Bobo wasn’t sure what he was supposed to conclude. “I wonder how the arson investigator figured that out? That the fire was set by two people?”

“Footprints, I think. Though how you could say, ‘These are the footprints of the arsonists,’ I don’t know. But they found a cell phone, some other stuff, that belonged to Curtis Logan and Seth Mecklinberg, the two guys from Lubbock who went missing. Allegedly.”

“You’re telling me that Olivia and Lemuel . . .”

She nodded. “It’s like having evil superhero friends, huh?”

He shook his head helplessly. “I can’t even figure out how I feel about that,” he said. “I didn’t want to be beaten up. I didn’t kill them. But on the other hand . . .”

“I understand,” Fiji said. “Hey, there’s the gate.” Today it stood open. In the daylight, it was easy to see the crudely paved driveway running over a hill. They followed it. Down in a gentle dip stood an old ranch house, surrounded by yet another fence, a suspiciously high palisade fence.

“That’s pretty unusual,” Bobo said. “You just see wire fences around ranch houses, to keep the livestock out of the yard.”

But the fence wasn’t an obstacle, since this gate, too, was open. It was also scorched and sagging from its post.

Bobo said, “I’m going in.” Fiji nodded.

It was especially rocky out here, and sparse vegetation told Bobo that there was almost no topsoil. The house had been an average-size ranch-style house with a stone chimney and foundation, and the lower part of the walls had been stone. Those were still standing. The wood in between had been consumed, and the roof was mostly gone, too.

There was a mute violence about the burned house.

A certain awareness of what had happened here crept over Bobo.

“There was a fingerprint on a gasoline can,” Fiji said. “Curtis Logan’s fingerprint. And a receipt from a gas station, turned out to be Seth Mecklinberg’s debit card was the one used.”

“She told you all that? She must be one indiscreet arson investigator.”

Fiji said, “She’s lonely, and I acted interested. Also, it wasn’t an act.”

“Wonder what would have happened if there’d been people in there,” Bobo said. “Would they have gone through with it?”

They didn’t talk much all the way back to Midnight.

25

Manfred was busy with the woes of an eighty-year-old man from Arizona when his cell phone buzzed. He ignored it, of course, but after he’d told the man he’d find companionship at a church (fairly safe advice), he checked the listing. He whooped out loud. Then he sat for a moment, composing himself, before he hit “Call.”

“Manfred,” Creek said, sounding almost shy. “Thanks for calling me back. I got your phone number from Fiji.”

“Not at all,” he said, and then winced. That made no sense! he thought. “What can I do for you, Creek?”