Tamela told her sister about the pregnancy last winter. She left her father’s home sometime around Easter. Witnesses reported she’d been living with Tyree in a South Tryon Street house for four months.

The baby could have been born in July, or even late June. When had Tamela last been seen? Could she have died several weeks ago? Could the highly organic environment in the privy have hastened decomposition?

If not Tamela, who was the privy victim? Why was he there? Who had shot him?

I thought the skul looked male, butwasit a he?

Where was Darryl Tyree? Could I be wrong about the skul looking Caucasian? Could we have pul ed Tyree’s head and hands from the pit?

Had I real y seen a reaction in Rinaldi’s eyes? Had the head and hands triggered some recol ection? If so, why keep it to himself?

Slidel ’s question was a good one. How had two of the privy pit hand bones ended up in a shal ow grave with bears and birds?

Who had kil ed al of those animals?

If the privy remains were not Tamela’s, could she have suffered the same fate as that victim?

Questions looped and spun in my head.

From the privy pit farm, my mind traveled west across the county to a cornfield crash site. I pictured Harvey Pearce and his anonymous passenger, their corpses encased in crispy black shrouds.

Who was Pearce’s passenger? What was the strange lesion on his nasal bone?

Jansen found charred matter under the Cessna. Was it more cocaine, or some other il egal drug? Something else entirely?

What was the relationship of the men in the Cessna to Ricky Don Dorton? Had Pearce and his passenger stolen Dorton’s plane, or were the three part of a drug trafficking ring? The doggy door and the missing seat seemed inconsistent with a recently stolen plane.

I turned my head on the pil ow.

Was I making a mistake with Ryan? Could this work? If not, could we hold on to the friendship we had? To an outsider, our constant bantering might look like hostility. That was our way. Sparring. Teasing. Jousting. But underneath lay respect and affection. If it turned out we couldn’t be lovers, could we once again be col eagues and friends?

Did I want to be a couple? Could I real y yield my long-fought-for independence? Would I have to?

Did Ryan want a committed relationship? Was he capable of monogamy? Was he capable of monogamy with me? Could I again believe in it?

It was a relief when day final y dawned. In the gathering light I watched familiar objects take shape in my room. The conch shel I’d col ected on the beach at Kitty Hawk two summers back. The champagne glass into which I tossed my earrings. The framed pictures of Katy. ThekabawilI’d purchased in Guatemala.

And the unfamiliar.