Camp, getting a hug from each as well as a wistful, puppy-dog look from Nikki that he didn’t know how to interpret. He wasn’t sure if this was the result of some male defect, or denial, or if there was nothing to make of it in the first place, a fine piece of acting by a daughter who wanted her mother back. Beatrice whined from the front passenger seat, wishing the girls weren’t leaving, causing Walt to once again wonder if the dog wasn’t channeling his own conscience. He hesitated there a little longer, considering calling them back to the car, playing hooky for a day and taking them to the park or for ice cream, or swimming in the public pool out at the high school. But they loved the camp far more than a day with him, or so he convinced himself in order to justify his driving off and leaving them for Lisa to pick up, which is what he did.

Except for a chaotic press conference that had gone passably well, and some news trucks out front in the office parking lot, the prior day had moved monotonously slowly as he’d weeded his way out from behind his desk and hoped for something to bust open the Gale investigation. The county prosecutor had determined that the existence of the lilies in Boatwright’s garden, and the truck tires being the same manufacturer—Goodrich—as the impressions left at the crime scene were enough to win Walt a search based on probable cause. But he cautioned Walt not to be too hasty. There’d be formidable opposition from Boatwright’s attorneys once Walt took it to the next level, and he wanted time to prepare. He also wanted to coordinate with the King County prosecuting attorney so they didn’t accidentally jeopardize the Caroline Vetta investigation by coming off the blocks too early.

Each day that passed decreased the odds. The farther they got from the discovery of the body, the less likely the case would be solved.

Today passed much the same way: Walt feeling handcuffed by a cautious attorney and limited by circumstantial evidence. He called Fiona twice and left messages, fearing that she was avoiding his calls over embarrassment about the reappearance of the “stolen” Engleton truck, and let her know that he couldn’t care less and was just happy to know Kira had apparently returned. Fiona’s refusal to return his calls annoyed and frustrated him, but the next step was hers to make. Hers to take.

With the girls asleep and the dishes washed, he sat down at the computer to catch up on e-mail.

The kitchen phone rang and Walt snatched it up.

“I found the guy’s vehicle, Sheriff.”

“Gilly?”

“I found the SUV. Avis sticker on the bumper. Plates still on it. It’s Gale’s rental.”

“Where?”

“Well off trail or I’d have found it sooner. Was those night vision binoculars did it. Sun warmed the metal all day and the thing gave off a signature after dark. I’m standing here looking at it. You want me to open it up?”

“Don’t touch a thing. Give me directions. It’ll take me an hour or so. You sit tight.”

“Got it.”

He called Lisa and asked her to cover. Called the office and told them what he needed, including Fiona, and instructed them how to keep it off the radio, and how to release the vehicles one at a time, wanting to avoid a press stampede. Took a deep breath as he changed back into a freshly pressed uniform shirt.

He looked in on the girls just before Lisa arrived wearing a bathrobe with jeans. She looked tired and headed straight for the couch.

Walt offered his bed, saying, “Fresh sheets.”

“How long are you going to be?”

“Take the bed,” he said.

She nodded and trundled off, scratching her backside through the bathrobe and causing him to wonder if they didn’t know each other too well.

“This is good, right, Sheriff?”

“Very good.”

“About last week—”

“Forget about it, Gilly. It’s behind us.”

“I got me a wife and four kids. Another coming.”

“All the more reason not to drink on the job.”

“You coulda had me fired.”

“Just don’t make it ‘should have.’ ”

Gilly eyed him curiously.

“Never mind, Gilly. Just don’t let it happen again.”

“It won’t.”

Walt kept the smile off his face out of respect. Gilly looked all worked up, his face twisted like he might cry. Walt placed a hand on his shoulder, happy to have someone his own height, but wondering if Gilly’s devotion was to the Blessed Mother or the bottle.

“This is exactly as you found it?” The man nodded, but submissively, and Walt was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Wanting to keep him busy, Walt asked Menquez to search the immediate area on the passenger side of the SUV. Walt took the woods to the left, awaiting Fiona’s camera and at least one deputy before entering the vehicle. He’d shined his flashlight through the glass to find the SUV was empty, keys in the ignition. The keys might come back with latent prints; he was eager to get on with it.

Flashlight in hand, Walt moved methodically through the forest undergrowth. He heard Beatrice clawing at the Cherokee’s side window and wished he could let her out. Gale’s rental had been abandoned in a swale between two treed ridges running east-west. Given the overhead canopy of evergreens, it seemed a miracle Gilly had ever spotted the heat signature, and Walt took it as a sign that the investigation had turned. Cases either turned for you or against you, and he’d grown superstitious over time.

