I speak it will be the truth, but then you would believe me to be insane.”

Roddy said, ‘Robyn, this is a murder investigation so I exhort you to hold to that thought, that whatever you tell me must always be the truth. Now, as for believing you are insane, I’m already having trou- ble with your attitude toward the news of your twin sister’s murder.”

Robyn asked the sheriff whether he had heard stories about identical twins who seem to have a link that defies any explanation. Perhaps stories about twins who were separated at birth. They never met, yet they led lives with coincidence piled upon coincidence, with the same type of job, and even the same type of spouse.

“Robyn, are you saying you and Kim had some kind of radio in your head that let you know what was happening to the other? If that’s what you- ‘re trying to tell me, young lady, I wouldn’t believe you were insane. I would run you in to the station for further questioning, for knowing material facts about this case with no plausible explanation why.”

But Robyn was shaking her head. “That’s not what I’m trying to tell you, Sheriff.”

She stood up and walked over to her record collection, where she pulled a ten inch 78 RPM record from its sleeve. Holding it up for Roddy she said, “Let’s do this by analogy. This is Kim. And in every instant of time, a copy is made of her. By the time shes seventeen Kim is quite a stack of records. But something happens to her that she can’t explain. Maybe she starts skipping. Her friend Sofie is another stack of records who starts skipping too. The music store says nothing is wrong with them. But Kim’s mother is a stickler for high fidelity and she won’t take that for an answer. She quits her job at the music store and takes Kim to Lusk for a second opinion, and she convinces Sofie’s parents to do the same. Soon after, both re- cord stacks are in impound. There’s six months of tests but nobody figures out why Kim and Sofie skip. The girls realize they’re never getting out of quaran- tine, so they escape, but that’s another story. Kim Zinter changes her label and becomes Robyn. Sofie Krause changes her label to Hunky. And soon Hunky is back with Doriel, and Robyn is back with Gabriel. Robyn and Gabriel want to get hitched, and the Prophet says he can swing it. But the Apostle says: ‘Will no one rid me of this troublesome platter? So the Deacon takes a kitchen knife to her. Now enter an otherworldly giant named Mike. Seven and a half feet tall! Somehow he reaches back into that stack of records named Robyn and pulls out a disk from after the Deacon stole it, but before he broke it, and starts a new stack.”

Robyn fell silent and stared placidly at Roddy.

Finally he said, ‘You win, Robyn. People as growing stacks of records? Thats too batshit crazy to take you downtown or lock you up. The Dea- con did it, you say? Paul Bergin?”

She nodded yes.

“You didn’t give me enough probable cause to even check him out.”

Robyn said, “My sister was killed with a knife from Bergin’s kitchen, one with a distinctive handle.”

Roddy held his face immobile and said, “Possibly.”

“Tomorrow is trash day. If you dig in his garbage can you’ll find the whole set. You wont even need a search warrant since he has already thrown it out.”

“Now that I can use,” Roddy said. “Kim’s body was found on the tri- state marker, which makes it a federal case. Whoever killed her did that on purpose. That’s why I’m trying to break this case before the FBI gets here, on the principle that you never give a perp what he wants.”

Mark Felt had been with the Bureau just one year but the quality of his reports filtering back to Washington had brought him to the notice of the Director, J. Edgar Hoover. On the eve of Special Agent Felt’s transfer to DC Hoover telephoned him personally.

Felt tried to maintain a respectful tone with the Director but he knew he was in for disappointment. The San Antonio field office was deemed a punishment detail where agents were sent to be toughened up, and it was particularly hard on agents who were married.

When it came it was every bit as bad as he thought it would be. Felt’s transfer to Washington to work on counter-espionage was put on hold until he solved a simple homicide smack in the middle of the country. Hoover took this one personally; and so, natch, the FBI did as well.

“You’ll be coordinating with Special Agent in Charge Clyde Tolson on this one,” Hoover said. “Do you know him?”

Felt could only answer that he knew Tolson was the SAC at a division of the Bureau known only as DECON, but none of his associates knew what the initials meant.

“In Clyde’s pretty little head,” Hoover said with a nervous chuckle, “DECON stands for Domestic Enemies Containment, Observation, and Neutralization. But to me, you, the other agents and most important of all, Congress, Tolson heads up the Special Projects section.”

“I understand sir,” said Felt. “But what if, by some misfortune, my work runs at cross-purposes to those of SAiC Tolson? Which case takes precedence?”

Hoover said Felt had the upper hand. He was to mesh with Tolson where practical but Felt’s reports were to go directly to DC. “Also you will have the complete cooperation of the local law enforcement community, such as it is. Not even Tolson has that. But bear in mind that Headwater is a small town at the ragged edge of nowhere. You will be shocked to find it lacking in most basic amenities.”

