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Chunks of meat sizzled as they hit the cast iron pan. Using a fork, Lee gave them a lazy stir, coating them in butter as they cooked. He glanced down at Trigger, who couldn't have been any closer if the two were conjoined. "Well done?" Lee asked the dog. Trigger barked. "Okay. Rare it is then." Lee skewered a piece, held it to his lips, and blew on it. Then he extended the fork toward the dog. Trigger easily pulled it off the utensil, demonstrating his experience in such matters. "The rest goes in your kibble." Lee grabbed a bowl of dog food that was sitting on the counter. The dry food had already been mixed with raw vegetables, and Lee added the meat to the conglomeration. He'd just begun stirring it around when the crunch of tires rolling up the driveway ruined his fine mood. He froze. Listening. Making certain it wasn't his imagination playing tricks on him, as it tended to do. No vehicle aside from his own Jeep had traveled up that drive in years. He received no visitors. The mail carrier and delivery drivers stopped at the gate. Salesmen, Jehovah's Witnesses, and census takers had the common sense to stay away altogether. The vehicle stopped. It was indeed real, and it had parked directly in front of his cabin. Lee grabbed the shotgun he kept propped beside the door and took up a position along the wall. The engine cut off. A car door slammed. Footsteps plodded along the path leading to the cabin's porch. Sensing Lee's unease, Trigger emitted a low growl, the fur on his back bristling, teeth bared. Lee pressed his finger to his lips, and Trigger fell silent, though his eyes remained fixed on the door. A knock sounded against the cabin door. Four hard raps. But Lee remained motionless, finger resting on the gun's trigger guard. The footsteps moved away, and a shadow fell over the window. A black silhouette peered inside. This was his chance. In one smooth motion, Lee threw open the door, bursting onto the porch with the shotgun leveled at the interloper. The Latina woman, who barely topped five feet in heels, didn't flinch at the sight of the double barrels or the man aiming it at her. "Well. If that isn't one hell of a way to greet an old friend," she said. *** Lee leaned back in his rocking chair, one foot braced against the porch railing to set it in motion while he sipped his beer. Across from him, Eliza Martinez sat with Trigger's head resting in her lap, his guard dog facade forgotten as she rubbed his ears. "So, this is where you've been hiding?" Eliza asked, casting her gaze across the property. "Very Unabomber chic." Lee grunted. Ever since she'd arrived, he'd been wondering if she was only there to see whether he'd lost his remaining marbles. But her tone was jovial rather than judgmental, so he decided to play along. "I was going for more of a Better Homes and Gardens vibe." "Well, you failed." Eliza laughed, a raspy cackle that turned into a cough. "Suppose you still haven't given up the coffin nails," Lee said. She pounded her chest. "What gave it away?" "I haven't a clue." Lee appreciated her not smoking in front of him. She knew he hated the smell of the things. Of course, after being partners for almost fourteen years, there was very little they didn't know about each other. After using a swig of beer to drown her coughing jag, Eliza pointed toward Lee's garden. "If you're going to stick with this farmer John routine, you need to get some livestock up here. Give Trigger some cows to chase or something." Lee raised a single eyebrow. "Cows?" "Or goats. Pigs. Maybe some sheep." Eliza clapped her hands together. "That reminds me. How does Old MacDonald find his sheep in the tall grass?" He had an idea where this was going but played along. "How?" She put on possibly the world's worst Sean Connery accent. "Quite lovely, ack-shually." Despite himself, Lee burst out laughing. It felt good. Damn good. He couldn't remember the last hearty laugh he'd shared with a fellow human being. But he knew this wasn't a casual visit. It had been nearly a decade since he'd so much as spoken a word to the woman, and that last conversation, days after he parted ways with the FBI, had been anything but pleasant. As much as he was enjoying her company, he wanted to find out her real motive, even if it put a damper on the revelry. "I do enjoy your jokes, corny as they may be. But I'm certain you didn't drive all the way out here and pick the lock to my gate solely to practice your stand-up act on me." "It would be nice if I had, though, wouldn't it?" "Yeah. It would." A little sigh slipped from Lee's lips. "How'd you track me down?" She leaned forward in her seat, and he took a long look at her face. Her size made her appear girlish from afar, but age