He saw it as a wink of white, a color that didn’t belong in the forest palette, approached it somewhat breathlessly, nearly called out to Gilly at his find.

He pulled back some fern, revealing the smooth, turned handle and grip of a baseball bat. Bent and reached down farther, pulling back the twist of green revealing the bat’s wide end.

His heart was pounding now, really pounding, like he’d run a fair distance or hit the bench press. At first the discovery elated, filled him with a childish glee, cementing his theories and confirming his investigative excellence. He thought how impressed Boldt would be to discover that his own suspicions of Vince Wynn had not only been well founded but on the mark.

Just below the crown of the bat was a rust-colored smudge and what looked to be some human hair. He was looking at the murder weapon, and though he had yet to equate the truck’s abandonment with the discarded bat, the timing and the logistics, the connection to Gale seemed inevitable. With any luck the case might be closed by noon, and the cameras and reporters could go home.

He donned surgical gloves, checking behind him. He’d lost sight of Gilly, off in the woods. And now, from well below, the first winks of arriving headlights. And behind those another set. His team would be here in a matter of minutes and, hopefully, Fiona among them—someone to celebrate the find with.

He dropped to one knee and was reaching for the center of the bat—keeping his contact off both the handle and the blood evidence—when the flashlight cast small shadows over the burned engraving—a script font—and three letters: ton

He knew bats—Louisville Sluggers in particular—knew the placement of the logo and the location on the bat of certain brands or endorsements. This fit neither. Without giving it any thought his mind jumped ahead, trying to process which slugger this particular bat was named for, and why it might have been burned onto the bat so far down the head. He spun the bat slightly and the rest of the name appeared: Engleton.

Walt froze, the sound of the approaching vehicles growing louder. Off-balance and dizzy, he realized he wasn’t breathing. The bat was supposed to have come from Vince Wynn’s autograph collection. It was supposed to prove beyond a doubt that Wynn had taken the law into his own hands, just as he’d threatened to do.

The next image in his head was that of Kira Tulivich raising a bat and coming from the Engleton house toward Walt as he peered into Fiona’s window. Kira Tulivich, so traumatized and victimized that she couldn’t get through her keynote address without having a flashback that kept her from continuing.

The vehicles approached. Walt, hand on the bat, hesitated.

“The bat could have been stolen,” he said aloud, quickly shutting his gob and thinking of the mountain man, or the meth cooker, or whoever had vandalized the Berkholders’ place.

The bat firmly in hand now, he held it down, in lockstep with the movement of his right leg, as he marched hurriedly toward the idling Jeep. Beatrice went frantic with his approach. The headlights of the oncoming cars grew nearer.

Gilly Menquez appeared out of nowhere, at the rear of the SUV. “Sheriff?”

Walt stopped, keeping the bat screened from Menquez. “Gilly?”

“You got anything?” Walt didn’t answer. “For me to do?” he added.

“Wave those cars down and keep them from contaminating the scene. Stop them back there as far as you can and tell them to kill their lights. Hurry it up.”

Gilly took off running. A moment later, as the car lights went dark, Walt slipped open his Jeep’s back hatch, switched off the interior light, wrapped the bat in a blue tarp, the same blue tarp they’d used to move Gale’s body, and tucked the bundle behind his emergency backpack at the hinge of the backseat.

He told himself he was merely preserving evidence, was hiding it so that no one would know of its existence, so that there could be no possibility of it leaking to the press before he’d had it properly recorded and analyzed. So that whatever evidence it provided could be used effectively and properly before it was misused and abused in the court of public opinion.

He was not withholding evidence. Not doing anything wrong.

But then why had he hidden the bat from Gilly? Why had he secreted it in the back of his Jeep rather than record its location with a photograph—SOP for a first officer’s discovery of any suspected murder weapon?

He shut the hatch as Fiona emerged into the glow of the Jeep’s headlights. From behind her appeared Barge Levy carrying a heavy backpack in his right hand. And then, a moment later, two deputies, one of them Tommy Brandon.

“Sheriff,” Fiona called out, juggling two camera bags. She looked skeletal in the pale light. Fragile and pale and exhausted as she hurried ever closer.

“Ms. Kenshaw,” Walt said, his voice breaking.

With her out of the house, he pulled the blue bundle from the vehicle and walked it around to the privacy of the back door, never doubting for a moment that he might be watched. He’d long since learned two things in law enforcement: everyone carried at least one damaging secret, and there was no such thing as privacy.