Hoover wrapped up with a few more details, saying Agent Felt this and Agent Felt that. In twenty years Mark Felt would draw close enough to J. Edgar that he would just be called ‘Felt’ but he’d never be on a first-name basis like ‘Clyde’ and that would suit him fine.

Felt did win one important concession. He received permission to draw a Bureau sedan so his wife Audrey could proceed to DC as originally planned while he took his own car north through most of Texas and three other states to fix this burr under the Director’s saddle.

One summer head up the Big Muddy to St. Louis and hang a left. Now you’re on the Missouri, the longest river in North America. Go upriver past Sioux City, Iowa and hang a left again on the Niobrara River. Head west until you’re walking in a dry river bed. You missed it. Back up. The Squaw River is a shorter tributary of the Niobrara, yet it has a year-round flow despite winding across the most arid grasslands of the high plains. Bison used to reliably congregate at the edge of the Squaw River to drink, and the hunters of The People knew it.

On a ridge above Headwater is a pillar of rock carved by wind to look like an Indian woman carrying a papoose in her papoose, hence the name Squaw River. Just west of town the river bends around the south and west flanks of Green Dome and pours from an underground cistern. Headwater is where the river begins, but it’s also where the railroad and pavement ends. Other than a few dirt roads and old wagon tracks, the land north, west and south of town is literally the biggest void in the lower forty-eight states.

Headwater has nothing for tourists, even when it wasn’t wartime and there were tourists to be had. The view from the top of Green Dome was out over thirty-five miles of nothing. If you were from out of town it must have meant you were there to get hitched and your extended family put you up.

Special Agent Felt drove to the strip of land where Hoover told him the FBI had dropped a trailer. It was unoccupied. Felt let himself in using a spare key he had obtained from the Wichita field office. The kitchen was still a kitchen, but the living room was a workspace. He checked the trailer’s two bedrooms and saw they contained two cots apiece. So the trailer could sleep four agents. Before anyone else arrived he shat, showered, and shaved to make himself presentable once again after two days and two nights on the road.

When he was finished Felt was still alone in the trailer, so he helped himself to files stacked on the desks. One of them, with brittle yellowed paper that Felt instinctively handled with great care, was a report on the final days of Fort Price. The report contained pages from the commanding officer’s journal and testimony of the six surviving soldiers, including one who had been captured and maimed.

Mark Felt stopped reading the Fort Price file when he heard the sound of a vehicle’s tires crunching up to the FBI trailer. Felt had al- ready met Clyde Tolson at the handshaking ceremony the previous year when Hoover inspected his graduating class but this fellow wasn’t he. When the agent came in Felt thought the man looked more movie gangster than g-man, investigatee more than investigator, and somewhat later he learned he was one of the very few liberal Democrats to be accepted into the Bureau. “Are you William Mark Felt?” the newcomer asked.

Felt, who had been sitting ramrod straight in his chair, now stood ramrod straight on his feet and extended his hand. ‘Just Mark Felt, please.’ And the newcomer remarked on their mutual good fortune, as he was Bill Sullivan, and two Williams would have been confusing.

Sullivan approached the desk to see what Felt had been reading, amused by Mark’s body language which seemed to dare him to say something derogatory about the presumption. “Ah yes, Cowboys and Indians,” he said when he saw the material a bit closer. “How far did you get?”

“The Indians dropped a couple cows,” Felt replied, “and the Cowboys dropped a couple Indians. If you hadn’t shown up, Bill, I’m sure I would have plowed my way through to the part where the US Army lost their fort. A lifetime ago. Is this one of Tolson’s special projects?”

“DECON,” Sullivan said. “Domestic Enemies Containment, Observation, and Neutralization. I’m sure the Director told you this was Special Projects but my advice to you is to play along with Special Agent in Charge Tolson on this. At least until you break the murder case.”

Felt silently absorbed this and nodded once, clearly accepting the advice. He donned his overcoat and said, “Where is Tolson, by the way? I’ve only just arrived from the San Antonio office and the Director gave me almost nothing in the way of a briefing before I departed.”

“Tolson is waiting for you at what qualifies for a hospital in this tiny hamlet,” Sullivan said. “It’s practically a one-room log cabin. He’s with Dr. Ian Trochmann. I’ll take you there, but I won’t be staying. I’m still looking for a fugitive, one Sofie Krause.”

As Bill Sullivan drove Mark Felt to the hospital to take over the murder investigation he pointed at the mountain to the right. “Green Dome is not even one of the five highest points in the state but summit to base it’s twice any other. That’s where the Indians retreated when the cowboys started shooting.”

“And over there,” Special Agent Felt said, pointing left over the dashboard, “must be the north bank of the river where the cowboys managed to get their herd. What happened next? You got me wondering how the Army lost a fort and why Tolson gives a damn about all this.”

