He carried the CD to the MacBook, plugged the computer in, loaded the CD, and brought it up. There was only one thing on it: a two-minute movie of Janet Fischer—he was sure it was she—dressed as the Virgin Mary, lifting a hand to bless the crowd, and speaking—“Bienaventurados los mansos, porque ellos heredaran la tierra”—in her best Minnesota Spanish.

He put everything back, then did a six-minute review of the whole place, opening doors and drawers. No .223. rifle, no shells. If Holland had a .223, he could be hiding it somewhere off the premises, simply as a basic precaution.

But Virgil didn’t believe it. Holland was too nice a guy.

One oddity, though: nowhere in the trailer did Virgil see anything to indicate that Holland had ever been in the military—no photos, no memorabilia, no letters from the Veterans Administration.

—

Jenkins was outside the door eleven minutes after they spoke on the phone. Virgil climbed into the truck, and they headed back downtown. “We were right about one thing—it was Holland and Fischer who pulled off the Virgin Mary thing. It’s gotta be illegal, somehow, but hell if I know the exact statute.”

Jenkins said, “How about Skinner?”

“I’m sure Skinner was in there, too. Anyway, all three of them now have anti-motives for shooting somebody. Shooting anybody. Right from the start, they’ve seemed sort of panic-stricken by the shootings. They’ll lose their asses if the shootings continue . . . By the way, Holland doesn’t have a bow. Neither does Fischer.”

“Then what the fuck are we gonna do, man? We still got nothing.”

Then Holland called on Virgil’s cell, and Virgil took it on the truck’s Bluetooth connection.

“I got the call,” Holland said. “Woman’s voice. I got instructions for the drop spot.”

“How stupid is it?” Virgil asked.

“Surprisingly not stupid, if you’re stupid enough to do this in the first place,” Holland said. “There’s this place west of town, called the East Chain . . .”

“I know it,” Virgil said. “We’ll be at the store in two minutes. We’ll talk then.”

On the way to the store, Virgil called the phone guy at BCA headquarters to tell him the call had come in on Holland’s cell phone. The guy was ready for it, and he said he’d have the caller’s number in five minutes.

“What’s the East Chain?” Jenkins asked, when Virgil was off the phone.

—

The East Chain was a series of swamps, bogs, marshes, and shallow lakes west of Wheatfield, linked together by a creek. Years earlier, Virgil had done some wildlife photography in the area, hired by a painter who wanted authentic scenes of red foxes and their offspring as models for a painting for a wildlife stamp contest. As Virgil remembered it, East Chain was ten or twelve miles long from north to south, and would be an easy place to run and hide.