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version of the FBI.
    Cork saw Hell Hanover on the other side of the demolished shed. Helmuth Hanover was publisher and editor of the weekly
Aurora Sentinel
. He had lost the lower part of his right leg to a claymore mine in Vietnam, and he dragged that history with him in a gaitthat was becoming, with time, a dire limp. He’d balded young and had chosen to shave clean what little hair remained to him, so that in the morning sunlight, his bare white skull reminded Cork of something on the desert even the buzzards would ignore. Although his byline read Helm Hanover, to those who liked him not at all—Cork among them—he was known as Hell.
    Hanover had been taking photos of the men hosing down the smoking debris, but now he got into his car, a maroon Taurus wagon parked near the far fence, and came around to where the other vehicles sat.
    Lindstrom didn’t seem to notice Hanover’s approach. He was intent on Jo.
    “We’ve been on opposite sides of this issue, Ms. O’Connor.” Hard eyes looked at her from under those feathery eyebrows. “And I always believed we could reach a peaceful resolution—”
    “Karl,” Jo said, interrupting, “before you say anything more, I just want to point out a couple of things. As the fire chief has said, the cause of all this hasn’t been confirmed. He’s only guessing. And if he’s right, there’s currently no evidence that would implicate my clients, or anyone, for that matter, who might be opposed to you on the logging issue.”
    Lindstrom held off speaking for a moment. Hell Hanover stood quietly off to the side, a small notebook in his hand, taking notes. Nobody except Cork seemed to be aware of his presence.
    “It’s easy for you, isn’t it,” Lindstrom finally said. “Your business hasn’t been threatened. Your livelihood isn’t at stake. In fact, you’re probably the only one who is benefiting from all this.”
    “Easy, Karl,” Cork said.
    Lindstrom turned on him. “I’m at a loss to understand why, exactly, you’re here. You’re not the sheriff anymore. You’ve got no business here.”
    Before Cork or anyone else could reply, the insistent chirp of a cell phone cut among them. Hanover pulled a cellular from his pocket and stepped away. He listened, tried to speak, then terminated the call. He spent a moment scribbling furiously in his little notebook.
    Lindstrom went on, addressing himself to Jo again. “If this is the kind of fight your people want, then this is the kind of fight we’ll give them.”
    “Mr. Lindstrom,” Schanno said, “I don’t think you want to make that kind of statement.”
    “Just whose side are you on, Sheriff?”
    Hell Hanover came back, a look of mild satisfaction on his face. “Wally, that was a phone call from someone claiming responsibility for all this mess.”
    “Who?” Schanno snapped.
    “Calls himself—or herself—the voice was disguised so it was impossible to tell—calls himself Eco-Warrior. Claims to be part of a movement called the Army of the Earth. The statement read”—he glanced down at the notes he’d written—” ‘The desecration of Grandmother Earth must end. Violence toward anything sacred will not be tolerated. I am the arrow of justice.’ “
    “That’s it? All of it? You’re sure?” Schanno asked.
    “Grandmother Earth.” Lindstrom cast a cold eye on Jo. “That’s how your clients refer to it, Ms. O’Connor.”
    “Words are free, Mr. Lindstrom,” Jo replied. “Anyone may use them in any way they wish. Or misuse them.”
    “Chief!” One of the men near the burned shed waved furiously. “Bring the sheriff, too!”
    They all followed Murray to the shed.
    “What is it, Bob?”
    “Smell that? Made me think I’d better check the debris here carefully.”
    With the head of his ax, he reached into the charred wreckage of the equipment shed, hooked a burned panel, and lifted.
    “Jesus,” Schanno said.
    Jo turned away.
    An upper body had been exposed, most of the skin burned to