Sullivan shrugged, because the report was incomplete and he truly didn’t know. “I guess it’s like the little brother to Custer’s Last Stand. One thing that really strikes me about the Indian wars was how the Indians gave as well as they got. We only beat them with numbers.”

“Numbers, time, and the fact that they weren’t really as blood-thirsty as people make them out to be. Did you ever hear of something they did called ‘counting coup’? No? It was the wartime equivalent of touch football. They went to war like we go to ball games.”

They arrived at Headwater’s only hospital where they saw a plump nurse in her fifties wheeling out a shivering boy with bandaged stumps where his feet should have been. She was followed by Deputies Bill and Bob wheeling out one boy apiece, each with identical injuries.

Sullivan led Felt up the walkway and made the first introductions. “Felt, this is nurse Ella Fader, and in the wheelchair is young Scott Hilling. Ella, this is FBI Special Agent Mark Felt.”

Felt couldn’t help grinning at her name. She shook her head to warn him off.

After that Sullivan introduced Deputy Bob Lurz pushing Johnny Sunkel, and Deputy Bill Holsinger pushing Larry Porter. Felt wondered aloud why they were being rolled out to see the snow.

Deputy Bob said, “Agent Clyde Tolson was of the mind they needed fresh air for about an hour.”

Felt remarked on the similarity of their injuries.

Agent Sullivan said, ‘The Indians here used to believe if they could make a captive scream his shade would be their servant in the afterlife. Some still remember. Not quite the touch football you mentioned earlier. There was a young Indian fellow in this little clinic a few days ago who was flogged. Goes by the name of Gabriel Shybear. I think these three boys did it, and I think Gabriel’s friends worked them over with knives as payback. But nobody is talking. Nobody wants to name names.”

“Oh, there you are Felt,” SAIC Clyde Tolson said when they went inside. Felt remembered his oblong face and searing gaze from last year at Quantico when he inspected the graduating class 15 with Director Hoover.

The sheriff was also there and Sullivan made the introduction, “Special Agent Mark Felt, this is Sheriff Roddy Walker.”

Mark decided to hit the ground running. As he shook Roddy’s hand he looked at his watch and said, “Sheriff, it’s quarter of four and I am now assuming responsibility for this investigation. The Bureau expects your full cooperation and coercion is never my preference.”

“Special Agent Felt, this department will pull out every stop to cooperate with your investigation. But I just wonder, why start with this case? A few years ago there was another murder over the state line. My father reported it up to the Bureau but he was told to handle it locally.”

Felt said, “I don’t know the particulars of your father’s case. In this one the deceased is already involved in a DECON investigation by Special Agent in Charge Tolson, and whoever perpetrated the crime left her body across three states. And that action deliberately goaded the Director.”

Tolson appeared pleased by Felt’s can-do attitude and that he didn’t need to be reminded of his preferred term for the Special Projects section. He suspected Sullivan was instrumental there. Sheriff Roddy introduced another man, still wearing scrubs, as Dr. Wahkan.

And still another man was donning scrubs. He was introduced as Dr. Ian Trochmann, part of Tolson’s DECON project, preparing to perform the autopsy all over again for the federal side of the house. Roddy didn’t think there’d be much of the girl left after that.

Dr. Wahkan raised a bloody gloved hand and said, “You’ll understand if I don’t shake your hand, Agent Felt.”

Tolson said, “Dr. Wahkan has completed what is no doubt a thorough autopsy but that makes both him and the Sheriff, privy to information that I consider sensitive.”

Felt was puzzled. “What do you mean, sir? What did he find?”

Dr. Wahkan removed his gloves in a careful, clever way that avoided any contact with his skin and started to remove his overgarment, knowing that he was finished. He began, ‘The deceased was a Caucasian fe- male. The deceased is known from her appearance to be one Kimberly Anne Zinter of Headwater, seventeen years of age, high school student and a vocalist in the church choir. Fingerprints were taken.” Looking at the sheriff he also said, “The next-of-kin have been notified. The deceased has been dead for approximately eighteen hours with little evident decay as she was discovered outdoors in sub-freezing weather. I counted thirteen deep knife wounds to the chest. Six of these wounds pierced the heart and were the proximate cause of death. The actual cause of death was exsanguination, or in layman’s terms, the deceased bled out. The size of each wound suggests something larger than a pocket knife but smaller than a hunting knife.”

“Please get to the good part, Doctor,” said Tolson, visibly agitated.

Dr. Wahkan sighed and got to it. ‘Protruding through the scalp at the back of the head of the deceased is a small structure of bone resembling a cup in the shape of the letter ‘D’ with the flat side toward the neck. Inside the cup are more than fifty small black bristles.”

“That is the sensitive information,’ Tolson said. “Nurse Fader is not to know, the deputies are not to know.”

