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CHAPTERL

The beam of Eric Wen’s flashlight was fixed on a body tied to a stanchion with baling wire. Just as the girls had described, the man was naked, with orange flowers pinned to his chest like a corsage. The girls had been wrong about that much; it wasn’t one bloom but three or four.

He was white, although the only way to tell the color of his skin was from the lower thighs down because the rest of him was dark with blood. If he wasn’t dead, he would be wishing he was, but Wen reckoned him for long gone. However, Wen had to be sure, so he edged into the barn and went to the right, Schuler following and moving to the left, her pistol raised, the flashlight in a fist grip alongside it, her left arm acting as support for the gun, just as they’d been taught. Above them was a half loft lacking an access ladder, so it was doubtful anyone was up there lying in wait, not unless they could levitate. The barn appeared unoccupied, one probable decedent excepted, but neither of the deputies was taking any chances.

Wen approached the man but didn’t lower his gun. It was easier to keep it where it was—possibly wiser too, because the appalling damage inflicted on the victim was becoming visible: broken fingers and toes; one ear, the left, half-severed, and the right eye gouged from its socket;exposed flesh on the thighs and the abdomen, where skin had been excised; and the groin—

Wen shifted his gaze upward. He’d seen enough. Aided by Schuler’s flashlight, he prepared to check for a pulse he knew he wouldn’t find.

“Is he dead?”

The sound of Negus’s voice breaking the silence caused Wen’s feet to almost leave the ground from shock.

“Damn,” he said, “you cost me a year of my life.”

“Well, is he?”

For form’s sake, Wen slipped a blue plastic glove onto his right hand and touched his fingers to the man’s neck, but he might as well have asked him to turn a somersault for all the chance there was of a sign of life. Wen glanced at the tips of the glove and saw no trace of blood. Whatever was on the victim had dried, which meant he’d been dead awhile. His injuries made it hard to tell with any degree of accuracy, but Wen surmised that, from the swelling and the smell, it might be as much as forty-eight hours.

“I suppose he could be deader,” said Wen, “but it’s hard to see how. Best call it in, tell them what we’ve found.”

Negus nodded and went back outside.

“He wasn’t killed here,” said Schuler, “that’s for sure.” She let her flashlight play over the dirt floor of the barn. “There’s hardly any blood beyond what’s on him.”

Wen squinted at the spray of flowers on the man’s chest.

“Bring that flashlight closer,” he said. “Shine it here.”

Schuler slowly played the beam on and around the blooms.

“What is that, bougainvillea?” she asked.

“Lord, I don’t know.” Wen peered behind the flower. “It looks like it’s concealing a wound—a big one. Christ, he’s been sliced down the middle.”

“His cheeks are swollen,” said Schuler. “He’s got something in his mouth. At first I thought it was his tongue protruding, but that’s no tongue.”

Schuler directed the flashlight to the lump of flesh between his lips. Wen regarded it for a moment.

“No,” he said, “I believe that came from lower down.”

Which was when Negus reappeared at the barn door.

“We’ve got company,” he said. “It’s the Dolfes.”

CHAPTERLI

Harriet Swisher waited until Little Lyman’s place had receded from view before speaking.

“Hul, you think that was one of the people we was warned against,” she asked, “the ones the Mexican sent?”

“Might be,” Hul replied. “Whoever he is, he doesn’t belong around here, that’s for sure.”

“Looked like he belonged nowhere but the circus.”

“He did smell like a carny,” said Hul, “all tricksy. A low man.”

“Ought we to sound the alarm?”