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billboard, black type on a white background: if you’re against ­logging, try wiping with plastic . There was a yellow steel tube gate across the road and behind it, a dusty gray Crown Victoria with two men in it. They let him pull up to the gate, got out, looked at his credentials, and manually swung open the yellow gate. “Command Post’s a couple miles in,” one of the men said. “They’re expecting you.”
    The road was deeply rutted, the area recently logged, with twenty-foot-high stacks of maple and assorted hardwoods piled neatly along the two-track, bark chips scattered all over the road like confetti. Discarded beer and pop cans twinkled with reflected light on the edges of the road. The forest in the area was thick. Along the way he saw two red logging rigs nosed into the tree lines.
    There could be only one reason the FBI would be set up so far out in the boonies: They had a crime on their hands, and no doubt a crime scene nearby as well. An unmarked navy blue panel truck was snugged close to a copse of birch trees where a camouflaged plastic tarp had been strung to create shade. Service parked and walked toward a group of people under the tarp. A crude, hand-painted slab of quarter-inch plywood nailed to a nearby tree read beer, weed, gas, or ass—no one rides free . Life at its most basic, he thought. The sign wasn’t new, and suggested that the logging company’s gate was ineffectual in deterring visitors, especially kids who obviously used the area as a party spot. As any soldier, border guard, and game warden knew, outdoor security was impossible unless you had the rare perfect terrain and a lot of bodies in the security detail.
    A dark-haired woman with a prominent nose got up. She had short black hair and dense black hair on her arms. She wore khaki pants and sleeveless black body armor over an open-collar, short-sleeved polo shirt. A badge dangled from a navy blue cord around her neck. “Detective Service?” she asked.
    â€œSpecial Agent T. R. Monica?”
    â€œTatie,” she said, adding, “Follow me.” She led him to the panel truck, slid open the massive door, and nodded for him to step inside. He could hear a generator humming softly. The cramped interior was filled with banks of communications equipment; the air was cool. “Take a seat,” the agent said, nudging a wheeled stool over to him with her boot.
    She opened a blue-and-white cooler and took out two bottles of beer. “It’s sticky out there,” she said, pushing a longneck Pabst Blue Ribbon at him.
    â€œNo thanks. I’m working,” he said. “Tatie?”
    She smiled. “When I was a kid, all I wanted to eat were potatoes: fried, boiled, baked, you name it—like that Bubba dude and his shrimp in Forrest Gump? You don’t drink when you work, or is it my brand?”
    He shook his head and wondered what this was about. She had a soft air to her, but a commanding, slightly imposing voice. She was also slender and obviously long shed of her childhood starch fixation.
    â€œAt ease,” the agent said, opening her beer and taking a long pull.
    Service ignored his beer.
    â€œIs it because of your father?” she asked.
    â€œIs what because of my father?”
    â€œYour not drinking on duty.”
    â€œIt’s because that’s the rule.” What the hell did she know about his father, and why? He felt his blood pressure rise, took a deep breath, and tried to adjust his breathing.
    â€œIt’s my understanding that you’re sort of a cookbook Catholic when it comes to rules,” she said.
    â€œWhatever,” he said, not wanting a confrontation, but if she kept this up she might get one. This gig was starting off oddly and he sensed it was not going to improve.
    Special Agent Monica leaned back. “I heard you can be pretty tight-lipped,” she said. “This isn’t a deposition. We’re on the same