“Cleveland,” Rachael said brightly. “All the way to Cleveland.”

Sherlock thought, Another big whopping lie.

Monk’s Café was filling up with the early lunch crowd. Conversation stopped dead when they walked in. Sherlock had no doubt the gossip winds had blown directly into the café when the federal agents had arrived.

When they sat down opposite him, Savich said, “I spoke to Dr. Hallick at Franklin County Hospital. He said Dr. MacLean’s still not conscious. They have more tests to run before they can give a halfway decent prognosis. I asked Sheriff Hollyfield to send a couple of deputies to guard Dr. MacLean until federal agents arrive.”

Rachael raised her head at that. She wanted to pin him immediately, ask him where her damned car was, but what came out of her mouth was, “Jack—Agent Crowne—said something about a bomb, then he clammed up.”

“Could be. An expert will be arriving sometime today to see what brought down the plane. If it was a bomb, he’ll be able to tell us why the Cessna didn’t explode into a fireball when it detonated, not that it should have mattered, given the terrain.”

“Why would someone want to kill this Dr. MacLean?”

Why not? Sherlock thought. It wasn’t a state secret. After all, trust was a two-way street. “Well, let me just say that Dr. Timothy MacLean, psychiatrist, has lots of very high-profile people scared of what he might say about them.”

“You mean, he was breaking patient confidentiality? A shrink?”

“So it seems,” said Savich.

Rachael sat forward. “Agent Savich, truly, it’s been a pleasure to meet you and Agent Sherlock, but I must leave. Please tell me where you had my car towed.”

“I’ll take you over to the garage when we’re done here. But the thing is, Rachael, the way I’m figuring it is that we need you. You’re the only witness to Jack’s forced landing. You saw everything. You’ll remember more details, trust me. Are you willing to stay with us for a while?”

Rachael looked from her duffel bag to the two agents. For the time being, until her bloody car was repaired, she was stuck in Parlow, and all she could do was pray that no one recognized her. Secrets never stayed secrets, even in the boondocks. At least, she thought, she would be safe with a pack of FBI agents. “I’d planned on getting to where I was going by now. I don’t have much time left, or money.”

“Where do you need to go?”

“Like I told Agent Sherlock, I was driving to Cleveland, a job interview, family, you know the deal.”

Savich thought, Yeah right, and said easily, “A day or two then, if that’s all right with you. Now, Suz tells me there’s a fine B&B over on Canvasback Lane. The FBI will pick up the tab.”

As Suzette toted up their bill, Sherlock asked, “What’s with all the strange street names in Parlow?”

Rachael opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. This was, after all, her first time in Parlow.

Suzette said, “Horace Bench, the rich guy who founded the town back in the thirties, he bred and raised ducks—hookbills, rouens, runners, calls—the calls are real small, I’m told, like toy ducks. He figured not many folks would recognize those names, so he threw in some common ones, as well, like canvasback, rosy bill, old squaw. He himself lived on Runners Road, and his daughter, whom he didn’t like so it’s said, lived on Old Hooknose Lane.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow went up. “Hooknose? I thought the duck was called a hookbill.”

“Yep, that’s right,” said Suz, and grinned.

“Where’d the name Parlow come from?” Sherlock asked.

“Parlow was an Indian chief back in the eighteenth century who sought out any settlers he could find to celebrate Thanksgiving with him and his people every year. He always brought trout for the feast. Isn’t that a kick?”

“And where is the sheriff’s office?” Savich asked.

“Oh, that’s on the main drag, First Street, one block over. Sheriff Hollyfield, now he’s so honest you could put your money under his mattress. Smart, too.”

“Duck names,” Sherlock said as they walked out of Monk’s Café, Savich carrying Rachael’s duffel bag. “It always amazes me what strikes people’s fancy.”

The three of them were checked in by the manager, Mrs. Flint, thankfully not a longtime native who could recognize Rachael. She told them Greeb’s Pond was the best of Parlow’s upscale lodgings. It was also the name of the current owner’s grandfather’s favorite duck.

They found their rooms decorated with a duck motif, from the wallpaper, to the hooked rugs on the floor, to the bedspread, to three small stuffed duck heads on the walls. “The only one I recognize is the mallard,” Sherlock said, shaking her head. “Imagine stuffing a duck’s head. And look at that little tiny one—you think that’s a toy duck, what’s the name—a call? And what do you bet the alarm clock will start quacking to wake us up?”

Since Sherlock had no intention of letting Rachael out of her sight, the two of them went back to the Parlow Clinic, waded through half a dozen patients to the desk, where Sherlock flashed her FBI shield at a very young receptionist who had short spiky red hair tipped with black and was vigorously chewing gum. She waved them back to the small room where they’d left Jack sleeping. Sherlock stopped by the door and tried her cell again. No luck. When she walked into the room, Rachael was saying, “You look better, Agent Crowne, and that’s a relief. We thought you’d still be out of it.”

Jack smiled. The debilitating headache was only a dull throb now, what with Dr. Post’s magic pain meds. “I slept a good hour, and I was still out when this gum-chewing teenager came in to draw some blood—just like a hospital. I was thinking, Rachael,” he continued, “that you need to stick around awhile, at least until after we get things squared away. What do you think?”

Rachael maintained a stony silence.

“Well now, moving right along. Sherlock, where’s Savich?”

“Here he is,” she said, and smiled as Dillon came into the examination room.

Savich said as he shook Jack’s hand, “Well, lad, you’re not looking so green around the gills anymore. How’s the leg and head?”

“I’ll live.”