THE BUZZING IN MY PHONE WAS SO AGITATED THAT SLIDELL kept glancing my way. Again and again I gestured his eyes back to the road.

Peppered with expletives, the story came out.

Through multiple calls, many threats, and the intervention of the chief ME in Chapel Hill, Larabee had finally pried loose information on the whereabouts of MCME 227-11. Since the presence of ricin suggested the possibility of bioterrorism, the landfill John Doe had been confiscated under a provision of the Patriot Act and taken to a lab in Atlanta. There the body had been re-autopsied and new samples collected.

Far from standard protocol but understandable.

Then the bombshell.

Due to an unfortunate combination of circumstances, including a mix-up in paperwork, understaffing, and an error on the part of an inexperienced tech, instead of back to the cooler, the landfill John Doe had accidentally been sent for cremation.

Larabee was livid. Before disconnecting, he threatened complaints to the governor, the Department of Justice, the director of the FBI, the secretary of Homeland Security, the White House, maybe the pope.

I decided it was a bad time to mention the Rosphalt.

As Slidell maneuvered through rush-hour traffic, I told him about the fate of the John Doe.

“That smell right to you?” I asked.

“As right as a barrel of week-old fish.”

Slidell said nothing further until we were parked beside my car at the MCME. Then he grasped the wheel and rotated toward me. “What’s your take, Doc?”

I ticked off points on my fingers.

“A couple vanishes in 1998. Family and associates disagree with a task force finding that the two left voluntarily. The missing couple has ties to and is last seen at a motor speedway. Years later a body turns up in a barrel of asphalt. That barrel is discovered in a landfill adjacent to said speedway, in a sector and layer dating from the late nineties to 2005.”

I moved to my other hand.

“The asphalt in the barrel contains an additive commonly used at speedways. An autopsy finds that the body is contaminated with ricin, a poison once favored by anti-government extremists. The male member of the missing couple belonged to a right-wing militia. When the ricin is reported to the FBI, the body is confiscated and destroyed.”

Slidell was silent for so long, I was certain he was about to blow me off. He didn’t.

“You’re thinking the landfill John Doe is connected to the Gamble-Lovette disappearance?”

I nodded.

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who was the stiff?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lovette?”

“The age indicators are off, but I can’t rule him out.”

“What about this guy Raines from Atlanta?”

“The barrel looked way too old. And the sector it came from doesn’t fit with a recent body dump.”

“But your voice is telling me you can’t rule him out, either.”

“No. I can’t.”

Again Slidell went quiet. Then, “Maybe Cindi Gamble’s baby brother isn’t crackers after all.”

“About a cover-up back in ’ninety-eight?”

Slidell ran a hand over his jaw. Did it again. Then, “Those fucking suits picked the wrong cop to screw with.”

“What do you propose?”

“First off, another heart-to-heart with your NASCAR buddy.”

I was approaching my kitchen door, lugging a Harris Teeter bag, when a silver Rx-8 turned in to the circle drive at Sharon Hall. Thinking it was probably my ex, and not thrilled with the prospect of another go-round concerning Summer, I paused.

The Mazda looped the front of the manor house and headed toward me. As it neared, I could see the driver’s head in silhouette. Oddly pear-shaped, its crown barely cleared the wheel.

Definitely not Pete.

Curious and a little wary, I watched the car pull to the same piece of curb occupied by Williams and Randall on Saturday.

The man who got out had a pompadour that brought his height to maybe five-four. Grecian Formula had turned the do a dead-lemur brown.

The man’s clothes looked expensive. Ice-green silk shirt. Tommy Bahama linen pants. Softer-than-a-newborn’s-bum leather loafers. Armani sunglasses perched on a hawklike nose.

“Good evening, Dr. Brennan.” The man proffered a hand sporting a sapphire the size of Birdie’s paw. “J. D. Danner.”

“Do I know you, sir?”

“Word is you know of me.” Despite the smile, Danner had a hostile, intimidating air.

Ping.

