"Don't say it. I'm gonna eat it," Del said.
The phone rang and Lucas dug it out of his shirt pocket. "Davenport."
"Lucas, it's Elle. Ruth is up at that church, or whatever it is. She wants to talk to you now."
"Elle, what the hell is going on?"
"I don't know the details, I only am… aware… of the outline of what she's doing. But I promised her that you were going in as a citizen, and not exactly as a cop-that your conversation would be off the record. I don't know if you'll be able to go along with it, but that's what I told her."
"Oh, boy. They're smuggling grass, right? They're using the money to regild the dome on the cathedral."
Another odd hesitation, and then Elle said, "Talk to her. I don't know what she'll say."
THEY GAVE UP on the breakfast and headed for Broderick, Del still driving. On the way out of town, they got hung up in a four-car traffic jam behind a lift truck taking down Christmas lights. For the first time since they'd come to town, there were cracks in the clouds, and hints of sunshine. The car thermometer said it was six below zero, and the air was almost still. Wherever a house was burning wood, the smoke from the chimney went straight up for fifty feet before fading away.
On the way, Lucas dialed the Kansas City number that Mark Johnson had given him early that morning. The answer was fumbled, and Lucas recognized it as a cell phone, being answered by somebody who was standing on a street corner. "Block."
"Yeah, my name is Lucas Davenport, I'm with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension up in Minnesota-"
"Mark Johnson said you might call. He said you were the Tom Block of Minnesota. But better looking."
"That's true," Lucas said.
Block laughed and asked, "So he told me what's going on, with the lynching and the kidnapping."
"Not a lynching."
"If it was down here, it wouldn't be a lynching, either. In Minnesota, it's a lynching. Anyway, you think the Cashes are chopping cars up there?"
"No, I don't," Lucas said. "The place we're looking at-it's called Calb's-doesn't look like a chop shop. It looks like what they say it is, car body and truck rehab."
"See any Toyota trucks up there? I mean, connected to this place?"
Lucas thought-and he'd seen one. "One," he said. "Land Cruiser."
"Now we're talking. The thing is, we know the Cashes are moving hot cars. We've even caught their boys in a couple, but those were going to chop shops down here. There's a rumor that they steal new Toyota trucks. Only new Toyotas. And then the Toyotas disappear, and they're never found again. Ever. They're gone. Never get in wrecks, never sold to wrecking services. I've got some numbers of insurance companies that are interested, if you want to talk to them, but I'd say we're talking anywhere from seventy-five to a hundred trucks a year, from all over the Midwest and the plains, far east as Cleveland and far west as Denver."
"That's a lot of trucks."
"We figure about five million worth. We had one guy across the river in Kansas City, Kansas, who bought a new Land Cruiser, sixty thousand dollars, got it stolen, got his insurance check, bought another one, and they stole that, the second night he had it."
"Hmm."
"Listen, I gotta get a bus. If you want to talk, come down, or call me this afternoon, I'll have some open time. I can tell you all about the Cashes. I grew up with them."
"ANYTHING GOOD?" DEL asked.
"That was a Toyota Land Cruiser those women were hauling coffee in, right? Last night?"
"Yeah, I think."
"They're driving for Calb for $100 a week and they drive a sixty-thousand-dollar Land Cruiser. That'll cause you to think."
"Oh, boy. Tell me about it."
Lucas told him. And as they came up to Broderick, he said, "Go on through. Let's see if there's anything going at Letty's."
As they went past Deon Cash's place, they noticed a half-dozen cars in the driveway and yard. "FBI has landed," Del said.
"Talk to them later."
There wasn't much at Letty's house: one deputy sheriff's car and one state fire marshal's car sat next to the hole that used to be the house. The deputy was in his car, writing on a clipboard, and waved at Lucas. Another man was digging carefully through the basement.
When Lucas identified himself, the man climbed out on a stepladder. He was wearing rubberized coveralls, and his face was smudged with charcoal. "George Puckett," he said.
"Figure anything out?"
"Not a thing," he admitted. "I don't see any signs of accelerant. The sheriff's deputies say the fire was deliberate, but I couldn't prove it."
"That's not nothing," Lucas said. "That means that the guy probably didn't come here to burn it down. Probably did it on the spur of the moment."
"Might not be nothing, but it isn't much," Puckett said. "Wish I could help more."
Lucas and Del walked around the scene a few minutes longer, found a patch of blood where Letty had huddled in the snow. No blood between that spot and the window, as far as they could tell, although the remaining snow was covered with soot and debris from the fire.
"Church?" Del asked.
"I guess. What else is there?"
THE MOTHERLY WOMAN met them at the door, looked hard at both of them, and without a word took them back to the kitchen, where Lewis was again working at the table. When they came in, she stood up, looked at Del, and said, "I'd like to talk privately with Lucas."
Del shrugged, looked at Lucas, and said, "I'll be out in the TV room."
When he was gone, Lewis said, "Sit down." Lucas pulled out the kitchen chair opposite her. She asked, "Want a cup of coffee?"
"No, I'm fine. So. What's the story?"
"I wasn't surprised to hear from Sister Mary Joseph. I'd been more or less expecting it." She paused, but Lucas kept his mouth shut. "Anyway," she continued, "we all talked about it, and several of our sisters have left in the past two days-people not yet too involved, so if you decide to bust us, they can pick it up later."
He kept his mouth shut.
She said, "So we talked about it, and not one of us could figure out how we could be involved in anything that had to do with the girls. We couldn't see any possible connection."
"Good," Lucas said. "The parents of the other girl are coming up here today. You could meet them, if you like."
Her hand went to her throat. "That's cruel."
"Keep going with the story," Lucas said. "What're you doing? I'll figure out for myself if there's a connection."
"We're smuggling drugs," she said abruptly. "We bring them down from Canada. We put on nun's habits so that the border people don't check too closely, and bring them across."
"Marijuana?"
"Some. But that's more complicated. Usually, it's tamoxifen and ondansetron. They're cancer drugs and we get people in Canada to buy them for us at Canadian government prices. We bring them across the border and distribute them to people who can't afford them. Because of the way the drugs are sold in Canada, they only cost about ten or fifteen percent of what they cost in the U.S. Tamoxifen in the states costs a hundred a month, or more, and you might take it for years. The poor tend to skip days or skip whole months and hope they can get away with it. Ondansetron is a really expensive antinausea drug. It costs two hundred dollars to cover the nausea from one chemo treatment-so a lot of people go with a cheap drug that doesn't work as well, and just put up with the nausea. Ever been nauseous for a week straight?"
"No."
"Neither have I, but it looks pretty unpleasant. We can buy the stuff in Canada for thirty bucks."
"Cancer drugs," Lucas said.
"And some marijuana. The marijuana is the cheapest way to fight nausea-sometimes, it's the only way-and the best marijuana for our purposes comes from British Columbia. We don't bring it across too often because of the dogs. The dogs don't care whether we're wearing habits or not. And if we have to, we can get it in California."