Yet again, she mentally reran their conversation of yesterday afternoon. He’d practically begged her to come out to the ranch, and as a carrot he’d dangled his great-grandfather’s mysterious other prized possession—the one Jesse had initially dismissed as an “old drawing.” He treated it like a holy object, Jesse said.

Had it been some messed-up joke of his, some way to lure her into taking the long drive to his place, just so he could curse her out again? She didn’t think so. Jesse hadn’t seemed the kind of person to trouble himself with games like that—and besides, if that was all it had been, he knew full well he’d never see her again … unless she had a pair of cuffs and a warrant in her hands.

Could somebody have been outside the house and heard him on the phone with her? But no, that would be too much of a coincidence. Besides, Jesse himself had said the item was more precious than valuable. Could the phone have been tapped or hacked into? That seemed possible but far-fetched.

More precious than valuable. What the hell did that mean?

She lay in the darkness, trying hard to recall what exactly Jesse had said about this thing—whatever it was—his great-grandfather had left behind. In my great-grandfather’s time, most people would have thought his precious item fit only to line a birdcage with. But over the years it’s gained value. Maybe a lot of value. Even if Pertelote is still the only one who can enjoy it.

At least, that was as best she could remember. Jesse—it was still hard to process the fact he was dead—had had an annoying way of rarely saying anything directly … Everything was an ironic digression, or a rambling allusion to that aborted English major he was so proud of …

Now she wished she’d paid more attention to his digressions. Lining a birdcage? And who was Pertelote?

Pertelote. That rang a bell. He’d said that word before—the last time she’d been out with him at the ranch. She thought back to that earlier conversation—the one that ended so abruptly with him ordering her off his property. He’d talked about expensive Swiss watches, other stuff she couldn’t remember without consulting her notes. But that wasn’t what was gnawing at her. It had been something said, she felt sure, early in the conversation, during the first time he opened up.

The residual effects of my education. She remembered him saying that. And something else: I’ve named lots of things on this old ranch after bits of English literature.

But who the hell was Pertelote?

Then she remembered. As they were sitting on the front porch, a hen had cackled, and Gower had brightened and smiled. “Pertelote! Way to go! There’s my supper.”

There’s my supper.

I can tell all the hens by their cackles.

I’ve named lots of things on this old ranch after bits of English literature.

In an instant, Corrie was out of bed.

In ten minutes, she was dressed and in her car.

At 2 AM she was pulling into the Gower Ranch.

She turned off her lights and killed the engine, sitting in the car, waiting for the dust to settle and her night vision to take effect. Except for the crime scene tape, and the missing door on the toolshed—the old structure gaping wide, as if it had lost a tooth—the place didn’t look all that different than it had the night before, when she’d arrived to find all the lights off.

When she was sure she had the scene to herself, she picked up her flashlight, checked to see that her weapon had a round in the chamber, then got out of the car.

Keeping her flashlight off, moving by the light of the moon, Corrie ducked under the tape, walked past first the house, then the toolshed—more crime scene tape—and approached the henhouse. All remained silent, and nothing moved in the darkness. She drew a little nearer, then stopped again.

She’d never been close to a chicken coop before and had only the vaguest idea of how they operated—mostly from watching Foghorn Leghorn cartoons. It was a miniature shed-like structure, shingled, with a peaked roof, one tiny window, and a door with a ramp. She turned on her light and let it play briefly over the latched main door, the henhouse itself, and the chicken run beyond. What she particularly noticed was the odor. For the first time, she understood why chickenshit was such an offensive term.

...Even if Pertelote is still the only one who can enjoy it...

So maybe whatever it was was hidden in the henhouse. Nothing else fit. The structure didn’t look as if the police or anyone else had given it any attention. It was her only lead, and Corrie was going to check it out. She owed that, at least, to Jesse.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the wooden latch and stuck her head in through the door, shining her light around again. The opposing walls were lined with nesting boxes, about half of them full, with more hens sleeping on perches. Six or seven pairs of beady eyes swiveled toward her accusingly, and there was a spasm of unhappy, nervous cackling.

“I don’t much like this either, ladies,” Corrie said as she scanned the interior. Which one was Pertelote?

One hen, the closest one on the right, seemed larger and less cowed than the others, and her nesting box appeared to have seen the heaviest use. Corrie guessed she had a personality to match her bulk; she could imagine her as Jesse’s favorite. She reached into the straw beneath the hen and received an outraged squawk and a peck on the wrist for her trouble.

“Hey!” She’d had no idea how hard those fuckers could peck. Nevertheless, she had enough time to feel chicken wire beneath the bed of straw. Nothing hidden there.