“Why would he try to make me wreck my car?”

“Who knows why kids act as they do nowadays. Why was Stephanie killed?”

“That wasn’t the work of kids. Or if it was, I’m sure there were others involved too.”

“Let’s try something else. Let’s go over to the Waterson woods where Stephanie’s body was found. Maybe we can poke around and uncover something.”

“Uncover what? You already have evidence that it wasn’t the devil I saw—unless the devil likes to use local transportation.”

“Maybe we can stumble on something that would indicate Duff wasn’t involved,” said Father Jackson patiently.

“Leave it to the police. They don’t suspect Duff.”

“They may begin to suspect him, if they decide to investigate Mrs. Reddy.”

We went back to our road and down it to the Waterson farm. It seemed that the Watersons were parishioners at Saint Mary’s in Cainesville. Father Jackson introduced me to Mrs. Waterson and explained my relationship with Stephanie. He said that I thought if I could look around the place where her body had been found, I might see something that had escaped the eyes of the police—I was so close to Stephanie and all. He was becoming as much of an operator as I was.

Mrs. Waterson, who may have been around my age but was (I hoped) considerably more haggard, sent her twelve-­year-old daughter to guide us. Ruth Ann knew the location from listening to the conversations of the deputies, but until now her parents hadn’t permitted her to visit the site. Consequently she set off at practically a gallop.

There wasn’t much to see once we reached the place. And getting there by the girl’s route resulted in a number of scratches on my arms and legs and a rip in the back of my cashmere sweater.

“Here’s where they found her,” announced Ruth Ann, beaming. “At least I’m pretty sure it was here. The Sheriff said it was near that big oak tree.”

“It was here,” said Father Jackson. He indicated some pegs in the ground on an open slope of grass. The pegs made a rough outline of a body.

“No motorcycle could have been brought in the way we came,” I said. “Even a person walking would’ve had a terrible time at night.”

“I brought you the quickest way,” said Ruth Ann. “The logging trail where the motorcycle tracks are is over there.” She pointed to the other side of the slope.

“Then let’s go back that way,” I said, “or any way other than the one we came.”

Father Jackson had picked up a stick and was walking up the slope, whipping the grass.

“What do you expect to find?” I called.

“Nothing probably,” he yelled back. “This area must have been gone over by experts.”