Roddy Walker paced over to Kim’s body and took a look at the bone cup himself, once again, and feigned surprise. And once again he said, ‘I’ll be damned.’

Tolson regretted that the murder investigation meant Sheriff Walker couldn’t be sliced out of the loop like the deputies and the nurse had been. “Have you ever seen the like before, Doctor Wahkan?”

Wahkan said, ‘Last May this girl’s mother brought her to me. Her friend Sofie came in too, accompanied by both parents. The skin was not broken, the girls only had bumps on their heads. Their folks didn’t like what I said so they went to another doctor in a neighboring state for a second opinion.”

“What did you tell them, Doc?” Tolson asked. ‘That it was just a tick bite? Did you even take X-rays? We both know you did not. That leads me to believe you have seen this strange bone cup before, perhaps many times before. Doctor Wahkan, is that, in fact, the case?”

After considering his reply, Doctor Wahkan said, “If I answer one way, I’m lying to a federal agent, which is a crime. And if I answer another way, I’m breaking doctor-patient confidentiality. So you will understand my position when I don’t speak of this to you at all.”

“You should be more worried about losing your license to practice medicine after failing to help me shut down what could very well be an infectious outbreak.”

“Special Agent Tolson,” growled Wahkan, “if you truly believed the girl was contagious you wouldn’t even be in the same building with her body.”

To this Clyde had nothing more to say. Dr. Trochmann flashed a raised eyebrow and wry smile at Tolson, as if to say, He’s got you.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Felt, “but do you think this girl’s bone cyst or whatever it is will have any bearing on the murder investigation?”

“This bone cyst and how the girl got it is part of a DECON investigation in Headwater. Her murder complicates things somewhat. It becomes a Bureau case, but we’re not currently set up to carry it out. I put in a call to the Director, and here you are.”

“There is another young lady with the same bone cup, a Miss Krause, and I presume she’s still alive and hiding somewhere in this very, very small town. So, Special Agent Sullivan, I thank you for fetching Special Agent Felt, but you know what, and you know when.”

“I do indeed, sir,” said Sullivan. He put on his gray fedora, tipping it to the sheriff, the two doctors, and Felt as he made his farewell. Before he left he turned to Tolson and asked, “And the people freezing outside, sir, shall I send them back in?”

“Not now,” Tolson replied, and he made a small gesture to Trochmann. The DECON doctor took up an electric reciprocating saw and began to separate Kim’s head from her body, heedless of the storm of blood and gristle that he unleashed or the loud objections of Wahkan.

Sheriff Walker found a sudden need to be outside and Sullivan followed him. On the way out they heard Dr. Wahkan said, “Agent Tolson, my prayer is that you find whatever you are looking for quickly, and never again return to Headwater. Not even uncivilized men treat their dead in this manner.”

Dr. Trochmann finished decapitating Kim Zinter’s body and Dr. Wahkan howled an anguished objection that could be heard even outside the clinic. Sheriff Walker heard Special Agent Mark Felt’s stomach growl and guessed the man might not have eaten since breakfast. He invited Felt to dine out.

Felt heartily agreed, so long as the sheriff remembered not to talk about the case in the restaurant. That gave Roddy very little time to bring Felt up to speed. He decided on Bea’s Chicken Inn only five blocks east of the hospital. Headwater wasn’t a large town. Roddy took him over in the half-ton truck and along the way Felt invited him to spill out what he had uncovered up to that point.

Roddy said, “We have what is very likely the murder weapon, and it has fingerprints. We have many photographs of the scene with tire and boot marks in snow.”

Roddy pointed out of the windscreen to the left. ‘That house coming up is the home of the deceased. I made contact with her twin sis- ter there, one Robyn Zinter, who is not a resident of Headwater. She already knew Kim was dead and described circumstances of that death. I didn’t bring her in because I knew this was going to be the Bureau’s case from the gitgo. And some of the things she said were pretty crazy.”

“After we eat I want to visit a judge. I want you to get a warrant to arrest Robyn Zinter. Let’s see how crazy she is then.”

Bea’s Chicken Inn was kitty- corner to Robyn’s house. When Roddy pulled into the parking lot he gave Felt one more item from the case. “I wanted to let you know we have a lead on the owner of the murder weapon. My deputies are set to move tomorrow unless you call it off.”

“Why would I do that?”

“The source of the lead was the aforementioned Robyn Zinter. But the lead is too good to risk passing up.”

“Do you think she’s indulging in misdirection, sheriff?”

“I can’t figure her out at all. She expresses zero sorrow for her sister. None. If I understood her correctly, Agent Felt, this Robyn is not choked up over her sister’s death because she thinks she’s somehow a copy of her sister from just before she was murdered. She’s intelli- gent and sweet but half the things that come out of her mouth make no sense at all.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” he said. “But first, Bea’s Chicken Inn, you say? Did you know I haven’t had a bite since early this morning in Witchita?”