was catching up with her too. Crow’s feet crinkled beside her eyes, and a roadmap of wrinkles crisscrossed her brow. Yet, even at fifty-six, her hair remained jet black, and Lee was sure it was all natural. "It wasn't easy," Eliza said. "Your pension is being deposited into an offshore bank account. Using an LLC to buy this property. No utilities in your name. Not even a phone. It's almost like you didn't want to be found." Lee rolled his bottle back and forth between his palms. "That was the plan." "Fortunately, I work with people who are skilled at sleuthing." "Still with the Bureau? After all this time, you must be the deputy director." "Hell no. I had the good sense to bow out before I hit mandatory retirement age. Saved a blow to my ego." "You always were a thinker," Lee said. Eliza nodded, but it was clear there was something weighing on her mind. Rather than keep beating around the bush, Lee asked, "So get out with it already. What's going on? Did somebody die?" "Yeah. They did. You remember my cousin Andy." Lee gave his memories a cursory workout, then shook his head. "I do not." "Sure you do," Eliza insisted. "He was at the party when I hit the big four-oh. Tall, lanky doofus. Got drunk on fuzzy navels and tried to do the macarena only to have his pants fall down." Now it was starting to come back. "Getting warmer," Lee said. "He died? Damn, he was younger than either of us." "No, he's still kicking. He's chief of police in a little town in the southwest part of the state. Sallow Creek. County where the livestock outnumbers the people ten to one. Well, one of those ones met an especially grisly demise, and Andy requested some help." Eliza leaned down and pulled a manila file folder from her bag. She held it out to Lee, but he made no move to accept it. Since Lee wouldn't take the file, Eliza opened it and extracted a photograph of a woman in her thirties. She was attractive. Exceptionally so, aside from an out-of-fashion permed hairstyle and too much makeup. "Stacey Farrell disappeared on her way to work on September fourteenth. She was a high school teacher. English, theater, those sorts of subjects. Three days later, her body turned up in the parking lot of an abandoned motel. She was wrapped in a blanket and naked underneath. There were no signs of sexual assault, but her body had been soaked in bleach postmortem, which annihilated any evidence there might have been." Eliza set aside the smiling, happy photo of the woman, replacing it with one of her remains. Lee didn't want to look, but Eliza shoved the photo into his eye line before he could turn away. "She'd been hanged or strangled. The coroner down there couldn't tell, and the body was nothing but a pile of ashes in an overpriced urn by the time I got involved. After she was killed—goddam, I hope it was after—Stacey Farrell's face was cut off. A gruesome but delicate job, or so the photos show." In the image, the woman sat tied to a chair, her chin tucked to her chest. Her face—or what had been her face—was mostly hidden by white gauze. But Lee noticed the dark crimson smear that should have been pallid flesh. Eliza dropped the crime scene photo onto Lee's lap and took out a third. He didn't try to avoid it. He was invested now, as much as he didn't want to be. The newest image was a close-up of Stacey Farrell's head and shoulders. About the same proportions as the first picture. But the woman who'd looked so beautiful was now anything but. Just as Eliza had described, Stacey's face had been hacked away. Left behind were tendons and muscle and sinew. Cartilage and bone. The only human-looking bits remaining were her lidless eyeballs and perfect white teeth bared in a ghoulish grin. For a moment, a flash, he saw it happening. Darkness. Maybe a basement. Maybe a storage space. Stacey Farrell tied to a chair. Sobbing. Exhausted. Begging for her life. The glint of a blade in dim light. A noose— No, not a noose, but something like one… tightening around her neck. “You okay, Lee?” Eliza’s voice cut through the vision. As fast as it came, it was gone. Lee set aside his beer. The photos, the flash, had turned his stomach sour. "Damn it all." He pushed the picture away and shoved the other off his lap, where it drifted to the wooden floor of the porch. "Stacey was married and trying to start a family. Her husband told me she wanted nothing more out of life than to help people. She'd been voted favorite teacher three out of the last five years. She volunteered at the local nursing home and went to services at Faith Memorial Baptist Church every Sunday and Wednesday. She was a good woman, Lee. She deserves justice." Lee remained silent, gritting his teeth to prevent himself from saying something rude. Eliza certainly knew how to ruin a good time.