Dispatch wasn’t able to get ahold of Railer right away. He’d been called to an accident scene outside of Polson. By the time Railer arrived in Perma dusk was settling. I had searched the bottom land first. I wanted to narrow the area, make Railer believe I was on top of things. Railer found me at the base of the hill, searching, wandering. “What are we looking at?” he asked. I explained to him that I’d gotten a call, possible murder. I pointed out the area I had already covered, a pitiful patch of ground. Darkness traced the edge of the fields. The clouds had lifted but sunlight was only a thin line at the top of the hills, fading.

“Where did Mr. Stoner say the body was exactly?” Railer looked at me intently.

“Here,” I said, sweeping my arm. “Here someplace.”

“Right,” Railer said. “Great.” He headed up the hill. I grabbed my flashlight from the car and followed him. I was worried the coyotes would find the body of Hemaucus before we got to her, and it would be my fault. I scanned the fields, walking quickly. I could see Railer on the far side of the field. I could see him kicking at tufts of grass. Now and then he would stop, place his hands on his hips, and shake his head. I tried to stay focused. I looked the ground over carefully for any sign, a dip in the grass, a telltale trail. I was finding only rocks. I was aware my eyes had adjusted to the encroaching dark but now the night was swallowing the fields. I could see the narrow path of Railer’s flashlight, and sometimes not even that. I jogged from one end of the field to the other, plotting my own grid. It seemed hopeless. Railer had come up behind me and when he gripped my shoulder he startled me. “Easy,” he said. He took his hat off and slapped his leg. “We’re not doing a lick of good out here,” he said. “We won’t be finding that girl tonight.” He flashed his light on a small patch of grass. “We’ll try again at daybreak,” he said. “We might even have to call in Harvey Stoner.” I tried not to grimace. I followed Railer back to the road, still searching the ground, circling my flashlight toward rocks and small bushes. I was unwilling to admit Railer was right: we wouldn’t be finding Hemaucus tonight. I rubbed my eyes, already weary. My stomach was churning. By morning the crows would gather. I had failed.

I returned to the scene before the sun cleared the Missions. The morning was still gray. It was November and it should have been cold. It wasn’t. A bitter frost was steaming off the fields. I knew people would shed their winter coats and step outdoors with renewed vigor, unaware they were welcoming sickness. There would be more death from this trick change of season. It was a mock spring that had claimed Annie White Elk, Louise’s mother. She had hiked up Magpie Creek to search for her husband. She’d been gone for two days with only a shotgun and a sack of jerky. The warm days had deceived her. She came home fever chilled, dreaming, Grandma Magpie said, of a white root cellar filled with yellow apples. She died within the week.