The temperature in the house was well over a hundred. The air was stale and moldy, with that no-one's-lived-here-in-a-long-time smell.

'Upstairs,' said Slidell. He and Rinaldi disappeared through a double doorway straight ahead, then I heard boots moving around overhead.

The porch overhang, kudzu, dirt-crusted screens and windows, and the impending storm limited the interior light to subterranean levels.

I found it hard to breathe, hard to see. From nowhere, a cloud of foreboding engulfed me, and something menacing tapped at the back of my thoughts.

I sucked in my breath.

Ryan's hand brushed my shoulder. I reached up, but already it was gone.

Slowly, my eyes adjusted. I appraised my surroundings.

We were in a living room.

Red shag carpet with navy flecks. Faux-pine paneling. Early American couch and chair. Wooden arms and legs. Red-and-blue-plaid upholstery. Cushions littered with candy wrappers, cotton stuffing, mouse droppings.

Above the sofa, a flea market print of Paris in springtime, Le Tour Eiffel all out of proportion to the street below. Carved wall shelf overflowing with glass animals. More figurines parading across a wooden cornice above the windows.

Collapsible TV trays, the kind with plastic tops and metal legs. Soft drink and beer cans. More cans on the carpet. Cheetos and corn chip bags. A Pringles canister.

I enlarged my scan.

Dining room dead ahead through a double doorway. Round maple table with four captain's chairs. Red-and-blue ruffled seat pads. Upended basket of plastic flowers. Junk food packaging. Empty cans and bottles. Stairs rising steeply off to the right.

Beyond the dining room table was a swinging door identical to one that had separated my grandmother's dining room from her kitchen. Beveled wood. Clear plastic panel at hand level.

Adult hand level. Gran had spent hours wiping grape jelly, pudding, and little prints from the paint below.

Again, my nerves buzzed with an ill-formed sense of apprehension.

Through the swinging door came the sound of cabinets being opened and closed.

Boyd put his forepaws on the couch and sniffed a Kit Kat wrapper. I pulled him back.

Ryan spoke first.

'I'd say the last decorating order was placed around the time that latrine was dug.'

'But someone tried.' I gestured around the room. 'The art. The glass animals. The red-and-blue motif.'

'Nice.' Ryan nodded false appreciation. 'Patriotic.'

'The point is, someone cared about the place. Then it went to shit. Why?'

Boyd oozed back to the couch, mouth open, tongue dangling.

'I'm going to take the dog out where he'll be cooler,' I said.

Boyd offered only token objection.

When I returned, Ryan had disappeared.

Stepping gingerly, I crossed the dining room and pushed the swinging door with my elbow.

The kitchen was typical of old farmhouses. Appliances and workspace spread for miles along the right-hand wall, the centerpiece a white porcelain sink below the room's single window. Kelvinator at the far end. Coldspot at the near end. Formica countertop at waist level. Worn wooden cabinets above and below.

To move from stove to sink or from sink to refrigerator required actual walking. The place was massive compared with my kitchen at the annex.

Two doors opened from the left-hand wall. One onto a pantry. One onto a basement stairway.

A chrome-and-Formica table occupied the middle of the room. Around it were six chrome chairs with red plastic seats.

The table, chairs, and every surface in the room were coated with black fingerprint powder. The granny glasses-wearing tech was shooting close-ups of prints on the refrigerator door.

'Think tank's upstairs,' she said, without looking up from the camera.

I returned to the dining room and climbed to the second floor.

A quick survey revealed three bedrooms. The remaining footage was given over to the glorious modern WC. Like the first-floor motif, the bathroom fixtures looked circa 1954.

Ryan, Slidell, Rinaldi, and the male CSU tech were in the northeast bedroom. All four were focused on something on the dresser. All four looked up when I appeared in the doorway.

Slidell hitched his pants and switched the toothpick to the other corner of his mouth.

'Nice, eh? Kinda Green Acres Gone Trailer Park.'

'What's up?' I asked.

Slidell swept a hand over the dresser, Vanna White displaying a game show prize.

Entering the room was like walking into a moldy greenhouse. Violets, now brown with age, covered the wallpaper, the fabric on an overstuffed chair, the curtains hanging limp at each window.

A framed picture lay against one baseboard, a cropped magazine shot of a nosegay of violets. The picture's glass was cracked, its corners off their ninety-degree angle.

Crossing to the bureau, I glanced at the focus of everyone's attention.

And felt the buzz electrify in my chest.

I raised my eyes, not comprehending.

'What's up is your baby killer,' said Slidell. 'Take another gander.'

I didn't need a second look. I recognized the object. What I didn't understand was its meaning. How had it come to be in this dreadful room with its terrible flowers?

My eyes dropped back to the white plastic rectangle.

Tamela Banks stared from the lower left corner, curly black hair outlined by a red square. Across the top of the card a blue banner declared State of North Carolina. Beside the banner, red letters on white stated DMV.

I looked up.

'Where did you find this?'

