I walked past three-dozen cars and four news vans on the road up to Wade’s estate. Two sheriff’s cars and two sheriff’s vans were parked on the circular driveway, inside the gate.
The gate was open. The guard in the shack recognized me and pointed to the flagstone walk at the side of the house. ‘The party is around back,’ he said.
‘Everyone’s invited?’
‘Mr Wade said not one damned fool is to be kept out.’ He stared at me long enough to be sure I understood I fit in that category.
A bit of camouflage cloth was visible behind him, wedged behind a wastebasket. It could have been the sleeve of a jacket.
‘Got a black balaclava to go with that camo jacket?’ I asked what was certainly one of the bastards that had worn it, attacking Jenny.
He jabbed a thumb toward the side yard. ‘Happy hunting.’
I followed the path around to the back. It was easy to see clear down the long slope to the road where I’d parked the night I’d snuck onto the property, and it was easy to see how the thick damp blanket of rotting leaves that lay on the ground would play hell for the cops trying to find a grave. Or two.
A long folding table had been set up on the brick patio behind the house. Two large silver urns of coffee were on it, along with huge trays of bagels, cream cheese and cookies. I recognized several of the television reporters milling abound, sipping coffee. The local stations had sent their big guns to report the circus.
Eight officers in tan shirts and brown pants moved in two ragged clusters down the hill. Two pairs of deputies in front pulled leaves back with wide plastic rakes so the two pairs of officers following could see to probe the ground with long, thin metal rods.
Thanks to me, they were wrecking Bohler’s career. No grave would be soft enough to find with a probe after twenty years, and Wade’s arrogant invitation to the press meant that Shea’s grave, if he was even dead, was nowhere nearby.
Spotted everywhere down the slope were scores of reporters and cameramen. Jenny stood by a tree partway down the slope, away from everyone. I walked over.
‘Gutsy counterattack,’ I said.
‘The Wades are forcing us to report there’s nothing here.’
‘You’re looking better,’ I said, though her face seemed more purpled than the last time I’d seen her. She hadn’t covered any of it with makeup.
She didn’t bother to answer the lie. ‘That’s Sergeant Bohler down there?’ she asked, pointing.
There was no mistaking Bohler’s bright yellow hair. ‘She gambled a lot, thanks to me.’
‘Gambled and lost?’
I nodded.
Jenny nodded toward the closest cluster of news people. ‘Even as jaded as they’ve gotten, covering crooked Illinois, I don’t think anyone believes that sainted Timothy Wade could have had anything to do with a secret burial, let alone a killing.’
‘They don’t know what you know.’
‘They weren’t knowledgeable enough to get beaten, you mean.’
‘The guard out front was especially happy to point the way for me.’ I told her about seeing a camouflage jacket in the guard shack.
She forced a smile. ‘Oh, we must take his picture on the way out.’
‘Did you bring your cousins for protection?’
‘Just Jimbo, with his camera. We tagged along with the regular Channel Eight crew.’
‘Play safe. Don’t go near the guard shack.’
One of the groups of deputies had reached the bottom and was turning to probe a new swath up the hill. ‘That’s only their third trip. This is going to go on for an agonizingly long time.’
‘I’m afraid it’s all going to be over, today,’ I said.