Nobody fucking did. It might have had something to do with the steady roar of the approaching Sikorsky helicopter, which deposited a container of freight on a pad a hundred feet from the dock, and waited just long enough for the ground crew to unhook the sling and the air crew to retract it into the helo before roaring off again in a westerly direction. Everyone flinched away from the dust produced by the rotor wash.

In the distance Kate heard the unmistakable drone of an approaching Herc, and saw that everyone on the loading dock heard it, too, probably before she had. Thanks, P.J., she said. Appreciate the help. Gentlemen.

Uh—, Lyda said as they were walking away, and then stopped when she saw the grin spreading across Kate‘s face.

Kate saw her expression and laughed. Relax, Lyda. I‘ve met P.J. before. Many times.

Lyda looked relieved. Oh. Okay. Where next?

Randy Randolph.

Lyda looked surprised. Why Randy?

Kate explained.

Oh, Lyda said again, and her own expression lightened for the first time that afternoon.

What is so inherently comic in the thought of Randy Randolph? Kate said. It‘s not Randy that‘s so funny, Lyda said. It‘s the thought of Randy as a bigamist. She led Kate to the mess hall at the rear of the camp and around to the back door, where there was a smaller version of the warehouse dock. Two pallets of dry goods were in the process of being torn down and the contents carried inside. Lyda and Kate dodged some fifty-pound sacks of enriched white flour on their way into the kitchen.

It was another large room that extended up into the second story of the prefab. Stainless-steel appliances and counters lined the walls, and a long gas grill and a gas-fired cooktop, with an immense stainless steel hood hanging over grill and cooktop, took up the center of the floor. Large pots steamed and knives crunched through vegetables and there was a pungent smell of garlic in the air. The four men and two women hard at work were dressed in white double-breasted jackets with mandarin collars, wrap-around white aprons tied in front, black-and-white checked pants, black nurse‘s shoes, and white paper cook‘s hats.

Hey, Jules, Lyda said to the guy with the tallest hat.

He smiled at her, a wide, foolish, dazzled smile whose glow could have been seen in daylight from the moon. Jules, unlike P.J., had all the time in the world for Lyda, offering her a stool, apple slices layered with white cheddar, and a Diet Sprite, which Kate was given to understand was Lyda‘s favorite drink.

Jules was stumpy and thickset with swarthy skin and thick, untidy dark hair, but his eyes were large, brown, and liquid, and if one overlooked the spaghetti sauce and scrambled egg splatters across his broad white front and the sweat rolling down his square face, there was something rather attractive about the eager little man, with an accent that marked him down as east of the Hudson River. If he‘d had a tail he would have been wagging it hard enough to power an electric generator. Kate found herself hoping the body in the woods did belong to Dewayne Gammons. We just need to talk to Randy for a minute, okay? Lyda said.