"Prints?" I asked disingenuously."Fingerprints," he snapped.I looked down at my hands curiously. "I didn't know that could be done," I said, deliberat...ly misunderstanding. "Has plastic surgery become that advanced?"He glared at me. "The records, not your fingers," he said. "You changed them, didn't you?" How would I do that, sir?" I asked politely.He heaved a weary sigh. "Jack, it's just not good enough," he said. "I know it's you. Your wife admits who she is, how about saving us all this. After a weeks hanging I loaded the smokehouse with the bear meat after the salt was washed away. Then the canvas sheets were taken down to a close stream and submerged with rocks to keep them from floating away. After two days I retrieved them to dry and store until my next big kill. After a month or two in the smoke house, depending on the thickness of the cuts, the bear meat was carefully hung from poles set into large frames deep within my cavern. The temperature was in the low fifties and. More

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