The riverbed was dry and about as ancient looking as dinosaur bones. Rookie FBI Agent Angie Dunaway stopped her white government issue Jeep 4x4 halfway across the shallow bed of stones and got out to stretch her back a little. Her energy was running low. She felt as sleepy as the sun looked dropping quickly beyond the crest of Pinetops. and she had been driving all day long. The winding mountain blacktops and overgrown fire roads leading to nowhere were taking their toll on her enthusiasm. She was starting to doubt there were any marijuana crops in this part of the state and this assignment was looking more and more like busy work for the rookie.

Her cell phone chirped. "Dunaway," she spoke into the tiny phone.

Just at that time an eagle slowly circled overhead looking for a late evening snack. The distant sound of wind working feverishly through the leaves of the trees. The restaurant directly across the street from the hotel, was a homely little place with a glass front. Posted on each section of the street-facing windows were the daily specials written with shoe polish like the price on the windshield of a used car. The theme, as Jim saw it, was simply good home cooking. Management made no attempt to woo the passersby with cheap and flashy gimmicks; there were no banners or strobe lights. There was, however, a rotating sign two hundred feet above the roof. But in the evening gloom, the sign was only just visible.