Nick rocked back onto his heels and straightened; his eyes were now level with the surface of the ground. He cupped his hand over his eyes and looked up to see an imperious-looking woman glaring down at him from the side of the grave. She stood like a pyramid with her trousered legs spread wide and her fists planted firmly on her hips. The image triggered an old memory of the Jolly Green Giant standing astride a valley of Golden Niblets—but there was nothing jolly about this woman. She was dressed in green khaki from head to foot, with a hunter-orange vest draped over her work shirt. Both shoulders were emblazoned with official-looking insignia embroidered in gold and blue, though from his vantage point Nick couldn’t read either one of them. Her hands were protected by white surgical gloves, making her long fingers look like a pair of cow’s udders after a good milking. Her narrow waist was girded by some sort of combination of fanny pack and accessory holder, and around her neck she wore a gleaming silver whistle dangling from a black lanyard. Her head and face were enveloped by a billow of dark mosquito netting that draped down from a baseball-style cap, completely obscuring her features and expression—except for a condescending scowl, which somehow still managed to show through.

Nick looked up at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, ‘I’m going to need you to leave.’”

“Who are you?”

She twisted and pointed to the shoulder patch on one arm; Nick squinted but still couldn’t make out the words. With an impatient huff she twisted farther and bent down a little more.

“We could save a lot of time if you’d just tell me,” Nick said. “Unless you need me to read it to you.”

She straightened. “My name is Marjory Claire Anderson-Forsyth.”

Nick waited. “Is this multiple choice, or do I have to remember the whole thing?”

She didn’t smile. “I am principal owner and chief trainer of the Virginia chapter of Fidelis Search and Rescue Dogs—that is what it says on my insignia. I have been contracted by the Federal Bureau of Investigation to locate the graves in this cemetery.”

“I already found this one,” Nick said. “You’ll have to look someplace else.”

She didn’t reply.

Nick got up from his knees and dusted them off; he was almost even with the woman’s waist now and the view was not improving. Twenty yards to his right he spotted a large black-and-tan dog darting back and forth, nervously sniffing at the ground. The dog was wearing a hunter-orange vest exactly like the woman’s.

“Is that a cadaver dog?” Nick asked.

“That is a forensic detection dog,” she corrected, “and I’m afraid your scent is distracting.”

“The label said I’d be irresistible. I’m getting my money back.”

Still no response.