“Then you’re in luck, Agent Felt, homestyle fried chicken is Bea’s forte. I wanted to put Headwater’s best foot forward.”

“When they went inside and were seated in a booth Roddy remarked that the place was much less busy that it used to be on weeknights. “Coal mining was the mainstay of the town and that’s drying up.”

Felt said, “I heard wartime meat rationing will start in a month or two.”

Roddy nodded. “Places like this won’t close up, but they’ll have to collect ration cards from customers and put them all together to get resupplied. I suppose it’ll be even less crowded then.” He shrugged. “Tell me about yourself, Agent Felt. Why did you choose the FBI?”

“I have a law degree,’ Felt said, ‘and I was leaning toward the inter- section of business and government, but the war intervened. In wartime our country becomes, temporarily, a military dictatorship with all hands on deck. So as with your coal miners here my work dried up.”

“Your education was not criminal law?”

“Well, make no mistake, Sheriff Walker, I was immersed in criminal law at Quantico. But the crimes that draw my attention aren’t the kind that happen in towns like Headwater. I want to go after spies.”

The waitress came to take their order, and both men, knowing they would later visit a judge at his own home after working hours, refrained from ordering wine. She took the menus but left the two silver half-dollar coins that had been on the table when the men were seated.

“The people who ate at this table before us were from the Red Wing of the Church,” Roddy said confidently.

“How do you know?”

He gestured at the two coins. “Those half-dollars. 1942. The mint mark should be D for Denver, but they’ll both be O be- cause the die was worn and nobody caught it in time.

Mark Felt looked at both coins and confirmed that Roddy’s guess was true. “How strange. But what’s the connection to the Red Wing?”

“There’s a fellow I know here who runs a pawn shop, he brought these to my attention. Normally a mint mark of O would make these collectible. This fellow looked into it and found out the Denver Mint had struck about a hundred of these flawed fifty-cent pieces before their quality control spotted the problem and halted the run. But there are many more than a hundred of them circulating here in Headwater. Everywhere you go in Headwater you’ll see them, always from the Red Wing, usually retirees living on social security, this old fellow gets a tube for his radio at the hardware store and leaves some half-dollars, that old lady gets her hair done and leaves another stack.”

“Do you think somebody in Headwater is actually counterfeiting coins?”

“If they are, Agent Felt, I really don’t see how they would profit by it. If you melt a silver half-dollar down all you get is a half-dollar’s worth of raw silver bullion.

“But Pawn Shop Guy says the little O under ‘In God We Trust’ makes it collectible.”

“Sure, if there was only a hundred of them. There’s probably a hundred thousand of them now and they’re breeding. I chalk it down to one of the many unexplained things about this town.”

“There’s more?”

“There’s much more, Agent Felt, as you’ll find out after we eat and the judge eats and Robyn eats and we go visit them. Take the Squaw River for one. It’s the only stream in the tri-state area that flows year-round from its source. Geologists cannot explain it.”

Felt chuckled at that. “So the Church is named for Green Dome, but nobody knows what makes it so green. You might be right about all the unexplained things in Headwater. Just before we met I was reading about Chief Wanica and a boy named Tashunka who somehow fought off a half-dozen armed men.”

Roddy was tempted to tell Felt the same Tashunka found the deceased, but that would break Felt’s rule: it was germaine to the case.

The waitress arrived with their food. The sheriff withheld his reply until after they were served. Then he said, “My guess is Special Agent in Charge Tolson is running that particular mystery to ground. But I don’t want to break your rule and talk about active cases while we’re eating.”

They stopped conversing and ate while Mark Felt expressed his appreciation for the food with grunts and eyebrow gestures. After a time Roddy asked, “How many spies have you caught, Agent Felt?”

“None so far,” Mark admitted. “I’ve only been with the Bureau for one year. Half of ’42 was spent at the Academy and in DC, and for the rest of the year I was in Texas in hot field offices doing little more than interviewing references people had listed when they applied for government jobs. Hardly the exciting life of a g-man that I envisioned.”

“How’s the pay?”

“About sixty a week.”

“Not shabby at all, Special Agent Felt.”

“What is shabby is having to pick up and move every few months. My wife Audrey and I were in the middle of another move to DC so I could catch spies like I wanted, but I got diverted here.”

“How long have you been married?”

“Just four years, Sheriff Walker. The Director moves agents around for no better reason than to ‘toughen them up’ as he puts it, and he will never understand the toll it takes on the families of those agents. But somehow my beautiful girl still puts up with me.”

Scissors, paper, rock, two out of three times, and Deputy Bob Lurz had to be the one to climb into the garbage truck at the place where 6th made a little jog north and 7th took its place. Paul Bergin lived on N Street and 6th. Deputy Bill Holsinger drove down to L and 7th.

