The house was on the edge of town, and it was a step above ramshackle, but only a small step. It was set on badly mortared brick pilings, with a wooden floor and no subfloor. The windows were all intact, and the shutters hung approximately true. The tin roof soaked up a days worth of heat and filled the place with it, from the cracked ceiling to the rag rug on the floor that looked like it had fallen out of a Model-A in '29. An empty ice box and a crazed enameled wash basin sat shiva in the kitchen with the recently deceased pot bellied stove.

Josh dreamed of trout fishing, on a perfect summer morning in a cool, clear mountain stream. The trout were everywhere, waving flashes of greeting with their speckled sides, reflecting low morning sunlight off of iridescent scales. Upriver, another man was fly fishing, wearing deep wading boots and a trench coat. He looked like a flasher out to scare a trout, but his fishing was his own business - Josh's basket was wiggling gently at his side with the weight and motion of captured fish yearning for the cold freedom of the stream, heedless of their bread crumbed fate.

The Maricopa County jail was out on the edge of Phoenix, with the administrative offices in the newer section, built forty years ago. The jail structure itself was largely unchanged from when it was constructed in the 1860s. Dirt floors and stone walls, with wooden bunks. The bunks were a newer addition.

Wickenburg was a small hamlet with a population of a few thousand. It had struggled and thrived on the banks of the Hassayampa River since the early 1820's, and over a century later it boasted gold mines including the incredibly productive vulture mine, cattle ranches, and the nations first dude ranch. The Wickenburg Tack and Harness sat along the strip of stores at the edge of the historic main street, at the corner of Cochise and Tenger. The Stockton house was down the street, no more than a hundred yards away.

The sun was just starting to set over the western horizon when the the government agent ambled into the small office of the Moore Detective Agency. The agent wore a stetson, cowboy boots, had the leathering skin of a man who lived out in the sun, and walked a cowboy's swagger. Still, Mercedes had no doubt that he worked for the government rather than one of the many local ranches. It was the combination of the man's clothes and attitude that marked him a G-man.

Wu Long was due back any moment.

Mercedes stood and stretched, reaching for her cigarette case and lighter more out of boredom than any real need for a butt. Boredom was the curse and the bane of her family, made the finely balanced inner workings of her mind want to run cannibal and start to feed on one another. There just weren't enough truly interesting puzzles in this city to keep her challenged -- debunking phony mediums and fortune tellers wasn't much of a life's work. She liked to tell herself it was just a start.

"Charlie, my boy, glad you could make it." Dean Stanton, Charles Cobb's department head at the Smithsonian, looked marginally glad for once. He sat behind the broad, antique, leather topped table, looking at Charles Cobb with smiling eyes and the vaguely lustrous skin of those with more luxury than is typically their due. His voice, stentorian as always, had tonalities in it that indicated Ivy league education, old money, and afternoons in the club. He carried the extra weight upholstered by his own lifetime out of the field and surrounded by chalkdust.

The Denver bureau office was the only real bureau office in the four corners region, and it wasn't much to write home about. They had half of the third floor of the district court building, which made it the closest thing to home base for the whole Rocky mountain region. Josh's meeting was scheduled at ten, and at ten on the dot a tired, well fed looking middle aged woman, the front desk secretery, escorted Josh to an interview room. Sitting in there was a Man From Washington, clearly identifiable as such by his soft, pale skin, J.

It was hours before sunrise, and hours after moonset, and the sky was a black scrim covered with more stars than the mind could imagine counting. The milky way arced overhead, and the hunter followed the great bear on either side of that great swath of luminous river. The high desert spread out under the sky, silent and sleeping, uninterrupted by crickets, coyotes or even the sursurrations of a pre-dawn breeze in the sage. It was dark enough that there were no shadows, although Sherman Blackstone saw shades aplenty.

It had been a fairly normal morning so far. Answering the phone, typing letters for Mr. Tuttle, making sure all the right things got done at the right time. The office was a laid back sort of place. Hectic wasn’t something Mr. Tuttle knew the meaning of, but he did expect a certain level of productivity. Nikita felt that she fit in well here. She liked her boss, and his wife liked her. She knew how important that was if she wanted to keep her job. The phone rang, and she answered, “Tuttle Inc. How may I help you today?” she said in perfect English.