Bill’s GPS said we were in front of the address we hunted for. I saw nothing. The machine urged us to turn, then sounded disappointed as she ordered us to go back. We did. The unpaved road we were on had no houses. There was thick forest on either side; no lights and no driveways leading into anything.

“Has to be the wrong address,” Bill said, stopping in the middle of the road to look hard to the left and then to the right, furiously pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Would they have dared to give Detective Brent the wrong address?” I wondered.

“Be a dumb thing to do,” Bill shrugged and moved the car a few yards, searching the side of the road again.

It was getting dark. The woods around us were deep and already murky as night. Somewhere, in the trees, a bird sang a nesting song, a kind of warning to the other birds. A stand of pines on one side gave that sigh they give at dusk, just before the wind dies completely. Twenty yards ahead of us a doe and her twin fawns stepped out to look around and then leap to the other side, babies tripping over their own feet.

Bill looked at me. I looked at him. “Pretty isolated place,” he said.

We were out beyond Peshawbestown, down a road that connected to a smaller road and then deep into the woods.

“The GPS says the address is here. Why aren’t we seeing anything?” I said.

“Want to get out and walk it? Maybe we’re just not looking at things right.”

I agreed. We left the car at the side of the dirt. He walked one way. I walked the other.

The empty road, the deep shadows in the trees, the quiet—it gave me the chills. I wrapped my arms around myself and walked slowly, glad for Bill close by. It was a good thing I hadn’t been stupid enough to come out looking for the men alone. Getting Sorrow back was about all I had on my mind, but becoming another floating dead body wasn’t high on my list of other things to do.

“Hey,” Bill called, “think I found a drive.” I hurried to where he pointed to a grassy opening between trees. No mailbox. No name. And so narrow we’d driven by twice without seeing it.

“I’ll get the car,” he said, and loped back to where the car was parked. He drove up and turned in the opening between the trees.

We left the car pulled in off the road and started up the almost invisible driveway. Bill had brought a flashlight. It wasn’t very big and not very powerful, but it illuminated enough to keep us from falling over downed limbs and into deep ruts. I took Bill’s arm and stayed close to his side.

Just when we were about to give up and turn back, we stepped into a wide clearing. The moon, just rising, lighted the edges of leaves, lighted the grass and the eaves of a small house.

Bill’s flash picked up a huge, round fire pit in the middle of the wide clearing. At its center, a triangular stand of peeled logs held a cooking pot. The fire was long dead. The grass in the clearing was tall. In the light of Bill’s flash we could see the narrow house with twin gables, but not a light, or sign of a human being, anywhere.

“Sorrow!” I called and heard my voice echo around us. “Sorrow!”

“Sorrow!” Bill called too. We stood still and listened. For a moment I thought I heard a bark, but it was more like a sound inside my head.

“Should we knock?” I whispered. Having given away that we were here, I felt exposed.

“Might as well. No car. No lights. Still, let’s knock. If he’s in there at least it will give him something to think about.”

Nobody answered though Bill pounded hard, first at the front door and then at the back door. We waited, knocked again, and then Bill shone his light around the back clearing. Another opening in the trees, only wider than out on the road. This was the entrance. In the clearing Bill picked out where a car usually parked, where the weeds were worn down. A footpath, trampled to bare earth, led up to the house.

“You want to go?” Bill asked after we stood still awhile, listening and hoping maybe we’d hear a car pulling in or somebody talking or see a light go on in the house.

I nodded, uneasy about trespassing, as we were, here in the dark.

We picked our way carefully back around the house and out to the car.

“You got the next address?”

In the dome light, I checked the paper Dolly had given me. Two addresses. No name attached to either. I didn’t know if we’d just visited Alfred Naquma or Lewis George. And didn’t know who the next one might be.

Bill programmed the GPS with the new address and we set off the way we’d come in, back up the dirt road and out to M22. At the stop sign, we made a left and kept heading north. The road where we were told to turn was about a mile or more down. We turned and soon there was a gong and the GPS said we were there.

Lights this time. A yard of lights. Lights on in a big log house. We walked quietly onto the wide, covered porch. Bill knocked as I stood back.

The door opened and Alfred Naquma filled the open space, blocking out the light behind him. He made a huge, dark silhouette.

