Marge took out a plastic bag. “Then maybe we should let her sniff the clothes again.”

Decker nodded. Marge gloved her hand, then took out Dalia Yalom’s white blouse and bra along with Arik Yalom’s pants and undershirt. “Here, girl,” she said. “You’re not interested in every single turd that has ever been dropped. You’re only interested in finding these people.”

Ginger raised her head, eyed Marge quizzically, then nosed the clothing. Once again, she was off. Decker had to trot to keep pace with her.

“Does she know what she’s doing?” Marge asked, breathlessly.

Decker shrugged.

“Orit Bar Lulu is going to be pissed if we come back with nothing, especially after waking her up at five in the morning to get the clothes.”

“She’ll just have to live with the pain.” Decker tugged gently on the leash. “Slow down, girl. Give an old man a chance to enjoy the scenery.”

The mountainside was wet and soggy, the mud seeping out from under their shoes. The air was nippy and smoky with dew, but morning sunlight was beginning to filter through the fog. Decker had on a red-plaid flannel shirt, brown chino pants, and an Englishman’s cap given to him by his father-in-law, the expert on caps. Maven was the word Rina had used. Marge wore a cable-knit sweater under a down-filled vest, corduroy pants, and high-top sneakers. She hated jackets. They limited her mobility.

“You ever hunt when you were a kid?” she asked.

“Yep. Alligators and ducks.”

“That’s right. You were born in Florida. Did you like it?”

“Florida’s okay.”

“Not Florida, Pete. Did you like hunting?”

“I thought it was silly. Grown men getting up at four in the morning to hunker down in the trenches and quack aloud. Alligators are mean sons of bitches. Sneaky little suckers with eternal smiles. But the way they’re slaughtered used to get to me. You can’t shoot them outright because you’ll ruin their hide. You’ve got to pith their brains out with a special type of blowgun.”

“Lovely. Further nauseate my queasy stomach.”

Ginger abruptly stopped, her posture freezing in the mist of the morning.

“She’s found something?” Marge asked.

“I don’t know.” Decker tugged on the leash. “Come on, girl.”

Ginger refused to budge.

“Does she know what she’s doing?” Marge asked again.

“I’ve never taught her how to hunt,” Decker said. “But the instincts are there.” He lowered his backpack onto the wet ground. “I trust her, Marge. I say we dig.”

Marge slipped her knapsack off her shoulders. “At least we don’t have to worry about destroying evidence. The rain helped us in that department. I sure hope your dog isn’t smelling a dead possum or something.”

“It could be she is. Although she seemed to sniff the clothes with interest.” Decker smiled. “Listen to me. I’m psychoanalyzing a dog.”