“Jordan Glass,” says the woman, holding out her hand to Caitlin. “You’re Caitlin Masters?”

“Yes.”

“You’re younger than I thought you’d be.”

Her familiarity leaves Caitlin uncharacteristically quiet. The photographer looks between forty and forty-five, and though she wears little makeup, she doesn’t suffer from the lack. Her eyes are clear and bright, her forehead and cheekbones high, and her mouth only faintly lined at the corners. She has shoulder-length hair, but it’s pulled back and bound with a multicolored elastic hairband, which gives her an almost bohemian look among the government agents.

“How many bones have you found so far?” Caitlin asks Kaiser. “And from how many different people? Can you tell?”

Kaiser’s lips widen in an understanding smile. “Off the record, Ms. Masters?”

“All right,” Caitlin concedes, though I know it must pain her to do so.

“All the bones appear to be from one skeleton.”

“Have you identified it yet?”

“Not conclusively, so I don’t want to say more than that.”

“What’s in the bag?” I ask.

Kaiser unzips the neoprene bag, then carefully removes a corroded set of handcuffs.

“From the car?” I ask.

The FBI agent nods. “They may have just used them to chain the body to the car. But from what I know about these murders, I’m betting he was alive when he went into the water.”

Caitlin’s eyes are locked on to the dripping handcuffs, which look like something raised from the wreck of the Titanic. “Is it Revels or Davis?” she almost whispers.

Kaiser hesitates. “Probably one or the other. Let’s not go any further than that just yet.”

Jordan touches Caitlin on the shoulder. “You want to walk down the shore with me? I think these boys are about to go way off the record.”

Caitlin gives me a frustrated glare, but after looking back at Glass, who seems to be treating their imminent exclusion as a juvenile exercise by her husband, she says, “Sure. Why not?”

As soon as they are out of earshot, Kaiser’s face loses any trace of humor. “Do you know where your father is?”

The shock of this question almost prompts me to speak frankly, but at the last instant my protective instinct kicks in. “I assume he’s at work. Why?”

Kaiser studies my face for several seconds in silence. Then he says, “I’m sure you’re right. Let’s take a walk.”

CHAPTER 65

AS THE FBI agent and I walk down the muddy shore of the Jericho Hole, I wave my arm toward the great machines behind us, hoping to buy myself time to think.

“What’s on those trucks? Pumps?”