"Someone has to speak for those who have no voice."

"Like a tree."

She smiled. "Exactly."

And then it slipped out. The required statement I didn't really want to make. "Sorry about your brother."

"You're in the minority" Gail said. "He was a miserable human being."

Whoa. I hadn't seen that coming. "Excuse me?"

"You probably are shocked, but you didn't know Eugene. He was a self-centered troublemaker all his life. Even when I was a kid. I know I shouldn't speak bad of the dead, but that's how I feel." She stuffed her arms into a heavy knit sweater she'd been carry ing. "What I know is that Eugene caused his own death. He did something bad one time too many, and it caught up with him. He was a real smart man, but he wasn't a nice nice man." man."

"I should introduce myself," I said. And I handed her my card.

Gail checked her watch. "Roberta said she spoke to you. Unfortunately, I have to get home. I have a lot of mouths to feed."

"Where's home?"

"I've got a patch of land in the Barrens."

"Do you know Martin Munch?" I asked her. "Do you know a man called Wulf ?"

"No," she said. "I have to go. I can't talk anymore."

"One more thing," I said, but she waved me off and hurried away.

Diesel moved next to me. "Well?"

"Nothing. She said she had to get home."

Diesel and I went to the door and watched Gail get into an old Army surplus Jeep and ease into traffic.

Diesel grabbed my hand and pulled me to the Escalade. "Let's see where she goes." He took the wheel and jumped from the curb. "She's going to be easy to follow in that Jeep. She hasn't looked in her mirror once to see if she has a tail."

"She's anxious to get home."

"And home would be where?" Diesel asked.

"Down a dirt road."

"Good to know. In case by some freak chance I lose her, all I have to do is look for a dirt road."

"Hey, don't blame me. That's all she said."

"Nothing else?"

"She said her brother was a miserable person. And had always been a miserable person. And that he probably deserved what he got."

Diesel shook his head. "Man, that's severe. Imagine what she would have said if it wasn't his memorial ser vice."

Gail hit the 95 and went south to the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. We were a couple car lengths back, rolling at the speed limit. Gail wasn't a rule breaker on the highway. Diesel was relaxed at the wheel. I was thinking about the doughnut I didn't get at the ser vice, wishing I'd been quicker at the buffet.

I was raised in the Burg, where death is more a social opportunity than a tragic event. Viewings and wakes hold the potential for a decent food spread and free-flowing alcohol. It's one of the few occasions when throwing back whiskey at ten in the morning is in good form. It's guaranteed that on occasion grief won't be easily set aside by a plateful of meatb.a.l.l.s, but no reason to let that unhappy thought ruin a perfectly good time at the viewing for a distant acquaintance. Personally I'd rather be at a mall.

"What do you think about death?" I asked Diesel.

"I like the buffet. After that, it's not my favorite thing." He looked over at me. "What do you you think about death?" think about death?"

"I think carnations should be banned from funeral parlors."

We rode in silence after that. I mean, what was left to say? Gail still showed no sign of noticing our behemoth black SUV close on her tail. She sailed over the bridge and took 73 south. Miles later, I was thinking I was on the road to nowhere. And then Gail slowed and hooked a left off 73. She wound around some, and after a while the road turned to dirt and narrowed. We dropped back as far as possible, although I doubt we could be seen through the dust cloud Gail was kicking up. There were scrubby bushes on either side, and the rutted road twisted around trees and chunks of rock.

Diesel powered forward, into a stand of scruffy pines, and BAM! BAM! Something bounced off the front b.u.mper, and we were blinded by a blizzard of feathers and blood. Something bounced off the front b.u.mper, and we were blinded by a blizzard of feathers and blood.

"OmiG.o.d," I said, my heart beating in my throat. "What was that?"

Diesel stopped the car and looked at the windshield, which was plastered with what could only be bird guts.

"That had to be the biggest bird on the planet," he said, unbuckling his seat belt, getting out to take a look.

I stayed buckled. I didn't want to see any more than I was seeing. I was glad I didn't have a memorial ser vice doughnut to spew.

Diesel kicked at something on the ground and examined the front of the Escalade. He swiped a finger through the red stuff on the windshield and looked at it up close.

"Fake blood," he said. "I think we hit the Pine Barrens version of a b.o.o.by-trap pinata."

"The feathers?"

"Real. But the bird who gave his all for them is long gone."

"Why would someone b.o.o.by-trap this road with a feather bomb?"

"I'm guessing Gail did it. Stops people from going forward. Makes a statement of sorts. Doesn't really hurt anyone. This is probably what war would look like if women were in charge."

Diesel got behind the wheel and flipped the windshield washers on. The fake blood mixed with the washer fluid and feathers and gummed up the wiper blades.

"What have you got in your bag?" Diesel asked.

"Tissues?"

