Nick took his equipment box and headed for the graveyard. When he crossed the small rise he saw a long canvas tent set up at the foot of the four open graves, with the tent flaps pulled back and tied off at the poles. Black power cords ran along the ground like licorice whips, connected to a gas-powered generator a safe distance away. The tent was lined with folding tables covered with digging tools and forensic equipment, but no one seemed to be using them—and Nick knew why. By now he had hoped to find half a dozen forensic technicians scattered over the search area busy at work, but instead he found half a dozen forensic technicians leaning against the tables in the shade of the tent, staring stone-faced at a woman and a dog darting back and forth across an empty field.

“This is ridiculous,” Nick groaned. His instinct was to head directly for Marge and Bosco the Wonder Dog to ask if the temperature wasn’t quite cool enough for them or if Bosco might need anything else—like a nose transplant. But Nick knew that would only slow things down even more, so he headed instead for the tech tent, where he found a familiar face.

“Hey, Kegan—how’s it going?”

“Nick. Nice to see you again.”

“How’s Charlottesville?”

“Beautiful, as always. How’s NC State?”

“Raleigh, as always. So you’re the forensic anthropologist—I was hoping they’d grab you since you’re just down the road.”

Kegan Alexander was a petite woman, no more than five feet in height, with smooth, fair skin and eyes that were too large for her face, giving her a kind of elfish appearance. She was an endurance runner—a triathlete—and there wasn’t an extra ounce of fat anywhere on her body. Mostly bone, Nick thought, and it seemed somehow appropriate for a woman who spent her time reassembling skeletons and uncovering their secrets. Her hair was brown and straight, cut off just above the shoulders and always pulled back behind her ears, and on the job she always wore a white painter’s cap. Nick had never asked her why; he assumed it was because of all the brushing anthropologists tend to do. Kegan was a professor of anthropology at the University of Virginia, just an hour and a half to the south. Nick had worked with her at least twice before, and he wasn’t surprised to see her here; she was not only good at what she did, she was from Virginia—and knowledge of the local soil is crucial to dating human remains.

Kegan squinted at the trainer and her dog. “I can’t figure out what she’s doing out there.”

“Neither can she.”