Dix looked back at them, and thought they all looked like rejects from a B movie, with gas masks attached to their belts, staring at the huge pile of rock in front of them. “You know,” Dix said, “maybe I’ve got a better idea than bringing in bulldozers, not that that’s even possible. My father-in-law, Chappy Holcombe. He grew up here, used to tell me he knew the caves in this area, said he’s explored most of them. He may know another way through here, another way in other than the main entrance.”

“You’re right, no way to get any big equipment in here to dig through this mess,” Savich said.

Sherlock said, “I say we go talk to Dix’s father-in-law. If he knows a back way into the cave, that would make things a lot easier.”

Ruth said, “Sounds like a good idea to me. Let’s go see him. Oh, and we’ve got to pick up more catsup. Rafe said we pigged it all down last night with the rest of the stew.”

“Rafe likes catsup on his scrambled eggs,” Dix said. “He had to do without this morning. Yeah, let’s go. I think we’d all feel better getting out of here for a while, anyway.”

“Let’s do it then,” Savich said, “before I get a permanent bend in my back.”

TARA

NEARLY AN HOUR later, on the opposite side of Maestro, Dix pulled his Range Rover through massive iron gates, impressively scrolled with the word Tara. They drove a quarter of a mile on a well-graveled road with stone fences running alongside, lined with oaks and maples, snow piled high on either side. They climbed steadily until Ruth saw what must have been the biggest house within fifty miles. It resembled a Southern plantation, a huge expanse of white with Doric columns lining the front.

“Some spread,” Ruth said. “How old is Tara?”

Dix turned into the circular driveway large enough to park twenty vehicles. “Chappy built it in the late fifties for his bride, Miss Angela Hastings Brinkman of the New Or-leans Brinkmans. He had the architect copy the descriptions of Tara from Gone With the Wind.”

Sherlock asked, “It’s obvious he’s got money. How’d he make it all, Sheriff?”

As they walked up the wide set of six deep-set stairs, Dix answered, “He learned banking at his daddy’s knee, he told me when I first met him. He owns a privately held bank, Holcombe First Independent, with a dozen branches in the area. He and his wife, Angela, had two children, my wife, Christie, and a boy, Anthony. Tony and his wife, Cynthia, live here with Chappy. Angela died when Christie was ten, of what I don’t remember.”

Sherlock asked, “Is Chappy into any other kinds of businesses?”

Cops, Dix thought, they had to know everything. He grinned at her vivid face framed by a head of curly red hair.

“He’s done some real estate development in Virginia, Washington, D.C., and Maryland. Nothing big or splashy here in the sticks.”

Dix hit the bell and they waited about half a minute before one of the mammoth oak front doors swung inward.

“Hi, Chappy. Where’s Bertram?” Dix asked.

“Damned butler’s got a bug in his gut, was puking up all over himself, so I sent him to stay with his doctor sister in Belleville.

“And who are these people, Dix? Oh, are you the young lady Brewster found in Dix’s woods? You’re the talk of the town.” At Ruth’s nod, he put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “You and Dix hooking up like that—and that wild Saturday-night truck chase with Dix and his deputies hanging out the windows of the cruiser like Dirty Harry; it’s the only thing folks are talking about in town. I guess that makes you celebrities, Dix. How does it feel?”

“Chappy,” Dix said pleasantly, “let me introduce you to FBI Special Agent Ruth Warnecki.”

“Yeah, so I heard, Miss Warnecki. What a kick to meet a female FBI agent.”

Ruth stuck out her hand to the old man still standing in the doorway in front of her. “Yes, a kick is a good way to describe it.” She pumped his hand.

“Chappy Holcombe, at your service, ma’am. What do you think of my grandboys?”

“Well, I’m wearing Rob’s sweatshirt, jeans, and coat, and Rafe’s socks. I’d say that at this point in my life they’re pretty indispensable to me.”

Chappy showed lovely white teeth when he grinned at her. “You know, Agent, you have the look of my little sister, Lizzie. It was sad though. Died of leukemia when she was fifteen.” He looked at Savich and Sherlock. “And who are these folks?”

After the introductions, Chappy stepped back and waved them into an immense entrance hall covered in twelve-inch black-and-white marble squares that gleamed even in the dull winter light. Because he’d kept them all standing in the open doorway for five minutes, it was ten degrees colder in the house than it should have been. They watched him push the great door closed.