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Between not leaving until late afternoon and the length of the flight, they didn't land in Bemidji until evening. The regional airport looked like a hundred other small-town airports, with little foot traffic inside, and when they went outside, the first thing everyone noticed was that mother-hen Hotchner had been right—the wind seemed to be blowing straight down from the North Pole.

As the team stood on the sidewalk with their breath pluming, Jareau was wondering where the hell their SUVs were. The vehicles were to be brought up by agents from the Minneapolis field office, which was admittedly over four hours from here, but the field office had received plenty of notice to get up here on time.

Jareau tugged the drawstrings on her parka tighter. The chill reminded her of early winters in the Pennsylvania town she grew up in. She was about to punch the number of her contact into her cell phone when two Beltrami County Sheriff's four-by-fours rolled up.

Stepping out of the driver's door of the lead vehicle was a tall, sinewy, middle-aged Native American. He had gray-white wavy hair, pouchy cheeks and a small bulge just above his waistline that said he probably didn't work out regularly. Still, as he approached, his gait was just short of a swagger and, even with the biting wind, he still wore only a flannel shirt and jeans—and had considerable presence.

A younger deputy, in uniform, got out of the other Durango and came around to the passenger side, but stayed with the vehicle.

The plainclothes officer walked up to the group, and stopped in front of Hotchner as if he'd known the agent for years. Most people, when confronting the team for the first time, approached Rossi as the leader, and before that, the assumption had usually been made about Jason Gideon—something about their age, Jareau figured. This man did not do that. He went like a heat-seeking missile to Hotchner.

"Detective Lewis Garue," the man said, extending his hand.

"Special Agent in Charge Aaron Hotchner," Hotch said, and they shook.

"Thanks for coming in," Garue said. "I know the facts are a little sketchy, but you took us serious and we appreciate it."

"That's our job," Hotchner said. "Let me introduce the team. . . ."

Garue stepped to his right, facing Rossi. "You're SSA David Rossi."

Rossi shook hands with the detective.

"Your reputation precedes you, Agent Rossi. I've read your books, seen you on TV. Thought you were a bigger man."

"I don't seem to be," Rossi said with a grin.

Morgan, hands on hips, was grinning, too. "So it's true—you do have fans."

"One or two," Rossi said.

Garue had half a smile going himself. "I'm gonna wanna book signed."

"We can make that happen. But let's find out who's burying bodies in your woods, first."

"Fine by me."

Hotchner made the rest of the introductions, ending with Prentiss, who asked, "Lewis Garue?" A smile tickled the corners of her mouth. "As in, Lew Garue?"

The detective nodded, straight-faced. None of the others were following.

The detective said, "But my parents did change the spelling."

Hotchner asked, "What am I missing?"

"A phonetic game," Garue said. "Agent Prentiss speaks French, obviously."

"She speaks a bunch of languages," Morgan said.

"But how did you know she speaks French?"

"I'm a detective, son. Phonetically, 'Lew Garue' sounds very much like a French phrase—'loupgarou.'"

"Which means what?"

But Rossi answered: "Werewolf."

Garue chuckled. "Very good, Agent Rossi. A little favor my parents did for me—thought it would make me tougher."

"Must have worked," Rossi said. "You look like you can handle yourself."

"I'm still here," Garue said with a shrug.

Rossi seemed to like that response. Then he asked, "What band are you?"

"Bear clan of the Red Lake Band of the Chippewa Nation."

The two men stared at each other for a long moment and Jareau wondered what was going on.

Very softly, and evenly, Rossi said, "That wasn't us, you know."

Garue waved a dismissive hand. "There's still a lot of bad blood about the feds on the rez, but here in town? You guys will be welcomed as heroes."

"The rez?" Prentiss asked. "You mean, reservation?"

For once Rossi, not Reid, was spouting facts: "On March 21, 2005, Jeffrey Wiese, a troubled sixteen-year-old, killed his grandfather, the grandfather's girlfriend, then entered Red Lake High School and in three minutes fired off forty-five rounds. He killed five students, a teacher, and a security guard. He wandered the grounds of the school for another six or seven minutes and randomly wounded five more students before killing himself. Since the tragedy happened on the Red Lake Reservation, the FBI came in to investigate, and many people were unhappy with the way the case was handled. They thought the FBI overstepped."

"In some cases," Garue said mildly, "they did."

Rossi continued. "Some people thought the FBI was out to get the Chippewas, when Louis Jourdain—the son of Floyd 'Buck' Jourdain, Jr., the tribal chairman—was charged with conspiracy, because he knew about Wiese's plan and didn't tell anyone. Some believed the FBI was guilty of conspiracy, trying to get Jourdain out."

Garue and Rossi were again locked in a mutual stare. "Some did," the Native American said.

Hotchner was taking this in with narrowed eyes. "Are we going to have a problem here?"

Jareau was thinking, Some fan . . .

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