The fellow driving the truck and the fellow dumping the cans were duly deputized. At O street Bob was told that Paul Bergin was making a last minute addition of a grocery bag to the can already out on the street. Two more pickups and Bob had this grocery bag in his hands.

“Jesus Christ, Bob, you reek!” gasped Bill when his partner piled into the truck with the evidence.

“All in the line of duty. Look what we got.” He let Bill peek inside at a wooden knife block. The handles were the same as the murder weapon. One blade was missing.

“So it’s Paul Bergin for sure,” said Deputy Bill. “I’m with the sheriff on this one. When the perpetrators make catching them this easy it’s no fun at all.”

“There should be nothing fun about any of this, Bill,” his partner admonished. “Kimberly Zinter is dead.”

At the sheriff’s station the deputies, Roddy Walker, and even Special Agent Mark Felt donned gloves before the knife holder was removed from the grocery bag. Photographs were taken. One blade was removed and photographed next to the tagged murder weapon for comparison. The knife handles were not identical, but that was to be expected in a hand-crafted set. Everything was dusted for fingerprints and photographed as well. Felt began to interrogate the deputies as though he were some pricey city lawyer Bergin might retain.

“Are you sure this came from Mr. Bergin’s house, Deputy?”

“I counted four stops after I got in the truck. There are three houses between the Bergin place and where I crawled inside.”

“But did you actually see that you were in front of his house?”

“No, Agent Felt. I was inside the garbage truck.”

Deputy Bill shook his head when Felt glanced at him. He had also been well out of sight. “But the driver of the garbage truck and the pick-up man both said they saw Paul Bergin throw this bag in his trash can just before they picked it up,” he said.

When Agent Felt absorbed all this he looked simultaneously pleased and troubled. “Sheriff Walker, I’m pleasantly surprised by what you’ve managed to get so far, but I wonder if you do see the glaring hole in our case?”

Walker nodded. “I do, Special Agent Felt.”

“I can give you their names if you wish, Agent Felt,” said Bill “The trash men were deputized for this operation just like the Sheriff told us to do. That gives them legal standing. ”

“It also gives them elevated responsibility, Bill,” said Roddy, “and I hope you explained that to them when you swore them in.”

Deputy Bob said, “If it’s any help, right after the Bergin stop the guy driving the truck immediately took me around the corner and three blocks away to meet up with Bill out of sight. They knew what we were after. This bag came from the Bergin house, no doubt about it.”

That made Felt relax a bit. He said, “I think we’re ready to see Judge Porter. We might have just enough now to fingerprint both Mr. and Mrs. Bergin.”

Sheriff Walker approached a large cork board to look at photographs pinned thereupon. “And if his boots and tires match what we posted here, Special Agent Felt, then we will have a little bit more than just enough.’

Felt nodded with obvious pleasure. The case was only starting but so far it was moving very rapidly, much to his satisfaction.

But the homocide investigation experienced the first headwind from Judge Karl Porter when he declined to allow the sheriff to bring the Bergins in for fingerprints as he had previously ruled for Robyn. He mused, aloud, that the case was becoming a fishing expedition.

If Special Agent Mark Felt was disappointed it didn’t show. “Let’s go visit the Bergin place anyway,” he told the Sheriff outside the courthouse. “I want to see if I can shake something loose.”

“Do you want Bob and Bill to tag along?”

“No, I need them to make a phone call. Tell your men to get the number of Bergin’s plates, then have them go up to the temple and take photographs of his tire treads.”

“Oh, we already have Bergin’s plate number on file,” Roddy said. “He doesn’t think the wartime speed limit of 35 miles per hour applies to church deacons.”

Agent Felt smiled in admiration. “Sheriff, this is one of the smallest towns I’ve ever seen, but the way you run your department is a G-man’s dream.”

When they arrived at Bergin’s home Mark Felt took copious notes beginning with the fact that no vehicle was present.

Felt thought the most striking thing about the woman who answered the door was how singularly unattractive she was. If she hadn’t worn a dress Mark might have thought Deacon Paul himself was standing there. He cleared his throat and identified himself and Sheriff Walker.

“Yes?” she snapped. “How may I help you?”

“Is Mr. Bergin at home?” She shook her head. “Paul works at the Temple. I’m his wife Ruth.”

“Perhaps you can help after all, Mrs. Bergin. It seems a young woman was attacked with a knife recently.”

“Good God, is she well?”

“It’s hard to say at this point,” said Felt. ‘What I can tell you is that we think we found the knife that was used in the attack. It has a unique wooden handle. It’s hand-crafted, you see. Only a very few sets were sold, Ruth, and we think you might have one of them.”

Ruth gasped. “You can’t think that I, that Paul did this.”

