“So, Fritz and Franz were neo-Nazis,” said Patton.

“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Nemo.

“Fritz and Franz?” said Alex.

“Couple of German friends of ours,” said Patton.

“About as Aryan a pair as you’ve ever seen,” said Nemo.

“There is another version of the Fourteen Words,” said Alex. “ ‘Because the beauty of the white Aryan woman must not perish from the Earth.’ ”

“That’s a sentence fragment,” said Patton.

“I don’t think grammar is a top priority for these people,” said Alex.

“What about you?” said Nemo.

“What do you mean?” said Alex.

“You live in a house full of swastikas and SS uniforms and Nazi shit, where do you stand on the Fourteen Words? Where do you stand on all of this?” Nemo waved his hand around to indicate the museum Alex Lansdowne inhabited.

“I don’t stand,” said Alex. “I’m not political. I’m not here to pick sides. I’m just a preserver of artifacts. Someday it will be up to others to decide what those artifacts mean or what relevance they have.”

“But you sandblast the Fourteen Words off your garden wall,” said Patton.

“Not because I agree or disagree with them,” said Alex, “because I don’t want graffiti on my wall. I’d do the same thing if they painted ‘Alex is a hero.’ ”

“I wouldn’t hold your breath on that,” said Patton with thinly veiled contempt.

“So Fritz and Franz were Nazis and this guy isn’t much better,” said Nemo. “None of that helps us find out who’s behind all this and what that damn message says.”

“You’re wrong about one of those things,” said a voice from the doorway. Ruthie stood there, silhouetted against the morning light that came in through the kitchen window, holding a sheet of paper. “I cracked the code.”

Under ordinary circumstances, the funeral for Jasper Fleming would have drawn few mourners. In fact, if anyone had thought to consider Jasper’s own wishes, there would not have been a funeral at all. But the only person who knew Jasper’s wishes was P.J. Harcourt, and she had been missing for two days. Sheriff Tommy Linton would have thought nothing about P.J.’s being gone if it hadn’t been for the murder that took place in her backyard—and that murder was the reason nearly a hundred people now crowded the chapel of Sheets Funeral Home paying their respects to Jasper Fleming. Gordon Sheets, the funeral director, had scheduled Jasper’s service immediately after the one for Art Handy, the late deputy sheriff of Alta Vista. Most of Art’s mourners had stuck around for Jasper. The two bodies were driven out to the cemetery behind the Methodist church on Highway 14 in the same caravan of cars.

At the cemetery, when both men had been buried and a few of the mourners still lingered, Art’s widow, Renée, asked Sheriff Tommy about P.J.’s disappearance.