'Under the bed,' said the CSU tech.

'With enough crud to make a bioterrorist pee his shorts.' Slidell.

'Why would Tamela Banks's driver's license be in this house?'

'She must have come here with that hump, Tyree.'

'Why?' I repeated myself. This wasn't making sense.

The CSU tech excused himself, returned to processing the next room.

Slidell pointed his toothpick at Rinaldi.

'Gosh, what do you think, Detective? Think it could have something to do with the two kilos of blow we found in the basement?'

I looked at Rinaldi.

He nodded.

'Maybe Tamela lost the license,' I groped. 'Maybe it was stolen.'

Slidell pooched out his lips and rolled the toothpick. Looking for gonadal camaraderie, he turned to Ryan.

'What do you think, Lieutenant? Either of those theories ring true to you?'

Ryan shrugged. 'If the queen invited Camilla to that Golden Jubilee concert, anything's possible.'

Slidell's left eye twitched as a drop of sweat rolled into it.

'Did you run a history on this place?' I asked.

Another toothpick repositioning, then Slidell pulled a notebook from his back pocket.

'Until recently, the property didn't change hands that much.'

Slidell read his notes. We all waited.

'Place belonged to Sander Foote from 1956 until 1986. Sander got it from his daddy, Romulus, who got it from his daddy, Romulus, blah, blah, blah.' Slidell rotated a hand. 'String of Romulus Sanderses on the tax records prior to fifty-six. Not really relevant to current events.'

'No,' I agreed impatiently.

'When Foote died in eighty-six, the farm went to his widow, Dorothy Jessica Harrelson Oxidine Pounder Foote.' Slidell looked up. 'Lady was the marrying kind.'

Back to his notes.

'Dorothy was the third Mrs. F. She and Foote married late, had no kids. He was seventy-two, she was forty-nine. But here's where the story gets interesting.'

I wanted to shake Slidell to make him go faster.

'The widow didn't really inherit the farm. Foote's will allowed Dorothy, and her son by a previous marriage, to live on the place until her death. After that, the kid could stay until he was thirty years old.'

Slidell shook his head. 'This Foote must have been some kind of fruit bat.'

'Because he wanted his wife's son to have a home until the boy was established?' I kept my voice calm.

The wind picked up. Leaves thrashed the window screen.

'After that?' Ryan asked.

'After that, the place goes to Foote's daughter by his first marriage.'

Something rolled across the lawn with a hollow, thunking sound.

'Dorothy Foote is dead?' I asked.

'Five years ago.' Slidell closed the notebook and returned it to his pocket.

'Has her son turned thirty?'

'No.'

'Does he live here?'

'Technically, yes.'

'Technically?'

'The little sleaze rents the place out to turn a few bucks.'

'Can he do that under the terms of the will?'

'Couple years back Foote's daughter hired a lawyer to look into that. Guy couldn't find any way to get the kid tossed. Kid does everything under the table, so there's no record of money changing hands. Daughter lives in Boston, never comes to God's little acre here. Place isn't worth that much. Kid's twenty-seven.' Slidell shrugged. 'Guess she decided to wait it out.'

'What's Dorothy's son's name?' I asked.

Slidell smiled. There was no humor in it.

'Harrison Pounder.'

Where had I heard that name?

'You remember him, Doc.'

I did. From where?

'We discussed Mr. Pounder just last week.' Toothpick. 'And it wasn't because the squirrel's appearing on our new career leaflet for police recruits.'

Pounder. Pounder.

'Harrison 'Sonny' Pounder,' Rinaldi supplied.

Recollection sluiced through my brain.

'Sonny Pounder?' I asked, incredulous.

'Mama Foote's baby boy,' Slidell said.

'Who's Sonny Pounder?' Ryan asked.

'Sonny Pounder's a dime-a-dozen, low-life dirtbag who'd sell his mama to the Taliban for the right price.' Slidell.

Ryan turned to me.

'Pounder's the dealer who traded the tip about Tamela Banks's baby.'

Thunder cracked.

'Why didn't you know this was Pounder's place?' I asked.

'When dealing with authorities, Mr. Pounder prefers listing his city address. Legally, this farm is deeded to Mama,' Rinaldi said.

Another peal of thunder. A low wail from the porch.

'Tamela may have come here with Tyree, but that doesn't mean she dealt dope or killed her baby.' My reasoning sounded weak, even to me.

In the yard, a door banged, banged again.

'Are you going to talk to Pounder?' I asked Slidell.

The hound-dog eyes settled on mine.

'I'm not a moron, Doc.'

Yes, you are, I thought.

At that moment, the storm broke.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Ryan, Boyd, and I sat on the porch until the squall played itself out. The wind flapped our clothes and blew warm rain across our faces. It felt wonderful.

Boyd was less enthused about the raw power of nature. He lay at my side, head thrust into the triangle of space below my crooked knees. It was a tactic on which Birdie often relied. If I can't see you, you can't see me. Ergo, I am safe.