“Not at all ma’am. A criminal investigation is much like tracing out every rabbit trail even when they just come to a dead end. If you show us your own kitchen knife set then the sheriff and I will back out of this rabbit trail and be on our way.”

“We never bought our knife block,” Ruth said. ‘It was made by Owen Bergin when Headwater was first settled and has passed down from father to son ever since.”

Felt made a note of that on his pad, then broke into a smile. He said, “You see, Sheriff? I knew we must be wasting our time.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” said Sheriff Walker, “but we had to be sure. Still, do you mind if we take one little peek at what you do have?”

Mark Felt admired how Roddy caught his little game and slid right into his role without clashing gears. And Ruth went inside to fetch it.

The fact that Ruth didn’t know she was missing her knife set was recorded in Felt’s notebook. As he expected, she returned empty-handed and Felt recorded that too, not so much that he didn’t know it, but for the affidavit he would have the sheriff type up for Judge Porter.

“I don’t understand,” Ruth said. “I used a knife from the block just this morning when I made breakfast for Paul and the children, but now everything is gone.”

“Oh no, Ruth, that’s just what I didn’t want to hear,” Roddy said “But I’m sure there’s a good explanation.”

“Ruth, do you mind if the sheriff and I come in so all the heat in your house doesn’t escape through the front door?”

She thought about that for longer than Felt liked but in the end Ruth nodded and opened her screen door to let them in. She asked them to sit on a couch. Roddy thought Ruth’s home was very similar to Kim Zinter’s place in size and design but different in almost every other way. There were no decorations at all, no paintings, no rugs, not even a single knick-knack. Only two books were in sight, a Bible and the Green Book.

There was another difference: when he visited Robyn she was playing music, but here it was silent. No record collection and no Victrola to play them on. Roddy marvelled how religious folk were so keen on a life in the hereafter when their life here on Earth was so miserable, by choice.

“I see you don’t have a radio, Mrs. Bergin.”

“There’s only one station in town, Sheriff, and more often than not they play race records. Paul says that’s the devil’s own music. Why, even the children in the Temple high school are playing that garbage if you can imagine.”

“The girl who was attacked sang in the Temple school band,” revealed Felt. “Do you know somebody who might have stabbed her because she sang race music?”

Ruth’s eyes said yes but she shook her head no.

“It was very generous of you to allow us to come indoors, Ruth,” he said. “I have no right to ask this of you, and don’t believe for an instant that we really think you attacked the girl, but if I could just get one print of your thumb I could compare it to what we found on the knife and completely eliminate you as a suspect in this case.”

The sheriff had to restrain himself from whistling in admiration at Agent Felt’s performance, it was so beautifully done. Ruth would be thinking of self-preservation in the face of her own husband framing her for the crime. And Roddy thought that wasn’t far from the truth.

“Will you have to take me down to the station for a thumbprint?”

“Not at all,” said Felt, and he used his pencil to make a thick dark spot on a page in his notebook. “Are you right or left handed?”

“Right, of course,” Ruth said, as though southpaws were somehow cursed by God.

And so with Ruth Bergin fully and freely willing, Special Agent Mark Felt rubbed her right thumb in the spot of graphite, then flipped to a fresh page in his notebook and rolled her thumb across it to get a perfect print. He dared not close the book until it was lacquered.

“This schoolgirl who was attacked, she was Erik Zinter’s kid, wasn’t she?”

Felt stood up from the couch still holding his notebook carefully open. He said, “I’ve been careful not to say too much and upset you, Mrs. Bergin.”

“I suppose it couldn’t be helped,” she sniffed.

Sheriff Walker scrambled to his feet at that remark and politely asked Ruth what she meant by making it.

She said, “I think only a believer would fully understand me, but Erik was putting our most holy relic to common purposes. Digging coal! Our God is a sovereign God.”

Roddy made eye contact with Agent Felt, who raised his notebook a bit and shrugged. He already had what he came for. Roddy said, “So God wasn’t content to take Erik’s life for what he did? He had to take the life of his daughter as well?”

Ruth was shocked. “She’s dead?”

“Yes, Ruth, she’s dead. What a terrible thing for Clara Zinter, don’t you think, losing her entire family? But whoever did it has a death wish. He left the body draped across three states and elevated it to a federal case. It was already the Chair for the killer if I caught him.” Walker repeated that last part. “If I caught him.”

“But the Bureau always, always gets its man,” Felt finished.

Judge Karl Porter was directly descended from Alfred and Caroline Porter, who were part of the first wagon train to set down roots in Headwater. In any other town of the West, where family trees actually fork, this would be as prestigious as tracing one’s family back to the Mayflower.

From his corner office on the second floor of the courthouse Judge Porter could look down upon his ancestral family home on the north bank of the river. Most of the land of the homestead had long been sold off for the homes and apartments of the northwest quadrant of town.

