'I'l do my best.'

'I'm curious about the site Simon Midkiff is digging for you.'

'Currently?'

'Yes.'

'He's not doing anything for us at the moment. At least nothing of which I'm aware.'

'Isn't he excavating in Swain County?'

'I don't think so. Hold on.'

By the time she returned, I'd walked to Ryan's car and opened the door.

'Nope. Midkiff hasn't worked for us in over two years and isn't likely to any time soon because he stil owes us a site report from his last contract.'

'Thanks.'

'I wish al my requests were this simple.'

I'd barely put down the phone when it rang again. A journalist from the Charlotte Observer. A reminder of my continuing notoriety. I clicked off without comment.

A thousand cranial vessels pulsed in my skul. Nothing made sense. Why had Midkiff lied? Why had he and Davenport attended the Tramper funeral? Did they know each other back then?

I needed aspirin. I needed lunch. I needed an objective listener.

Boyd.

===OO=OOO=OO===

After popping two Bayers, I colected the chow, and we set forth. Boyd rode with his head out the passenger window, nose to the air, twisting and turning to suck in every discernible odor. Watching him at the Burger King drive-through, I thought of the squirrel, then the wal at the courtyard house. Just what had his former owner trained him to find?

Suddenly, I had an idea. A place to picnic and check out names.

The Bryson City Cemetery is located on Schoolhouse Hil, overlooking Veterans Boulevard on one side, a mountain valey on the other. The drive took seven minutes.

Boyd did not understand the delay and kept prodding and licking the food bag. By the time I puled into the cemetery, the cardboard tray was so soggy I had to carry it with two hands.

Boyd dragged me from stone to stone, peeing on several, then kicking back divots with his hind feet. Finaly, he stopped at a pink granite column, turned, and yipped.

Sylvia Hotchkins

Entered this world January 12, 1945.

Left this world April 20, 1968.

Taken too early in the spring of her life.

Sixty-eight was a rough year for al of us, Sylvia.

Certain she would enjoy the company, I settled at the base of a large oak shading Sylvia's grave and ordered Boyd to sit beside me. He complied, his eyes fixed on the tray in my hands.

When I withdrew a burger, Boyd sprang to his feet.

'Sit.'

He sat. I peeled off the paper and gave him the burger. He rose, separated it into components, then ate the meat, bun, and lettuce-tomato garnish sequentialy. Finished, he focused on my Whopper, muzzle spotted with ketchup.

'Sit.'

He sat. I spread fries on the grass and he began picking them delicately off the surface so they wouldn't sink between the blades. I unwrapped my Whopper and slipped a straw into my drink.