“You were an associate of Cale Lovette. A member of the Patriot Posse.”

“I was commander of the posse, ma’am.”

I adjusted my grip on the groceries.

Danner took a step toward me. “May I help with that?”

“No. Thank you.”

Two palms came up. “Just offering assistance.”

“Do you have information about Cale Lovette or Cindi Gamble?”

“No, ma’am. Nice kids. I hope they found what they were looking for.”

“And what was that?”

“Life. Liberty. Happiness. Isn’t that what we’re all seeking?”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Danner?”

“Get off our backs.”

“Meaning?”

“The Patriot Posse took Cale Lovette under its wing. Provided support. Guidance. A family. When he vanished, we were the first ones in the crosshairs.” Again the insincere smile. “The posse had nothing to do with whatever happened to Lovette and his girlfriend.”

“Why would Lovette need the posse’s support?”

“The kid was floundering. High school dropout. Dead-end job. Estranged father. Loony-tune mother.”

That was the first I’d heard of Lovette’s home life.

“Making him easy prey for your conspiratorial anti-American ideology,” I said.

Danner crossed his arms and spread his feet. Which were small, like the rest of him. An image of Napoleon popped in my brain.

“Back then we were undisciplined, perhaps naive in many ways. But we were far from anti-American.”

“Were?”

“The Patriot Posse disbanded in 2002.”

“What was the group’s purpose?”

“The posse functioned as an unorganized militia.”

Typical right-wing fascist-speak. In federal and state law, the term “unorganized militia” refers to the nominal manpower pool created a century ago when federal law formally abandoned compulsory militia service.

“I prefer the army, navy, air force, and marines,” I said.

“The Patriot Posse was, like other organizations of its kind, equivalent to the statutory militia. It was a legal, constitutional arm of the government. But the posse was not controlled by the government.” A diminutive finger wagged back and forth in the air. “That’s the difference. The posse existed to oppose the government should it become tyrannical.”

“You believe the government might become tyrannical?”

“Dr. Brennan, please. You are an intelligent woman.”

“Indeed I am.”

“Recent history speaks for itself. The elections of Bill Clinton and Barack Obama. The Rodney King riots. The North American Free Trade Agreement. The dozens of bills currently under consideration that would rob us of our firearms. The murders at Ruby Ridge and Waco.”

“Murders.”

“Of course.”

“Those compounds were stockpiled with enough firepower to take out a city.”

Danner ignored that. “The government will stop at nothing to eliminate people who refuse to conform. Independent militias must exist to protect the freedoms that our founding fathers died to ensure.”

Knowing argument was pointless, I switched topics. “Tell me about Cale Lovette’s parents.”

Danner dropped his chin. Drew a breath. Let it out through his nose. “I don’t like to speak badly, but Katherine Lovette was not what you’d call a lady. She was, how should I put it? A NASCAR groupie. If you take my meaning.”

“I don’t.”

“Some women whore themselves to rock stars. For Kitty Lovette, it was NASCAR. Owners. Drivers. Mechanics. Didn’t much matter. She worked the whole circuit back in the seventies.”

“Meaning she slept around.” Danner’s holier-than-thou attitude irritated me.

Danner nodded. “Of course she got pregnant. Named the baby after Cale Yarborough. He was winning a lot of races back then.”

“Are you saying Yarborough was Cale’s father?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. For years Kitty never said. But the baby grew to be the spitting image of a track hangaround name of Craig Bogan. Red hair. Blue eyes. Dimpled chin. By the time he was six, the kid looked like a clone. When Kitty finally fingered Bogan, he moved in with her. But the relationship was doomed from the outset.”

“How so?”

“Bogan was in his mid-twenties. But smart. Ambitious. Kitty hadn’t seen thirty in quite some time. And she—” Danner gave a tight shake of his head. “Well, enough said.”

“How did Kitty support herself?”

“Sold herbs and vegetables grown at her house. Barely made enough to feed herself and the kid. Bogan actually turned the venture into a reasonable business, eventually bought it from her, house and all. Branched out. Added services like delivering produce to your door, planting flowers and shrubs in your garden.”

