N O   W A Y   T O   D I E

(A Carly See Mystery—Book 6)

R y l i e   D a r k

Rylie Dark

Bestselling author Rylie Dark is author of the SADIE PRICE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); of the CARLY SEE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); of the MIA NORTH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); of the MORGAN STARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); of the HAILEY ROCK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the TARA STRONG MYSTERY series, comprising five books (and counting).

ONLY MURDER (a Sadie Price FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), NO WAY OUT (a Carly See FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), SEE HER RUN (a Mia North FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), and TOO LATE (a Morgan Stark FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1) are available as free downloads on Google Play!

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Rylie loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.ryliedark.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2023 by Rylie Dark. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image PTDZ, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

BOOKS BY RYLIE DARK

TARA STRONG MYSTERY

GIRL WITHOUT A CHANCE (Book #1)

GIRL WITHOUT A HOME (Book #2)

GIRL WITHOUT A TRACE (Book #3)

GIRL WITHOUT A NAME (Book #4)

GIRL WITHOUT A PRAYER (Book #5)

HAILEY ROCK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

BEHIND YOU (Book #1)

BESIDE YOU (Book #2)

AFTER YOU (Book #3)

WATCHING YOU (Book #4)

JUDGING YOU (Book #5)

SADIE PRICE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

ONLY MURDER (Book #1)

ONLY RAGE (Book #2)

ONLY HIS (Book #3)

ONLY ONCE (Book #4)

ONLY SPITE (Book #5)

ONLY MADNESS (Book #6)

MIA NORTH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SEE HER RUN (Book #1)

SEE HER HIDE (Book #2)

SEE HER SCREAM (Book #3)

SEE HER VANISH (Book #4)

SEE HER GONE (Book #5)

SEE HER DEAD (Book #6)

CARLY SEE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NO WAY OUT (Book #1)

NO WAY BACK (Book #2)

NO WAY HOME (Book #3)

NO WAY LEFT (Book #4)

NO WAY UP (Book #5)

NO WAY TO DIE (Book #6)

MORGAN STARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

TOO LATE (Book #1)

TOO CLOSE (Book #2)

TOO FAR GONE (Book #3)

TOO LOST (Book #4)

TOO BROKEN (Book #5)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

PROLOGUE

Les Bartell climbed out of his pickup truck and pulled his jacket collar tight around his neck. As he walked around to the back of the truck, the frost on his breath glowed under the light from a nearby streetlamp.

It’s cold, he thought. But not too cold for digging.

He took a shovel out of his truck bed, switched on the LED flashlight on the front of the knit cap he was wearing, and walked across Ralston Street into the Trench Hill Cemetery.

There had been a late November frost a week ago, but no deep freeze yet. The temperature wasn’t below freezing now, and tomorrow was actually supposed to be a little warmer than today had been.

Should be OK.

Still, not a bad idea to check it out.

He smiled at the first gravestone that fell under the beam of his flashlight.

“Hi there, Fred,” he said with a friendly little salute. “It’s been a while. Hope Trench Hill is treating you OK. Hope it doesn’t get too cold for you this winter. Last winter sure was murder.”

Poor Fred Downey had died a year and a half ago. He’d been the high school football coach. Les’s grandson Max had been practicing with his team the day Fred had lost his temper for the thousandth and last time. He’d dropped dead right there and then in the middle of the practice field, with his players gawking in surprise.

 Les wryly nodded and said hi to the gravestones of a few more people he remembered from when they’d been alive. Miss Hurley, his childhood Sunday School teacher, had been dead for some fifteen years now. Roy Bannister, the owner of the town’s last and only electronics repair shop, had been gone for twenty-five years. And then there was Gary Granville, a childhood pal who had died behind the wheel of his father’s Chevy at the age of eighteen…

“Gary, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,” Les grumbled at the tombstone. “They should never have given you that driver’s license. You drove like a maniac, especially when you got into some damn fool race like the one that killed you. Such a hell of a waste. Why couldn’t you have been more careful?”

It occurred to Les that he knew at least as many dead people in this graveyard as he did living folks in the town of Otisville. It was a melancholy thought.

It’s what’s getting old means, I guess.

Finally Les arrived at the spot he was headed for. This was where Myra Flynn, who had died a week ago from leukemia, was going to be buried tomorrow. Les had made a special trip out here tonight to make sure things were going to go OK.

He held out his shovel and pushed it into the ground. There was a crunch of cold soil, but the blade of the shovel went down a few inches without any real effort, and when he stepped on the blade it went further into the ground. The ground wasn’t frozen.

Won’t be any trouble for the backhoe.

And that was a good thing. For many years now, one of his tasks as a lay minister for the Methodist church was to plan and organize burials for congregation members when they passed away.

And that’s getting to be pretty often these days.

He stood staring at the shovel in the ground, feeling sadder by the moment. Burials of old friends were getting harder and harder on him emotionally. Tomorrow’s burial was going to be especially tough, for reasons he couldn’t talk about with anybody he knew—least of all his wife, Kelly, or Myra’s widower, Creighton, who had been his fishing buddy for decades now.

The truth was, he and Myra had had a year-long affair some twenty-two years ago, and one of the only two people in the world who knew about it was going to be buried tomorrow. Tomorrow Les was going to have to comfort Creighton in his grief like the ever-loyal pal he was supposed to be. And of course, Kelly was going to be at the burial too, to mourn the loss of a friend she’d had since childhood, which wouldn’t make things any easier for Les.

Les felt a lump of emotion rise up in his throat.

“I guess it’ll be our secret forever, Myra,” he murmured in a choked voice.

For years, that issue had been in doubt. He knew that Myra had always felt guiltier about the affair than he had, and he’d always feared that sooner or later she’d break down and confess the whole thing to her husband, and the consequences would be terrible for all concerned.

Now that was never going to happen. But he didn’t feel any relief about it, only sadness.

Well, there’s no use standing around in the cold feeling bad about things.

He pulled the shovel out of the ground, but as he started to turn and retrace his steps out of the cemetery, he caught a glimpse of light up ahead on the hill.

A firefly?

No, not in November.

Not in this weather.

He switched off the flashlight on his cap to try to see it better. Sure enough, there was a tiny light moving among the trees quite some distance from where he was standing. Somebody was up there with a flashlight of his own.

He growled a little as it occurred to him who it might be.

Vandals.

It seemed like at least some of the local kids were getting nastier and more disrespectful with every new generation. And one of their favorite pranks was to spray-paint and knock over tombstones here in the cemetery.

I’d better put a stop to it.

Les switched his own light back on and walked on into the cemetery grounds, heading toward that light. It was still visible but farther away than he’d first thought.

As he passed older tombstones, he felt an eerie tingle. He knew the names of some of the people buried here, but most of them had died before his time. The higher he climbed up that sloping hillside, the more weathered and aged the tombstones looked. The ground also grew thicker with weeds and brush, since few people visited this far into the old graveyard, and little care was taken to maintain things here.

Suddenly, the flickering light up ahead disappeared.

He wondered—had whoever was there a moment ago gone away? It seemed unlikely. Over in that direction, the graveyard disappeared into a densely tangled forest. Not many people ever went into those woods even during the day, and he doubted that an intruder would go there on a dark night like this.

Whoever it was had probably entered the cemetery from the same direction as Les, and would surely leave that way as well. He had probably just switched off his own flashlight at the sight of Les’s own.

Trying to hide, I guess.

He called out in a loud voice.

“Hey, you! I know you’re out there! You’d better come here where I can see you!”

He was hardly surprised to get no reply.

He let out a growl of irritation. If the intruder thought Les was going to go away without a face-to-face confrontation, he was very wrong. Whoever it was skulking around there, Les was determined to find him.

He walked over a low hump in the soil that marked the edge of a long-vanished Civil War fortification and found himself surrounded by an eerily familiar view of the oldest part of the cemetery. The gravestones here were nothing more than vertical blank slate slabs that had been shoved into the soil after the Battle of Otisville more than a century and a half ago.

Les shivered at the sight. He’d been out to this remote part of the grounds a few times during his life, starting back when he was still a kid. But those trips had been by daylight. He couldn’t remember ever coming here at night before.

And the truth was, he was surprised that a vandal would have ventured this far up Trench Hill. What would be the point of defacing graves that almost no one ever saw anymore? At least it didn’t look as though any of the slabs had been knocked over or spray-painted.

But a few yards up ahead, a peculiar shape caught his eye. He walked in that direction, and his heart jumped at what he saw.

It was a newly dug mound of earth, shaped like a grave.

What the hell?

He walked over to the grave and looked down at it.

Another prank, he thought with a scowl.

He called out again.

“Whoever you are, this isn’t funny. Come out and show yourself.”

But again, there was no reply. Les got an increasingly creepy feeling at the idea that someone else might be out here. He also wondered—just what was this mound, really? The digger had obviously meant it to look like a grave.

Had something really been buried here?

Somebody’s dead pet, maybe?

Or was it just a mound of dirt, and its only purpose was to freak people out?

If so, it was certainly having that effect on Les. His curiosity mounted with every second.

He growled at himself with irritation.

Don’t be an idiot.

If this is a practical joke, don’t fall for it.

Just walk away, go back home.

But he just couldn’t make himself turn around and retrace his steps. Instead, he stuck the shovel into the newly dug soil and pushed down into it.

He gasped aloud when he felt the blade come into contact with something soft.

That’s not just dirt. Something’s buried here, all right.

He carefully dug around until he exposed something that made him shudder with alarm.

It was the zipper of a jacket.

Oh God no.

It just can’t be.

His hands shook as he continued carefully moving the soil with his shovel.

Finally he exposed something that made his knees weaken with horror, and he almost dropped to the ground.

Under the stark beam of his flashlight, he saw a human face—a woman’s face. She was grotesquely pale, and her mouth was open and filled with dirt. The corpse must have been buried here mere moments ago. He looked up from the face and stared into the dark forest before him.

Whoever did this might be watching me right now!

Les Bartell turned and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him.

CHAPTER ONE

Carly See was frozen in horror at the sight. The hospital bed was empty. The disconnected IV cord was just hanging at its side.

“Megan!” she gasped.

Her sister was gone!

No one else was there in the little room.

Do something, Carly silently commanded herself.

She had just arrived at the hospital in Currie, Illinois, expecting to see Megan, hoping she might be making some progress recovering from the deep, terrible, and mysterious trauma she’d endured. It had required both Carly’s FBI expertise and her psychic abilities to locate her long-lost sister. Carly had recently rescued Megan from the clutches of a man who’d been drowning her—a man Carly had been forced to kill in self-defense.

Now Megan was being cared for in their hometown hospital, and Carly had taken some leave time to visit her. During the drive here from the airport, Carly’s one-time boyfriend Mark Lawson had told her that Megan was still unconscious, but that she was breathing on her own and no longer needed the ventilator. Carly’s mother had also come to meet her, and she’d been almost cheerful over the fact that Megan could breathe on her own. It was the best news they’d had so far.

But when they had reached Megan’s room, Dad had come rushing out, looking pale and horrified.

“Carly! Leah! Mark!” he’d gasped. “I—I don’t know what happened! I fell asleep for just a few moments, and—”

Carly had rushed into the room, with Mom, Mark, and Dad right behind her, and had seen that the bed was empty. Mom was babbling hysterically, and Mark and Dad dashed out into the hallway calling for help. As Mom ran out into the hallway after them, Carly forced herself to stand still.

Don’t panic, she told herself.

Megan must be still in the hospital somewhere.

But surely someone would have spotted her …

In fact, how could she have gone anywhere at all?

Looking around the room, Carly saw a small closet with its accordion doors shut tight.

Could it be?

She walked over to the closet and spoke in a soft but firm voice.

“Megan, are you in there?”

When she heard a frightened, wordless whimper, relief poured over her.

She took a deep breath, then spoke as calmly as she could.

“Megan, you’ve got to come out of there. Everybody’s scared for you. Just come out so we can see you’re safe.”

Carly heard another whimper, but the door didn’t budge.

“I’m going to open the closet door, OK?”

The whimper grew louder, followed by a frightened voice.

“No. No. No.”

Carly vaguely realized that these were the first words she’d heard Megan say since she’d rescued her. As far as she knew, no one else had heard her speak since then either.

Could all this possibly mean Megan was coming to herself again?

“I’ve got to open the door, Megan. Nobody is going to hurt you. I promise.”

Carly gently and slowly slid the accordion door open. Sure enough, there was Megan, huddled in a fetal position in the corner, staring at Carly with wild, terrified eyes. Megan shivered deeply as if the air around her was freezing, and she curled into a tighter ball with her arms hugging her knees.

Carly remembered Mark’s words. He’d called a couple of days ago to tell her that Megan had briefly regained consciousness.

“She started screaming, Carly. I’ve never heard anybody scream like that. She was terrified—of something.”

Mark had said that then Megan lost consciousness again and had to be put back on the ventilator.

That can’t happen again.

I have to be careful.

“It’s OK, Megan,” Carly said in a soft voice. “Everything’s fine now. Just come on out.”

“You!” her sister cried out in a hoarse voice. “You! You!”

“Yes, it’s me, Megan.”

Carly was briefly relieved at her sister’s apparent flash of recognition.

“Don’t be scared. Whatever happened, it’s over. You’re safe now. I’m here to help. So are Mom and Dad and Mark. So come on out, let’s get you back in your bed.”

But when Carly reached out her hand, Megan shuddered and drew back and cried out in a quavering voice.

“No! You! No! You!”

Carly was stunned.

She’s terrified—of me!

Carly reached out to take her sister by the hand, but this time Megan rose up and pushed at her with surprising force, knocking her backwards. By the time Carly regained her footing, Megan had charged out of the closet and was heading for the door to the hallway.

“Help!” Carly yelled at the top of her lungs. “I need help!”

Apparently Mark and Carly’s parents had already roused some help, because three strong, white-clad male nurses caught Megan before she could get through the door. Although the panicked patient struggled, one of them managed to inject her arm with a hypodermic needle.

As Mom, Dad, and Mark all rushed back into the room, Megan’s body fell slack from the sedative, and the nurses were able to get her back into bed.

“Oh, you found her!” Mom said to Carly, her voice hoarse with alarm. “You found her again. Thank God!”

Lying calmly in bed now, Megan stared up at her father and murmured softly.

“Daddy!”

Carly’s father was anything but an emotional man. Even so, tears fairly sprang from his eyes.

“Yes, it’s me, sweetheart,” he said in a choked voice, squeezing his daughter’s hand. “We’ve got you back. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Megan’s eyes were glazed and her voice was fading from the sedation.

Carly’s mother moved over beside her husband, who put his arm around her.

“Mom!” Megan said.

“Oh, it’s so, so good to hear you call me that, dear,” Mom said, holding Megan’s hand. “It’s been such a long, long time. We’re getting you back, after all these years! I’m just sure of it! Everything is going to be all right now.”

Mark stepped closer to the bed, and Megan looked at him with just the slightest trace of a smile.

“Mark,” she whispered.

“We’ve all missed you so much, Megan,” he told her.

But when Carly stepped closer to the bed, Megan’s whole body tensed. Her eyes widened again and she cried out in a low, foggy voice.

“No! You! No! You!”

Carly hastily drew back from the bed. She felt a flood of sadness as she watched her sister’s face and body relax the second she stepped out of view.

Why is she afraid of me?

Doesn’t she realize that I’m the one who saved her?

Mark, Mom, and Dad all huddled closely around the bed and spoke to Megan in soft, loving tones. The sedative was working more fully.

Just then a tall woman dressed in comforting pastel colors hurried into the room.

“I heard that Megan’s had an episode,” she said, joining the others at the bedside.

“That’s right,” Mom said. “She actually got out of the bed without anybody noticing. For a few minutes we didn’t know where she’d gone.”

“I found her hiding in the closet,” Carly added.

The woman gave Carly a curious look.

“This is my other daughter, Carly,” Mom explained. “I told you about her. She’s an FBI agent. She’s the one who found Megan after she’d been missing for so long. Carly, this is Dr. Lunoe, the psychiatrist who’s taking care of Megan.”

Dr. Lunoe gave Carly an approving nod.

“I’m glad you could be here. How did she react when you found her in the closet?”

Carly swallowed a painful knot in her throat. Even though the doctor had a gentle, kindly face, she found it hard to admit the truth.

“She seemed terrified to see me. She got up and tried to run away. Then the nurses stopped her and sedated her.”

Dr. Lunoe looked over at Carly’s sister again. Megan’s eyes were moving calmly among the faces immediately at the bedside.

“She doesn’t seem frightened to see the others here,” Dr. Lunoe remarked.

“I know,” Carly said in a hoarse voice. “I can’t …”

Carly couldn’t force out the rest of that sentence.

I can’t understand it.

Dr. Lunoe stepped back over to the bed. She took out a small light and used it to peer into Megan’s pupils.

“The situation has definitely changed,” she said.

“Can she come home with us now?” Carly’s father asked.

“I don’t know,” the psychiatrist said. “Right now I need a few moments alone with the patient. Afterwards I should be able to give you my opinion.”

As Carly walked out of the room with Mom, Dad, and Mark, Megan’s cry of terror at the sight of her echoed in her ears.

“No! You! No! You!”

Carly felt a shiver of cold dread.

What happens now?

CHAPTER TWO

Carly realized that she was almost hyperventilating.

Stay calm, she told herself firmly.

After all, as a special agent with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, she had faced a wide range of alarming human behaviors. She was used to keeping her cool even in the direst life-threatening situations. But this one wasn’t a threat to her own life, or her partner’s life, or even the lives of the innocents she so often had to protect.

This time she was being seen as a threat.

That didn’t happen often. Carly knew that her medium height and slender body often misled antagonists into thinking she wasn’t a threat. Her gray eyes and her long dark hair pulled back into a bun made her appear rather mild. She knew how to take advantage of all that.

But now her own sister was reacting with absolute terror at seeing her.

“Let’s get some fresh air, Carly,” a familiar voice said.

It took Carly a few moments to realize that Mark had spoken. He was holding her gently by the arm, helping her stay on her feet.

Carly’s mom and dad had seated themselves in the waiting area and were talking together. At that moment, the suspense of waiting for the doctor’s report bore down on Carly like a massive weight.

Mark’s suggestion sounded like a very good idea.

She nodded, and the two of them walked the rest of the way out of the hospital. Carly was still wearing her jacket, and the chilly November air had a bracing effect on her. She started to regain her composure.

“I don’t understand this,” Carly said to Mark. “Why was she afraid of me? Do you understand it?”

Mark shook his head.

“There are a lot of things I don’t understand. But let’s talk about this, try to think our way through it. Maybe we can make sense of it.”

Carly breathed a sigh of gratitude. “Let’s talk about it” was the kind of thing Mark had often said back when they’d dated as teenagers. And talking with Mark had always helped. But Carly and Mark had grown apart after the pain of Megan’s unexplained disappearance, and Carly hadn’t actually realized how much she’d missed him until very recently.

She turned and faced him. Over the years he’d put on some weight and started wearing glasses, but with his strong features, blue eyes, and neatly combed-back brown hair, he was still a remarkably good-looking man.

And there was definitely still an attraction between them.

“Where do we start?” she asked.

“Maybe it would help if you explained a few things. Right after you found Megan, you told me you’d seen her drowning. In a vision, I mean.”

“That’s right.”

“I didn’t really understand what you meant by that. Could you please tell me now?”

Carly hesitated. She’d spent so much of her life trying to keep her supernatural abilities to herself, it felt strange to talk about it openly. She’d had plenty of good reasons not to talk about it—not the least of which was the likelihood that people would think she was crazy. And of course, having her special powers exposed might well mean the end of her FBI career. It didn’t help that her strange ability to get messages from the dead didn’t work all the time.

She’d even tried to keep it all from her longtime partner, Lyle Ramsey, until a few days ago. But she’d explained it to Mom recently, and Mom had told both Dad and Mark. Since then, Carly and Mark had only spoken briefly and tentatively about her gift.

Mark knows now, she reminded herself.

He believes it.

He’ll understand.

“My partner and I were working on a case the first time I had that vision,” Carly said, shuddering as the experience came back to her. “It came to me in a dream. I was underwater, and I saw Megan floating in front of me, and she was pale and lifeless. I tried to talk, but I couldn’t. But …”

Carly swallowed down a hard knot of emotion.

How can I explain?

How can I describe it?

“She spoke to me, Mark. She opened her mouth and spoke to me. She told me she knew we’d all been searching for her for years, and she was sorry she’d gone away, but … it was over now, she said. We didn’t have to go looking for her anymore, because she was …”

Carly’s voice faded.

“Because she was dead,” Mark finished her sentence for her. “You told me before that you got messages from the dead.”

Carly nodded.

“And she told me everything was all right,” Carly said. “She told me someday we’d be together again. And then her body floated up into this beam of light … and the vision ended.”

Carly had to wipe away a tear.

“And I grieved. After all those years of not knowing, I thought I knew she was really dead. I never get visitations or visions from living people. The only way she could have reached out to me like that was from the beyond—or the brink of the beyond. But I still had no idea what had happened to her.”

Mark was listening intently. There wasn’t a trace of doubt in his eyes.

“But then it happened again, didn’t it?”

“That’s right. It was the same vision as before. I was underwater looking at her drowned body, and this time both of us were able to talk. And she told me again she was dead. But we both realized this had happened before. Neither one of us understood how it could possibly be happening again. How could anyone die more than once?”

Carly took a long, slow breath.

“And then it happened again—the same vision. And then it happened a fourth time. And that time she was able to give me a hint about where to find her. I’d already gotten psychic hints that she might be in Northern California. Before she disappeared from my vision again, she whispered the words ‘Belle Mer.’”

Carly’s pulse quickened as she remembered what had happened next.

“I managed to track down a house called Belle Mer in that part of California. It belongs to a rich man named Quincy Duncan. He’s out of the country now—in Nepal on some kind of spiritual retreat, and nobody can get in touch with him. So I flew right out to California and went straight to Belle Mer.”

“And that’s where you found her.”

“That’s right. Oh, Mark, it was so terrible, and I got there with seconds to spare. A man was drowning her in a tub of water. I have no idea why he’d do such a thing, and I’m afraid I might never be able to find out. I had to kill him to rescue Megan. It was self-defense. Both of our lives were at stake. There was nothing else I could do.”