He took the tissues, got out of the car, and tried cleaning the blades. No good. The tissues were now mixed with the blood and feathers and washer fluid. The whole windshield was a disgusting red smear.

"I'm not happy," Diesel said.

I was still pawing through the junk in my bag, and I found a travel-size nail polish remover pad. "This should do something," I said. "I only have one, so don't waste it." I tore the foil envelope open and gave the saturated pad to Diesel.

Diesel looked at the two-inch square. "You're kidding."

"Do you have anything better?"

"No. I'd stand on the hood and p.i.s.s on the windshield, but I'm empty."

"Some superhero."

Diesel flipped me the bird and went to work with the polish remover. Moments later, he had a small piece of window exposed in front of the steering wheel. He cranked the car over, wheeled it around, and carefully picked his way down the dirt road, turning right when he reached the paved road. He followed signs to the Atlantic City Expressway, and found a gas station just before the Expressway entrance.

I was pumping gas and Diesel was scrubbing the windshield and grille when the Ferrari sped by the gas station and took the Expressway, heading west to the Turnpike.

"Too bad you can't fly," I said to Diesel.

"Yeah, rub it in. All through high school I took it for that."

"Do you want to go back to the dirt road?"

"No. I want to get on a computer and do some research first. We could ride around for days on that road and never find anything. And we're not even sure Gail means anything to us."

I WASHED DOWN WASHED DOWN a sandwich with a soda and fed the last bite of bread to Rex. Better a late lunch than no lunch at all. Diesel was on my computer, looking at aerial views of the Barrens. a sandwich with a soda and fed the last bite of bread to Rex. Better a late lunch than no lunch at all. Diesel was on my computer, looking at aerial views of the Barrens.

"This was taken several months ago," Diesel said, "but I see a clearing and a house and a fairly large outbuilding at the end of the road we were on. There are a lot of narrow roads intersecting and going off in all directions from that dirt road, but there's really only one house that can be reached by Jeep."

"Are you going back now?"

"No. I want to look at more aerial views, and I have a call in to Scanlon's supervisor."

"That's okay by me. I'd like to take another stab at Gordo Bollo."

"As long as you don't go out of cell range . . . and you take the monkey."

"Why can't Carl stay here?"

"He's annoying. It's nonnegotiable."

"Okay, fine, but you owe me."

"Lookin' forward to settling the score," Diesel said.

"Boy, you never give up, do you?"

"I wouldn't be me if I gave up."

I got Carl settled in the back of the Jeep and I drove to the office.

"I'll go with you," Lula said, "but I'm not going inside. I'm not having no more rat experiences."

"What good are you if you won't go inside?"

"I can guard the Jeep. Suppose by dumb luck or something you snag Melon Head. You want to make sure the Jeep is still there when you come out, right?"

Twenty minutes later, I left Lula and Carl in the parking lot, put on my game face, and walked into Greenblat Produce.

"If you're looking for Gordo, you're out of luck today," one of the women said. "He called in sick."

"That was fast," Lula said when I climbed behind the wheel.

I pulled Bollo's file out of my bag. "He called in sick." I thumbed through pages and found his home address. "He lives in Bordentown."

"I'm cool with that," Lula said. "Let's go to Bordentown and root him out."

The day had started out warm, but clouds had rolled in and the temperature was dropping. Not winter-quality dropping, but enough to notice when there were no windows in your car. I turned the heater on full blast and hunkered down.

"Where's your windows?" Lula wanted to know.

"They need to get zipped in."

"Well, zip them in. I'm freezing my a.s.s off."

I'd bought the Jeep a month before, when it was hot and I didn't need windows. I'd tried to zip them in once when it rained and had partial success. I was willing to try again. I pulled to the side of the road, and Lula and I grunted and tugged and cussed at the plastic windows. We finally got most of them secure, with the exception of the back window. The back window would zip only halfway.

"Good enough," Lula said. "We need ventilation anyway since the monkey's back there."

Carl gave her the finger.

"That all you got?" Lula asked Carl.

Carl grabbed his crotch and hiked it up.

"That's disgusting on a monkey" Lula said. "You been letting him watch MTV? You want to monitor his tele vision viewing."

I checked Carl out in my rearview mirror. He was back to playing with his game.

"Get the map out and find 656 Ward Street in Borden-town," I told Lula.

Lula opened the map and traced a line with her finger. "You gotta get off Route 206 in about half a mile."

Ten minutes later, we were on Ward Street, but we couldn't find Bollo's house. There was no 656 on Ward Street. The only thing on Ward Street was a cemetery on one side and a ceramic pipe factory on the other.

I called Bollo's home phone. No answer. No machine picked up. I called his cell phone.

"Yeah?" Bollo said.

"This is UPS. I have a delivery for Gordo Bollo, and I need a correct address."

"Eat me," Bollo said. And he hung up.

"I think he knew it was me," I said to Lula.

"Should have let the monkey make the call."