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hung on the tree. He remembered seeing bank-merger stories in the Star-Tribune. He hadn’t paid much attention—more corporate jive, as far as he could tell.
    ‘‘Anyway, he was up here hunting with a bunch of big shots from the bank,’’ Krause said, unwinding his story. ‘‘Some of them, maybe all of them, are set to lose their big shot jobs.’’
    ‘‘Those are the people we saw down at the cabin?’’ Lucas asked. He’d finished with the backpack, left it hanging where he found it, and dropped back down the tree.
    ‘‘Yeah,’’ Krause said sourly. ‘‘They filled me in on the merger business.’’
    ‘‘Shooting him seems a little extreme,’’ Sloan said.
    ‘‘Why?’’ Krause asked. The question was genuine, and Sloan glanced at Lucas and then looked back at the sheriff, who said, ‘‘Close as I can tell, he was about to mess up the lives of hundreds of people. Some of them—hell, maybe most of them—will never get as good a job again, ever in their lives. And he was doing it just so he could make more money than he already had, and he had a pile of it. Shooting him seems pretty rational to me. Long as you didn’t get caught.’’
    ‘‘I wouldn’t express that opinion to the press,’’ Lucas said mildly. He went back to the body, knelt on one knee, and began going through Kresge’s pockets.
    ‘‘I never say anything to the press that I haven’t run past my old lady,’’ Krause grunted, as he watched. ‘‘She hasn’t turned me wrong yet.’’ A second later, he added, ‘‘There is one other possibility. For the shooting. His wife. He’s right in the middle of a divorce.’’
    ‘‘That could be something,’’ Lucas agreed. He squeezed both of Kresge’s hands through their gloves, then stood up and rubbed his hands together.
    ‘‘These folks at the cabin said the divorce is signed, sealed, and delivered, that the wife really took a chunk out of his ass.’’
    ‘‘Makes it sound less likely,’’ Sloan said.
    ‘‘Yeah, unless she hates him,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Which she might.’’
    Sloan opened his mouth to say something, then shut it, thinking suddenly of Weather. Krause asked, ‘‘Find anything new in the backpack?’’
    ‘‘Couple of Snickers, couple packs of peanut M and M’s, half-dozen hand-heater packs.’’
    ‘‘Same thing I found,’’ Krause said.
    ‘‘Do you deer hunt, Sheriff?’’ Lucas asked.
    ‘‘Nope. I’m a fisherman. I was gonna close out the muskie season this afternoon, beat the ice-up. I was loading my truck when they called me. Why?’’
    ‘‘It gets as cold on a tree stand as it does on a November day out muskie fishing,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘Colder’n hell,’’ Krause said.
    ‘‘That’s right. But he hadn’t eaten anything and hadn’t used any heat packs, even though he brought them along and must’ve intended to use them,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘So he was probably shot pretty soon after he got to the stand.’’
    ‘‘Did anyone hear any early shots?’’ Sloan asked.
    ‘‘I asked the other people about unusual shots, but nobody said anything was out of order. Bone said he thought either Kresge or one of the other guys, a guy named Robles, had fired a shot just after the opening. But Robles said he didn’t, and his rifle is clean, and so’s Kresge’s.’’
    ‘‘How long had they been sitting?’’
    ‘‘About forty-five minutes.’’
    Lucas nodded: ‘‘Then that was probably the killing shot. He’d still have been pretty warm up to that point.’’
    They talked for a few more minutes, then left the AME with the body and headed back through the woods toward the cabin. As they passed the mortuary attendants, now sitting on the gurney, Krause said, ‘‘He’s all yours, boys.’’
    ‘‘Been a nice month, up to now,’’ the sheriff said, rambling a bit. ‘‘No killings, no rapes, no robberies, only a half-dozen domestics, a few drunk-driving accidents, and a couple of small-time