“You knew both of them?”

Did I imagine it, or did Danner stiffen a bit at my question?

“I steered clear of Kitty.”

“Go on,” I said.

“By the time Cale was twelve, Kitty was heavy into booze and drugs. She finally OD’ed his freshman year of high school. Rumor was the kid found her.” Again the head shake. “Things grew tense. Two years after Kitty’s death, Bogan and Cale had a big throw-down, the kid dropped out of school, left home for good.”

“Where did he go?”

“Cale had a passion for stock car racing, probably the only thing he got from his parents. He’d spent a lot of time hanging around dirt tracks, made some friends. Small-timers, wannabes. He mostly bunked with them.”

I thought a moment. “Does Bogan still live in the area?”

Danner shrugged. Who knows?

“Tell me about Cindi.”

“Girl-next-door. Real clean and shiny.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“She was smart enough, if that’s what you mean. And focused. All she talked about was driving NASCAR. Seemed her parents spent a lot of money on making that happen. Got her into Bandolero racing.”

“Which is?”

Danner gave me a pitying look. “Entry level. A Bandolero car is built like a miniature stock car, with a tube frame and a sheet-metal cage. The driver enters through the roof. I guess you could say it falls somewhere between a kart and a car.”

I must have looked lost.

“Like a kart, a Bandolero car has left-foot braking and a centrifugal clutch, so there’s no gearshifting to worry about. The whole idea is simplicity and economy. Just one hundred and fifty parts make up the whole package.”

“How fast do theses cars go?”

“Upwards of seventy miles per hour. But they accelerate relatively slowly.”

“They’re for kids?”

“Most Bandolero drivers are from eight to sixteen years old, but there’s no rule against older folks.”

“They race on real tracks?”

“One-quarter-, three-eighths-, and four-tenths-mile ovals, some road courses, some dirt tracks. There are three divisions. Cindi Gamble raced Beginner Bandit.”

I was glad Katy hadn’t learned about this when she was a kid. She’d have loved roaring around at seventy miles per hour.

But I was off topic.

“Did Cindi seem committed to Lovette?” I asked.

“I’d say so.”

“Where did they meet?”

“Concord Speedway, out in Midland. That’s where she and Lovette spent most of their time.”

“How did Lovette treat her?”

“Fair enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“They came from different worlds. Cindi was a high school kid from the burbs. Lovette’s mother was a dead junkie, and his father was a truck farmer. Cale wanted to race as much as Cindi did, but his folks weren’t footing the bill.”

“Did Lovette resent Gamble because her parents were supporting her financially?”

I got another shrug.

“Did Cindi have potential?”

“Oh, yeah. She was good. Won her share of races.” Danner wagged his head. “Gal probably could have made it.”

“How did you come to know Craig Bogan and Kitty Lovette?” I asked.

“In those days I went to the track now and then.”

Danner glanced at his watch. Which resembled a ship’s barometer.

“I hope this has been helpful. But the purpose of my visit was to reiterate what I said back in ’ninety-eight. The Patriot Posse had nothing to do with whatever became of those kids.”

Danner pulled a brochure from the pocket of his Tommy Bahamas and held it out. I repositioned the bag and took it.

The thing had been printed on a home computer. A cheerful logo topped the front page, an eagle holding the American flag in its beak. Above the eagle were the words LOYALIST MOVEMENT.

Below the eagle was the phrase: DO THE RIGHT THING. Below that was a photograph showing young men standing in very straight lines. Each wore camouflage fatigues and held a rifle on his shoulder.

“I head an organization that represents almost four thousand citizens in twelve states,” Danner said. “Every one is a patriot.”

Every one is white and male, I thought, glancing at the faces.

“We have nothing to hide, Dr. Brennan. Didn’t then. Don’t now. We’re proud of what we do.”

“Which is?”

“We protect this country from those who would destroy it.”

With that, Danner turned and walked to his car.