“Yes, you told me about that part. So the reason you kept getting visions of Megan drowning …”

“It was because that man was drowning her again and again and again, bringing her back to life over and over with a defibrillator. He was deliberately torturing her for some reason. It’s a miracle she’s still alive.”

Mark gave her hand a squeeze.

“It’s not a miracle, Carly. You used your gift to save her. You’re a hero.”

“I don’t feel like much of a hero. Something is terribly, horribly wrong. The moment I found her in the closet and she saw me, she tried to fight me off. She’s terrified of me, Mark. Of me! Why? I don’t understand.”

A silence fell. Then Mark spoke slowly.

“I can think of one possible reason. It makes sense to me. But Carly, I’m afraid you’re not going to like hearing it.”

“Tell me,” Carly said breathlessly.

Mark stared ahead for a moment, as if trying to put his thoughts into words.

“Carly, the last time she saw any of us was ten years ago. Since then, she’s been going through … well, God knows what. And when you finally found her, it was in a dream, a vision. She was dying—actually dead for a few moments. And she knew she was dead. She told you so.”

Carly’s heart sank as she started to understand what Mark was getting at.

“Go on,” she said.

“And this happened again and again. So when she sees you now …”

Mark’s voice faded and Carly finished his thought.

“She thinks she’s dead again. She thinks she’s going through that whole nightmare again. She thinks it’s going to keep happening again and again, forever and ever.”

“I don’t know for sure,” Mark replied in a whisper. “Maybe.”

No maybes about it, Carly thought.

She knew Mark just had to be right.

At that moment, Mom called from the hospital entrance.

“Carly, Mark, come back inside. Dr. Lunoe is finished with her examination. She wants to talk to us all together.”

Carly and Mark took a long look at each other, then they followed Mom back into the hospital. Dad and Dr. Lunoe were already seated in the waiting area. Carly, Mark, and Mom joined them to hear what the psychiatrist had to say.

“I’m afraid I haven’t got good news,” Dr. Lunoe said with a sigh.

“You mean we won’t be able to take her home yet?” Mom asked.

“Far from it, I’m afraid. Her consciousness has waned again, and she can hardly talk. She’s actually somewhat catatonic, at least at the moment. And she can’t get the treatment she desperately needs in this facility. She’s going to have to be institutionalized for a while. I recommend that she be transferred immediately to Corley Mental Health Center.”

Carly’s father let out a gasp of protest.

“You’re going to put her in an insane asylum?”

“It’s nothing like that, Mr. See,” Dr. Lunoe replied. “It’s a fine facility where she’ll be nurtured and well-treated and cared for, and she has every chance of getting better. I can keep seeing her there. I’ll be in charge of treatment.”

“I don’t know—” Carly’s father began, but Mom cut him off.

“Russell, she’s ill. The doctor knows what’s best for her. We need to do exactly as she says. It’s the only way.”

“But … but how long will she have to stay there?” Carly’s father stammered.

“That’s uncertain,” Dr. Lunoe said. “It could be weeks, or it could be months.”

“Will we be able to visit her while she’s there?” Dad asked.

Dr. Lunoe didn’t reply for a few seconds.

“Mr. and Mrs. See, I don’t see any problem with you visiting her as much as you like. The same with you, Mr. Lawson. In fact, I think it would be very good for her to have loving faces around her. It really might help in her recovery. But …”

Dr. Lunoe looked at Carly, who dreaded what she was about to say next.

“Ms. See, I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to spend time with her. At least not for the time being. While I was examining her, I repeatedly said all your names to her. She wasn’t alarmed to hear me say Mom, Dad, and Mark. But when I said Carly …”

Dr. Lunoe’s voice faded, but Carly knew what she was leaving unsaid.

She’s terrified even to hear my name.

Dr. Lunoe squinted at Carly inquisitively.

“Do you have any idea why she might be frightened of you?”

Carly felt staggered by the question. She exchanged glances with Mark, and she knew they were thinking the same thing. She couldn’t explain to Dr. Lunoe that the sound of her voice and the sight of her face made Megan think she was dead—again.

When Carly just shook her head, Dr. Lunoe turned to Carly’s parents and produced some paperwork that required their approval.

Mark stood up and beckoned to Carly. Together they stepped out of the others’ earshot.

“Carly, shouldn’t we tell Dr. Lunoe the truth?” Mark asked.

“We can’t, Mark.”

“But maybe she’ll believe it. Maybe she’ll understand. If you and your parents and I talk to her about it together—”

“No, Mark,” Carly said, interrupting gently. “We don’t even know for sure we’re right about why Megan is reacting that way. We could be wrong. And it won’t help if Dr. Lunoe thinks I’m … you don’t realize how people tend to react to … to me.”

“Carly, this is terrible. I’m so sorry.”

Carly realized she was on the verge of bursting into tears.

Not now.

Keep it together.

Don’t fall apart now.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” she said in a voice that trembled with uncertainty. Then, nodding toward Megan’s room, she added, “She’s all alone right now. You should go be with her while Mom and Dad are signing the papers.”

“But Carly—”

“Please, Mark, go. I don’t like her being by herself. And besides, I …”

Her voice faded, but Mark nodded. He clearly knew what she was leaving unsaid.

“I’ve got to be alone for a little while.”

Mark kissed her lightly on the cheek, then walked toward Megan’s room. Carly turned and walked in the other direction toward the hospital entrance. She figured, if she was going to start weeping, it would be better to do it outside.

As she made her way unsteadily down the hall, she heard her phone buzz in her purse. She gasped with unexpected pleasure when she saw who had left her a text message.

CHAPTER THREE

“Lyle!” she whispered.

Her FBI partner was the last person she’d expected to hear from right now. It brought a smile to her face, and on this hard day it felt really good to smile.

She opened the text and read it.

“Hi Carly. Don’t want to disturb you. Call when you can.”

She let out a sigh of relief. The last time she and Lyle Ramsey had spoken, they’d agreed that their partnership was over. After more than four years of working cases together, Lyle Ramsey had announced that it was time for him to retire.

“I’m getting old, Carly,” he’d told her. “And a lot of things have passed me by.”

He’d said he needed to spend some time with himself and try to decide what he really wanted to do with the rest of his life. But Carly knew that Lyle’s difficult personal issues weren’t his only reason for abandoning a long and successful career.

She herself was a big motive for his decision to leave the FBI.

She had finally opened up to him about her supernatural communications. It had been painful for Lyle to learn that Carly had been using those strange abilities all during their partnership to help solve cases—and she’d never even told him about it. He’d responded to her revelations with very mixed emotions.

She’d been a little bit afraid that conversation had really been their last.

Now Carly eagerly tapped in his phone number.

“Hi, kid,” Lyle said when he took the call.

“Hi, Lyle. Where are you calling from?”

“Albuquerque. I think I told you I was flying out here. I’ve been getting ready to do some hiking in the desert. I’ve been wanting to do that for a while. I expect I’ll head out there tomorrow morning. I’ve got all my gear ready.”

“I hope you enjoy it. Not just the desert, but your whole retirement.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will. How are things with your sister?”

Carly heaved a deep, long sigh.

“Things are bad, Lyle. Really bad. We’re going to have to put her in an institution for a while.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she gets better soon.”

“Thanks.”

If only I could dare to hope, she wanted to say.

She and Lyle both fell quiet for a moment.

“Listen, I hate to bring this up,” Lyle finally said. “But I got a call from Chief Voss a little while ago. He wanted me to come back and work on one last case in West Virginia. He said it’s another weird one, something to do with bodies turning up in shallow graves, and he didn’t think anybody else was suited for it.”

Carly chuckled a little.

“I guess he always thinks of us when things get bizarre.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“I assume you said no to him.”

“Oh, I sure did, but …”

Carly heard Lyle cluck his tongue.

“Well, you know Voss,” Lyle said. “He’s as persistent as hell. But I hung tough. I told him I wouldn’t go work on another case unless you came with me. But don’t worry, Carly. I just said that to get myself out of it. Voss knows as well as I do that you’ll say no. There’s no way you’re going to leave Currie while your sister is in such bad shape. Still, he does expect me to ask you.”

Lyle chuckled confidently.

“And now it’s all very simple,” he added. “I’ll ask you to join me on the case right now, and you’ll say no, and I’ll call Voss right now to tell him you refused, and he’ll concede defeat. That will be the end of it, and I can get on with the rest of my life, and you can keep taking care of your sister. So just go along with me, OK? Will you work with me on one last case?”

Carly knew Lyle sincerely expected her to say no.

And she deeply wanted to say no.

But before she could force out that single, simple syllable, she remembered the terrified expression on her sister’s face as she’d stared at Carly and cried out with such terrible fear.

“No! You! No! You!”

And of course, she couldn’t even visit Megan, at least for the time being. This had left Carly wondering just how she was going to survive the terrible wait here in Currie for any news about Megan’s recovery.

So maybe …

“Lyle, how would you feel …”

She swallowed hard, then finished her question.

“… if I didn’t say no?”

She heard him let out a grunt of disbelief.

“Well, I’d be surprised,” he said. “More than surprised. Surely you’re not going to say yes—are you?”

“That depends …”

Carly’s voice faded as she tried to think things through.

Then she finally blurted out some of her turbulent feelings.

“Lyle, like I said, things have taken a bad turn here. I can’t be of any help to Megan. I won’t even be allowed to see her until … well, not until—or if—she starts getting better.”

“But why?”

“She’s afraid of me, Lyle. I think it’s on account of those visions we shared when she was dead. She connects me with … with being dead. And there’s nothing I can do to fix that, at least not yet. And if I have to hang around here waiting helplessly for things to change, I’m afraid I’ll lose my mind.”

“I understand,” Lyle said.

Suddenly it occurred to Carly that she was being very selfish.

“I’m sorry, Lyle,” she said. “I’m being crazy. Just forget I said anything. The last thing you need right now is to work on another case, with or without me. In fact, it’s the last thing you need ever. You shouldn’t waste another minute getting on with your retirement.”

A strange silence followed.

“Carly—”

“No, Lyle, I mean it. I feel like a jerk for even bringing it up.”

“Listen. Maybe … just maybe …”

Lyle’s voice faded for a moment, then he continued more decisively.

“Something’s been bugging me ever since I decided to retire. I can’t help feeling like I’m leaving something unfinished—like we’re leaving something unfinished.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just think about it, Carly. It’s only been a few days since I started really understanding this gift of yours. All these years we worked together, I suspected something, but I tried to block out the truth. I knew you had some kind of special smarts that helped solve cases, but I never let myself think too much about what they might be.”

Carly couldn’t hold back a sigh of sadness and regret.

“And I wouldn’t tell you the truth.”

“Right. But we went about our jobs anyway. And we made one hell of a team, didn’t we?”

Carly smiled a little.

“We sure did.”

“And I’ve found myself wondering—what might we be able do together now that everything’s out in the open between us? Don’t you ever think about that?”

Carly didn’t reply. The truth was, she hadn’t thought about it until this very moment.

But now …

“But what about your retirement?” Carly asked.

“I’ll still do that. I only want to do one last case, that’s all, just to see how it goes. I promise that will be it for me. I hadn’t meant to ask you, but since you seem to be wondering what to do yourself …”

Lyle’s voice faded.

“OK, Lyle, I’ll do it,” Carly finally said.

“Great! The case is in central West Virginia. I’ll book a flight for tomorrow to Yeager International Airport in Charleston. I’ll try to arrive late in the morning, and I’ll rent a car. Can you meet me at the airport there?”

“Absolutely. I’ll call you with my flight information as soon as I know it.”

“And I’ll text you mine.”

A silence fell. Carly sensed that they were leaving something unsaid.

Thanks, maybe.

For a whole lot of reasons, both of them seemed to need to take this final assignment together. But thanks didn’t seem appropriate—at least not yet.

Maybe when the case is over.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said instead.

“Great. Bye.”

They ended the call, and Carly stared at the phone for a moment. She felt quite taken aback by this sudden change of plans—and also a little worried.

Am I making a mistake?

She walked back down the hall toward Megan’s room and peeked through the doorway. Mom, Dad, and Mark were gathered around the bed again, talking gently to Megan, even though she appeared to be too dazed to really understand what they were saying.

I don’t belong here, she thought miserably.

At least not right now.

Maybe someday soon …

Carly took out her cellphone and saw that Lyle had already sent her his flight information.

A weird case, Voss said.

Maybe something weird somewhere else in the world was exactly what she needed right now.

CHAPTER FOUR

“There she is!” the man muttered to himself.

He glanced around to be sure no one had noticed him standing there, partially hidden behind a tree. Although his identity was no secret to anybody, at this particular moment he preferred not to be observed, especially not by her.

He felt a swell of excitement as he watched the woman come out of the school building and head across the street toward the bus stop. He’d taken plenty of opportunities to observe Uta Raife. He knew she was committed to a regular routine—and also to the safety of the children in her care.

Every morning before school started, she personally walked over to the bus stop to meet the children whose parents couldn’t drive them to school. And this morning, just like always, she stood at the curb waiting patiently for the school bus to arrive.

It was a sight that brought a rare smile to his face.

A good woman, he thought.

A good schoolteacher.

It almost seems a shame …

But he quickly squelched any doubts about what had to be done tonight.

I can’t waver now.

A few nights ago, he hadn’t been sure he’d be able to carry out the task before him. He’d never considered himself an aggressive person, and this new mission demanded a lot of him.

I’ve got to stay firm.

After all, he’d overcome his own uncertainties twice now.

After he’d psyched himself up and actually undertaken the new task, killing both Robyn Sears and Ethel Weaver had proven to be much easier than he’d expected. It had simply been a matter of catching them unawares by night, then swiftly entering his knife just below the center of the ribcage.

He’d been a bit surprised to feel no remorse or pity as their bodies fell to the ground—surprised and pleased.

He’d felt nothing but the sense of accomplishment he’d longed for.

I’m stronger than I thought.

And both times, he’d carried out the rest of his task with considerable aplomb, taking their bodies to the places where he was to bury them.

Because they had to be properly buried. That was important.

In Robyn’s case three nights ago, the burial hadn’t been a problem. But Ethel’s the night before last had involved considerably more effort.

After he’d stabbed her on a lonely street in downtown Otisville, he’d loaded her body into the bed of his pickup truck. He had to lay her to rest in the Trench Hill Cemetery, but he’d known from the start that he couldn’t simply park along Ralston Street and drag her body there—not under the glare of the street lamps, where he could easily be noticed by a passerby or somebody glancing out the window from one of the nearby homes.

No, he had to reach a less visible part of that old graveyard. He’d stopped his truck on a secluded road, then carried her body on his back up the wooded slopes of Trench Hill until he reached the most remote graves, where the Civil War soldiers were buried under plain slate markers. Fortunately, he knew those woods much better than almost anybody, and he could navigate them pretty well even at night. The burial itself had gone as smoothly as could be expected.

The only hitch had come when he was finishing up. He’d nearly panicked when he saw a flashlight winding its way up the hill toward him. It was too late to run, so he’d switched off his own flashlight and retreated into the deep brush that bordered the battle graves. Afraid to move, he’d watched through the branches of a bush with anxious fascination as the newcomer approached from farther down the hill—Les Bartell, he was pretty sure it had been.

When Bartell had started shouting for whoever was there to show himself, the man had felt a flash of terror. Barely breathing, he’d watched as the intruder used his shovel to uncover the dead woman’s face. He’d seen Bartell almost collapse with terror, then look around fearfully.

Did he know someone was still nearby?

He supposed it didn’t matter. He hadn’t been seen, and Bartell had turned around and run back down through the cemetery as fast as he possibly could. Then the man had taken the opportunity to slip away down the hillside, and he’d been gone before the police showed up.

He shivered a little at the memory. He’d come too close for comfort to being caught. And he wondered if tonight was going to present that kind of risk.

Maybe—the killing part, anyway.

He’d managed to ambush both Robyn and Ethel and cut off their lives before they’d even known what was happening. Although he’d carefully planned his assault on Uta, he wasn’t sure he was going to catch her completely by surprise. People in this town were more alert, now that there had been two deaths, and the killing was going to take place in a different sort of setting. He might have to take this one more carefully.

We might even have to chat a little until I can get close enough.

Not that that would necessarily be a bad thing.

Who knows? Maybe it will be a refreshing change.

And now he watched as the school bus pulled to a stop, and the youngsters climbed out. Uta Raife greeted them with smiles and laughter, then personally led them across the street to the school building. Just like always, they followed her in a comical little row like ducklings behind their mother.

The kids followed her into the school building. As the man went away to get back to his daily routine, he felt a slight spasm of sadness at the fate that awaited Uta Raife. But again, he reminded himself to stay determined.

Don’t get emotional about it.

He had a task ahead, a chore to undertake, and he couldn’t allow himself to waver about it.

It has to be done.

And I’m the one who has to do it.

CHAPTER FIVE

Carly had just checked into the flight gate at O’Hare International Airport when she got a cellphone call that made her feel uneasy.

Chief Voss!

It was hard enough to read what the head agent at BAU was thinking even when she was face to face with him. Over the phone, it was just about impossible. He was an intensely inscrutable man by nature.

But of course, she had to take the call. And as usual, Voss got straight to the point without niceties or greeting.

“Agent Ramsey tells me you’ve agreed to accept the case.”

“That’s right.”

A silence fell between them.

What’s he thinking? she wondered.

Carly held the phone to her ear while she took a seat in the waiting area. Finally, Voss spoke again.

“I’m glad. This case strikes me as a strange one. I guess over the years I’ve gotten a feeling for the kinds of issues you and Ramsey are best suited for. I don’t have any other agents that can do … well, what you do.”

Carly was never sure just how much her boss knew or suspected about her supernatural skills. Just a few days ago in his office, he’d hinted that he’d been aware for a long time that her abilities went far beyond ordinary investigative expertise.

She could remember his exact words.

“Often when I’m reading a report of a case you worked on with Agent Ramsey, I sense there’s a lot between the lines—a lot that’s been left unsaid.”

Was Chief Voss now taking her psychic skills into account when he assigned cases?

There was also something about his tone right now that struck Carly as unusual. Voss was normally a brusque, businesslike boss who wasn’t given to hints of vulnerability. But now his voice sounded …

What? she wondered.

She wasn’t quite sure.

Different, somehow.

“The truth is,” Voss continued, “I’m surprised you agreed to it. I thought you’d turn it down. Aren’t you fully occupied taking care of your sister?”

Carly was quite surprised now. This wasn’t the sort of personal question she was used to hearing from Voss. But she reminded herself that the team chief had been showing a more human side lately.

“Thanks for asking,” she replied. “I’m afraid things have taken a bad turn with my sister and … well, to make a long story short, I can’t do anything for her right now. I can’t do anything at all.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Carly’s forehead crinkled with bemusement. “Sorry” was not a word she was used to hearing Voss say.

There was another brief silence before Voss spoke again.

“Agent See, I’ve been doing my best to pursue that issue we discussed.”

This time Carly did know exactly what Voss was talking about. In an unexpected act of generosity, he had offered to put FBI resources to use in an effort to identify Megan’s now-dead assailant, and also to try to find out why he had abducted and tortured her.

“I wish I had some new information,” Voss continued. “The man you killed in self-defense was something of a ghost. We haven’t been able trace him via prints or DNA, at least not so far. But we’re still working on it.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I’ve also taken another matter personally in hand. I’ve been trying to reach the owner of the house where you rescued your sister. I believe I told you he’s in Nepal on some sort of spiritual retreat.”

“Yes, you told me that.”

She knew that the man in question was the millionaire self-help author Quincy Duncan—a name she’d recognized as soon as she’d heard it. A few years back he’d written a runaway bestseller called Soul Stratagem: An Instruction Manual.

“He’s proven to be very hard to reach,” Voss said. “It seems he’s in some remote, isolated monastery in the mountains with no modern connections to the world. His staff is located in Kathmandu, and they’ve sent a couple of sherpas to tell him what had happened. But they’ve got to go on foot, and they say it’s a long hike—more than a day, anyway. Still, I’m hoping to get some word from him before too long. Of course, they also tell me he’s taken a vow of silence …”

Voss let out an ironic scoff, then continued.

“Well, I’m sure he can find some way to communicate with us. After all, an innocent person was abducted, tortured, and very nearly murdered on his property. He needs to know about that, at the very least. And he needs to tell us anything he might know about what happened. I’ll make sure that he does.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Of course Carly knew better than to expect Voss to say “you’re welcome.” In fact, she heard him grunt discontentedly. She sensed that he felt awkward about his uncharacteristically open show of concern.

When he spoke again, he sounded like his usual terse, businesslike self.

“I expect you and Agent Ramsey to wrap up this new case quickly. I look forward to seeing your report.”

He ended the call before Carly could say another word.

She sat there staring at her cellphone with some perplexity.

What’s going on with Voss?

And more to the point …

Why is he so determined that Lyle and I work this case?

Then she reminded herself—Voss had pressured Lyle to take the case, not her.

If Lyle had agreed to work with another partner, Voss might have been perfectly fine with it. But Lyle had insisted that he wouldn’t do the case without Carly. And now Voss had actually seemed to be concerned that he was dragging her away from Megan.

None of this seemed typical of Chief Voss.

Then she realized that this assignment wasn’t about her at all.

It’s about Lyle.

Voss and Lyle are friends.

And they’d been friends for many years, since both of them were rookies. They’d even worked some cases together. While Voss had risen in the ranks to become a team chief, Lyle had preferred to keep working in the field. Since then, they’d taken care to keep their relationship on a professional footing. Voss gave the orders and made the assignments, and Lyle did as he was told.

Carly wondered whether they sometimes found that relationship difficult to maintain. In one of his rare vulnerable moments, Voss had expressed some very human concern about Lyle.

“We’ve seen each other through some tough times,” Voss had said, “and we’ve both earned some gray hairs.”

He had mentioned being there for Lyle during his divorce and his struggles with alcohol, and also when his previous partner had gotten killed.

“And he’s been there for me through plenty of bad times,” Voss had added.

Carly had no idea what sorts of bad times those had been. As open as Lyle was about many things, he almost never talked about his friendship with Voss.

And now Lyle says he’s going to retire.

And Voss is having a hard time with that.

He’s having a hard time letting go.

That was surely the real reason why he’d fairly pleaded with Lyle to take one more case.

Carly heard the boarding announcement and got up from her chair and picked up her go-bag. As she crossed the boarding bridge to the plane, she felt a pang of sympathy for both Lyle and Chief Voss.