With the blinds drawn, he carefully unfolded the tarp and stared at the bloody bat, wondering what the hell he was doing. He had a variety of excuses at the ready: he was protecting the investigation from a leak that could potentially strengthen Wynn’s defense (though the inscription to Michael Engleton made that a difficult angle); he was keeping the first real significant evidence away from any chance of public exposure; he was sequestering evidence to allow himself to pursue a methodical investigation and interrogation of suspects—most notably, Kira Tulivich. Convinced that he was okay as long as he didn’t contaminate or destroy evidence, he wrapped the bat carefully in cling wrap, then secured it with tape.

He hunted around in the garage and came up with an oversized cardboard box and cut it down to size with a razor knife and crudely shaped it to fit the bat. He used bubble wrap and newspaper and packaged the bat in the box, sealing it with more packing tape. He went online and filled out an overnight shipping label, printed it up, and left the package on the dining-room table as a shrine to his misbehavior.

Boldt had offered his help in speeding up the processing of evidence. The Meridian lab might expedite the work because of its association with a possible homicide, but Walt could overlook that possibility and send it to Boldt with a decent excuse in his back pocket. One day to reach Seattle, one day to process. He should have results in less than forty-eight hours, about the quickest he could expect it from the state lab in Meridian. But by putting it onto Boldt’s books he maintained absolute privacy, something that could play heavily in his favor in the days to come. In the event the bat implicated someone of interest to Boldt in the Vetta investigation, then his use of the Seattle lab was further justified.

But he didn’t sleep well that night. He tossed and turned, and what little sleep he found was marred with bad dreams and tangled plot lines that kept him barely below the surface. He awoke irritable and tired and got the girls off to camp in a cloud of silence they could feel. Even Beatrice kept her distance, lying with her head on her crossed paws, her eyes never leaving him.

“Stop it!” he called out to her across the room as he cooked French toast. She blinked, looked away, then refocused on her master, his four-legged conscience refusing to let him go.

Nancy associated such unexplained departures with family or health issues, both of which worried her, as in her mind she’d taken on the role of his guardian since the divorce. She often handled personal matters for him that had nothing to do with his job.

“Everything all right?” she’d asked, a question he didn’t have to answer given the expression he wore.

“Fine,” he lied.

“If I can help,” she added, causing him to slow down, debating either a reprimand or an apology. She received neither. He continued out the door, his eyes locked ahead of him like a marching soldier.

“Sorry to call so early,” Walt said, Boldt’s face filling the small window on his computer screen.

“Up for hours,” Boldt said. “What can I do for you?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“You’re using Skype,” Boldt said, “instead of the phone. But I’m glad you called. Matthews had an explanation for us.”

“Concerning?”

“First, why don’t you tell me why you called?”

Walt kept his explanation of shipping the bat short and simple—he needed the lab work expedited. No excuse; no reasoning offered. He’d appreciate a phone call or e-mail the moment they knew anything. Boldt took it all in stride.

“Now you,” Walt said.

“The girl at the nursery,” Boldt said. “What was her name?”

“Martha Sharp. Maggie.”

“Pot. Matthews says she’s growing pot out there. She’s working it at night when she doesn’t belong there, which is why she was so sensitive about not being there after hours. She’s doing this on her own to supplement her income. She lives alone, probably with one of her parents who is ill or relies upon her. We scared the hell out of her by nosing around, but the point is, Matthews thinks she probably saw something. With Gale, I mean. I described the interview and—this is her magic, Sheriff—she jumps in and starts to break it down for me. I know it may sound like hocus pocus, but this is what she does, and I’ve learned to trust her.”

“Pot.”

“Underground, maybe. Lights. But the point is: she was there. She saw something and is withholding it because she can’t explain her being out there at all hours. Matthews said the approach is to get to her need for this money, identify and undermine her need. You establish the need, then you point out the ramifications to the need if she’s busted for growing. The parent or sibling will suffer if she goes down. You trade burning her stash for what she knows, and everyone wins.”

“And you’d go with this?” Walt asked skeptically.

“You’ll meet her someday. Matthews. She’s . . . well, she’s one of a kind. I’d give this a seventy-five percent chance. She’d probably give it less than that, but that’s how she is: modest to a fault.”

“You’ll call me?”

“The minute I hear from the lab.”

“Your mother’s dialysis,” he said before even addressing the woman. Behind him deputies Milner and Tilbert leaned against the grille of their cruiser.

Maggie Sharp gnawed on a fingernail. Couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering to the two deputies. She said nothing.

“Your employer need not know,” he said, surprising her. “It won’t be in the papers. You’ll get off with some community service and even that will be kept off the books. Meaning no criminal record. This is a one-time offer. If the information you give me is good enough, if you tell me the truth about what you saw that night and don’t try to give me the runaround, then my guys won’t go tearing up every tree and plant and making a mess of this place. This is a critical decision you’re about to make, Maggie. It has far-reaching implications that will not only affect you but your mother and all your loved ones.”

