“This man here is Albert Hollister, Mr. Wellstone,” Lyle Hobbs said.

The man on crutches paused. “You’re him, are you?” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Albert said.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Wellstone said. “What’s the damage to your truck?”

“The bumper is scratched. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Then we’re done here. You agreeable with that?” Wellstone said.

“Your driver owes Mrs. Robicheaux an apology.”

“He’s sorry,” Wellstone said. He got in the front seat of the limousine, propping his crutches next to him on the rolled leather seat. Then he flopped open his newspaper with one hand and slammed the door with the other.

“Why is it I have the feeling someone just spit on the tops of my shoes?” Molly said.

Albert sniffed at an odor he hadn’t detected earlier. He bent down and looked under the bumper of his truck.

“What is it?” Molly said.

“The trailer hitch punched a hole in the gas tank. I’ll need to get us a tow and have the tank welded or replaced.”

“I should have seen the limo backing up. Dave and I will pay for it,” Molly said.

“I just remembered where I heard that snooty fellow’s name,” Albert said.

THAT AFTERNOON THE lead story on the local television news involved the death of the University of Montana coed. At sunset the previous evening she and her boyfriend had gone for a hike up a zigzag trail behind the university. When last seen, they had left the main trail and were hiking up through fir trees, over the crest of the mountain. The girl was found two miles away, in a stony creek bed. Her body was marbled with bruises, her skull crushed. The boyfriend was still missing.

CHAPTER 3

THE MISSOULA COUNTY high sheriff was a western anachronism by the name of Joe Bim Higgins.