For a lot of reasons, she knew this case was going to be more personal than most—not the least of which was that it could be the last time those two men worked together.

It could also be the last time Carly and Lyle would ever work together.

We’d better get it right.

CHAPTER SIX

A short while later, Carly was driving toward the little town of Otisville, West Virginia, where she and Lyle were due to investigate two murders. Carly was trying to keep her attention on the curving two-lane highway that wended its way along a steep hillside, but she was bothered by her partner’s behavior.

Lyle had said very little during the drive. But that wasn’t what worried her.

Why does he keep looking at me? she wondered.

Lyle wasn’t exactly staring at her. It was more furtive than that—a series of quick glances that made Carly distinctly uncomfortable. She tried to ignore it, but finally felt compelled to speak up.

“Is something wrong?”

“Uh, no. Why do you ask?”

“You keep looking at me.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know I was doing that. I’ll try not to.”

Another silence fell. Lyle had stopped glancing at her, but she could feel the effort he was putting into keeping his eyes focused in other directions.

It wasn’t an improvement as far as she was concerned.

Carly normally found her partner to be a warm, strong, comforting, inspiring presence. Even in his late fifties, the tall and wiry African American was always sure-footed, self-assured, and ready for action. She thought his graying hair made him look more distinguished and capable.

More importantly, Lyle was both her mentor and her friend.

True, they’d had a few quarrels. But mostly they’d shared a solid, trusting rapport during the years they’d worked together.

But now something was distinctly off between them.

“Have we got a problem?” Carly finally asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Between the two of us.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I want you to tell me.”

“No, of course not.”

Carly was sure she could hear a note of deception in his voice.

She just hated this unexplained tension between them. She knew she had to sort this out before they set out together in search of a dangerous killer. So she had to pursue her question.

“Can you at least tell me what you’re thinking?”

“Uh, I’m thinking about the case, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Lyle let out a sigh.

“OK … OK. It’s bothering me just a little. This is the first case we’ve worked on when I’ve known the whole truth about … well, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Carly replied.

I should have realized what this was all about.

Lyle made a lame effort at a casual shrug.

“Well, now that we’re getting closer to Otisville, I was just wondering …”

Carly glanced at him with a squint.

“Whether I’ve gotten any communications yet?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s it. Are any dead … uh, any victims … talking to you now?”

Carly stifled a sigh.

“Lyle, that’s not how it works. At least not usually. I mean, we haven’t even gotten to the actual crime scenes yet. That’s where I sometimes get a message from a murder victim—either there or in the morgue, standing over the body. And sometimes I don’t get any communications at all, or else I get something that’s not helpful. Don’t get your expectations up.”

“OK. I understand. Sorry to get all weird about it. I just need to know what’s going on. So tell me when you do get anything, OK? No more secrets.”

Carly didn’t reply. She wished she could promise Lyle just that. But what if she got some kind of communication that she didn’t think he should hear? That maybe he couldn’t handle?

It was a distinct possibility. She’d recently been contacted by Lyle’s previous partner, who had been killed in a gunfight. Lyle had been pretty badly shaken when Carly had tried to tell him about it. It wasn’t as though she chose the spirits who reached out to her, much less what they had to say.

I hope both of us didn’t make a mistake accepting this case.

They’d left the interstate about a half hour before. Since then they’d been rounding hill after hill across the Appalachian countryside. It was late autumn, and the trees were bare, but Carly could well imagine how beautiful this country could be during other parts of the year—when everything exploded with green during the spring, or changed colors in the early fall.

They rounded one final curve, and the little town of Otisville came into view, nestled in the valley below. It was a quaint and charming sight—hardly the sort of setting where one might expect something as dire as multiple murders to happen. But Carly had long since learned that such appearances were often deceptive.

Lyle took out his cellphone to call the county sheriff, who sounded pleased that they were about to arrive.

“Excellent,” the sheriff said. “Just continue along Carter Street up the hill until you get to Ralston Street. That’s where the cemetery is, you can’t miss it. My boys and I will meet you there.”

As their car descended into the valley, they passed a sign that said “Otisville, pop. 1100.”

The highway turned into Carter Street, and they continued into the town. They drove past a few houses and businesses, then crossed a steel bridge over a narrow brown ribbon of a river. They found themselves in the downtown business area, which Carly could see only extended a few blocks in each direction.

The town reminded her of her own hometown of Currie—although Otisville was really quite a bit smaller. Most of the businesses, storefronts, and churches looked like they’d been here for a very long time.

The kind of town where not much changes.

There was little vehicle traffic. Pedestrians were ambling about calmly, apparently oblivious to the fact that a couple of murders had taken place in the area—and also to the possibility that more murders might soon follow unless the killer was stopped.

Maybe nobody here really believes it—at least not yet.

After all, nobody back in Currie would have believed such a thing either, at least not until a childhood friend of Carly’s had disappeared back when they were both twelve years old. That was when Carly had her first vision.

Little Tyler Glick had been murdered, and his spirit had come to her in a dream to show her where to find his body. Carly had talked the police into looking near the windmill on Sam Mercer’s farm, some distance out of town. And sure enough, that was where they’d found the dead little boy.

Things had gotten hard for Carly after that. Everyone had demanded to know how she’d known that location—the cops especially. She’d struggled to find some way to explain it without telling anybody about that dream, and she usually wound up babbling incoherently.

Soon everybody had given up asking, but life never really got back to normal—not for Carly, nor for all the other people who lived in the once peaceful town of Currie. Tyler’s death had been a cruel shock to everybody.

She knew that the people who lived here in Otisville would feel a similar shock, sooner or later.

The thought made Carly sad.

Carter Street rose up a steep hill as they approached their destination. Their rented car struggled and groaned a little as it climbed the demanding incline. Carly couldn’t imagine how anybody could navigate this hill when there was snow and ice on the road. But she guessed people in this hilly Appalachian region were used to those challenges.

Finally she came to a T intersection with Ralston Street. Across the street, a large cemetery stretched out up the hill until the gravestones disappeared among the trees.

I’ll bet there are lots of ghost stories about that place.

Given what she knew about the afterlife, Carly wondered how many of those stories might be true. A lot of spirits must have passed through a huge graveyard like that one, and some of them might have been inclined to remain there or revisit from time to time.

She hoped that some of Otisville’s dead might be willing to help her.

If they’re not hostile spirits.

She knew better than to suppose that spirits of the dead had risen from their graves to commit these murders, but even so …

The dead can have a deadly influence on the living.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Even in the late afternoon sunlight, the cemetery gave off an eerie vibe. Carly could feel it as soon as she pulled their vehicle to a stop behind a police car parked by the curb.

She shook off a shiver of apprehension.

Am I already getting a hint of some kind of contact? she wondered.

She couldn’t tell yet what that feeling might mean. At this point the setting alone might provoke a strange sensation in just about anybody. And even if she was sensing the presence of an actual spirit, it might have nothing to do with the case at hand.

Three uniformed cops stood waiting for their arrival. When Carly and Lyle got out of their car, a husky, middle-aged man wearing a sheriff’s badge came walking toward them. He had a friendly twinkle in his eye.

“You’re the FBI folks, I reckon,” the sheriff said.

As they both produced their badges, Lyle made their introductions.

“That’s right. I’m Special Agent Lyle Ramsey, and this is my partner, Special Agent Carly See.”

“Special agents, eh?” the man said, shaking hands with each of them. “Well, that’s good, because it looks like we’re going to need some special help. I’m Casey Clayburgh, the sheriff here in Venable County. These boys here are Deputy Rudy Hamner and Sergeant Seth Larson.”

The two men also shook hands with Carly and Lyle.

“First things first,” Sheriff Clayburgh said. “From what you know already, do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

“We can’t say for sure just yet,” Lyle replied. “The burials in shallow graves might signify some sort of ritual component. But at the same time, it could be something simpler than that.”

Carly silently agreed. In fact, the police report she and Lyle had read during their flight here had been sparse. The police just hadn’t gleaned much information so far—which of course was why she and Lyle were here.

“Tell us more about how and when the bodies were found,” Lyle said.

Sheriff Clayburgh pointed farther up the hill into the graveyard.

“Well, late the night before last, a local fellow named Les Bartell found a body in a shallow grave up yonder a ways. The victim was Ethel Weaver, a bartender at Bogo’s Tavern downtown.”

“What was Bartell doing there at that time of night?” Lyle asked.

“Getting ready for a burial the next day. He’s a lay minister of his church, and he’s in charge of arranging burials for the congregation.”

“Has he got an alibi for earlier that night?” Carly asked.

“Yeah, he and his wife were having dinner with the pastor and his wife. Les had a shovel with him when he came up here, which is how he uncovered the corpse. He called us right away, and we came right out here.”

“But Ethel Weaver wasn’t the first victim,” Carly remarked, remembering the report’s account of two bodies.

“No, but we didn’t know that at the time,” Clayburgh said. “The next day we got a call from Lulu Watkins over in Wildroot Run. She’d come across another body buried the same way in the graveyard there. Robyn Sears was the victim’s name. Both victims had been stabbed to death before they’d been buried. So it was obviously the same MO, and the same killer.”

The sheriff let out a gruff sigh of bemusement.

“That’s why I called you folks for help,” he continued. “Among other things, I’ve got an impatient mayor breathing down my neck. I hope you can catch this killer before he kills again, if that’s what he’s got in mind. We get murders out here once in a while. People in a town like this can get pretty cranky with each other. But we’re not used to anything this weird.”

Lyle nodded and said, “First we’d like you to show us where Ethel Weaver’s body was found.”

“We’ll take you right there,” Sheriff Clayburgh said.

They followed Clayburgh and the other two men on into the graveyard.

“Walking through here’s a bit like walking through the history of this town,” Clayburgh told them. “The graves out here near the edge of the cemetery are of the most recently deceased. The graves get older the farther you go.”

Carly quickly saw that Clayburgh was right. As they walked along, the dates on the stones retreated into the past, and the stones themselves looked more and more weather-beaten. The ground was more brushy and tangled. They were obviously moving into a less visited and less well-kept part of the graveyard.

That chill of apprehension grew stronger in Carly. But she still couldn’t tell for sure what she was feeling. Was it an approaching visitation, or just the chill in the air plus the eeriness of their surroundings?

They soon came to a peculiar little ridge that seemed to continue in both directions.

“This mound here is why they call this Trench Hill,” the sheriff explained as they walked over it. “It was never actually a trench, though. It was an earthen fortification that went all the way around the hill. If you keep your eye peeled, you might find some old lead bullets lying around.”

Lyle looked intrigued.

“Does the fort date back to the Civil War?”

“That’s right. The Battle of Otisville was fought here in 1862. A Union Infantry unit was based here at the time. Some three hundred Confederate troops attacked. After some pretty fierce fighting, the Union boys were routed, and the Rebels seized the fort. They held it for a couple of days until they marched on to seize another Union fort over in Pickensville.”

Sheriff Clayburgh chuckled shyly.

“But I don’t reckon the two of you want to hear a lecture on the history of these parts.”

Carly didn’t say so, but she was actually quite interested, and she was sure that Lyle felt the same way. What really caught her attention wasn’t so much the battle itself as the sheriff’s earnest tone in talking about it.

 There’s a lot of history in this little town.

It might even turn out that the town’s history had some relevance to the case they were starting to work on. If so, Carly figured it was a good thing to learn whatever she could about it.

The gravestones on the far side of the mound were markedly different from the ones they’d already passed. These were simple slate slabs that had been stuck into the ground with no visible inscriptions.

“This is where the poor guys who died in that battle got buried,” Clayburgh said, pointing to the stones. “There wasn’t time for a lot of ceremony after the fighting was done, as you can see. There were a lot of corpses that had to get planted before they went nasty. There are probably soldiers from both sides buried right next to each other. Nobody’ll ever know which was which.”

He added with a slightly sardonic chuckle, “I hope their ghosts are getting along better than they did while they were alive.”

Carly felt a tangible tingling now.

She had little doubt that she was about to get some sort of visitation. Her sense of a spirit presence was growing stronger. She hoped it was a spirit that actually knew something about this case and not just some wandering soul.

It felt closer and closer.

Just get braced for it.

These psychic communications could be powerful enough to knock her off her feet and render her nearly senseless. Although Lyle was now better able to understand such episodes than he used to be, it would be bad to fall apart like that in front of Sheriff Clayburgh and his two colleagues.

Keep it together, no matter what.

Just a short distance among the battle graves, the group arrived at the spot where the body had been buried.

“Here it is,” Sheriff Clayburgh announced, indicating a slight excavation where the body had been removed.

It was a shallow grave, all right. There was a hollow place in the ground where the body had been buried, flanked by dug-up soil on either side.

Carly remembered the crime scene photos she and Lyle had studied on their way here. She could easily picture Ethel Weaver’s freshly excavated body lying there with a mouthful of dirt, her eyes wide open, and a dark stain on her jacket where she’d been fatally stabbed in the abdomen.

She had to struggle to suppress a shudder of dread.

That feeling was stronger than ever now. Even so, she knew she had to face the impending experience as fearlessly as she could.

She stepped toward the grave and crouched down as if to get a closer look.

Then she was hit by the full force of a vision.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A tangle of grotesquely gnarled and knotted branches obscured a moonlit sky scattered with clouds. Staring upward through those branches, Carly thought they looked as if someone had hacked away carelessly at smaller limbs over the years.

Where am I? she wondered.

Somewhere in a vision, of course.

But she had no idea where.

Then a more pertinent question came to her.

Who am I?

For there could be little doubt that she was sharing an experience with some spirit of the dead. Was it one of the recent murder victims?

As if in reply to her unspoken questions, she glimpsed the blade of a shovel just above her.

Then she felt the thump of soil on her chest.

I’m being buried!

She heard a raspy woman’s voice.

“That’s right, girl. I’m being buried, to be exact. You’re just along for the ride. Now pay close attention. Don’t miss anything. You might just learn something. In fact, you damn well better learn something. That’s what this is all about, ain’t it? Unless you find a way to stop it, this is gonna keep happening again and again.”

As shovelful after shovelful of soil were heaped up on her legs and torso, Carly struggled to understand exactly what had happened.

“Were you buried alive?” she asked.

“Stupid girl. Does it feel like I was buried alive?”

Carly caught the spirit’s point. Despite the increasing weight of the soil on her body, she wasn’t struggling against it. This victim hadn’t been squirming or trying to get loose.

And of course, she remembered that both of the victims they were investigating had been stabbed to death before they’d been buried.

“Can you tell me who did this to you?” Carly asked.

She heard a croaking moan of despair, but no reply.

“Please tell me,” Carly persisted.

“I can’t. I can’t.”

“Why not? Don’t you know?”

“I can’t. I can’t. It’s too awful. Those words won’t come out.”

“Can’t you tell me anything at all?”

“No, nothing—except you’ve got to stop this from happening. It’s up to you. No one else can help.”

“But can’t you please—?”

Carly’s next question was interrupted by a shovelful of dirt falling on her face and blocking her view of that twisted tree and of the moonlit sky and silencing her voice…

And that’s when the vision ended.

She found herself as she’d been before it started, crouching beside a shallow grave and staring down into it.

As usual, she had no idea how long the visitation had lasted, or whether her own behavior had seemed weird to the others present. But as she glanced at the faces of the sheriff, the deputy, and the sergeant, she was relieved to see that apparently none of them had noticed anything. Her vision had just taken seconds of ordinary time, passing too quickly to draw their attention.

Lyle, however, was another story.

He was staring at her, eyes widened with interest and his expression showing concern.

He could tell something was happening, Carly thought with a sigh.

It was too bad she couldn’t talk to him about this right now—not with the three cops present. She wished that Lyle could have heard the words of that feisty personality who had just told her “you damn well better learn something.”

And she believed that warning. Unless they did something to stop the killer, these murders were going to keep happening. She and Lyle and the police had already suspected that they were dealing with a serial killer. But she was the only one who knew that for sure.

Lyle turned his attention back to the grave.

“Are both of the bodies being kept in the morgue?” he asked Clayburgh.

Clayburgh nodded.

“Could we … have a look at them?” Lyle asked cautiously.

Sheriff Clayburgh looked surprised, and Carly could guess why. It surely struck him as an odd request. If there was one thing the authorities already knew, it was how the two victims had been killed. They’d been stabbed in the upper torso. Naturally, Clayburgh wondered what else they could hope to learn from a look at the bodies.

But Carly knew that Lyle was trying to be helpful. Now that he knew about her gift, he also knew she gained some of her most powerful insights over bodies kept in storage. He was trying to set up that possibility for her.

Carly had always felt awkward making that kind of request, and she appreciated Lyle’s effort. She hoped that the spirit who had just contacted her might share considerably more information if she could get closer to the actual dead body.

“Well, you might find that to be a little … inconvenient,” Clayburgh said, shuffling his feet.

“Why is that?”

“The morgue is in the county coroner’s headquarters—and that’s over in Charleston.”

Lyle squinted with surprise.

“But that’s not even in the same county,” he said.

“Nope. But they’re better equipped over in the big city to store and carve up cadavers and keep them fresh all the while. We just don’t have the wherewithal here in Otisville.”

Clayburgh chuckled at Lyle’s surprise.

“You’re in the wilds of the West Virginia hills now. You’d better get used to things not being uptown and up-to-date in these parts.”

Carly shared Lyle’s visible disappointment. They’d just driven two hours here from Charleston, and they couldn’t take the time to drive back there and then drive here all over again.

As the group retraced their way back through the cemetery toward Ralston Street, she found herself thinking about her vision. She clearly remembered the gnarled and knotty branches hanging over the body that was being buried. But there were no trees among these graves, much less any overhanging branches.

What she’d seen hadn’t happened here.

She could only guess that her vision had shown her the other crime scene.

But does that even make sense?

Why would the spirit of the other murder victim reach out to her from this location? Surely it would make more sense for the spirit of the woman who had been buried in this spot to contact her here.

Lyle finally spoke up.

“Do you have any idea how the killer came and went?”

“As a matter of fact, we do,” the sheriff said, walking over to the edge of the graveyard and pointing to where the grass and brush had been trampled in the surrounding woods. “You can see footprints right here. He seems to have hauled the body up the side of the hill, then climbed back down again when he was through. Where he’d come from before that, or where he went afterwards, we’ve got no idea.”

“I guess it’s good we’ve got footprints,” the deputy remarked.

The sergeant added, “Yeah, at least we can get an idea from the shoe size how big the guy might be.”

“I doubt it,” Lyle said, stooping down for a closer look at the prints. “This guy was wearing boots that were markedly too big for his feet.”

“How can you tell?” Sheriff Clayburgh said.

“By the tread,” Lyle said.

“So do you think he was deliberately wearing larger boots to hide his foot size?” the sheriff said.

“Maybe, but I kind of doubt he’s that clever. I think it’s more likely that the boots belonged to someone else before they belonged to him—like they were hand-me-downs from someone larger, like an older brother.”

The deputy and sergeant murmured with surprise, and maybe a bit of skepticism. But Carly was neither surprised nor skeptical. Lyle had the keenest eyes for such crime scene subtleties of any agent she’d ever known.

“So what’s our next move?” Sheriff Clayburgh asked.

“You’d better put all the graveyards in the area under police watch,” Lyle said. “This killer has used two different cemeteries to bury his victims. If he kills again, he’s likely to choose a different one next time. Possibly in another town, but somewhere else in the county, at least.”

Clayburgh’s mouth dropped open, the deputy and sergeant letting out grunts of surprise.

“Agent Ramsey, I’m afraid you’re still having trouble understanding our situation,” Clayburgh said. “This is old, old country, and there have been folks living in these hills since colonial times. There are graveyards all over the county, mostly little ones, and probably hundreds of them.”

“Some of them are long forgotten and overgrown,” Deputy Hamner added.

“We can’t begin to cover them all,” Sergeant Larson said. “That would take an army.”

“I’m not even sure we’ve got the personnel to really stake out the one we’re in right now,” Clayburgh said. “The best we can do is try.”

“You do that,” Lyle replied with a dissatisfied huff. “Meanwhile, does the victim who was buried here have any local family?”

Sheriff Clayburgh nodded.

“She was married to Frank Weaver, who owns an auto repair shop downtown. I tried to talk to him myself yesterday, but he was too shook up to tell me much. Ethel’s death hit him really hard. He did mention that Ethel had thought maybe she was being stalked, but he didn’t know who might be doing that. Frank’s probably at work right now. Do you want to pay him a visit?”

Lyle glanced at the sky.

“Later, but not just now,” he said. “It’s going to get dark before long, and we ought to get a look at the other crime scene while there’s still daylight. How far is it to Wildroot Run?”

“Oh, just a ten- or fifteen-minute drive,” Sheriff Clayburgh said. “My boys and I will take you over there in our van. We should also be able to talk to Lulu Watkins while we’re there. She’s the one who found the body. We’ll bring you back to Otisville, and maybe then you can talk to Frank Weaver. We’ll bring you here to your car when we’re done with all that, and you can check into the Otisville Inn for the night.”

Carly and Lyle climbed into the van along with the three police officers. As Clayburgh started driving, the spirit’s warning still echoed through Carly’s mind.

“Unless you do something to stop it, this will keep happening again and again.”

CHAPTER NINE

Carly realized she and Lyle had made a mistake—probably the first mistake they’d made on this case. As they rode in the sheriff’s van on the way from Otisville to Wildroot Run, she could feel Lyle staring at her. And this time, he wasn’t even trying to avert his gaze.

We shouldn’t have accepted a ride from the sheriff, she thought.

She knew that her partner was wondering just what she’d experienced back at the shallow grave where Ethel Weaver had been buried, and she was anxious to tell him about it.

But I can’t talk about that now—not with the others here.

It wasn’t a large van. Although she and Lyle shared the wide back seat, Sergeant Lawson was right in front of them. Even Sheriff Clayburgh, who was driving, and Deputy Hamner, who was in the front passenger seat, would probably be able to pick up some of their conversation. And no ordinary lawman would find what they’d be talking about reasonable, or even acceptable.

She stifled a sigh of despair.

Now that Lyle knew about her gift, their working relationship had changed, but neither one of them knew exactly how to cope with it. If only they’d driven to Wildroot Run separately from the cops, they could be talking openly with each other right now.

Sheriff Clayburgh chuckled as he drove down a steep hillside into the Otisville downtown area.

