Hell, Old Sam said, still peering at the bones, barely visible in the abundant new growth. I‘m not sure I‘m even seeing all the way to the ground. Shoulda brought Mutt. She could sniff out anything.

Jim reined in his imagination. Let‘s move down twelve feet and do it again. This time, two-thirds of the way across the clearing Jim‘s toe hit something hard, and he tripped and nearly fell again. He swore and caught his balance. What? Old Sam said.

I don‘t know, Jim said, parting the grass and peering down. I kicked something. He moved some more grass aside, and paused.

What?

Jim pulled a thin rubber glove from his pocket and pulled it on. From another pocket he pulled an evidence bag. With the gloved hand he reached down and picked up a small pistol, a revolver with a brown grip that wasn‘t wood, with the little silver Smith & Wesson badge on both sides.

He looked at Old Sam, who looked from the pistol to where they‘d come out of the woods into the clearing. I be damn, he said.

What? Jim said.

I bet that sumbitch is what tripped me up, Old Sam said. Lost my goddamn rifle, too, which is why Kate got my bear.

My‘ bear? Jim said.

Old Sam grinned. Did I say my‘ bear? Slip of the tongue.

That‘s what I thought, Jim said, and they both looked back at the pistol. Twentytwo Long Rifle CTG.

I‘m impressed, Old Sam said.

It says so on the barrel, Jim said. He smelled the muzzle. Old Sam raised an eyebrow, and Jim shook his head. It‘s got green stuff starting to grow on it. Been here a while.

Long as the body?

That would be the question. The revolver had a swing-out cylinder, and Jim broke it open and held it up to look through it.

It had been fully loaded. All six rounds were spent. He remembered the loose round Kate had found on the floor of Gammons‘s pickup.

The ravens sent up a chorus of whistles and clicks. Jim looked up to find that the treetops had taken on a Hitchcockian air, with black birds perched in every second tree. Okay, this doesn‘t give me the creeps or anything.

Old Sam was looking up at the ravens, head cocked to one side.

What? Jim said.

They‘re not here for no reason, the old man said.

What— Jim stopped. Oh.

Old Sam looked at him, his face grim. See how they‘re grouping up on that side? Jim did. Probably just a dead rabbit or something.

Maybe. Old Sam waded through the grass in that direction. Maybe not. They found the dead moose calf. They also found the human skull.

It had been reduced mostly to bone, with a few strips of gristle and skin left to it, which explained the ravens and crows. A distinctive squawk made Jim look up at the trees again. And the magpies. Grass had grown through the one unbroken eye socket. The brain cavity had been picked and sucked and licked clean. The hair was gone, probably plucked by innumerable beaks and used for bird nests. Jim looked at Old Sam. No one had told him the month before that the skull hadn‘t been found, and he hadn‘t thought to ask. No wonder the ME had been so focused on blood types. You didn‘t look for the skull?