“Yes?” he said to Bill.

Bill introduced himself, said he was from the Northern Statesman, then put up his hands as Alfred began to close the door.

I stepped from behind Bill. “Mr. Naquma, I need to talk to you. Not for the paper. Someone’s taken my dog. I’m getting phone calls. I’m being threatened. If you know anything about this, or where my dog is, I have to know.”

There was a moment of surprise, and then of hesitation. Alfred stepped back from the door. I thought he was going to slam it in our faces. Instead, he held it open, inviting us to enter.

The room we walked into was large, with a soaring, cedar-lined ceiling. Pendant lights hung on long cords, down over built-in leather sofas. The effect was of softness with a touch of gold. Native American rugs covered the floors and a tapestry depicting a buffalo hunt covered two walls. The place was beautiful.

He motioned for us to sit on one of the dark leather sofas, then took a chair, leaned forward, and set his hands between his knees. His head was down, hair hanging forward over his shoulders. He looked like a defeated man.

“What is this about your dog?” He looked up after taking a deep, sad breath.

“Someone took him. They’ve been calling my house saying I’ll get him back when your sister’s bones are returned or when I stop looking into the murders. Things like that. The last call, I heard Sorrow barking. If your people are doing this, I want you to ask them to return him. I can’t do anything to help you get your sister’s bones returned. I am in no position …”

“That Detective Brent said something about a dog. I thought it was a trick.”

I shook my head. “No trick.”

“Did you know the voice? The one on the phone?”

I nodded. “Your friend, Lewis George. He came to my house once and almost mesmerized Sorrow. I can only imagine he thought it would be easy to take my dog and get whatever you want from me.”

“If it is because you don’t want publicity about what happened there at Sandy Lake,” Bill said gruffly, sitting at the edge of the sofa as if he planned to be out of there soon, “Emily’s still going to keep writing the stories. If she doesn’t write them, I will.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to stop. I think … well … let me look into what’s happened.” He stood up. Our signal to leave. I wasn’t quite ready.

“Why would your people protect you?” I asked. “Mary and Orly and Christine were their people, too. I would imagine they’d be clamoring for you to be put in prison, if you had anything to do with the murders. Is it because you have some position at the casino? Do you always threaten people who cross you?”

I was plenty angry but Alfred Naquma looked at me in a way I hoped I’d never be looked at again. The back of my neck was yelling, “Run!”

He said nothing. He walked to the door. With his face blank and his dark eyes like stone, he said, “I hope you don’t think your dog is here.”

I was slow to shake my head, then looked beyond him and yelled out, “SORROW!”

No answering bark. I waited a few seconds, and then agreed that Sorrow probably wasn’t there.

“I will be in touch,” he said, holding the door for us, “very soon.”

On our way to Traverse City, where I had left the Jeep, I assured Bill that I wouldn’t hold back on any of the story.

“I didn’t think you would,” he said over a k.d. lang CD he’d put in for the ride to town. “And I’ve got something to offer you. Not much. But something. We need an obit writer—in a couple of weeks. Won’t be full-time but I can throw in stories for the Sunday sections. Human interest stuff. At least you’ll have a pretty steady income. With your other work … I mean, just until one of your books sells.”

I thanked him, and said I would begin reading the obits immediately, for the style.

“Nothing too creative,” he warned.

I agreed to tone down the fiction. “I’m thinking real estate, too. Could I do that, do you think?”

“Don’t see why not. With everything, you could make it. Might be busy in summer. But then there are the long winters to write.”

As we drove into the parking lot of the newspaper, I reached over and touched Bill’s hand on the wheel. It seemed only fair to warn him things might change.

“I really appreciate how you’re helping,” I said. “The only thing in the way is that I may be going back to Ann Arbor.”

“What brought this on?” he asked, pulling his hand from under mine.

“Jackson and I …”

“Oh …” He looked confused. “So … maybe back to the Ann Arbor Times, eh?”

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

“Well, whatever you decide, I wish you luck. Keep in touch. I’ll keep the obits open awhile.”

I promised I’d let him know as soon as anything was decided, got in the Jeep, and drove to Kalkaska where I stopped for three bags of chocolate chip cookies for library night before going home.