“I reckon you two agents noticed our most famous landmark as you came through town before,” he commented.

Lyle and Carly exchanged puzzled glances.

“Uh, I can’t say that we did,” Lyle replied.

“Oh my goodness. Well, I’ll just have to point it out to you. You’re in for a rare treat. I’m sure you’ll be impressed.”

As they neared the intersection of Carter Street and Main Street, the traffic light turned red and they rolled to a stop. Clayburgh pointed up at the hanging light.

“See that up there? That’s the celebrated Otisville stoplight.”

When his comment drew some chuckles from the other locals in the car but no response from the FBI agents, the sheriff continued.

 “I guess maybe you’ve never heard of that stoplight where you come from, but it’s plenty famous around here.”

“Um, why?” Lyle asked.

The light turned green and they continued on their way.

“Because it’s the only stoplight in the whole county,” Clayburgh explained. “It’s a pretty amazing piece of technology, if you think about it. To the best of my knowledge, there’s never been a traffic jam anywhere in Venable County.”

“None that I can remember, anyway,” Deputy Hamner added.

“Me neither,” Sergeant Larson commented.

“So the famous Otisville stoplight works just fine,” Clayburgh said. He turned back toward Carly and Lyle and winked. “It’s like I keep saying. This is a whole different kind of country than you’re used to.”

It sure is, Carly thought.

She couldn’t remember ever being in a town that had the only stoplight in an entire county.

And there’s no county morgue here either.

As the drive continued through the hilly rural landscape, the group in the van fell silent. Carly stared out the window, but nothing there held her attention. Instead, her most recent vision kept replaying over and over in her mind.

At first, the spirit’s voice had sounded stern and even impatient.

“Now pay close attention.…. You damn well better learn something.”

But when Carly asked who the killer was, that voice had changed. The spirit had sounded helpless and …

What?

Sad?

Afraid?

Carly felt pretty sure that the dead woman who had contacted her knew her killer’s identity. But some reason, the spirit just couldn’t bring herself to say who it was.

She stifled a discouraged sigh. Over the years, she had encountered a variety of difficulties when dealing with the dead. Sometimes those spirits didn’t even really know they were dead. Sometimes they weren’t eager to communicate, or what they did want to tell her was confused and incomplete or even riddling.

It looked like now was going to be one of those awkward times.

At least, this spirit had shown her those gnarled tree branches hanging over her grave. That meant she was not Ethel Weaver, who had been buried in that treeless area up on Trench Hill. Surely the earlier victim, Robyn Sears, must be the one who was buried beneath those twisted trees. And they would visit that gravesite today.

Maybe she’ll be able to tell me more when we get there.

The afternoon was waning by the time they passed a sign:

Wildroot Run

unincorporated

But—where was the town? Carly saw a handful of old houses clustered around a couple of cross streets. There was also a long-abandoned gas station with archaic-looking pumps across the street from what appeared to have once been a general store.

Then it dawned on her—this was the town.

The whole town.

Sheriff Clayburgh pulled the vehicle to a stop in front of the largest of the houses. Carly remembered that they were going to talk with the woman who had found the first victim, but she wished they were going directly to the gravesite first. She wanted to get back in touch with that feisty spirit as soon as she could.

“I ought to warn you about Lulu,” the sheriff told Carly and Lyle as they climbed out of the van. “She tends to be a little cranky, especially around people like yourselves, who aren’t from around here. But she’s liable to tell you something you need to know.”

Deputy Hamner chuckled and added, “And maybe a few things you don’t need to know besides.”

“That’s not unlikely,” Sheriff Clayburgh agreed with a grin. “Lulu’s a walking, talking well of information about these parts. There’s not much about anyone or anything in Venable County that she doesn’t know. She must have a whole library of records of one kind or another. And she also runs an antique store out of her house.”

As they stepped onto the broad porch that had a wide hanging swing, Sheriff Clayburgh paused just outside the door. He spoke quietly to Carly and Lyle.

“We’d better wait till she’s finished before we disturb her.”

Carly and Lyle exchanged a glance of mutual confusion.

Till she’s finished with what?

But as Carly stood still and listened, she could hear music coming from inside the house. It sounded lovely but strange. Someone was playing an instrument that sounded like some kind of cross between a violin and a harp, and a quavering but pleasant woman’s voice sang to a melancholy melody.

Black is the color of my true love’s hair,

Her lips are something rosy fair …

The tune and the words were vaguely familiar to Carly, as if she’d heard them many years ago, perhaps in school. She guessed it must be some old Appalachian folk song.

Finally the song came to an end with a delicately ringing chord.

Instead of knocking, Sheriff Clayburgh called through the door.

“That sounded right pretty, Lulu. Do you mind if we come inside?”

The voice that had sounded so sweet a moment before let out a growling sound.

“Only if you’ve got good news, Sheriff Casey Clayburgh. Have you caught the killer yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Then go away and don’t come back until it’s done.”

Sheriff Clayburgh whispered to his sergeant and deputy.

“You guys had better wait out here on the porch.”

Hamner and Watson muttered in agreement, and Clayburgh called through the door again.

“Come on, Lulu, don’t give me such a hard time. I brought a couple of folks to help us. They’re the best there is at what they do. With them on the job we’re sure to catch whoever killed Robyn, and the other woman too. Just give us a chance. We really need to talk with you.”

A silence fell.

Finally Carly heard footsteps inside the old house. The door opened, and standing inside was a small, wizened old woman dressed in an old-fashioned checked gingham dress. She pursed her lips and crossed her arms.

“Who are you two?” she growled at Carly and Lyle.

They both produced their badges.

“We’re from the FBI, ma’am,” Lyle said. “I’m Special Agent Lyle Ramsey, and this is my partner, Special Agent Carly See.”

“Feds, huh?” the woman grumbled. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers. I guess we need whatever help we can get. Casey Clayburgh and his boys haven’t got a clue how to deal with a mess like this. I’m Lulu Watkins, and I found Robyn’s body, me and the boy who works for me. But I guess Casey’s already told you that.”

The woman shrugged and added, “Come on in, I guess. But wipe your feet on the mat here.”

Carly and Lyle did as they were told. When they continued on inside, Carly’s jaw dropped with surprise as she gazed at her surroundings.

CHAPTER TEN

What a collection! Carly thought as she looked around.

A big spoked wagon wheel was leaning against one wall, with a grandfather clock flanking it on one side and a spinning wheel on the other. Carly also spotted a butter churn, an old-fashioned cash register, a wooden bicycle with an enormous front wheel, and other quaint objects she couldn’t identify.

Sheriff Clayburgh had mentioned that the woman ran an antiques store out of her house, but Carly hadn’t imagined anything like this. The place was fairly stuffed with antiques.

“Don’t touch that,” snapped a voice behind her.

She was startled by the command. The triangular, hollow, harp-like instrument on the table in the middle of the room had caught her attention. It had numerous strings and a handmade wooden bow.

“Is this what we heard you playing just now?” Carly asked.

“Yes, it’s a mountain psaltery. Don’t touch it. It’s a lot older than I am. For that matter, so’s most everything else around here, so kindly keep your city-girl hands to yourself so you don’t break anything.”

Carly felt a bit stung by the woman’s sharpness. The truth was, she hadn’t even considered touching anything in this room.

Maybe it’s nothing personal, though, she told herself.

The tension between Lulu and Sheriff Clayburgh was palpable, and they’d obviously known each other for a long time. So maybe Lulu was just prickly by nature.

In fact, the diminutive woman was certainly not doing anything to make any of her visitors feel comfortable. She hadn’t even suggested that they sit down—although the truth was, Carly couldn’t see any place where they could sit down. The only chairs in sight were delicate-looking antiques.

As they all stood there a bit awkwardly, Carly gazed around the cluttered room. She saw several wicker baskets, a coal-miner’s hat with a wax candle attached in front, oil storm lamps, a large wooden pump organ, and various antique furniture. Amid the paintings on the walls were dingy metal signs advertising all sorts of long-vanished products. The room exuded a pleasant antique smell.

With a warm smile on his lined face, Lyle leaned over slightly to speak with Lulu.

“The sheriff tells us you knew Robyn Sears.”

“A little. The poor girl wasn’t really from these parts. She lived in Charleston till just a few months ago. But she came out here to take care of her aunt, Donna Luster, during her last days. Donna was about my age when she died—she had some of the usual ailments, but it was dementia that got her in the end. That was at least a month ago. I expected Robyn to hightail it right back to Charleston, but she didn’t.”

Lulu shrugged and added, “She told me she needed to rest up before she got back to her regular life, and she figured here was as good a place as any to do that. So awful, how things turned out for her. Who would have expected such a thing? Just terrible.”

“Were you two good friends?” Carly asked.

“No, not really. Robyn was, well, kind of sweet and soft-spoken. Genteel, you know. I don’t think she enjoyed my company much. The truth is I didn’t have any interest in her tales of city life. But she was really helpful to her poor aunt, and of course I wouldn’t wish an ending like that on anybody.”

Carly was a little unsettled by this reply. She’d supposed that the spirit she’d heard from a little while ago must be that of Robyn Sears. She’d hoped to learn something more from her at the place where she’d been buried. But the voice in her vision had been anything but soft-spoken and genteel.

“You damn well better learn something,” the spirit had snapped.

Still, Carly wasn’t ready to give up hope that the spirit had been Robyn Sears.

As Carly wondered about that, Lulu continued.

“And now that Robyn’s gone, Wildroot Run’s just got a population of two,” she said. “There’s only me and Arnold, the boy who works for me, who was with me when I found the … you know. I’m liable to die just about any day now, and Arnold will go wandering off to some big city, and this’ll be a genuine ghost town. Wildroot Run will be forgotten by the whole world.”

She let out a grunt of bitter annoyance.

“Of course, I guess that’ll suit Sheriff Casey here just fine. He doesn’t think any too highly of this town.”

Sheriff Clayburgh sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Now Lulu, when are you going to put all that stuff in the past?” he said.

“When I’m dead and in the ground, I reckon.”

Clayburgh chuckled and spoke to Carly and Lyle.

“Lulu’s been holding a grudge against me and my kin for, oh, most of two hundred years, I reckon.”

Lulu nodded in agreement.

“Since 1845, to be exact. That was when Venable County was established. Wildroot Run was chosen as the county seat, and my great-great-great-great-great-grandaddy Bartholomew Watkins got picked to be the county’s first judge. But Casey’s great-great-great-great-great-granddaddy Seth Clayburgh …”

She shrugged with what appeared to be deep distaste.

“Well, I don’t like to talk about it,” she said.

“It’s best not to,” Clayburgh agreed with a smile and nod. “We don’t want to waste these good people’s time, do we?”

“No, I don’t reckon we do. What can I do to help you folks?”

“You mentioned that someone was with you when you found the body,” Carly said.

Lulu nodded.

“That’s right. Arnold. Arnold Garfield. He lives in the apartment above the old gas station. He’s been moody and out of sorts since we found that grave. It shook him up bad.”

“Do you think we could have a word with him?”

“Maybe. Let me check.”

Lulu lifted a curtain and looked out the window and shook her head.

“Not right at the moment, I don’t reckon. I see his truck is gone.”

“Do you have any idea where he might be?” Lyle asked.

“Can’t rightly say. Over in Otisville, maybe. He drives over there now and again. He might be back at any time. He usually doesn’t stay away long. What can I do for you in the meantime?”

Carly and Lyle exchanged wary glances. She knew they were thinking the same thing about Arnold Garfield.

Do we have a suspect?

If he was involved in these murders, had he already made his escape?

“We’d like you to show us the crime scene,” Lyle finally said.

“I’ll take you right there,” Lulu said.

As they left the house, Carly saw that it was getting darker. She also thought Wildroot Run looked a bit more desolate than it had when they’d arrived. It seemed different now that she knew that the town’s population had dropped to just two people, and that all the houses except Lulu’s were empty.

What a sad little place.

They walked past the long-abandoned gas station with its antique pumps. After they’d continued past a couple of empty houses, Lulu paused at the ruined foundation of what had once been a fairly impressive building. Now there was nothing left but an outline of bricks where walls had once stood.

Lulu shook her head sadly.

“This is where the whole thing happened,” she said.

Carly was mystified, and she could see that Lyle also looked puzzled.

There was no sign of a shallow grave on this foundation.

She must mean something else.

“Now, Lulu,” Sheriff Clayburgh tried to interrupt her. “I thought we’d agreed not to get into all this.”

“Well, I just can’t help it, Casey. It seems like just yesterday to me.”

Clayburgh rolled his eyes as the energetic little woman just kept on speaking to the two agents.

“A church used to be standing right here. When Wildroot Run got to be the county seat, the church doubled as the county courthouse. My granddaddy Bartholomew had plans to build a real courthouse as soon as he could—a nice big granite courthouse.”

Lulu let out a grunt of smoldering anger.

“But Casey’s granddaddy Seth Clayburgh didn’t like the idea of Wildroot Run getting picked as the county seat,” she continued. “He wanted Otisville to have that honor. So he brought a gang of ruffians over here one night and stole all the county records and burned this church to the ground. They took the records back to Otisville, which became the county seat.”

Lulu shook her head bitterly.

“Such a damned injustice,” she said. “Such an out-and-out crime. And no one ever faced any consequences. And Otisville has been the usurping county seat to this very day.”

Sheriff Clayburgh smiled indulgently.

“Lulu, I don’t know how many times I’ve got to apologize,” he said.

Lulu drew herself up indignantly and glared at Sheriff Clayburgh.

“It’s not you I’m mad at, Casey. It’s the blood that’s flowing in your veins that gripes me.”

The sheriff couldn’t help laughing a little.

“Well, as long as it’s nothing personal.”

Lulu shuffled her feet and looked at the ground.

“Folks around these parts don’t remember anything anymore. They’ve forgotten who they are, where they come from, what kind of country this is, the very dirt they’re made of. Soon it will all just get swept away on the wind, like a pile of leaves. I guess there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“No, I don’t guess so either,” Sheriff Clayburgh said, giving her a friendly pat on the back. “Come on, let’s go have a look at the crime scene.”

The group walked around the ruined foundation to a small cemetery that lay just behind where the church had once stood. Carly immediately saw that it was a much smaller cemetery than the one on Trench Hill. And there were scarcely any recent-looking graves to be seen. Almost all of them were worn, weathered, and old.

A lot of memories here, she thought.

And it seemed that Lulu Watkins was a virtual encyclopedia of all those memories—as if she’d been alive for centuries and could remember every single thing that had happened in these parts.

As they continued on through the cemetery, Carly found herself wondering whether this town’s haunted past might have something to do with the murders that had been committed here.

Carly remembered what Sheriff Clayburgh had said about Lulu a little while ago.

“There’s not much about anyone or anything in Venable County that she doesn’t know.”

Maybe Lulu somehow held the key to solving the case, in a way that she herself couldn’t know.

If only I knew what questions to ask.

At the far edge of the cemetery, they came across another shallow excavation.

“This is where Arnold and I found poor Robyn,” Lulu said, pointing to the grave. “I don’t come around the cemetery all that often, but the day before yesterday was the anniversary of my mother’s death, and I always bring some flowers to her grave on those mornings. I brought Arnold along with me. That’s when we saw … well, this.”

Lulu shuddered deeply.

“Well, Arnold and I didn’t think it was a grave at first. We thought it was just some mean prank. But Arnold scooped up dirt with his hands until poor Robyn’s face appeared, and then we knew. And I called Casey straightaway.”

The group gathered around the grave.

“I don’t guess there’s much to look at,” Sheriff Clayburgh said with a shrug. “It’s pretty much the same as the grave over on Trench Hill. But the coroner said he thinks Robyn was killed the night before Ethel was murdered. She was probably buried here right after she was killed.”

Carly saw that the sheriff was right about there not being much to see. She and Lyle had gotten more information from looking at the crime scene photos, which had shown Robyn Sears’s body when it had still been lying here.

But Carly knew that didn’t mean this was a wasted trip—at least not necessarily.

Maybe I can get the spirit to tell me something.

As she took a couple of cautious steps toward the grave, she felt an all-too-familiar tingling.

And then the vision was upon her.

Once again, she was looking up at a moonlit sky while glimpsing the blade of a shovel and feeling the weight of shovelful after shovelful of dirt piling up on her body. And once again, she heard a raspy female voice.

“Take a good look, girl.”

“A good look at what?” Carly asked.

“Just look.”

Carly could see no difference between this vision and the vision she’d had before. It was all the same, including those tangled, gnarled, and knotted branches …

Those branches! Carly thought.

She heard the spirit let out a grunt of agreement, as if she knew what Carly had suddenly realized.

“You’ve got to keep looking, girl,” the spirit growled.

Then a shovelful of dirt covered her face and she couldn’t see anything else …

The vision suddenly ended, and Carly found herself standing at the graveside with the others. Deputy Hamner and Sergeant Lawson were showing Lyle a set of footprints.

“You can see these are the same as the footprints on Trench Hill,” Hamner said.

“Yeah, too big for his feet,” Lyle said.

“It looks like the killer brought the body straight through the cemetery, buried her, and left the way he’d come,” Larson said.

“He probably snatched her right off the street,” Clayburgh added.

“You’re probably right,” Lulu said. “Robyn liked to take late-night walks outside. She would have been easy pickings for someone who meant her harm.”

But Lyle didn’t appear to be paying attention to what they were saying. Instead, he was staring at Carly again.

He saw it, she knew.

Her partner had learned to spot a moment when she was out of touch with the physical world. Fortunately, he seemed to be the only one in the group who had noticed anything different about her during that brief vision.

“I guess we’re done here,” Lyle finally said. “Let’s go back to Otisville and see if we can interview Ethel Weaver’s husband.”

As the group wended their way back among the gravestones, Lyle sidled up to Carly and whispered to her.

“Carly, talk to me. What’s going on?”

Still a little shaken by her experience, Carly glanced back toward the grave.

She remembered the gnarled, knotted branches she’d seen in both visions.

But there had been no trees or branches around the grave on Trench Hill—and there weren’t any around this grave either.

Which can only mean one thing …

“There’s been another victim,” she whispered to Lyle.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Another victim? Lyle wondered with alarm.

Carly’s whispered words kept rattling through his mind. She hadn’t spoken loudly enough to be heard by the local cops, and he sure didn’t want to raise any questions in front of the whole group. Because then they’d want her to explain how she knew.

But that left him in the dark, too.

What does she know that she can’t say right now?

His frustration had been mounting ever since their visit to the crime scene on Trench Hill. He’d seen that something had happened to her there as well—that barely perceptible moment when she was focused elsewhere.

And now it just happened again.

In recent weeks, Lyle had struggled with conflicting thoughts about his partner’s strange abilities, including the possibility that she must be deluded and might need psychiatric help. But when he’d reviewed their cases, he had to admit that supernatural sources would explain some of the information she’d provided. And the truth was, he’d accepted that helpful input for years without questioning it too closely.

He struggled to keep his impatience to himself as the group left the cemetery and walked past the church foundation toward the street.

So what if Carly’s right? What if there is a third victim?

If it was true, there could no longer be much doubt that they were dealing with a serial killer, and one almost sure to kill again, probably soon. But what could they tell anyone about it? How could they launch an expanded investigation if the source of their information was supernatural?

Lyle couldn’t remember ever finding himself in such a situation.

But Carly must have been through this—a lot.

And now he wondered—how often had she known something about a case that she hadn’t felt free to share with him? And how had it affected their work together? Those questions boggled his mind. For a fleeting moment, Lyle almost wished he’d never found out about Carly’s gift.

But it’s got to be better this way.

Anyhow, this was the last case they would be working on together. They just had to manage these new circumstances as well as they could. Then he could give up on all of these difficult questions, and his partner would go back to her former ways of doing things.

His thoughts were interrupted by Lulu’s exclamation.

“Oh, there’s Arnold! He’s back! Now you’ll have a chance to talk to him.”

A battered old blue pickup truck was coming to a stop in front of the gas station. The man who got out was muscular, and he moved with a slouching gait. Lyle thought his body language looked far from innocent.

He remembered Lulu calling Arnold Garfield “the boy who works for me.”

This man didn’t look much like a boy, but he apparently was the one Lulu had been talking about.

“You’ve got some visitors, hon,” she called out.

Arnold Garfield didn’t reply, as if he hadn’t heard. He started up the steps that ran alongside the gas station toward his apartment. When he got to the landing, he opened his door and disappeared inside, shutting the door behind him.

Lyle and Carly looked at each other.

“He’s already acting like a suspect,” Carly murmured.

“And we haven’t even introduced ourselves,” Lyle replied.

Lyle and Carly and the three local cops all followed Lulu up those steps. When they got to the landing, Lulu knocked on the door.

“Sheriff Clayburgh’s here with a couple of Feds,” Lulu called in a motherly voice. “They came here to find whoever’s been doing these killings. Can we all come in for a few minutes?”

“I talked to the sheriff just yesterday,” a voice grumbled from inside. “I ain’t got nothing else to say.”

“Now, Arnold, don’t be that way. These Feds came a long ways to help. The least you can do is be polite.”

They heard a discontented growl, then approaching footsteps. The door opened. Standing inside was a taciturn-looking man with a peculiar expression on his face.

Lyle realized why Lulu might think of her worker as a boy. He had a round, babyish face and what appeared to be a perpetual pout on his lips. There wasn’t a hint of adult maturity about him. But a few wrinkles and a sprinkle of gray in his hair suggested that he was at least forty years old, maybe older. He scowled at the group gathered outside his door.

“No room for all of you in here.”

Lulu made a sound that was almost a giggle.

“Well, we don’t need to all come in, hon.”

The sergeant and the deputy remained on the landing outside while Lyle, Carly, Sheriff Clayburgh, and Lulu went inside.

The tiny apartment was still crowded. It was just one room with a bed, a chair, and an old TV on a table on one side and a rudimentary kitchen on the other. General disorder made the space even more cramped. A mountain of dishes were piled in the sink, and a mixture of unsavory odors hung in the air.

Surveying the clutter, Lyle noticed something in a nearby corner. It was a shovel with dirt clinging to its blade.

Something Lulu had said a little while ago echoed in his mind.

“Arnold scooped up dirt with his hands until poor Robyn’s face appeared.”

Lulu and Arnold hadn’t used a shovel to excavate Robyn’s body.

But surely somebody had used a shovel to dig the two graves in the first place.

