Sandy Stupak had also appeared. He, Hawkins, and Larabee were discussing ways to tow the Chevy with the least amount of damage.

As I listened, it became clear that their concerns differed. Larabee and Hawkins were eager to preserve the body and its surroundings. Stupak was worried for his #59 car.

I was placing my jars and Baggies in the transport van when I heard the crunch of tires, followed by the thunk of a car door.

I turned.

And couldn’t believe who was walking toward me.

Chapter 22

WILLIAMS AND RANDALL WORE THE SAME BLUE SUITS AND TIES, white shirts, and stern expressions they’d featured when ambushing me on Saturday.

“Evening, Special Agents,” I said when they were ten feet out.

Both looked surprised. I think.

“Dr. Brennan.” As before, Williams did the talking. “Nice to see you. Though not under these circumstances.”

“What are these circumstances?” I asked.

“That’s what we’re here to ascertain.”

“Good word, ‘ascertain.’ ”

“Yes. May I ask why a forensic anthropologist was needed here?”

“I managed to get most of Gamble’s head.” I hooked a thumb toward the van at my back. “The small pieces are in Ziplocs. The big hunks are in jars.”

Randall lost control. Blinked.

Williams’s face remained carefully neutral. “Could you elaborate?”

I did.

After a long pause, Williams spoke again. “You’ve been in recent contact with Mr. Gamble, isn’t that correct?”

“He came to my office last Friday, wondering if the landfill John Doe could be his sister. He phoned me several times after that, but we only spoke once. Detective Slidell and I interviewed him here around nine this morning.”

“As part of your reinvestigation of the Gamble-Lovette disappearances?”

“It’s hardly a formal reinvestigation.”

“Yes. Did Mr. Gamble say anything to lead you to believe he might be despondent?”

“Despondent? How is that relevant to what we have here? You’re not seriously suggesting he could have killed himself?” I wasn’t believing the question.

“I’m not suggesting anything. During your conversations, did Mr. Gamble express concern about anything? Other than his sister, of course.”

“He felt there might have been a break-in at his trailer. And that he was being followed.”

Again I felt the gut-wrenching guilt.

“Go on,” Williams urged.

“Today he left a message saying he was going to confront the guy.”

“Had he discovered the identity of the person surveilling him?”

“Obviously he thought he had. Otherwise, how could he confront the guy?”

“Do you recall anything else?”

“Not really.”

“Think, Dr. Brennan.”

I shrugged. “He was feeling lousy.”

“How so?”

“He thought he had the flu.”

Did I imagine it? Or did Williams and Randall both stiffen?

“May I ask why the FBI was needed here?” I borrowed a line from Williams’s playbook.