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four steps then stopped in mid-air, boots with rappelling cleats, ropes, hooks, a couple of fire extinguishers, and clothes racks loaded down with everything from togas to astronaut suits to fancy ball gowns. There were at least a dozen other items that Elvis could not identify—a rubber bodysuit with feathers fastened to the front and back like some kind of giant sea bird, long-handled objects with loops or hooks or long steel blades at their ends, Rube Goldberg—like hook and pulley apparatuses. The tools of the stunt trade. Rubber tubing was an integral part of at least half of these items.

    Directly to Elvis’s right was an interior curtain that was drawn closed. “Storage?” he said, pointing to it.
    â€œBunk room,” Cathcart replied. “Just a couple of cots.”
    â€œMind if I take a gander?”
    â€œNot much to see,” the young man said, pulling back the curtain.
    Elvis gazed inside. The scene of Holly McDougal’s murder looked like nothing so much as a high school kid’s slovenly bedroom—two unmade cots, clothing and shoes strewn all over the floor, girly calendars on the wall, and here and there plaques and chrome-plated cups that appeared to be varsity football awards but on closer inspection turned out to be rodeo trophies. From his experience with the fan club murders, Elvis knew that the scene of a horrendous crime usually turned out to be the most ordinary of places—a bedroom, a kitchen—but nonetheless he was struck by the sheer innocence of this little coop.
    Elvis stepped into the room. According to Clifford, one of the pieces of circumstantial evidence that had convicted Littlejon was the fact that his street clothes were found on the floor next to McDougal’s body. That surely had to be pretty slim evidence if the floor looked anything like this on a regular basis. On the other hand, the eyewitness who had declared that Littlejon and McDougal were alone in here that afternoon only needed to have a clear view of the front door to make his claim—it was the sole entrance and exit and there were no windows.
    Elvis gazed at the young man’s face. Cathcart had not seemed at all nervous about showing him the bunk room. “You been at this work for long?” Elvis asked.
    â€œNot very,” Cathcart said. “I’m rodeo, you know. But that doesn’t put much food on the table, and I’ve got three and a half mouths to feed. Wife’s got a little one cooking in the oven right now.”
    Elvis smiled. He had noticed that the boy had the bowed legs and curved spine of a veteran rodeo rider. “So you just do this parttime?”
    â€œI do whatever comes up,” Cathcart said. “But these days if I gotta choose between a rodeo gig and a stunt gig, I go for the stunt.
Three times the money. And most folks don’t believe it, but it’s a whole lot safer jumping off a trampoline with your clothes on fire than being thrown by a bull who’s got his balls in a slipknot.”
    â€œSo when’d you start stunt work?” Elvis asked.
    â€œLast year,” the boy said. “Had to wait until I turned eighteen. Otherwise the insurance don’t cover you.”
    That put Cathcart here well after the murder.
    â€œEver hear about a girl named Holly McDougal?” Elvis asked.
    â€œNope,” the boy said. “She a singer?”
    â€œActress,” Elvis said. “At least she was. She’s dead.”
    â€œSorry to hear that. She a friend of yours?”
    â€œKind of,” Elvis said.
    â€œWell, the good Lord takes ’em all, don’t He? I lost my best buddy just this year. Kicked in the head by a crazy pony and never came to.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Elvis said.
    Cathcart shrugged. “Over here’s the fun house,” he said, gesturing to the end of the shack where the ceiling abruptly shot up another ten or twelve feet. “Want to take a