Well. Although I had to admit the display had a certain primitive vigor and an undeniable dramatic impact, it was really far too crude for my taste. Even though the heads apparently had been carefully cleaned, the eyelids were gone and the mouths had been forced into a strange smile by the heat, and it was not pleasant. Certainly no one on-site asked my opinion, but I have always felt that there should be no leftovers. It's untidy, and it shows a lack of a real workmanlike spirit. And for these heads to be left so conspicuously-this was mere showing off, and demonstrated an unrefined approach to the problem. Still, there's no accounting for taste. I'm always willing to admit that my technique is not the only way. And as always in aesthetic matters, I waited for some small sibilant whisper of agreement from the Dark Passenger-but of course, there was nothing.

Not a murmur, not a twitch of the wing, not a peep. My compass was gone, leaving me in the very unsettling position of needing to hold my own hand. Of course, I was not completely alone. There was Deborah beside me, and I became aware that as I was pondering the matter of my shadow companion's disappearance, she was speaking to me.

"They were at the funeral this morning," she said. "Came back and this was waiting for them." "Who are they?" I asked, nodding at the house.

Deborah jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. It hurt. "The family, asshole. The Ortega family. What did I just say?" "So this happened in daylight?" For some reason, that made it seem a little more disturbing. "Most of the neighbors were at the funeral, too," she said. "But we're still looking for somebody who might have seen something." She shrugged. "We might get lucky. Who knows." I did not know, but for some reason I did not think that anything connected to this would bring us luck. "I guess this creates a little doubt about Halpern's guilt," I said.

"It damned well does not," she said. "That asshole is guilty."
"Ah," I said. "So you think that somebody else found the heads, and, uh…"
"Fucking hell, I don't know," she said. "Somebody must be working with him."

I just shook my head. That didn't make any sense at all, and we both knew it. Somebody capable of conceiving and performing the elaborate ritual of the two murders would almost have to do it alone. Such acts were so highly personal, each small step the acting out of some unique inner need, that the idea of two people sharing the same vision was almost pure nonsense. In a weird way, the ceremonial display of the heads fit in with the way the bodies had been left-two pieces of the same ritual.

"That doesn't seem right," I said.
"Well then, what does?"