Could that be …?

Lyle didn’t want to confront the man right off the bat. After all, shovels weren’t actually a rarity in country life.

“These are FBI Special Agents Ramsey and See,” Sheriff Clayburgh said to Arnold. “They just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Like what?”

“Could you tell us where you were when Robyn Sears was murdered?” Lyle asked.

“I already told Clayburgh all about that.”

“Well, we’d like you to tell us again. Surely that’s not too much trouble.”

“I was right here asleep. Where else would I be?”

“How well did you know Robyn Sears?”

“Just enough to say hi. She didn’t live here long. I knew her Aunt Donna a lot better than I did her. But Donna’s dead now, buried over in the graveyard.”

“What about Ethel Weaver?” Carly asked.

“Ethel who?”

Sheriff Clayburgh spoke up impatiently.

“Come on, Arnold. Don’t act dumb. You know who we’re talking about.”

“Sorry, I don’t guess I do.”

“The other woman who was murdered over in Otisville,” Clayburgh told him. “Ethel Weaver was her name. We talked about her yesterday, remember?”

“No, I don’t. Somebody else got murdered?”

Lyle was sure that Arnold’s show of surprise was completely bogus. He deliberately changed the subject.

“We saw you arrive here in your truck just now. You must have been out driving somewhere. Where did you go, Arnold?”

“Who says I went anywhere?”

Lyle heard Lulu let out a grunt of annoyance.

“Now, Arnold, no more of your sass,” she said. “It’s not going to kill you to tell them where you went.”

Arnold crossed his arms and glared at each of the visitors.

“OK, then. I went over to Otisville.”

“What was your business there?” Lyle asked.

“I don’t know. Did I have to have some ‘business’ to go there? Sometimes I just like to drive. And sometimes I drive to Otisville. And then I drive home again. I didn’t kill anybody in Otisville, if that’s what you’re really asking.”

Lyle thought he sounded like an obnoxious high school kid who had been sent to the principal’s office.

It’s time to get down to business.

Watching for the man’s reaction, he asked, “What’s that shovel for?”

Arnold glanced over at the shovel, as if surprised to see it there himself—surprised and dismayed.

Like he wishes he’d hidden it.

“What do you think it’s for?” Arnold growled, crossing his arms.

“I’d say it’s for digging,” Lyle remarked. “And it looks like you’ve been doing some digging pretty recently.”

“So what if I did? People dig holes for lots of reasons.”

Lulu wagged her finger at him and scolded him in a maternal tone.

“Now, Arnold, stop acting that way. These people have got a job to do. Don’t make it harder for them.”

Arnold crossed his arms and looked at the floor and said nothing.

“Arnold collects Indian arrowheads,” Lulu explained. “There are a lot of them around these parts, from when Indians still lived in the area. That’s what Arnold uses the shovel for. It looks like he was out hunting arrowheads recently. Did you find anything interesting, Arnold?”

“Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t.”

“Would you care to show these good people your collection?”

Arnold shook his head silently.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Lulu snapped with a roll of her eyes. “I’ll show them if you won’t.”

She walked over to an old pine desk and lifted the hinged sloping top. Lyle stepped closer and looked inside. Sure enough, it looked like there were a hundred flint arrowheads of many shapes and sizes scattered in there. It was a very impressive collection.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” Arnold grumbled.

Anything but.

Lyle’s suspicions about this man were actually growing stronger, even though he’d found nothing solid to support them.

Carly asked Arnold the next question.

“Would you mind telling us where you were two nights ago, when Ethel Weaver was killed and buried?”

“Yeah, I’d mind.”

Lulu let out a groan of frustration.

“Oh, Arnold, for pity’s sake. Now you’re just making trouble for yourself.”

“OK, OK, OK. I was right here in my apartment. The same as when Robyn was killed. The same as most every night of the week. Right here minding my own beeswax, probably fast asleep.”

“Can anybody confirm that you were here?” Carly asked.

Arnold’s pouty frown turned into a mocking sneer, and he gestured at his surroundings.

“Does it look like there’s anybody who can confirm I was here?”

No, I don’t suppose so.

The man’s childlike expressions and sulky behavior irritated Lyle, but he didn’t think there was anything to gain by continuing the interview.

“That’s all the questions we’ve got for now,” he told Arnold. “We advise you not to leave Wildroot Run until we say otherwise.”

“Or what?” Arnold scoffed. “It’s a free country, ain’t it? I’ll come and go as I like.”

“It’ll be better if you stay put. Thanks for your time.”

The group left the apartment and made their way back down the steps.

“That will be all for now,” Lyle said to Lulu. “Thanks for your help.”

“Just catch whoever did this,” Lulu grunted in reply, and she headed back to her house.

As they walked toward the van, Sheriff Clayburgh asked, “Are you folks thinking what I’m thinking?”

“It depends,” Lyle replied. “Are you thinking Arnold Garfield might be our killer?”

Clayburgh nodded.

“When I talked to him and Lulu yesterday, the possibility didn’t really occur to me. He just seemed … I don’t know, maybe just a little off, like he always is, but harmless. But the way he behaved just now … and that shovel with dirt stuck all over it … Well, I’ve got to wonder whether he’s been using it for something besides hunting arrowheads.”

“What can you tell us about him?” Carly asked Clayburgh. “Does he have any criminal history?”

“Well, not exactly criminal. But he’s not exactly the savory type. He grew up in Otisville—always kind of a weird kid, folks thought. Didn’t play well with others. Always getting into fights he couldn’t win. After his parents died, he stayed in Otisville, working at one kind of job or another over the years until …”

Clayburgh shrugged, then continued.

“Well, I wouldn’t say his was run out of town, exactly. But he managed to annoy people to the point where he wasn’t welcome there anymore. Girls and women especially didn’t like him. They said he followed them around, whistling and saying crude things, making them uncomfortable. Nothing I could exactly arrest him for, just … well, you know, stuff that made folks queasy.”

“When did he move here to Wildroot Run?”

“Oh, that’s been four or five years, I guess. Lulu sort of took him under her wing. She seems like a crusty sort, but she’s got a soft heart underneath. She felt sorry for him, gave him a place to live and a regular job.”

Clayburgh squinted thoughtfully.

“It never occurred to me till now, though, that he might really be dangerous.”

“It’s a possibility,” Lyle said.

“So what should we do about it?” the sheriff asked anxiously. “Shouldn’t we take him into custody or something? At least haul him in for some serious questioning?”

Lyle shook his head.

“We’d get nothing out of him that way. We don’t have any leverage—not yet. But we should keep an eye on him. Can one of your men stay behind here while the rest of us head back to Otisville?”

“I can hang around here awhile,” Sergeant Larson offered.

“You do that, Joe,” Clayburgh said. “Try to stay out of sight. I’ll send a couple of guys from the station over later so you can go home. Have them keep any vehicles parked out of sight. We’ll keep guys coming in shifts, watching Arnold for as long as we need to—all night and all of tomorrow, if necessary.”

Clayburgh scratched his head.

“Just one thing, though,” he added to Lyle. “Suppose Arnold catches sight of my guys. What should they tell him if he asks why they’re hanging around?”

Lyle shrugged.

“Just say they’re keeping a lookout in case the killer comes back to the scene of the crime.”

“Do you think he’ll buy that?”

“It doesn’t really matter. He can’t prove otherwise. And besides, it might even turn out to be true. If he gets really nervous, maybe we can catch him off guard, trying to get rid of evidence or something along those lines.”

Lyle, Carly, and the two local lawmen got back into the van, and Sheriff Clayburgh started driving them back to Otisville. Clayburgh got on the police radio and put in a call to the station to have somebody else drive to Wildroot Run and take over watching Arnold Garfield in a little while.

Lyle saw that Carly was just staring out the window.

What does she know that I don’t? he wondered.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was dark now on the curving mountain roads, and Carly felt gloomy during the drive back to Otisville. Sheriff Clayburgh was at the wheel, with Deputy Hamner sitting up front with him, and they were chatting together.

She caught enough of their conversation to realize they were speculating about probable human casualties during the fall and winter hunting seasons for various animals, including bears and wild boars.

It struck her as a bit ironic.

I guess there are other things to be scared of in these hills than bloodthirsty killers, she thought.

And the FBI could be of no help against those kinds of dangers.

Sitting next to her on the back seat of the van, Lyle wasn’t saying a word. But he kept glancing over at her, which made her uncomfortable. But she couldn’t really blame him. After all, she’d dropped quite a bombshell on him back in the cemetery in Wildroot Run.

“There’s been another victim,” she’d blurted in a whisper.

Although the cantankerous spirit hadn’t said so explicitly, how else could she explain her two visions of those distinctive gnarled trees overhanging the grave? There had been no such trees at either of the sites they had visited.

She was sure there had been another murder, although nothing like that had been reported. There must be a third grave where the victim who’d been reaching out to her was buried.

Of course Carly hadn’t been able to explain why she thought such a thing—not with so many others within earshot. Even now she was afraid that if she and Lyle started discussing the probability of another death, someone up front would demand to know where they got that idea.

And of course, she couldn’t tell them.

She really needed to talk to her partner about all this. But she’d been wrong to spring it on him when no further explanation was possible.

If only I’d kept my mouth shut until later.

She just needed to follow the demands of that unidentified spirit.

“You’ve got to keep looking, girl.”

Despite her trepidations, Carly was at least glad that Clayburgh’s men were going to keep an eye on Arnold Garfield. At this point, he seemed to be their only plausible suspect.

Soon the van was passing into downtown Otisville. By night, the town struck Carly as uncannily quiet and still—not much more alive than Wildroot Run had seemed with its two remaining inhabitants.

It’s like this town dies at night, she thought with a slight shiver.

She and her colleagues hoped to conduct one more interview tonight—with Frank Weaver, the husband of the victim who had been buried up on Trench Hill. They’d expected to find him at home.

But what if he’s already asleep, like the rest of this town seems to be?

As it turned out, not everyone in Otisville was asleep after all. As they passed through the main intersection with its “famous” stoplight, Sheriff Clayburgh pointed to the only business in sight that still had its lights on inside.

“Look there. Frank’s shop is open late. Maybe we can catch him still at work.”

Clayburgh pulled over to the curb in front of a building with a sign that read WEAVER AUTO REPAIR.

When Carly and Lyle got out of the car and followed the sheriff and his deputy inside, they found themselves in a small, cluttered office space. A woman with a rather timid, mousy face was sitting at a desk poring over what appeared to be a ledger.

The two agents produced their badges while Sheriff Clayburgh introduced them.

“Angie, these are Agents Ramsey and See from the FBI. They’re here to help find whoever killed your sister and the other woman over in Wildroot Run.”

Turning to Carly and Lyle, he added, “This is Angie Bremmer, Ethel’s sister and Frank’s sister-in-law.”

Angie got up from her desk and greeted them with feeble handshakes.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said in a quavering voice. “I still can’t believe this has happened. Poor Ethel.”

Carly thought this woman was probably in her thirties, just a little older than herself. But like the rest of this town, Angie looked … well, worn out were the words that came to mind.

“I know you’ve been asked this before,” Carly said. “But can you think of anyone who might have meant Ethel any harm?”

“No, no one at all. She was very sweet. People liked her.”

“We noticed the lights were still on and the place is still open,” Clayburgh observed. “Does Frank happen to be around?”

Carly noticed a second of hesitation before Angie replied.

“Yes, he’s in the garage. He’s the only one still working tonight.”

“We’d like to talk with both of you, if that’s OK,” Lyle said.

“Of course.”

As Angie led them out of the office into the garage, something seemed off about her to Carly. She detected a hint of reluctant uneasiness in the woman’s expression and movements.

Is she hiding something?

She told herself that probably out-of-towners, especially FBI agents, might make anyone in this small town feel uncomfortable.

The group passed through an office door into a well-lit garage. As Angie had said, only one person was working there. He was standing beneath the chassis of a car that was raised on a hydraulic lift, working by the illumination of a hanging utility lamp with a metal guard around the bulb.

Clad in oil-stained coveralls and wearing a toolbelt, the man working under the car was tall and sturdy, with a hard-looking face.

“Casey’s here with a couple of FBI people,” Angie told him. “They want to talk with both of us. I hope it’s OK.”

Carly thought the woman sounded nervous, as if she was anxious not to displease him.

“I guess it’s OK,” he grumbled, with barely a glance at the new arrivals. He kept right on working.

“This is Frank Weaver, Ethel’s husband,” Sheriff Clayburgh said to Carly and Lyle.

They both produced their badges and introduced themselves, but Frank Weaver seemed barely to notice them.

“Perhaps we could sit down somewhere and talk,” Lyle suggested.

“I can talk while I work,” Frank Weaver said, tightening a bolt.

Carly exchanged glances with Lyle. She knew they were thinking the same thing. The man seemed awfully cold and detached for a grieving husband. She remembered what Sheriff Clayburgh had said earlier.

“I tried to talk to him myself yesterday, but he was too shook up to tell me much. Ethel’s death hit him really hard.”

He didn’t seem too “shook up” at the moment. Carly wondered what his state of mind was right now. Angie Bremmer seemed to guess what she and Lyle were thinking.

“Poor Frank’s still in shock, even if he doesn’t look it,” she said hastily. “He figures it’s best to stay busy, try to keep his mind on his work.”

Carly knew Angie might be right. She’d seen similar disengaged behavior among other bereaved loved ones.

But on the other hand …

She’d also known killers who had behaved like this under similar circumstances.

Maybe we’ve got a new suspect.

She also spotted a definite tension between Angie and Frank. She couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was. But based on Lyle’s expression, her partner was also mulling over those signs.

“Do you have any idea who might have meant your wife any harm?”

Carly watched the man closely, waiting for his response to Lyle’s routine question.

“Yeah, I can think of somebody,” Frank said, still working.

Carly heard the deputy give a brief snort. Apparently Frank hadn’t given this kind of answer in their earlier attempt at an interview. She noticed that Clayburgh signaled his deputy to keep quiet.

Frank seemed unaware of any interest he’d aroused.

“I can’t tell you much of anything about him, though,” he muttered. “I don’t know who he is or what he looks like or anything like that.”

He adjusted his hanging lamp to get a better view of whatever problem he was supposedly trying to fix. Carly suspected the problem was imaginary, just something to make him look too busy for much conversation.

“You need to tell us more,” Lyle said.

“Ethel told me she thought someone was following her around, especially at night after she got off work. I guess you know she worked over at Bogo’s Tavern. She finished work late at nights, and she had to walk pretty much all the way across town to get home. She said she’d hear footsteps nearby, and once she got a glimpse of somebody’s shadow, but she never really saw who it was.”

“Did she think it was maybe one of her customers?” Carly asked.

“She didn’t say one way or the other. It’s hard to imagine, though. She was friendly with all the regulars at Bogo’s, and they were friendly with her. My guess is it was somebody different. Maybe some stranger in town, like a drifter.”

“That’s your guess?” Lyle asked with a note of suspicion.

“It’s the best I can think of,” Frank said, tapping on the underside of the car with his wrench, as if searching for something wrong.

“How long had this been going on?” Lyle asked. “Somebody following her, I mean?”

“I dunno. Three or four days. A week, maybe.”

Lyle crossed his arms and frowned suspiciously.

“And it didn’t occur to you that it might not be such a good idea for her to walk home alone at night?”

“What was I supposed to do about it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Meet her when she got off work. Maybe give her a ride.”

“She wouldn’t have liked it. She was the independent type. She liked to look after herself.”

“Weren’t you worried when she didn’t get home that night?”

“No. I figured it was her own business, wherever she was. I sure never imagined …”

His voice faded and he shrugged and kept at his task.

Lyle squinted at him in silence for a moment. Carly, too, felt more than a little wary.

“You don’t exactly seem grief-stricken,” she finally said.

Frank’s frown deepened, but he didn’t look away from his work. Angie spoke up instead.

“Oh, he’s grieving, he really is. He’s just got his own way of showing it.”

“Or not showing it,” Carly remarked.

“We’ve all got our own ways of coping,” Angie said, her voice sounding more anxious and defensive. “If you knew Frank like I do, you’d understand.”

Carly noticed a change in Lyle’s expression at those words, “If you knew Frank like I do …” She recognized that look. Lyle had probably been building a particular suspicion since they’d gotten here. Now he’d reached a definite conclusion.

And sure enough, he came right out and said it.

“Mr. Weaver, how long have you and Ms. Bremmer here been having an affair?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Of course! Carly thought.

Now that the words were out of Lyle’s mouth, it seemed perfectly obvious to her. Frank Weaver and Angie Bremmer were definitely having an affair.

Carly had spotted the tension in Angie Bremmer. She had been curious about Frank Weaver’s unpleasant attitude. She had been aware that Angie was trying too hard to explain Frank’s behavior. But she hadn’t yet realized what all of that meant.

Have I gotten too dependent on spirit messages?

She was sure that Lyle, with his remarkable powers of observation, had suspected the relationship right away. He had just waited for enough confirmation before asking that question.

She told herself that she probably would have come to the same conclusion sooner or later. After all, she had picked up a good many skills from her senior partner and mentor.

Or maybe I’d have waited for some dead person to tell me about it.

While Carly was silently reprimanding herself, she saw Frank appear to swallow down a knot of surprise, and he almost dropped his wrench. But he said nothing, and he didn’t take his eyes away from the underside of the vehicle.

It was Sheriff Clayburgh who spoke up, his voice rising with surprise and dismay.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Frank. And you too, Angie. Is this true? With your own sister’s husband? Have the two of you really been …?”

The sheriff paused in mid-sentence, as if at a loss for words. Deputy Hamner turned away, but not before Carly spotted the laugh he was trying to hide.

Clayburgh took a deep breath before he continued.

“Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at you, Frank. Is there a woman in town you haven’t played around with? No, don’t answer that, I don’t guess I want to know. But Angie, I wouldn’t have thought it about you.”

The mousy little woman replied in a weak voice.

“It’s not true.”

There wasn’t a doubt in Carly’s mind that Angie was lying.

“Well, it’s none of your business one way or the other,” Frank growled. He went back to tinkering with the underside of the car, trying to look busy.

“I guess maybe that’s true,” Lyle said. “I’m just naturally nosy, I guess. It just comes with the job. Sorry.”

But of course, Carly didn’t detect the slightest hint of an apology in her partner’s tone of voice—only a sly hint of irony. The group fell silent for a moment. There was only the clanking noise of Frank’s wrench on the underside of the car.

Carly wondered what the affair had to do with the case. She didn’t sense any passion in these two that might push them to murderous extremes. Of course that was what they had to glean from this interview. She wondered if Lyle would want her to take over that task, but he finally started asking those questions himself.

“Frank, where were you on the night your wife disappeared? For that matter, where were you on the night of Robyn Sears’s murder? That was three nights ago.”

Frank Weaver let out a low growl of smoldering anger. He stuck the wrench in his toolbelt and glared at Lyle, jabbing his finger at him.

“Now look here,” Frank snapped. “Just what the hell are you accusing me of?”

Lyle gave a shrug of exaggerated innocence.

“I’m not accusing you of anything. It’s just a routine question, that’s all. Purely a matter of procedure. But it would really help if you’d tell me what I want to know.”

Frank didn’t reply for a moment. He just stood there glaring at Lyle.

“All right, if you really must know—” he began.

But Angie interrupted him.

“He was with me.”

“Angie—”

“I’m sorry, Frank, but we’ve got to tell them. You couldn’t have done what they think you might have done. You weren’t even there.”

Turning back to Lyle and Carly, she added, “He was sleeping at my house on the nights of both murders. That’s where he often was at nights.”

Deputy Hamner was following the conversation with obvious interest, but Sheriff Clayburgh shook his head with disgust.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he growled. “But what about Ethel? Where was she when the two of you were shacking up together at night? I mean, didn’t she have any idea what was going on?”

Now Angie and Frank were staring hard at each other. Frank seemed to be warning his sister-in-law with his eyes that she’d better not answer that question. But Carly could see that Angie was gathering up her nerve to come out with it.

“Ethel knew all about it,” Angie finally blurted.

“Huh?” Clayburgh said with a gasp.

“She—she was OK with it,” Angie stammered.

Sheriff Clayburgh rolled his eyes.

“I don’t believe it. The Ethel Weaver I knew would never have—”

But Frank interrupted him in mid-sentence.

“She was having an affair of her own.”

Clayburgh’s eyes bulged with shock, and his deputy’s mouth fell open.

Silence fell over the group. Finally Frank spoke again.

“Ethel was fooling around with Keith Gustafson, her boss at Bogo’s.”

Clayburgh slumped miserably.

“This town, this town …” he murmured.

Carly and Lyle glanced at each other. She knew they’d both learned a lot at this moment.

Otisville must be the adultery capital of West Virginia.

That didn’t make their jobs any easier. Sexual infidelity was one of the most common motives for murder.

And this town is crawling with it.

If there was a local entanglement of affairs, their pool of suspects might well be bigger than they could guess.

Lyle shrugged and spoke to Frank and Angie in a mock-apologetic voice.

“Well, I hope you’ll both forgive us for us poking our noses into such a private matter. It really is none of our business, after all. But I’d really appreciate it if neither one of you left Otisville during the next few days—or at least until we’ve solved this case.”

“That’s fine with me,” Angie said.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Frank grumbled, resuming his work.

Lyle thanked both of them for their time. Then Carly and her three colleagues headed back outside.

“Honest to God, sometimes I don’t know what to think,” Sheriff Clayburgh declared with deep dismay. “You’d think I’d pick up on these sorts of shenanigans, seeing how I’m the sheriff here and I’m supposed to know what’s going on. I don’t guess I ought to be surprised by anything that tomcat Frank Weaver might be up to. But Angie … and Ethel …”

His voice faded, and then he repeated what he’d said inside the garage.

“This town, this town.”

They all walked silently toward the van.

“Is Bogo’s Tavern still open at this hour?” Lyle finally asked.

Deputy Hamner glanced at his watch.

“No, sir, it closed a little while ago,” he said.

Clayburgh muttered, “Maybe we should be keeping public recreational places open later than we do. People need to be more occupied, keep their minds off fooling around.”

“Well, I guess it’s too late to talk to Keith Gustafson,” Lyle told Clayburgh. “We can call it a night. Have one or two of your men make sure Gustafson is at home and keep watch there, make sure he stays put tonight. We need to keep track of his whereabouts until we can interview him.”