By six the shower had dwindled to a slow, steady drizzle. Though Slidell, Rinaldi, and the CSU techs continued their search of the house, there was nothing more Ryan and I could do.

As a precaution, I trotted Boyd around every floor a couple of times. Nothing caught his interest.

I told Slidell we were taking off. He said he'd call me in the morning.

Happy day.

When I let Boyd into the backseat, he circled, curled with his chin on his hind paws, and gave a loud sigh.

Ryan and I got in.

'Hooch is probably not looking at a career as a narcotics dog.'

'No,' I agreed.

On his first circuit Boyd had sniffed the two bags of cocaine, wagged once, and continued prancing around the basement. On his second visit, he'd ignored them.

'But he's a pistol with carrion.'

I reached back and Boyd licked my hand.

On the way home I swung by the MCME to pick up a laptop power cord I'd left behind. While I went inside, Boyd and Ryan played the chow's single idea of a game: Ryan stood stationary in the parking lot and Boyd ran circles around him.

As I was leaving the building, Sheila Jansen swung in, got out of her car, and crossed to me.

'You're here late,' I said.

'Got some news, so I came by on the chance I might catch you here.' She did not comment on my appearance. I did not offer.

Boyd abandoned Ryan and shot to Jansen to try the crotch schtick. The NTSB agent cut him off with a double-handed ear scratch. Ryan ambled over and I made introductions. Boyd began orbiting the three of us.

'Looks like the drug theory's right on,' Jansen said. 'When we rolled the Cessna, damned if the right front door hadn't been fitted with another, smaller door inside.'

'I don't understand.'

'A hole was cut in the right front door, then covered by a small flap hinged at the bottom to swing down inside the plane.'

'Like a one-way doggy door?'

'Exactly. The modification wouldn't have been obvious to a casual observer.'

'Why?'

'To allow air drops.'

I pictured the two kilos of blow we'd just left behind.

'Of illegal drugs.'

'You've got it.'

'To a pickup crew waiting with a car on the ground.'

'Bingo.'

'Why go to all the trouble of modifying the plane? Why not simply open the door and shove the stuff out?'

'Stall speed for a C-210 is around sixty-four miles per hour. That's the minimum they could fly at drop time. It's tough to push something out at that speed. Think about holding open your car door while going down the highway at sixty-five.'

'Right.'

'Here's the scenario I'm liking. The right front seat's been removed for access to the modified door. The passenger is in back. The product is in the small cargo compartment behind the passenger. Are you picturing this?'

'Yes.'

'Pearce—'

She flicked her eyes to Ryan. I nodded. She turned to him. 'That's the pilot.'

Ryan nodded.

'Pearce is using the rock face as his landmark. He spots the cliff, gives the signal, the passenger unbuckles, reaches back, and starts shoving product from the plane.'

'Coke?' Ryan asked.

'Probably. You couldn't get enough weed into a C-210 to make the run worth your while. Though I've seen it done.'

'Wouldn't a fall from that height cause the packets of coke to explode?' I asked.

'That's why they're using parachutes.'

'Parachutes?'

'Small cargo chutes they could have purchased in a surplus store. The locals are checking that out. Anyway, the coke is bundled inside heavy plastic sheeting, padded with bubble wrap, and bound with enough duct tape to cover my aunt Lilly's ass. Auntie was a big girl.'

'Sounds like my great-aunt Cornelia,' Ryan said. 'Good eater.'

Jansen glanced at Ryan, turned back at me.

'Go on,' I said.

'Each bundle is attached to a chute with more duct tape and a cinch strap. The chute is wrapped around the bundle, and a twenty-foot polypropylene line is overwrapped around the chute to hold it tight around the bundle. You with me?'

'Yes.'

'Pearce gives the word. The pax secures the loose end of the line to something inside the aircraft, opens the doggy door, and shoves the bundle out. As the bundle tumbles, the rope unwraps, the chute is pulled free and deploys, and the snort drifts to earth, sweet as a songbird.'

Boyd nipped Ryan's calf. Ryan clapped at him. The dog leaped backward and resumed looping.

'So what went wrong?' I asked.

'How's this. They're flying low over the drop area, close to stall speed, things are hunky-dory, then the last bundle streams back toward the tail. The chute or bundle gets tangled in the rudder or elevator, the pilot can't steer, loses control. Hello, rock face.'

'Explains why Pearce was belted and his passenger wasn't.'

I pictured the two burned corpses, each coated with the crispy black residue.

'These chutes are made of lightweight nylon, right?'

'Yes.'

'How about this. The last chute deploys prematurely, inside the plane. It envelops the passenger. He struggles. Pearce reaches over, tries to disentangle him, loses control, flies into the rock face. Fireball.'

'Explains the black residue. Fried parachute.' Jansen was with me.

'But this is still all conjecture,' I said.

'Not really,' Jansen said.

I waited.

'Couple of kids made an interesting discovery yesterday morning.'