Nightfall had brought another storm into the Southland. Between intermittent downpours, Decker and Marge walked from terminal to terminal, battling not only bureaucracy and security but dank air thick with humidity and jet fuel. The runways were awash with rain and grease forming a mirrored surface that reflected the jets like a bad Impressionist painting. After hours of questioning personnel, and squinting at lists of passengers’ names printed on dot-matrix computer readouts, Decker rubbed his eyes and decided to call it quits.

Which was fine with Marge. She’d been ready to fold up tents an hour ago. She looked at Decker. “Now what?”

Decker checked his watch. A little after ten. “Are you hungry?”

“Are you suggesting an airport coffee shop? Why don’t we skip the middleman and just inject the ptomaine poisoning directly into our veins.”

Decker smiled. “Grab a cup of coffee with me.”

“Axle grease.”

“But at least the water’s boiled.”

Marge rolled her eyes as they trudged to the airport cafeteria. A few minutes later, they were sitting across the table from each other, perched on lemon-colored plastic chairs, sipping bitter coffee out of Styrofoam cups. The lighting was harsh and Decker’s eyes were tired. He hoped the caffeine would fuel him up, keep him awake long enough to make the long drive home.

He said, “Just because we couldn’t find their names doesn’t mean they didn’t leave the country. They could have taken a domestic carrier to some other location and left through another city.”

Marge said, “Peter, even if you’re right, it won’t help us. Think of all the permutations we could have. All the different domestic airlines that fly into cities that have international flights to Israel. It will take weeks, even months, to go through the rosters. At this point, we’d be better off looking for bodies.”

Decker said, “So let’s start looking.”

Marge let out an incredulous laugh. “You say the most outlandish things so casually.”

“What’s outlandish about looking for bodies?”

Marge glared at him. “Where do we start, Peter?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Near their house, I guess. It’s not far from the mountain passes. Lots of dumping grounds. How about if you and I meet tomorrow morning before work and do a little hiking?”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely,” Decker said. “I’ll bring Ginger. She’s not a scent hound but she’s got a good nose.”

Marge clucked her tongue. “What the hell? I suppose I can use a little exercise. Because that’s all we’re going to get out of this excursion.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“What time did you have in mind?”

“Around six.”

“Peter—”

“I walk Ginger around six. She’s very alert in the early morning.”

“But I’m not.”

“Margie, combing the hillside means we’re working real low to the ground. Ginger’s real good at that.”