The courthouse was five blocks away from the sheriff’s office on the same island in the Squaw River that formed the heart of the town. The sheriff was in Porter’s chambers again, making another run at Paul Bergin, and this time, Porter suspected, he just might get him.

The judge glanced once more at the Affidavit in Support of Arrest Warrant submitted by Sheriff Walker. On a personal level he didn’t like where this investigation was going. Until the schism Paul had been the deacon of the Church and the Bergins, just like the Porters, were Headwater Old Guard.

The Church of Green Dome had secrets, the judge well knew. Something happened last summer to bring three agents of the Bureau sniffing around. After a few weeks they had abandoned their trailer outside of town but the death of this girl brought them back.

Special Agent Mark Felt was seated at the table next to the sheriff. The judge had already learned, the last time these two men appeared before him, that Felt was guiding the case on behalf of the FBI. Knowing that, he asked Agent Felt why his name did not appear on the Affidavit.

“Your Honor, when I assumed overall direction of the case for the Bureau the Sheriff had already acquired a quantity of evidence. The Affidavit before you summarizes the entire case to this point and only Sheriff Walker could testify as to how all the facts were obtained.”

“And do you foresee a time when the Bureau will no longer be acting in cooperation with local law enforcement here in Headwater?”

“Certainly, Your Honor. After they are identified and apprehended the individual or individuals responsible for the crime will likely be transported for arraignment in Kansas City.”

Judge Porter said, “Then with the view of hastening that blessed day please lay out your evidence.”

Mark Felt nodded at the sheriff. Roddy opened a briefcase and removed a knife in a cellophane bag, a page from Felt’s notebook, and two closeup photographs of these. The sheriff said, “Your Honor, Mrs. Ruth Bergin, the wife of Paul Bergin, was kind enough to allow Special Agent Felt to take an impression of her right thumb and as you can see, it perfectly matches the single thumbprint we dusted on the knife found at the crime scene.”

“What in the name of God would make Mrs. Bergin give you her thumbprint, Sheriff, and why isn’t she named as a suspect?”

“I think, Your Honor, the answer to both questions is the same. She was shocked to find her set of kitchen knives had gone missing on the morning of garbage day.”

Judge Porter growled while he chewed on that item for a moment. Yes, the sheriff, or Agent Felt, or both, would have led Mrs. Bergin to think her own husband was framing her for murder. Still, what’s done is done, and it was legally airtight. “What else do you have?”

The sheriff reached into his briefcase and removed two more photographs. ‘Your Honor, Paul Bergin’s vehicle is parked at the Temple and is under surveillance by my deputies. You can see here that his tire tread matches the tracks we found at the scene of the homicide.”

“The judge looked at the photographs and remembered that under wartime rationing Paul Bergin could only own four tires plus one spare. Karl realized the sheriff did have enough to justify an arrest warrant. He could hardly refuse after signing one for the out-of-towner, Robyn Zinter, on much less.”

“The court finds probable cause to believe a felony offense, to wit, the unlawful killing of Kimberly Zinter with malice aforethought, has been committed. The arrest of Mr. Paul Bergin at any hour of day or night is so ordered.”

Karl Porter’s law clerk began typing it up.

“Special Agent Felt, will it be sufficient to confine your search for more evidence of the crime to the home of Paul Bergin?”

Felt replied, ‘No, Your Honor. If Mr. Bergin was a layman his house would have been enough. But as a member of the Church leadership he has physical access to the whole Temple.’

“Very well, these are the rules of the People for your search: Let’s assume Bergin is hiding evidence in the Temple. When you make the arrest you will obtain his keys. Any door that is locked, but his keys can open, you may enter and search.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. The Bureau accepts this limitation on the search.”

“Proceed with caution, Agent Felt,” he said. “The Church of Green Dome is the very lifeblood of Headwater, and the Church was already going through its most difficult passage in nearly eighty years before this happened.”

“The words of Dr. Wahkan and Sheriff Walker have already sensitized me to the plight of the Church, Your Honor,” said Felt, “and I will indeed take great care. But if those troubles somehow led to the killing of Kimberly Zinter, and the perpetrator turns out to be a member of the local clergy, I don’t know how even more trauma can be avoided.”

Special Agent in Charge Clyde Tolson was waiting in the second-floor courtroom with Special Agent Sullivan when the sheriff and Felt emerged from the judge’s chambers. “It’s not carte blanche,” said Felt when he handed Tolson the documents, “but it’s the best we could do.”

When Tolson finished reading he said, “Edgar knew what he was doing when he put you on the case. For six months we couldn’t get one foot in the Temple door.”

Mark Felt hoped he only heard that wrong. It sounded like Tolson didn’t give two floating turds for the dead girl.