"If I was a forensic anthropologist, I'd come up and help," she said. "Unfortunately, I don't know anything about forensics or anthropology and I don't much care for bodies."

"What do you do?" Virgil asked.

"Run the family farm," she said. "Twelve hundred and eighty acres of corn and soybeans north of town."

"That's a mighty big farm for such a pretty little woman," Virgil said.

"Bite me," she said.

"Thank you, ma'am. You want to go into Worthington tonight?" Virgil asked. "Tijuana Jack's ain't too bad."

"Maybe," she said. "Give me your cell number. I have to drive over to Sioux Falls for some parts. If I get back in time…Mexican'd be okay."

VIRGIL, pleased with himself, went back through town, up to Buffalo Ridge, through the park gates, and around the corner of the hill to the Judd house. He was astonished when he saw what was left. In most fires, a corner of a house will burn, and at least a wall or two will survive. Of the Judd mansion, nothing was left but the foundation, cracked and charred, and a pit full of twisted metal, stone, and ash.

Stryker and one of his deputies, an older fat man with blond curly hair, were talking to a third man, who had a reporter's notebook. A man in a suit was peering into the pit, and three people scuffled around the bottom like diggers on an archaeological site.

Virgil walked up, looked in the hole: picked out ductwork and air conditioners, two furnaces, the crumbled remains of what must have been a first-floor fireplace, three hot-water tanks, a couple of sinks, three toilets, a twisted mass of pipes. The diggers in the bottom were working next to the wreck of a wheelchair; the guy in the suit, Virgil realized, was Bill Judd Jr.

VIRGIL WALKED OVER to Stryker: "How'n the hell they find anything in there?"

Stryker said, "This is Todd Williamson, he's editor of the Bluestem Record; and Big Curly Anderson." A warning to watch his mouth.