As she stood stone still, tears burst from both eyes, though she did not sniffle or sob.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” she said. “It’s so much money and without insurance . . .”

“Marijuana cultivation?”

She nodded.

“My guys will dismantle it, collect the plants, and we’ll dispose of them. You will agree to two hundred hours of community service. You fail to keep your end of the agreement and there will be dire consequences. Are we in agreement?”

She nodded.

“You saw something. The dead man.”

She nodded again.

“Tell me.”

“A pickup truck.” She hung her head and touched a knuckle to either eye, catching her tears. “I heard it . . . heard it hit something. It must have swerved to avoid an elk or deer, but I didn’t actually see the animal. The pickup came off the road—this is maybe two in the morning—this side of the road and it stopped. Driver gets out. I’m watching all this from hut two. There aren’t any lights in any of the huts. My stuff is underground.”

“Show me.”

Walt turned to his guys and waved them forward.

Inside the open-ended plastic hothouse, Maggie Sharp pulled back one of the shipping pallets used as floorboards between the various rows. Using a spade, she scraped away two inches of dirt, revealing a wooden hatch. An elaborate disguise that would have been impossible to detect. The hatch was six feet square and the hole beneath it contained well over fifty three-foot-tall pot plants heavy with reddish buds. There was an automatic watering system and a row of grow lights. The aroma was pungent.

As the deputies climbed down into the pit, Maggie Sharp pointed.

“I was standing right here.”

“He or she?”

“He.”

“Got out and did what?” Walt asked.

“Started looking around. Don’t know for what. It was a long way, and it was very dark that night.”

“The truck?”

“Had a light rack, I think. Maybe a ski rack. On the top of the cab.”

The description fit Boatwright’s caretaker’s pickup truck. He had no way to reconcile the Engleton bat with Boatwright’s caretaker but for a moment he felt partial relief, as if this might work out okay for Fiona and, more important, Kira.

“Color?”

“Couldn’t see.”

“Make?”

“Pickup truck. That’s all I can tell you. I don’t think it was an extended cab, but it was really dark. I don’t know exactly.”

“Did he find anything? The guy looking?”

“He was outside the truck for, I don’t know, a couple of minutes at least. Maybe he was peeing. Maybe puking. Maybe freaking out at hitting the game and surviving to tell about it. No idea.”

“Just the one guy?”

“Didn’t see anyone else. From that distance, backlit and all, headrests look like heads, you know? I only saw one guy get out. Don’t know about inside the truck.”

“He use a flashlight?”

“No, sir.”

“And you say you heard him hit something?”

“Absolutely. That’s why I came out of the hole. I heard the contact. I heard the tires. Saw the truck off the road.”

She was facing him now, her eyes averted. Frightened. With every sound of destruction from the hole, she winced.

“So you didn’t actually see him swerve off the road?”

“No, I suppose not. But I heard it all.”

“A light rack.”

“Or ski rack. Yes, sir.”

“No extended cab?”

“Correct.”

“Lights? Do you remember the taillights? Would you recognize the pattern, maybe be able to identify the make?”

She shook her head. “It’s not that I’m not willing to try, but it was way far away. You want me to look at something, I will. Of course. But I doubt it.”

The deputies started throwing the lighting equipment and torn-up plants up out of the hole. They were joking around down there. Walt didn’t call them out for it.

“We’re going to keep the equipment on file. Our insurance you’ll keep up the community service.”

“I will. I promise I will.”

“This was a stupid thing to do, Maggie. Can get you twenty years in this state.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m not saying I don’t sympathize with your situation. Wish I had an answer for your mother, but this is not it.”

“No. I get that. I was desperate. I don’t smoke it. I’ll take tests or whatever.”

“Random tests will be part of the agreement.”

“Rotating the plants like that, I could make a couple thousand a month. It was just too easy, I guess. I’m not saying it was right.”

“Twenty years,” Walt said.

“I understand.”

“You talk this up . . . if I hear about this deal from anywhere, I’ll have to charge you. Strictly speaking, I can’t make a deal like this. We occasionally make exceptions. That door will close if you mention it to anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“Report to my office tomorrow. Talk to a woman named Nancy. She’ll have your community service outlined and some literature on how to apply for exceptional health care needs.”

She hung her head and nodded.

“I’ll want you to look at taillight patterns.”

“Understood.”

Walt called down into the hole, barking orders at his guys. He then drove straight to the county courthouse, knowing this time he would win his warrant.