“Well,” a rather shellshocked Jefferson Trestlehorn said aloud to no one in particular. “That’s a .357 Magnum, b’God.”

Under normal circumstances, in a normal town, on a normal night, a good detective might come to the conclusion that some anonymous soul were sending him a clue to the case at hand … maybe even the murder weapon itself. But there were two problems with that reasoning. The first was that Jefferson Trestlehorn didn’t consider himself a very good detective.

The other problem was that Junebug Ridgway had been shot with a .38.

It was perhaps inexperience that led to Jefferson’s failure to anticipate what would come next, after his phone rang.

“Jeff, it’s Ralph.” Ralph’s voice broke a little. “Chief’s gone. Shot dead in his pickup outside town.”

Jefferson looked at the gun.

”.357?” He muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Ralph made a surprised, affirmative sound. Jefferson blanched.

Someone in Lake Derry was hunting the Ridgways.

And they wanted Jefferson to know it.