Lyle thought for a moment, then added, “And you’d better do the same with Frank Weaver. Make sure he goes home and stays there.”

Clayburgh glanced at Lyle with surprise.

“What for? Doesn’t he have an alibi?”

“Yeah, and he also just might have a motive, at least as far as Ethel is concerned. Just have someone keep an eye on him.”

“Not sure we can depend on that alibi, anyhow,” the deputy added.

Carly agreed. It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s alibi turned out to be a lie.

“Meanwhile, my partner and I had better get checked into a motel for the night,” Lyle said. “Drive us back to our rented car and we’ll head on over there ourselves.”

As soon as the group got into the van, the police radio crackled.

“Now what?” Clayburgh grumbled.

“Sheriff, this is Officer Lang. I just got to Wildroot Run to take over watching Arnold Garfield. I’m calling to report that he’s leaving his apartment right now. He’s headed for his truck.”

Carly exchanged glances with her three colleagues. She knew they were all thinking the same thing. Going out at this hour, Garfield must be up to something.

We’re not finished for the night yet.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Carly could feel a charge of excitement inside the police van now that Arnold Garfield was on the move. Did this mean a break in the case? Would the baby-faced man do something that gave away his guilt?

She actually thought that Garfield seemed less threatening than the mechanic they had just interviewed. Although she’d found Garfield’s actions and attitude a little suspicious, she hadn’t really taken the prospect of him being the killer very seriously.

But Carly was well aware that killers came in many shapes and a great variety of personalities.

Officer Lang’s voice crackled over the radio again.

“Sergeant Larson is still here with me. Should the two of us detain Garfield before he gets in that truck and goes off?”

Sheriff Clayburgh gave Lyle an inquisitive glance, and Lyle signaled for him to hand over his shoulder microphone.

“Officer Lang, this is Special Agent Ramsey. Do not try to detain Garfield. Just keep him in sight and report his movements to us.”

Everyone fell silent for what seemed like a very long moment. Then they heard Officer Lang’s voice again.

“He got into his truck and started driving west.”

Clayburgh snapped his fingers. “That means he’s headed right here into Otisville.”

“Should we follow him?” Lang asked over the radio.

“Yeah, but at a distance,” Lyle replied. “We’ll pick up his movements when he gets into town.”

“Right,” Deputy Hamner said. “Can’t miss him.”

The main intersection was in full view less than a block away. Everybody in the van knew that Arnold had to drive this way as he came into town, so this was the perfect place to lie in wait for him. Clayburgh turned the van around to face the intersection, then shut off the engine.

After that they all waited in silence for their suspect to appear.

Carly was finding it hard to keep her mind on the task at hand.

When am I going to get a chance to talk to Lyle? she found herself wondering again.

She surely couldn’t bring her partner up to date on her visions right now—not with Sheriff Clayburgh and Deputy Hamner in the van, and not with this new development to concern them.

After a while they heard Officer Lang’s voice over the police radio again.

“He’s almost there. He’s about to drive across the bridge.”

“You keep a fair distance behind us as we follow him through town,” Lyle replied over the microphone.

Sure enough, Arnold Garfield’s easily-recognizable battered blue pickup arrived at the intersection and turned right onto Carter Street. Clayburgh waited a few seconds, then started the engine and began to follow the truck from about half a block away.

Up ahead, the pickup slowed down as it approached a wooden church with a simple steeple.

“There’s a small cemetery behind that church,” Clayburgh said. “Maybe that’s where he’s headed.”

Carly and Lyle exchanged anxious glances. She was sure they were thinking the same thing.

Has he got another body in that pickup?

Is he on his way to bury it?

For a moment she wondered if there would be twisted trees behind that church. But of course that vision had come from someone already dead. A new body would mean there was a fourth murder.

She shuddered at the possibility that they’d failed to prevent another death. But could Arnold have carried off a killing, given how he’d been watched in recent hours?

As Clayburgh had guessed, the pickup truck pulled to a stop and parked in front of the church.

“Park nearby,” Lyle told Clayburgh, handing him back the shoulder mic. “Tell your men to park wherever they are right now. We’ll call them if we need them. The four of us will follow him on foot.”

As Clayburgh called Officer Lang and Sergeant Larson with these instructions, the man they were watching got out of his truck and walked toward the church.

“He’s definitely up to something,” Clayburgh said, opening the car door and stepping onto the pavement.

He sure is, Carly thought as she and the others got out of the van.

Even so, she felt a flash of relief that Arnold hadn’t hauled a body out of the back of that pickup truck. He also wasn’t carrying a shovel.

Maybe he hasn’t killed anybody else—yet.

Maybe he’s just scouting his next crime scene.

As Arnold moved around the side of the church, Carly, Lyle, and the two lawmen crept stealthily behind him. Sure enough, there was a small cemetery behind the church. The moonlight shone eerily on its stones, some of which were new, while others appeared to be very old.

There were no twisted trees hanging over them.

But Arnold didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the graves as he wended his way past them. On the far end of the cemetery, he reached a wooden fence that was about five feet high.

To the surprise of his watchers, Arnold suddenly grabbed the top of that fence and pulled himself over it.

“What the hell …?” Sheriff Clayburgh hissed.

“What’s on the other side?” Lyle whispered.

“Just houses. What do you think he’s doing?”

“I don’t know, but I think we’re about to make an arrest. Call your guys to join us.”

Sheriff Clayburgh made the call as they all trotted past the graves. Lyle reached the fence first and pulled himself up over it, and Carly followed after him effortlessly. As they clambered down on the other side, they could hear the sheriff and the deputy grunting with effort behind them. The local lawmen were obviously not in shape for this kind of activity.

Carly saw that they were now in a large back yard. Arnold Garfield was just visible in light spilling from a two-story home. He was standing next to a tree close to the house, facing away from them and apparently oblivious to their arrival.

“Hold it right there, Arnold,” Lyle ordered as they approached. “We’d like a few words with you.”

Arnold whirled around, wide-eyed with surprise.

Then he took off running.

As Arnold disappeared between the houses, Lyle called back to the two local lawmen.

“We’ve got a runner!”

The sheriff and his deputy had finally gotten over the fence.

“Let’s get after him!” Clayburgh replied.

Carly was already in motion and out ahead of her colleagues. She followed Arnold’s path between the two houses and onto the front sidewalk where she spotted the running figure by the beams of streetlamps.

“Arnold, stop!” she yelled.

She wasn’t surprised that the man did nothing of the kind, so she took off after him. She saw him swerve again to the left, then dash between two houses, but by the time she arrived there, he had disappeared.

Catching up with Carly, Lyle asked a bit breathlessly, “Where did he go?”

“Between these two houses,” Carly said.

The sheriff and the deputy were still lagging some distance behind them, so the agents hurried after the running man. When they dashed between the houses, they saw no movement there at all, so they began to check out the two back yards.

Meanwhile, Sheriff Clayburgh and Deputy Hamner came staggering after them, gasping for breath.

“We’re going to have to mount a search of the area,” Lyle said to Clayburgh. “He can’t have gotten very far.”

At that moment, Carly heard an odd hollow thump.

She looked around, then had to stifle a laugh. A large plastic garbage bin behind one of the houses was shaking just a little.

She gave Lyle a nudge and pointed to the bin.

“A raccoon maybe?”

“Maybe,” Lyle replied with a grin. “Let’s have a look.”

They stepped over to the garbage bin and Carly lifted the lid.

Sure enough, Arnold was hunkered inside, looking frightened and exhausted.

“Come on out, Arnold,” Lyle told him. “You’re under arrest.”

“I didn’t do nothing wrong,” Arnold whined.

“You ran to evade detention,” Clayburgh barked. “That can get you a year in jail. Now get out of there before we find something else to charge you with.”

Something a lot more serious, Carly thought.

The cops from the other car had caught up with the group.

“I’ll get the police van,” Lang said as he turned and trotted away again.

Arnold was having trouble getting out of the bin, which rocked wildly and appeared about to turn over. Finally Deputy Hamner and Sergeant Larson gave him some help, then put him in cuffs and started reading him his rights.

A new voice demanded loudly, “What the hell is going on out here?”

Carly saw that a pajama-clad man was emerging from the back door of the house. He was wielding a shotgun.

Sheriff Clayburgh let out an exasperated groan.

“Oh, for crying out loud, Mike, quit waving that damn thing around. You’ve got no business handling a weapon like that. You’re liable to blow off your own foot.”

The man named Mike lowered his gun and peered into the darkness.

“Sheriff?” he asked with surprise.

“Yeah, Mike, it’s me. My colleagues and I just caught a prowler in your garbage bin, and we’re making a little routine arrest.”

“Huh?”

“It’s no big deal, Mike. There’s nothing to see, nothing that concerns you. Go back inside.”

The man named Mike stood gaping for a moment. Then he nodded and ducked back into his house and shut the door.

Meanwhile, Hamner and Larson had the suspect ready to go.

“I didn’t do nothing wrong,” Arnold repeated.

“You didn’t, huh?” Sheriff Clayburgh said with a scoff. “Well, we’ll have a nice little chat about that back at the station.”

“I’m not talking to nobody without a lawyer.”

“Are you sure about that?” Clayburgh said. “Might not be very smart of you. It sure makes you look guilty of something.”

“I didn’t do nothing.”

“So you keep telling us. And we’re really looking forward to hearing your side of the story.”

“I’m not talking to nobody without a lawyer.” 

Clayburgh gave a dissatisfied growl.

“Suit yourself. We’ll find out everything sooner or later, with or without your help.”

At that moment, Officer Lang returned with the van, and Deputy Hamner pushed the suspect inside. But just as the arresting officers started to climb in too, Lyle detained them.

“Hang on just a minute,” he said, looking around suspiciously. He pointed toward the house where the chase had started.

“Who lives in that house?” he asked.

Sheriff Clayburgh replied, “Well, it used to be a married couple, Brad and Kayci Ross. But Brad left Kayci earlier this year for another woman over in Kipling, and he and Kayci are divorced now.”

“So does Kayci live there by herself?”

“Yeah.”

Lyle scratched his chin and looked at each of his male colleagues.

“So tell me, guys,” he finally said. “How would you describe Kayci Ross?”

The deputy and the sergeant both seemed embarrassed.

“Uh, well, she’s … good-looking, I guess,” Hamner said.

“You guess?”

The deputy and the sergeant looked warily at Carly, as if they were reluctant to answer Lyle’s question in a woman’s presence.

“OK, she’s really a knockout,” Sergeant Larson finally said. “I mean really, really smoking. There’s not a guy in Otisville who doesn’t have the hots for her.”

Lyle chuckled under his breath and shook his head.

“Window-peeping.”

“Huh?” Larson said.

“That’s what Arnold was doing—or trying to do.”

Clayburgh stammered with confusion.

“But—but he went through a graveyard.”

“Just a shortcut. Nothing to do with burying anybody.”

“Are you saying he’s not our killer?” Hamner asked.

“Let’s put it this way,” Lyle said. “I’m not as sure he’s the killer as I was a minute ago. I’ll leave it to you guys to try to question him, if you can get him to say anything without a lawyer, which I kind of doubt. Just don’t tell him you suspect him of window-peeping. Just act like you’re sure he’s the killer. He might confess to window-peeping just to convince you otherwise.”

Lyle shrugged and added, “Anyway, it wasn’t a wasted night, I don’t suppose. At least we got one perv off the street. But we’ve still got our work cut out for us tomorrow.”

He put his hands in his pockets and let out a discouraged sigh.

“Let’s take Arnold into custody. Then you might as well drive me and my partner back to our vehicle. We’ll get checked into a motel.”

Carly’s heart sank as she climbed into the van with Lyle and the others.

It’s not over.

She was sure that Lyle was right, which meant they still had a killer to track. But in just a few minutes, they would at least have the privacy of their own car, and they could discuss everything.

I’ll get a chance to explain why I think there has already been a third victim.

But she worried about how her partner might respond to her explanation.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“OK, talk to me now,” Lyle said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

After taking Arnold Garfield into custody, Sheriff Clayburgh had driven them back to their own vehicle. Now Lyle was driving their rented car, heading down the steep hill in the middle of Otisville. The single traffic light at the bottom of the hill flicked to red, and Lyle pulled to a stop, even though no other traffic was in sight.

One light in the whole county, and we have to stop here, she thought.

It made her feel a lot like this whole case did—blocked for no obvious reason.

And now she definitely owed Lyle an explanation.

Carly stifled a discouraged sigh. Even though she’d been hoping for time when nobody else was with them and there were no other pressing issues, she couldn’t think what to say first. She’d told Lyle about her supernatural insights, but actually discussing them was still new to her. It felt weird to even try.

She knew she would just have to dive right into this long-delayed conversation.

“There’s been a third victim,” she told him. “And nobody seems to know about it.”

Except me, she silently added.

And now you too.

“So you said a while ago. What makes you think that?”

“I had a vision. Actually, I had two visions—one at the grave on Trench Hill, and the other at the grave in Wildroot Run, and I …”

She hesitated.

How do I explain this?

“I experienced a burial from the victim’s point of view,” she said. “Twice.”

“You mean like you were getting buried alive?”

“No, I was already dead.”

Carly shook her head and added, “I know how that sounds.”

“I’m listening, Carly. I really am.”

The light changed back to green, so Lyle pressed the accelerator and drove through the intersection.

“What you’re saying still doesn’t tell me why you think there’s a third victim,” he said. “I mean, you experienced a vision at two gravesides—one for each victim, right?”

“No, I didn’t experience the burials of either Ethel or Robyn. The … the spirit communicating it to me … was someone else. But it was the same one both times.”

“But you don’t know who it was?”

“No, I don’t. It was a woman. She was … intense.” Carly thought for a moment and then added, “And her burial was someplace else. We haven’t seen it yet.”

“How do you know?”

“For one thing, it looked different from other graves.”

“You actually see places that you can recognize in the real world?”

“Oh, yes. Sometimes. The visions aren’t always clear. But those two times, I was definitely in a grave and looking up through gnarled and twisted branches at the night sky.”

“There weren’t any trees around either of those graves we saw.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. I was someone else, someplace else. That has to mean that there’s been a third victim. A third dead woman. She spoke to me, Lyle. She said we’ve got to keep looking.”

An uneasy silence fell between them.

“Are you sure of all this?” Lyle finally asked.

Carly rolled her eyes with frustration. She wasn’t used to being grilled about her visions. True, she often questioned them herself, but trying to defend them to someone else made her feel defensive.

“Lyle, I really think so. My gut tells me so. But I can’t be absolutely sure of anything. That’s not the way this thing of mine works. I often get hints instead of solid information—and sometimes those hints are more like riddles. Sometimes the spirits seem confused themselves. Sometimes they don’t even know they’re dead. And sometimes …”

Carly stifled a groan of despair.

“Well, a few of my visions haven’t meant anything at all,” she added. “But I have a strong feeling about it this time. A very strong feeling.”

“But you’re not absolutely sure of it.”

“Like I said, it doesn’t work that way.”

Lyle shook his head.

“But what are we supposed to do with this information—if it even really is information? We can’t tell Clayburgh and his men about it—or anybody else, for that matter. Did you get any idea of where this third grave might be?”

“None at all. I only saw those gnarled branches. And the spirit didn’t tell me anything else, except we need to keep looking.”

“Damn it, there are hundreds of graveyards in this county,” Lyle grumbled. “And we’ve got no idea where to start looking. We don’t even know for certain there’s anything for us to go looking for.”

Welcome to my life, Carly thought.

Lyle shook his head in resignation.

“Well, we can’t do anything more right now,” he said. “We haven’t had anything to eat since we were on the plane. We’d better grab something before we turn in for the night.”

Lyle parked at Otisville’s only all-night convenience store, and the two of them went inside. Carly felt herself flinch when they stepped into the glaring lights amid loud music, but she also felt relieved at the break. She knew she hadn’t done a very good job of explaining anything to Lyle, and their conversation wasn’t over.

After they bought sandwiches and soft drinks, Lyle drove the rest of the way to the Otisville Inn on the outskirts of town. They checked in at the front desk and parked near their rooms. They took their food into Lyle’s room and sat down at a table.

As they unwrapped their sandwiches and began to eat, Lyle started questioning her again.

“I don’t suppose your visions have given you any idea whether Frank Weaver is our killer.”

“None at all.”

“Why not? Don’t any of your spirits have any idea who killed them?”

“I don’t know. They might not. They don’t always know for sure.”

Carly set down her sandwich and heaved a long, discouraged sigh.

“Lyle, maybe this was a mistake,” Carly said. “Taking this case, I mean. Maybe we should have let Chief Voss assign somebody else to it. I mean, you could be enjoying your retirement by now, and I could be …”

Carly’s voice faded as she wondered, I could be what?

What were her alternatives right now?

She couldn’t be of any help to Megan, and her partnership with Lyle was about to come to an end, possibly on a very discouraging note.

She suddenly realized she had very little to look forward to.

As if in sympathy with her unspoken sadness, Lyle reached across the table and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“Things will be better tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll both function better after a good night’s sleep. And I’ll get the hang of working with this … well, this thing of yours. Maybe we’ll even beat the odds and Frank Weaver will be our guy. Or else the guy who owns the bar where Ethel worked, Keith Gustafson. If so, one of them will surely trip himself up before long. We’ll catch him.”

The two of them finished their sandwiches, and Carly walked alone to her motel room.

“If we beat the odds,” Carly thought, those words echoing in her head.

She doubted that would happen, and she felt sure Lyle did as well. They had no reason to doubt Frank’s alibi—that he’d been with Angie on the nights of both of the murders. The fact that Angie had volunteered the alibi instead of Frank actually added to its credibility.

The only thing Carly felt sure of was that neither Lyle’s investigative skills nor her messages from the dead had brought them anywhere near the solution of this case.

Carly’s cellphone buzzed the very moment she stepped through her motel room door. Her heart quickened when she saw who was calling.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Mark!” Carly gasped aloud at the sight of the caller’s name.

Since she’d left Currie she hadn’t heard from him, or from anyone in her family. Although they hadn’t been far from her thoughts, her main attention had been focused on the case.

The phone call was unexpected.

Does Mark have news? she wondered.

Had something happened? If so, was it good or bad? Was Megan’s condition improving or worsening or …?

Her fingers trembled as she sat down on the edge of the bed and took the call.

“Mark, it’s so good to hear from you. Thanks for calling.”

“I just wanted to touch base, Carly. Listen, I …”

Mark hesitated for a moment.

“Well, there hasn’t been much change,” he finally said. “Megan is conscious, but not very responsive. We did get her moved over to the Corley Mental Health Center without any trouble. It’s a good facility, and the staff is very nice, and they seem to really know what they’re doing. And it’s going to be OK for us to …”

Mark’s voice faded, but Carly knew what he’d stopped himself from saying out loud, so she said it for him.

“You and Mom and Dad will be able to spend time with her.”

“Right. We can see her pretty much whenever we want, for as long as we want, at least during visiting hours. Dr. Lunoe is really encouraging us to do that. She thinks it will help your sister’s recovery. I’m just sorry that … well, you can’t join us. At least, not right now. Not the way Megan reacts to you.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“I know it’s not fair.”

“It’s just the way things are. How are Mom and Dad holding up?”

“OK, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well, your mom understands why you went away to work on a case. She told me she’s actually glad you’ve got something to occupy your mind.”

Mark’s voice faded again. There was a brief silence, then Carly realized what he wasn’t saying.

“And Dad … doesn’t understand?” she asked.

“Oh … maybe I shouldn’t say anything about it.”

“Mark, please.”

She heard him let out a sigh.

“Your dad has been, well, complaining about how you went away to work on a case. He keeps saying you should have stayed right here even if you can’t spend any time with Megan.”

“What does he think I’d do there?”

“He says you should be here to look after the rest of us.”

Carly felt a sharp jab of hurt at what she was hearing.

“Look after the rest of you?” she repeated. “Like how?”

“I don’t know. Carly, I’m sorry. He’s just upset at how his life has been shaken up. He’s not making much sense about it all. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“No, I’m glad you did.”

Or maybe “glad” isn’t the right word.

She felt a flood of bitterness that made her voice tremble.

“Mark, this is rich. I mean, I do value my job, but Dad’s got no business thinking I care more about my work than I do about all of you.”

“That’s not what he said.”

“It’s what he’s thinking. And like I said, it’s rich. You know what he was like while I was growing up, even before Megan disappeared. He’d come home from work every day, all shut up inside himself. He might as well have lived in a different town as far as any of us were concerned. I don’t remember ever having a real heart-to-heart talk with him in my whole life, and …”

She suddenly fell silent. She realized she was on the verge of tears, and she really didn’t want to cry right now. Finally Mark broke the silence.

“Carly, I think he’s had a serious wakeup call. From what you and your mom have told me, he gave Megan up for dead a long time back. But now that she’s turned up alive, his whole world has been turned inside out. It’s like he has to rethink … well, everything about his life. He’s not used to that sort of thing.”

Another silence fell.

Maybe Mark’s right, Carly thought.

She was sure that her dad had lived most of his life based on decisions made many years ago. Probably before she had even been born. She was so accustomed to having to adjust to various kinds of change, she’d forgotten that some people didn’t expect change to happen at all.

Mark was apparently thinking along the same lines.

“Carly, I think maybe it’s really dawned on him how much he’s missed of life—especially with you and your mom and Megan. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s going to be a changed man from now on. This could be … well, it could actually be a good thing.”

Carly’s mind reeled. Was it possible that her father might suddenly turn more open and caring?

I’d better not get my hopes up.

“We’ll see,” she said.

There came a longer silence. When Mark spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion.

“Carly, I guess this has been kind of a wakeup call for me, too. Life just seems so … unpredictable and fragile all of a sudden. And I can’t help feeling …”

His voice faded again for a moment, but Carly had a feeling he was about to say something momentous. She wasn’t sure whether to feel hopeful or scared.

“I’ve been spinning my wheels for a long time now, ever since Judy and I got divorced. I guess I went through the same sort of thing your dad is now. That marriage and that whole idea of what life was supposed to be is completely over. I don’t even want it back. But now I’m just a small-time lawyer living all alone in a little town in Illinois, and I just don’t want to throw the rest of my life away, not taking any chances and risks, always doing what’s safe, and …”

He fell silent again for a moment.

“Carly, I love you,” he said.

Carly gasped aloud.

