Stryker's features were harsh in the firelight, and the corners of his mouth turned down at Virgil's question. "Bill Parker, he's a guy lives up in Lismore, was coming into town on Highway Eight. He saw the fire, mmm, must've been a few minutes after it started. He was driving toward it when a truck went by, moving fast. He figures it was going eighty, ninety miles an hour. And it was raining to beat the band. It took the turn on Highway Three, headed down to Ninety."

"He see what kind of truck?"

"Nope. Not even sure it was a pickup. Might've been an SUV," Stryker said. "All he could see was, the lights was set up high."

They looked at the fire some more and then Virgil said, "Lot of people hated him."

"Yup." A few locals sidled past, grinning, hiding beer cans, having snuck past the cops below. Small town, you took care of yourself: Stryker told them, "You folks stay back out of the way."

They watched for another minute, then Virgil yawned. "Well, good luck to you, Jimmy. I'm heading down to the Holiday Inn."

"Why'd you come up?"

"Just rubbernecking," Virgil said. "Saw the fire when I was coming down Ninety. Knew what it must be."

"Goddamnedest thing," Stryker said, peering into the flames. "I hope that old sonofabitch was dead before the fire got to him. Nobody needs to be burned to death."

"If he did."

"If he did." Stryker frowned suddenly, again turned his green eyes to Virgil. "You don't think he might've faked it? Skipped out to wherever he put that money?"

"I think the money might be a legend, is what I think," Virgil said. He slapped Stryker on the shoulder. "You take it easy, Jimmy. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Not too early. I'll be out here awhile." As Virgil walked away, Stryker called, "That money wasn't no legend, Virgil. He's burnin' because of that money."