"Rachel," Mitchell called, going from room to room looking for her.

"Here I am, sir," she called out from the basement.

Mitchell hurried down the steps and saw her come out of the laundry and utilities room.

"Oh, there you are. I'm going for a walk through the woods. I'll be back shortly if you should want me."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, say, by the way, I was just wondering about something. It seems rather odd that Eva doesn't keep any of her former husbands' things anywhere around the house. I've never seen anything of them at all. Not even a picture or anything. Wait a minute. She does still have some of Mr. Harbinger's clothes."

"She has most of her husbands' things in storage, sir."

"In storage?"

"Yes, sir."

"You mean at one of those places where you can store things?"

"Yes, sir. I helped her pack up most of the belongings of her last two husbands and overheard her making arrangements on the phone to have them moved to storage."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm going to get some much-needed exercise before Eva comes back from the hairdresser."

"Yes, sir."

Mitchell made his way quickly to the garage.

"What the . . ." he gasped. "Both of her cars are still here. Maybe she hasn't left yet."

Then it struck him.

"No! I'll bet she took the Porsche."

He pressed the button to open the garage door and glanced out into the driveway. Just his Buick was there. The Porsche was gone!

Mitchell frowned and shook his head.

"I just hope she doesn't kill herself," he shrugged.

He went back in the garage and grabbed a shovel. Leaving the garage door open, he headed through the oaks toward the path. He wanted to head straight for the lake and take a shortcut around the shore of the lake, but he didn't want to take a chance that Rachel might see him.

Mitchell found the path quickly and glanced at his watch. It was nine-fifty. He had to hurry. He took off jogging. This would give him some much-needed exercise.

Which tree should he dig under? He decided to start at the cranberry tree. According to Cliff Parker, that was the head of the human figure. He didn't want to conjecture at what he might find under that tree. But if it really were the head of the human figure, would he find . . . He didn't want to say the word. He would just dig.

At seven minutes after ten Mitchell stood under the cranberry tree. He looked around carefully. It appeared that leaves had been deliberately arranged to hide the fresh digging.

"Damn! I should have brought a rake."

He bent over and brushed aside enough leaves to make out the fresh turnings of dirt. Then he cleared the leaves from several square feet of ground, a sufficient area for him to put the dirt he would dig up.

He placed the tip of the shovel on the soft dirt and carefully pressed his weight down on his shoe, driving the shovel into the ground. He lifted out the shovel, depositing the dirt carefully in the cleared area.

After taking out three more shovels of dirt, Mitchell began to push the tip of the shovel into the earth again. About half way in, the shovel struck something. He felt his stomach knot up and his pulse quicken. He set the shovel down and began to scoop out dirt with his hands. Seconds later he found what the shovel had detected.

He carefully scooped and brushed the dirt away from a brown plastic bag that contained something. Mitchell frowned and gritted his teeth as he lifted the bag out of the hole. He cringed as he thought that the bag felt large enough to be a . . . He didn't want to say the word. And it was heavy enough to be a . . . He again avoided saying the word.

The top of the bag was drawn together by a twist wire. He set the bag down and took a deep breath. He had to see what was inside. He didn't want to, but he had to. He slowly untwisted the wire and opened the bag and looked inside.

"Great balls of fire! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"