She found herself unable to make any sort of reply. She felt like it would only take a feather to knock her off the edge of the bed onto the floor.

When Mark spoke again, he sounded embarrassed and apologetic.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Carly. This isn’t the time to spring something like that on you.”

“No, it’s OK, I’m …”

I’m what? Carly wondered. Touched? Honored? Freaked out?

“I’m glad you told me,” she said.

“Well … look … the last thing I expect right now is for you to tell me … how you feel.”

“I know. I’m just surprised. I need some time to think about this.”

As soon as the words were out, she felt stupid for saying them.

What’s there to think about?

Either I feel the same way he does, or I don’t.

But at the moment, she really had no idea what else to say. Or even what she felt. So many conflicting emotions were charging through her mind that she couldn’t even define what she felt.

“I’d better let you go, Carly,” Mark said, sounding a little calmer now. “Hey, I didn’t even ask you how the case was going.”

Carly stifled a discouraged sigh.

“Not well, I’m afraid,” she said. “We might have a suspect, maybe even two. But we don’t know anything for sure yet. There are more questions than answers.”

And a dangerous killer still at large, she added silently.

“I hope you’ll tell me all about it when it’s over.”

“I’ll do that.”

“I’m sure you’re tired. You need to get some sleep.”

“Yeah, I … guess so,” she said. “Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

“We’ll do that.”

The call ended, and Carly sat staring at the phone.

Those words kept echoing through her mind.

“Carly, I love you.”

Carly shook her head and muttered to herself.

“Mark, why did you pick now to tell me a thing like that?”

But she silently scolded herself.

Is there ever going to be a better time?

Besides, she felt a bit foolish even to be surprised. She and Mark had been inseparable when they’d dated as teenagers, and lately Carly had almost felt like things might pick up where they’d left off all those years ago. She and Mark had even talked very tentatively about the possibility of spending more time together.

So why should those words have come as a shock?

More to the point …

Don’t I feel the same way?

The question felt so huge that Carly felt like she might choke on it.

And she was unsettled to realize she didn’t know the answer. There was so much going on right now—Megan’s reappearance and dire condition, the nebulous state of Carly’s own relationship with Lyle, and this one last case they were trying to solve together.

It’s just too much to think about.

I need to get some sleep.

But as she walked to the bathroom and undressed to take a shower, she got a powerful feeling that her day’s work wasn’t done—not yet. She could feel something different tugging at her thoughts. It was faint, but she recognized what was about to happen.

I’m going to have a dream.

Weirdly enough, Carly knew that she did some of her best work in her dreams. That was when spirits often communicated most fully and clearly, and she often woke up with vital clues in her head.

But there was one serious downside to such nighttime visitations.

They were usually absolutely terrifying.

As she stepped into the shower under a hot stream of water, that was the most troubling question in her mind.

How bad will tonight’s dream be?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Uta Raife took a swallow from her flask of whiskey and stared down into the Lost Stag River, which flowed silently into the moonlit night. The old bridge railing made a little creaking sound where she was leaning on it, but it held firm.

What would happen if I fell? she wondered bitterly, tucking the flask discreetly out of sight under her arm.

Or what if I just climbed the railing and jumped?

She almost certainly wouldn’t die from the fall, although she might get hurt. It was only some thirty feet down to the water. But as narrow as the river was, it was deceptively deep, and she wasn’t a very good swimmer. And right now, heavily dressed against the late November cold and more than a little tipsy, she wouldn’t stand much of a chance against the strong current, and …

Stop thinking like that, she warned herself.

You’re being selfish.

Her life wasn’t very happy these days. She had no surviving family members anywhere in Venable County, not even in the nearby tiny town of Brewster, where she’d been born and raised. She had a few friends here in Otisville, but none that she really felt close to.

But even so …

Think of the children.

Uta taught second grade at Otisville Elementary School. She cared about her little students more than she did about anybody else now, and she knew they looked up to her and cared about her.

She just couldn’t put them through the trauma of losing her in such a shocking way. She didn’t want any of them to go through life with a memory like that.

At the same time, she wondered—what did it say about her life that she was drinking more and more after she got home from school, and then long into the night? What did it say about her life that the only thing keeping her from ending her life right here and now was the thought of those children?

Steady, she told herself, taking another sip from her flask.

You’re not serious about killing yourself.

Stop being so damned dramatic.

Just try to enjoy the view.

And the Lost Stag River really was quite lovely on a night like this, particularly from up here on the Vernon Street Bridge, which offered a perfect view of the moon’s reflection shimmering on the rippling current.

As she’d taught her students, the bridge was an old and historic one—a rusted, vine-entangled steel truss structure that had been built back in 1885 but had been abandoned for some fifty years.

The bridge was officially condemned and closed to all traffic, including pedestrians. Instead of concrete or blacktop, it was paved with rows of rotting planks. There were actually holes in those planks here and there.

But none of that stopped Uta from sneaking out here at night and taking her chances. After many such excursions, she felt like she knew each and every plank quite intimately, so she wasn’t afraid of stepping on one that would give way and send her falling into the river.

Even so, she had to ask herself—why the hell was she risking her life outdoors at night when a killer might well be at large somewhere nearby?

In response, she told herself that nobody was likely to notice her here. So she could enjoy the privacy as well as the view in perfect safety.

Both ends of the bridge were overgrown with bushes, and there were vines climbing its girders. Even here in the middle of its span, she could stay fairly out of sight amid the jungle of growth.

In fact, she only knew one other person in Otisville who had ever joined her out here. This was where she and a man she called “Burlybear” had shared their first kiss a few months ago.

Such a silly pet name!

The thought made her cringe. And so did the name the man had chosen for her—”Punkin.”

But as infantile as those pet names sounded, Uta knew that they served a crucial function, even if she and the man she was involved with never said so outright. “Burlybear” and “Punkin” kept them from having to say their real names. And their real names were a painful reminder of who they were. Not that Burlybear seemed inclined to feeling guilty about much of anything …

“Burlybear has a wife …” Uta whispered aloud.

Then she let out a bitter sigh.

Sounds like the beginning of a nursery rhyme, she thought.

But under the circumstances, and with so much tragedy afoot, it seemed like a very sad nursery rhyme. And it was too bad their relationship was anything but as innocent as a nursery rhyme. She’d often told Burlybear she wanted to end it, but Burlybear was nothing if not insistent …

And possessive.

Despite the intensity of her attraction to him, she didn’t like the way he behaved toward her—as if she were some sort of toy he was determined to play with until it broke, and then he’d go find another.

He didn’t love her.

For that matter, she didn’t love him either.

She didn’t even like him.

So why can’t I stay away from him?

The question often baffled her. She could only guess that the furtive thrill of their forbidden encounters served as a distraction from the tedium of her sorry excuse for a life.

But maybe now it was over between them, even without a mutual decision on their parts. She was almost sure he wasn’t going to show up either here on the bridge or at the nearby mobile home where she lived on the riverside—not tonight, at least. Ethel’s murder had cast a pall over everything—over the whole town, really.

Poor Ethel.

Who could do such a thing?

And there was also the murder of the other woman over in Wildroot Run …

What was her name?

Oh yes.

Robyn something.

Robyn Sears.

She almost jumped out of her skin at the sound of a voice calling out to her.

“Ms. Raife, is that you?”

She hastily stuck the flask in her jacket pocket, then turned and saw a shadowy figure standing among the bushes at one end of the bridge.

“Who is it?” she called back.

The man took a step or two forward.

“It’s me, Jordan Morley. You teach my daughter, Patsy. Remember?”

Sure enough, Uta now recognized his face in the moonlight. She knew him from parent-teacher meetings.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Ms. Raife,” Morley said. “Not at night like this, with all the goings-on around here lately. It’s not safe. And you definitely shouldn’t be out on this bridge—at all. It’s closed to the public, you know.”

“I know,” Uta said. “I’m sorry, I’m … I’m just taking in a little fresh air.”

“Well, it’s not a good idea, is all I’m saying.”

Trying to make light of the situation, Uta said, “If things are so dangerous, what are you doing out and around, Mr. Morley.”

“I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d do a bit of patrolling on my own.”

“Patrolling?”

“Yeah, and don’t worry about me,” he added with a boastful chuckle. “I can watch out for myself. Nobody’s going to get the best of me. If I get my hands on that killer, his little spree will be over.”

Yes, I suppose so, Uta thought, eyeing Morley’s sturdy figure.

Uta cringed as Morley took another step toward her. If he actually walked up close to her, he would surely smell the alcohol on her breath. That would be much worse than merely embarrassing. She certainly didn’t want the parent of one of her students to find out firsthand that she drank alone at night.

But after a couple more steps, the wooden planks creaked threateningly under Morley’s feet. He looked down and saw a hole in right in front of him. He took a nervous step backwards.

Uta smiled a little. The decrepit state of the bridge seemed enough to keep even this self-styled tough guy at a safe distance, at least for the moment.

“You need to get home,” Morley said to her. “Would you like me to walk you there? I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” Uta said. “I live just a short, safe walk away.”

“I don’t know whether anything is safe tonight, Ms. Raife. At least tell me you’ve got something to protect yourself from attackers. Some pepper spray, maybe.”

“Yes, of course I’ve got pepper spray.”

She was lying, of course. But she felt ready to say just about anything to keep Morley away from her.

“OK, then,” Morley said. “Just head on home, OK?”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Morley. I’ll go in just a couple of minutes. You don’t need to worry.”

“Goodnight, Ms. Raife,” Morley said.

“Goodnight, Mr. Morley.”

Uta breathed a little easier as Morley disappeared among the brush at the end of the bridge. Although she couldn’t see him now, she hoped he was well on his way back on his so-called “patrol.”

Still, she couldn’t entirely shake off her worry about him. Her own route to her small riverside trailer was in the same direction where he had just disappeared.

What if he comes back this way?

She dreaded the thought of running right into him and having him notice the unmistakable smell of alcohol on her breath.

Maybe I really should have some pepper spray, she thought wryly.

It would certainly take a well-meaning tough guy like Jordan Morley off his guard, and maybe teach him to mind his own business.

She leaned against the railing again and took her flask out of her pocket and opened it, gulping down the last of the whiskey. She breathed long and slow as she stood staring down at the moonlit water. A deepening sadness swelled up inside her.

She knew she wasn’t the only unhappy person here in Otisville.

There’s a lot of sadness going around.

Especially after two murders.

Meanwhile, Jordan Morley had been right about one thing. Uta had to admit that she really shouldn’t be out and around on a night like this. It was time to head back to her trailer and try to get some sleep.

She backed away from the rail and began to make her cautious way off the bridge. As always, she tested the boards with her feet before putting her full weight on them. But as she neared the thick brush at the end of the bridge, she was startled by a soft rustling sound. She stood motionless for a moment.

It’s just the breeze, she decided.

But when she took another step, she heard it again.

“Is someone there?” she asked.

There was no reply.

“Mr. Morley, is that you?”

There was still no reply.

“Burlybear?” she asked, her voice now shaking with fear.

A shadowy figure burst out from the brush. Before Uta could react, she was tangled in a pair of powerful arms. The moon was behind her assailant, so his face was a shadowy blur.

With a panic-fueled burst of adrenaline, Uta pushed against his face and yanked herself free. She began to run across the bridge away from her attacker. All thoughts of watching her step had vanished from her mind.

Suddenly a board collapsed under her weight, and one leg fell thigh-deep into the hole. For a moment she was stunned into immobility. She was turned away from her attacker, so she couldn’t see him. But she could hear the steady trudge of his footsteps across the boards.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Please … just … don’t …”

Then she silently scolded herself.

Don’t be pathetic.

She struggled painfully out of the hole only to realize that her ankle was badly sprained. She staggered a few steps, gasping so loudly for breath that she could no longer hear her assailant.

It’s too late.

I’ll never get away.

Sure enough, she felt the brutal pain as a sharp blade entered her back between her ribs, plunging deep into her heart.

Then the world went black.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

As Carly stared at the empty hospital bed, she could feel a flood of panic surging up inside her.

“This is wrong, all wrong,” she muttered.

She could hear familiar voices chattering words she couldn’t quite make out.

“Where’s Megan?” she asked sharply.

Then the voices spoke clearly in reply.

“Why, she’s right here in her bed,” Mom’s voice said with a slight chuckle.

“She’s right in front of you,” Dad said.

“Can’t you see her?” Mark asked.

Carly whirled around.

There was no one else in the room. Frantically, she called out to the voices.

“Mom, Dad, Mark … where are you?”

“We’re right here too, silly,” Mom said.

“Where else would we be?” Dad said.

“You’re stressed, Carly,” Mark said with a note of concern.

“Your mind is playing tricks on you,” Mom said.

“You need to get some rest,” Dad added.

Carly shook her head.

Her sister’s hospital bed was empty. She could see that clearly, even if nobody else did. Something was very wrong here, and those disembodied voices weren’t going to be of any help.

Somebody had to find Megan before she did herself serious harm.

Not that she could have gotten very far in the hospital hallways. Carly was sure she was hiding somewhere nearby.

But where?

Carly felt a palpable flash of déjà vu.

This has happened before, she realized.

And then it dawned on her where to look.

The closet!

She turned around and looked at the room’s closet with its accordion doors.

She’s in there.

I just know it.

But as she reached for the door handle, she heard the voices call out in a chorus of protests.

“Don’t open that door, Carly.”

“You don’t have any business in there.”

“You’ll be making a mistake.”

Carly had no idea what objections those voices could seriously have. In fact, she felt absolutely sure that she’d find Megan crouched in a corner of the closet in a fetal position.

But when she slid the closet door open, she saw no such thing.

Instead, the door led into a hallway, where she saw another door with a familiar sign on it.

KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING

Carly let out a gasp of recognition.

It’s Megan’s bedroom!

Megan had put up that sign when she was a teenager—and she’d meant it, too. Carly could remember the screaming adolescent tantrum Megan had thrown when she’d ignored the warning just once back then and walked in without permission. She’d respected her sister’s privacy ever after that.

Ignoring the warnings of the voices behind her, Carly stepped through the closet door and into the hallway. Then she knocked on her sister’s door.

“Megan, are you in there?” she asked.

There was no reply from inside the room.

The voices behind her started grumbling again, blurring together so she couldn’t tell which was which.

“Carly, what’s the matter with you?”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Didn’t we tell you Megan was safe in her hospital bed?”

Ignoring them, Carly decided to risk Megan’s wrath and open the door to her bedroom. When she did, a glow of sunshine poured in through the window. When she took a step inside the room, the voices became more agitated.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“What will Megan say?”

“You know she’ll get mad about this.”

She pushed the door shut behind her, and she couldn’t hear the warning voices anymore.

There.

That’s better.

But as Carly looked around, she saw that Megan wasn’t here either. It felt eerie to be in this room again—almost as if Carly had gone back in time. Everything was exactly the same as it had before Megan had disappeared. The posters of Megan’s male teenage pop idols were still hanging on the walls, and her desk was neatly arranged.

Carly’s eyes fell on a familiar object—a water globe with two frolicking dolphins inside. She was surprised to see it here. She thought she’d taken it out of Megan’s room to carry with her everywhere in her go-bag, just to have a little piece of Megan with her.

But here it is.

Instead of the fake snow found in ordinary snow globes, the two dolphins were engulfed in whirling bubbles.

Maybe she’s in here, Carly thought.

Megan had always called this little keepsake her “secret place,” an imaginary refuge where she could be alone with her thoughts. She liked to close her eyes and pretend she was inside the globe swimming with the dolphins.

Maybe that’s what she’s doing now.

Carly picked up the globe, and the bubbles moved around inside.

“Are you in there, Megan?” Carly whispered.

At first she heard no reply, and she saw nothing inside the globe except bubbles and dolphins.

But then the scene inside the globe began to twist and change shape, and she heard a raspy woman’s voice.

“What do you think you’re doing, girl?”

It wasn’t Megan.

Carly immediately recognized the voice of the spirit who had spoken to her in the two graveyard visions.

“Who are you?” Carly asked. “Where are you?”

“Wouldn’t it be nice for both of us if I could just tell you? Well, I can’t do that, I don’t know why. Being dead’s got some strange rules, if you ask me.”

It sure does, Carly thought.

“But you didn’t answer my question,” the spirit said. “What are you doing right now?”

“I’m looking for my sister.”

“No, you’re just acting like a fool. Don’t you know what’s going on right now? You’re dreaming, girl!”

Carly felt a jolt of realization.

Yes, I am dreaming.

She should have recognized the signs already. Things were unfolding much too weirdly for this to be waking reality.

Then she remembered something.

“Megan’s alive,” she said.

“Is that right? Well, if she’s alive, why do you expect to find her in a dream?”

Carly suddenly felt extremely foolish.

Of course I won’t find her right now.

I only find dead people in my dreams—or else they find me.

The voices she’d heard before weren’t really Mom, Dad, and Mark at all, just rumblings of her own subconscious. Nevertheless, those voices had been right. Mom, Dad, and Mark knew exactly where Megan was—alive and safe somewhere, probably in a hospital bed at the mental health center, where she’d been transferred earlier that day.

It was only Carly who wasn’t allowed to see her.

Meanwhile, the scene inside the globe she held in her hands was changing again. Soon the dolphins had disappeared, and it was filled with a tangle of gnarled and knotty branches—the same branches Carly had seen in her two graveside visions.

Then the globe itself disappeared and she was actually, physically among the branches of that twisted landscape.

The spirit kept talking to her.

“Now you’ve got to cut out this nonsense. You’re wasting precious time. While you’ve been dawdling, something bad has happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just push on ahead and look for yourself.”

Carly grappled with the branches and pushed them out of her way as she took a few steps forward. She felt something creaking under her feet, and then she felt something sticky under the soles of her shoes.

She looked down and saw a pool of thick red blood staining what appeared to be rotting wooden planks.

Carly let out a gasp.

“Was someone else killed here?” she asked.

“What does it look like?”

“But where am I?”

“Keep looking.”

Carly raised her head, but before she could take in the scene around her, a sharp noise sounded in her ear.

The phone ringing on her nightstand woke Carly up.

She looked at her clock and saw that it was still very early.

This can’t be good news.

She took the call and heard Lyle’s voice.

“I just heard from Sheriff Clayburgh. Another grave has been found.”

“Where?”

“In a little town called Brewster, about a half hour’s drive from Otisville. Clayburgh gave me directions how to get there. Get up and let’s get going.”

Lyle ended the call, and Carly sat staring at the phone.

If only I’d been able to dream a little longer …

She thought she might have learned something important if it had continued, but there was nothing she could do about that now.

Then she wondered whether this grave would be beneath those gnarled trees she kept seeing.

But that irascible voice echoed through her brain.

“While you’ve been dawdling, something bad has happened.”

Whatever she meant must have just happened, and to somebody new. Did that mean the visions of gnarled trees pertained to an earlier murder? Was the murder Lyle had called her about in fact a fourth murder?

She also remembered the last two words the angry spirit had said when she saw the pool of blood on rotting planks.

“Keep looking.”

Carly scrambled out of bed and hurried to prepare herself for the urgencies of the coming day.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“So what can you tell me right now?” Lyle asked as he drove their rented car along the winding two-lane highway deeper into the hills of Venable County. “How many murders are we dealing with?”

They were driving to the town of Brewster in response to the sheriff’s notification that a new grave had turned up there. And Carly knew Lyle wanted her to share any special insights she might have before they arrived there.

What should I say? she wondered anxiously.

Her dream hadn’t given her a clear answer to his question, or to any questions of her own. She felt discouraged.

“I don’t know yet, Lyle,” she told him. “We aren’t even there yet. Maybe I’ll know when I see the grave.”

“Is there anything you can tell me?” Lyle said.

She hesitated, wondering whether to tell him about the dream or not. It might just cause more confusion between them, to no good purpose. On the other hand, she owed it to her partner to share everything that might pertain to the case. She would certainly tell him about any new physical evidence she’d come across, no matter how obscure it seemed.

She decided that the same must be true of messages from the dead.

“I had a dream last night, Lyle. I think I saw where someone had been murdered.”

“What did it look like?”

“I didn’t see much—just a really thick pool of blood on some rotting planks. But I had the impression that someone was killed there.”

“Any idea where it was? Or who was killed? Or who the killer might be?”

Carly felt frustration swell up inside her.

Again she remembered what the spirit had said as she stood looking at that pool of blood.

“Keep looking.”

But she hadn’t had a chance to keep looking.

“I’ve got no idea, Lyle,” she finally said. “You can’t imagine what this is like. Sometimes these visions and dreams seem to be worse than useless. Most of the time I learn something from them, but sometimes they make me feel even more confused than before. I’m doing my best. I really am.”

Lyle sighed apologetically.

“I know you are, Carly. Let’s try to figure this out together.”

Lyle paused to think for a moment.

“When the sheriff called me, he said he still hadn’t been to the scene. So he didn’t know whether this new grave was fresh or not, or how recently the victim had been killed. Do you think the murder you dreamed about last night about was recent, or might it have happened some time ago?”

“I think it must have been recent. The spirit accused me of ‘dawdling’ while something bad had happened. That must mean that the murder happened last night, maybe after we quit working and went to get something to eat. Or even while we were sleeping.”

“So … yesterday you had two visions of a grave with gnarled branches above it. Is there any chance …?”

Lyle’s voice faded for a moment.

“Well, this might sound like a weird theory, but do you think those visions might have been premonitions of something that hadn’t happened yet? Like maybe you got an early peek at a burial that happened just last night?”

Carly’s brow crinkled with interest.

“That’s a good question, Lyle. I don’t remember ever getting a prophetic dream before. But I guess that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. And if it did …”

She paused for a moment.

“Well, that might mean that we’re still dealing with only three murders, and not four.”

“And that would mean that all the graves are still accounted for, and there isn’t another one out there in the hills that we’ve got no idea where to start looking for. And that would be a good thing. That would be a very good thing.”

It sure would.

“I guess I’ll know when I see the grave,” she said. “I should be able to tell whether it’s the same grave as in my visions.”

As they drove deeper into the hills, Carly began to feel more at ease. She found a surprising degree of comfort in something Lyle had just said.

“Let’s try to figure this out together.”

He’s trying. He’s really trying.

Finally Lyle spoke again.

“Carly, I know I should have asked already, but … have you gotten any news about your sister?”

Carly felt a twinge of gratitude at his concern.

“Mark Lawson called me after we got to the motel,” she said. “Mark is a childhood friend from Currie.”

