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was standing on the counter. After one heart-stopping moment in which she was sure she’d found a second bomb, she realized this was only a perfectly normal, and hollow, piece of one-inch galvanized pipe. She could tell because someone had stuffed a piece of rolled up paper inside and it protruded for several inches from either end.
    Mrs. Kraus double checked the rest of the office for additional bombs, foreign objects, or foreign invaders, before she bent and extracted the paper from the pipe. She kept the Glock firmly in one hand as she did so. She used a clothespin to grab the note. She kept a few in her desk drawer for the stacks of paperwork that were too big for paper clips. She didn’t want to contaminate evidence. Benteen County didn’t have forensic experts, but they might be able to lift fingerprints.
    It was an unremarkable eight-and-one-half-by-eleven sheet of paper, suitable for typing, copying, or computer printout. She couldn’t see any watermarks, just the text that covered the top third of the page.
    government buildings are legitimate targets in a war. our device was timed to minimize collateral damage, but, should deaths occur, we are prepared to accept them, as has your nation. while the united states occupies the sovereign territory of iraq—in the name of democracy but for purposes of imperialism and to possess oil resources—we shall counterstrike at the heartland of our enemy. this is the first. those to follow shall escalate.
    prepare to experience your own shock and awe. fear us. we are the holy J udgment against I nfidels, H eresy A nd global D omination.
    Even Mrs. Kraus was quick to note that the only capitalized letters contained in the message spelled
JIHAD
.
    ***
    â€œHe’s over here,” Doc said, waving toward a path above the creek.
    Doctor Jones was Benteen County Coroner. He was nearing retirement age, though few would guess it. Most days. More and more, however, the sheriff had observed that the years weighed on Doc when he had to preside over rites of passage involving violent deaths of the young. Not that Benteen County had many of those, and virtually none of a criminal nature. But it had accidents—too much booze and too many horsepower, too little attention paid to sharp and powerful farm machinery, too much certainty that the gun wasn’t loaded. Occasionally, too much despair.
    â€œYou okay, Englishman?” Doc asked, indicating Doc wasn’t the only one the worse for wear this morning. “Things all right at home?” The sheriff was glad his dark complexion disguised the flush he felt wash across his face.
    â€œJust the usual,” he grossly exaggerated.
    Doc didn’t press it. “Your crime scene’s been stomped all to hell and gone, but when I heard you were on the way I decided I’d leave him where he died until you got a look.”
    The sheriff nodded. He and Deputy Parker followed as Doc led the way up from the creek and into the trees and foliage that hugged its banks. The body lay in a muddy clearing beneath a thick cottonwood. It was under a plastic sheet that Doc bent and pulled aside. The soil was rust-colored, softened and tinted by a considerable quantity of blood. The boy was pale from the loss.
    This clearing was more apparent than real. A trail of sorts passed through here, but had been widened by the frenzied footprints of those who crowded around and tried to save this boy.
    The corpse lay on its back, naked. In death, it seemed too young and innocent to have been enjoying vigorous sex when it died.
    â€œWhat can you tell me, Doc?”
    Doc sighed and tugged on one of his big, protruding ears for a moment. He pulled a notebook out of his pocket, but he didn’t bother to refer to it.
    â€œBoy’s sixteen, a perfectly normal adolescent male. Evidence of recent sexual activity. Got a wound in his back just below his left shoulder blade. An arrow, I’m told. I’ll know more when