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samples. Cheap for him to buy and useful. He didn’t do dishes the whole time he had that sales job. He and his old man would laughas they sat down to dinner. “What are we celebrating tonight?” his pa would ask. They’d pull out birthday party plates or baby shower plates or Halloween plates. Then a string of other sales jobs, each ending with him getting fired or quitting. The one right before the shitty shirts was the worst—commercial cleaning supplies. He’d stand in bathrooms and squirt urinals with blue liquid or pink goop in an effort to convince janitors that his chemicals cleaned piss off porcelain better than some other guy’s products. He would never be a good salesman no matter what he sold. Didn’t have the personality for it. Couldn’t look people in the eye and bullshit with them. Backed down as soon as someone said “no.” He stuck with sales only because he loved riding around in his truck.
    He threw his suitcase on the bed, opened it, rummaged around inside for her purse. He’d left her shoes wrapped up in the tarp with her body, but he wanted to check her handbag. Wondered what secrets were contained in a dead woman’s belongings. He loosened the drawstring and tipped the bag upside down on the bed. Bobby pins. Lipstick. Kleenex. Comb. Couple of quarters. Three tiny vials; perfume samples. He opened one and sniffed. Lily of the valley. He put the cork back on and threw the bottle on the bed. Something was stuck in the bottom of the bag. He reached inside and pulled out a square of folded paper. Finally, he thought, a little mystery. He opened it. Immediately recognized the lyrics. “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” He’d come all this way to run over an Elvis fan when he could have had his pick of them back home. He refolded the paper and slipped it back in the handbag. He thought about throwing away the lipstick, perfumes and bobby pins, but instead returned them to the purse. He put the quarters and comb in his pocket. He inspected the Kleenex. Clean. Put that in his pocket, too. He tightened the drawstrings on the purse and stuffed it into a dirty sock. He threw the sock back in the suitcase and closed it.
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    HE went back into town for an early dinner; he finally had an appetite. By then, the flyers were up. He walked past the drugstore and saw the pharmacist taping one to the window. He read it through the plate glass. MISSING it said. Below that was her photo and right beneath her photo, her name: Bunny Pederson . He hadn’t heard her name while walking around town and it never occurred to him she had a name other than the nickname he’d given her. The poster gave her height and weight—no wonder he’d strained to lift her into the truck—and age. Only thirty? He thought she was older than that. Time hadn’t been kind to Bunny Pederson’s face or figure. Were she alive, she’d probably be one of those loser women who’d consider sleeping with him. A washed-up prom queen. The poster said she was dressed in a peach bridesmaid’s dress and shoes. Carried a peach purse. Television is going to love that, he thought. A disappearing bridesmaid. That would be her new nickname: the bridesmaid. She was last seen leaving a wedding reception at a bar. That’s where the whole town was Friday night, he thought. CALL THE MOOSE LAKE POLICE OR CARLTON COUNTY SHERIFF ’ S OFFICE . Below that, what he was waiting for: volunteers were meeting in a church basement to prepare for a Sunday morning search of the woods and fields in the area. He checked his watch; he could still make it.
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    HE steered the truck into the church parking lot. Jammed with news vans; he’d read the media right. His heart raced. Already, it was starting. He patted his jacket pocket; the finger was still there.

THREE
    â€œPULL!” SAID A husky female voice.
    The clay pigeon thrown from the trap veered to the right. She