“You’ve mentioned him.”

It felt odd somehow to call Mark a “childhood friend” after all they’d been through together, and after Mark’s confession last night.

“I love you.”

But she wasn’t going to get into all that with Lyle right now.

“He told me there’s no real change in Megan’s condition. She’s been moved to a mental health center. But at least …”

A knot of emotion in her throat silenced her for a moment.

“At least Mark and Mom and Dad can spend time with her,” she added.

“But not you.”

Carly let out a gasp. She’d almost forgotten that she’d told Lyle about how Megan was afraid of her and that she was forbidden to see her own sister.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that,” Lyle said. “It’s just that I’ve been worried about the emotional toll this is taking on you.”

Carly swallowed down another lump of emotion.

“It’s tough, Lyle. I won’t lie to you about it. And the truth is, it isn’t just Megan’s condition that’s got me worried. I still don’t know what happened to her in the first place—why she disappeared, where she’s been all these years, and …”

She paused for a moment, then continued.

“I still don’t know who that man was who was torturing her and almost killed her when I found her. If only I hadn’t been forced to shoot him, Lyle. If I’d been able to take him into custody, he’d surely have talked sooner or later. But now I’m afraid I’ll never find out the truth.”

“Voss will help with that.”

Carly’s eyes widened with surprise.

“You mean—you’ve talked to Voss about all this?”

Lyle nodded as he slowed the car a little for an especially sharp curve in the road.

“Yeah, just a bit. He told me he’s putting FBI resources to work trying to find out who your sister’s abductor and assailant was. He’s also trying to reach out to the man who owns that house where you rescued her. Maybe he can explain a few things. Voss will find out what you want to know. I’m sure of it.”

“I’m just surprised he’s going to all that trouble. Especially with FBI resources. It doesn’t seem like him.”

“That man is full of surprises,” Lyle said with a chuckle. “I’ve known him for years, and he still startles me from time to time. I know he seems all brusque and businesslike, but that’s mostly a front. Deep down, he actually cares a lot about people.”

They both fell silent as Lyle kept driving. Of course Carly had observed the concern that Voss felt about her partner. She wondered—did Lyle know how much Voss cared about him in particular, and how he treasured their friendship? Did he know what Carly strongly suspected—that Voss was having trouble letting Lyle go, and that was why he’d pulled him in to work on one more case?

Maybe I should tell him.

But then again, Carly thought, maybe she shouldn’t. Lyle had never said much about his history with Voss and their friendship, so it might be an off-limits topic.

Besides, both she and Lyle needed to get their minds back on the case.

Before long they saw a sign announcing their destination.

Brewster

Unincorporated

pop. 50

Sure enough, Lyle turned another curve and the little town came fully into view.

Brewster didn’t look real at first. The cluster of small houses and businesses nestled among the hills looked more like a toy village on an electric train landscape than an actual town. And Carly didn’t see any people anywhere.

Brewster might well have a population of fifty, making it a veritable metropolis in comparison to Wildroot Run, with its population of two. But at the moment, Brewster looked as much like a ghost town as the one where Robyn Sears had been killed.

Lyle turned their car onto a street called Buckeye Lane, and their destination came into sight.

For a moment, Carly wondered whether she might be dreaming again.

It appeared as though the entire population of Brewster was standing in front of a simple wooden church. In a weird tableau, they stood as stiff and formal as if posing for a nineteenth-century photograph. And in their midst in front of the church door stood a tall, black-clad figure with a skull-like visage. He reminded Carly of traditional images of death personified.

But as Lyle parked the car, Carly realized that the sinister-looking man was actually wearing a clerical outfit and holding a Bible in his hand.

The town preacher, she realized.

She spotted Sheriff Clayburgh and Deputy Hamner standing among the townspeople near the preacher. The coroner’s van was also here. Carly remembered Clayburgh telling them that the county coroner’s headquarters was actually located in Charleston, in a separate county.

The coroner and his team managed to get here in a hurry.

Sheriff Clayburgh was quick to introduce Carly and Lyle to the preacher.

“Agents See and Ramsey, this is the Reverend Kenneth Marks, the pastor at this church. He discovered the new grave just this morning. He’s been expecting you.”

So has everybody in his flock, Carly thought, looking at the dozens of other surrounding faces.

They seemed to have been gathered here for the purpose of meeting them.

Pastor Marks called out to the crowd in a deep, booming voice.

“Help has arrived. You needn’t worry, you will be safe now. Go to your homes.”

Carly was astonished by how quickly the crowd obediently disbursed and headed off in different directions.

Like a flock of sheep.

Pastor Marks seemed to wield an uncanny amount of authority in this little community.

A moment later, Pastor Marks was leading Lyle, Carly, the sheriff, and his deputy around to the far side of the church, where the cemetery awaited them. Sheriff Clayburgh spoke quietly to Carly and Lyle as they walked.

“I knew the victim’s face as soon as I saw her. Her name was Uta Raife. She was a teacher at Otisville Elementary School.”

“So she didn’t live here in Brewster?” Carly asked.

“Not recently,” Clayburgh said. “The truth is, I never knew much about her. But apparently she grew up right here in Brewster. The preacher said he recognized her right away.”

“Do you have any idea where the murder took place?” Lyle asked.

“Not yet. But I doubt that it happened near here. From what the preacher told me, she was pretty estranged from this town. She hasn’t been here for years. My guess is it happened in or around Otisville.”

As they approached the little village cemetery, Carly could see the open shallow grave and the body lying uncovered in it. The coroner and two members of his team were crouched beside the body, examining it carefully.

There were no bloodstained planks anywhere in sight.

Carly found it frustrating to have such a vivid image in her mind, and yet still have no clear idea of where that bloodstain actually was. But the other victims had been killed elsewhere and then moved to their gravesites, so this one must have been too.

But she recognized a cause for a deeper disappointment.

What Carly did not see were any trees close to the grave, much less any gnarled branches hanging over it.

As she exchanged glances with Lyle she could see the same disappointment in his eyes. She knew they were thinking the same thing.

This isn’t the grave in my vision.

And that could only mean one thing.

Another murdered victim had been buried somewhere else.

This was at least the fourth murder, not the third.

And we still don’t know where that other grave is.

And we can’t tell anybody about it.

How will we ever find it?

CHAPTER TWENTY

As Carly walked on into the well-kept little cemetery with her colleagues, her mind boggled at all the dilemmas facing them.

There was yet another grave somewhere, but where? Why did that particular spirit keep reaching out to her? And were there more buried victims that hadn’t been discovered at all?

And now Lyle knows about all that too.

But she was surprised to find that it didn’t make things any easier for her. Most of her life, Carly had been frustrated by knowing odd bits and pieces of information she couldn’t tell to anybody else. Now she felt that life had actually been simpler back then.

As long as her visions and messages were a private, secret matter, at least she hadn’t had to share the responsibility for them. But now that Lyle was in the loop, she would have to deal with the fact that he was just as troubled as she was by all those unanswered questions.

And he’s not used to it.

As they neared the new gravesite, Carly could see that the coroner was a youngish man with a cosmopolitan look that suggested he wasn’t from around these parts.

Maybe not even from Venable County.

After all, his workplace was located in Charleston.

Sheriff Clayburgh again made introductions.

“Chase, these are FBI Special Agents See and Ramsey.” Turning to Carly and Lyle, he added, “This is Dr. Chase Eggers, our county coroner.”

“Glad to see you folks,” Dr. Eggers said, with a quick glance up from his work. “This is a weird business. Not so much the death by itself. This county gets more murders than you Feds might expect—and more suicides, too. Life in these parts is as depressing and boring as hell. It’s enough to drive anybody to all sorts of craziness.”

He rose to his feet and brushed off his hands, and added, “But serial killings—that’s something new here. We don’t know how to deal with that kind of thing, do we, Sheriff Clayburgh?”

“I’m afraid not,” Clayburgh grumbled.

It hadn’t occurred to Carly that murders weren’t uncommon here in Venable County. But she remembered that life in rural America was hardly as bucolic as it was once thought to be. Opioid addiction was common in these parts, and even gang violence was beginning to happen.

But serial killings were, indeed, another matter—a matter for shock and terror in any setting.

Carly immediately noticed the same boot prints that had been at the other murder scenes—the prints that Lyle said showed that the killer wore boots that were too big for his feet.

Now that she got a good look at the body, she saw that the victim was about the same age as the other two women. The method of burial was nearly identical—an extremely shallow excavation that had been covered with dirt. And like the victims in the crime scene photos she and Lyle had studied yesterday, this woman’s mouth was open and filled with dirt, and her eyes stared emptily skyward.

Pastor Marks took a few steps toward the grave and looked down at the body.

“At least Uta’s back home, at long last,” the preacher said. “She’s ours again. I suppose Ronald and Heather are glad to have their daughter back.”

Carly exchanged a puzzled glance with Lyle. It seemed like a truly grotesque thing to say while standing over a young woman’s body in a freshly excavated shallow grave. Why would anybody’s parents be glad to have such a horrible tragedy befall their daughter?

“Can we speak with Uta’s parents?” Lyle asked.

Pastor Marks looked surprised and a bit distressed by the question.

“Well … no, that would be … difficult.”

He pointed toward a pair of matching headstones nearby.

“They’re buried right there, you see.”

Carly saw the inscriptions with the couple’s names on them.

“I certainly hope they’re all together now,” the pastor added.

Carly shivered a little at those words. So far, she’d gotten no spiritual message here, but that was probably yet to come. She wondered whose spirit she might yet encounter in this graveyard—the murdered woman’s, or the spirits of her parents, or someone else altogether? And what might they have to say to her?

“When did Uta’s parents die?” Lyle asked.

“Cancer took Heather away from us ten years ago. Ronald died three years ago—mostly from loneliness, I think, and heartbreak. He missed Heather terribly. And both of his children were gone. Nobody knows where his boy Gregory went. My guess is he came to a bad end somewhere. He was a rebellious sort who never fit in here in our little town.”

The pastor shook his head with a grim sigh.

“But then, neither did Uta,” he added. “She had her own ways, and they weren’t our ways. Ever since she was a little girl, she’d go around telling people she was going to get out of Brewster as soon as she could. And sure enough, when she finished high school, she went off to college to get a teaching degree, then settled down in Otisville.”

An expression of profound disgust settled over the pastor’s features.

Almost as if Otisville is like some kind of Sodom or Gomorrah.

The pastor shook his head and added, “It’s happening more and more like that. Young’uns are forgetting who they are, where they come from, with no respect for the past—for traditions and forebears and everything that came before them.”

Carly felt a chill of recognition. She remembered Lulu Watkins saying very much the same thing yesterday in Wildroot Run.

“Folks around these parts don’t remember anything anymore.”

It seemed that at least some of Venable County’s older inhabitants harbored bitter feelings about a world that was changing around them, leaving the past behind. She found herself wondering whether such attitudes had any bearing on the murders themselves. Was the killer acting out of some kind of similar resentment? For the moment, she couldn’t guess how. 

In any case, Carly felt an intense flash of sympathy for the murdered woman.

If I grew up here, I’d want to get the hell out too.

But now she’s back here—to stay.

Lyle cleared his throat and spoke to the pastor.

“My colleagues and I need to confer among ourselves for a while.”

Pastor Marks nodded with understanding and silently walked away from the graveside, leaving Lyle, Carly, Deputy Hamner, the coroner, and two members of the coroner’s team alone with the body.

“That preacher gives me the creeps,” Dr. Eggers said quietly, watching as Pastor Marks disappeared inside the church.

I guess I’m not the only one, Carly thought.

“What can you tell us about the murder?” Lyle asked the coroner.

“The victim was killed last night, I’m already sure of that,” Eggers replied, looking over the body carefully. “She wasn’t stabbed in the chest like the other two victims, but there’s a similar loss of blood, so the cause of death was probably the same.”

He said to the two members of his team, “Turn the corpse on its side for me.”

The men did as they were told, and Carly and her colleagues could see that the victim’s clothing in back was soaked in blood.

“Just as I thought,” Eggers said. “Stabbed from behind, straight between the ribs and into the heart. Do you suppose the killer took her by surprise?”

“Maybe,” Lyle said. “Or maybe she was fleeing her attacker. It would help if we had some idea where the murder actually took place.”

“Well, like I said before, I doubt that it happened right here in Brewster,” Sheriff Clayburgh remarked.

“I take it you didn’t get any calls last night reporting any kind of incident?”

“Nothing like that at all.”

As Carly’s colleagues continued to discuss the murder, Carly took a cautious step toward the graveside, then knelt down beside the body. Sure enough, she felt a familiar deep tingle of an impending visitation. As always at such moments, Carly cautioned herself to keep her reactions under control.

Suddenly she saw a familiar sight.

It was those bloodstained planks again.

She also heard a familiar, raspy voice.

“Didn’t I tell you? This is what comes from dawdling, girl.”

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

That voice!

Carly shuddered at the sound of it.

That scolding tone did not come from the woman lying in a shallow grave right here in front of her. It was definitely the voice of the spirit who had spoken to her on three other occasions so far. And as it had before, the spirit sounded impatient.

And as before, the image of those stained boards seemed connected to this cantankerous spirit. Staring at the pools of blood, Carly felt herself slipping deeper into the vision.

She tried to reach out to the spirit with her thoughts.

“Where did this happen?” she asked silently.

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”

“Who did this?”

“I’d like to tell you. Don’t know why I can’t do that, the words just don’t seem to come. It’s not easy being dead, I can tell you that much. But figuring things out is your job, not mine. And there’s one thing you ought to know already. It’s as easy to see as the nose on your face.

“What is it?”

“He’s bringing home the blood—all the blood that’s lost its way.”

“But—what does that even mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

Carly had to stop herself from shouting. It crossed her mind that whoever this woman was, she might have been an annoying person even when she was alive.

But it was important to stay cool. She was surrounded by living people who had no idea that Carly communicated with the dead. She had to find out whatever she could without drawing their attention to her altered state of mind.

Meanwhile, those bloodstained boards came into such sharp focus that Carly felt as though she could reach out and touch them.

“Show me more,” she said silently.

“Show you what?”

“Show me where I can find this bloodstain.”

“Do you expect me to do everything?”

“Just show me!”

“Show you what?”

The coroner’s voice snapped Carly out of her vision.

Carly looked up from the grave and saw that Dr. Eggers looked quite puzzled.

Oh no!

She realized she’d slipped and asked that question aloud.

“Nothing,” she told him. “Just—just thinking aloud, I guess.”

“She does that sometimes,” Lyle added, obviously trying to help cover for her.

Doubtless her partner had noticed her slipping into a trancelike state and knew she’d had another visitation.

And now I’ve got more explaining to do.

But explanations would have to wait until she could talk to Lyle privately.

Fortunately, neither Dr. Eggers nor any of the others present seemed especially curious about Carly’s small outburst. At least, they resumed working without further comment.

*

As Lyle started to drive, he asked the question that Carly had been expecting.

“What kind of message did you get at the grave?”

At least we can talk about things openly now, she thought.

They were heading back toward Otisville, where they planned to confer with their local colleagues at the police station. It had only taken about an hour to finish up their business in Brewster. Now the coroner and his team were on their way back to Charleston with the body in their van. Carly, Lyle, the sheriff, and his deputy had wrapped up their interviews and returned to their respective vehicles.

“The message I got wasn’t from the woman who was buried there,” Carly replied. “I heard from that same spirit again—the one who’s been communicating with me since we started working on the case.”

“The other woman who was murdered. Or at least so we’re assuming.”

“That’s right. She accused me of ‘dawdling’ again, made it out to be my fault there had been another murder. She knows who the killer is, Lyle. I think she wants to tell me, but she can’t.”

“Why not?”

“That’s the way these things work—or don’t work. The spirits of the dead have their limitations. Sometimes they don’t know much. Sometimes they’re confused about whatever they do know. Or for some reason, they can only speak in riddles. At least this one doesn’t seem to be completely confused as to what happened to her—or to the other victims. She’s more lucid than some others I’ve had to deal with.”

“I guess that’s kind of a low bar.”

Yeah, it kind of is.

“She also showed me that bloodstain again—the one I saw in last night’s dream. Lyle, I’m almost sure that image I keep seeing is the scene of the most recent murder. But she won’t show me where it is, and she won’t tell me, either.”

“I guess we need to find it for ourselves. We should be able to use what you’ve been seeing. I wish we could describe that scene to somebody. Isn’t there some way we can broach the subject to Sheriff Clayburgh, see if he can help us find the location?”

“How are we going to do that? Are we going to ask him if he knows of any place with rotting planks? How are we going to explain why we’re even asking such a question? I don’t see how we can, Lyle.”

“Neither do I,” Lyle said with a sigh. “So this supernatural thing doesn’t always work as well as plain old-fashioned investigation.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t,” she agreed.

They drove on for a few moments, thinking in silence.

“Let’s review a few things that we actually know,” Lyle finally said. “We’re pretty sure Frank Weaver and Keith Gustafson didn’t commit last night’s murder.”

“That’s true.”

In fact, Sheriff Clayburgh had told them a little while ago that his men had spent the night watching the residences of both the auto mechanic and the bar owner and hadn’t seen any movement.

“We also know that the killer has a thing about graveyards,” Lyle added. “He goes to a lot of trouble to transport the bodies to graveyards and bury them there. It’s as if he’s trying to give them some semblance of a ‘decent burial.’ That suggests a ritual element to these killings—maybe even something religious.”

Or maybe something else, Carly thought, replaying the spirit’s words in her mind.

“Lyle, the spirit said something else about the killer. She said he was bringing home the blood—the blood that’s lost its way.”

“What do you think she meant by that?”

“I don’t know, but I think it matters. Maybe it has something to do with how he’s choosing his victims. Remember what the preacher said—that Uta was ‘back home at long last.’ He thought of her like some kind of ‘prodigal daughter’ who had strayed from her roots.”

“That’s true. I’m not sure how that connects with the other two victims, though. For example, according to Lulu Watkins, Robyn Sears wasn’t originally from Wildroot Run.”

“No, but she’d gone there to take care of a dying aunt. Doesn’t that suggest some kind of ‘blood’ connection to the place, like she had family roots here?”

“Maybe. But what about Ethel? Her marital issues aside, she seemed to be perfectly settled in Otisville.”

“Let’s see what Sheriff Clayburgh can tell us that might link Ethel to the ‘blood’ thing.”

When they arrived back in Otisville, Lyle drove them up Carter Street to the police station, where Sheriff Clayburgh and Deputy Hamner awaited them in the sheriff’s office. They looked up expectantly at the two agents when they arrived.

“Any theories?” Clayburgh asked.

“Not yet,” Lyle told him. “But we need to know whatever more you can tell us about Ethel Weaver.”

Clayburgh tilted his head with surprise to hear Ethel’s name. Carly could understand why. There had been two victims since Ethel had been killed, and they’d already discussed the first victim in some detail.

“Well, I’m not sure what there is to tell,” the sheriff said with a shrug.

“Ethel lived in Otisville all her life,” Deputy Hamner added. “She married Frank Weaver straight out of high school.”

Carly’s brow crinkled with thought.

“What about her blood relations?” she asked.

“Well, she didn’t have any brothers or sisters,” Clayburgh said.

“And both of her parents died shortly after she got married.”

Carly exchanged a glance with Lyle. She knew they were both wondering about the same question.

“What about Robyn Sears?” Carly asked. “Who were her next of kin?”

Clayburgh said, “Aside from her aunt, who died under her care, she didn’t seem to have any.”

“Where was she born and raised?” Lyle asked.

“In Charleston. Her parents were originally from Wildroot Run, but they moved away from there before Robyn was born. Both of Robyn’s parents were dead, and she had a brother who also died a few years back. Other than that, she didn’t have any blood relatives that we know of.”

Carly looked at Lyle again. She was sure they were both thinking the same thing.

“Orphans,” Lyle said.

“Huh?” Clayburgh said.

“All the victims were technically orphans,” Carly explained. “All their parents were dead, and they didn’t have any next of kin—except for Ethel, of course, who was married to Frank.”

Deputy Hamner looked perplexed.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“That’s what my partner and I would like to find out,” Lyle told him.

Another aspect of the question occurred to Carly.

“We know that Uta’s parents are buried in the cemetery in Brewster. Where were the other two victims’ parents buried?”

The sheriff and his deputy exchanged looks of bemusement.

“I can’t rightly say about Robyn’s parents. But I’m pretty sure Ethel’s parents are buried up there on Trench Hill.”

“We need to find out about Robyn’s parents,” Lyle said.

“But why—?” the sheriff began.

He was interrupted by the sound of a voice in the doorway.

“Excuse me.”

Carly and her colleagues turned to see a familiar woman standing there. Her timid, mousy face was white as a sheet, and she was trembling all over.

Sheriff Clayburgh’s eyes widened with surprise to see her.

“Angie, what are you doing here?”

“I … I’ve been waiting for you to come back from Brewster,” she stammered. “I … I’ve got something to tell you.”

The strength in her legs seemed to give out as she stumbled into the room and sat down in the nearest chair.

“I know who killed Ethel,” Angie Bremmer announced.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Carly realized she was holding her breath.

Instead of speaking again, Angie just gripped the arms of her chair and seemed to be struggling to get her thoughts in order. Finally, the shaken woman looked up at Sheriff Clayburgh and blurted out what she had come to say.

“Frank killed Ethel.”

When the sheriff just gaped incredulously, Angie’s voice became shrill and angry.

“It was Frank. The bastard murdered my sister. His own wife.”

But Angie provided Frank’s alibi, Carly remembered.

So why was she now accusing him of murder?

“Angie, I don’t see how that’s possible,” Sheriff Clayburgh protested. “My boys watched his house all night long. They didn’t see him leave until morning, when he went to work. They even followed him to the garage.”

“I guess they didn’t watch Frank long enough. He didn’t stay at the shop. Not for long, anyhow. Only for a few minutes after he got there, then he took off again. I think he stopped by just to shake off your men. I don’t know where he went after that. And now someone else has been …”

Angie shuddered deeply and fell silent for a few seconds.

“You mustn’t underestimate him,” she added. “He’s good at fooling people—and using them, too. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

Carly wished she’d gotten a look at Frank Weaver’s house, where the cops had been staked out during the night. She thought that the locals might not be experienced at this sort of stakeout. Might they have overlooked some way out of the place? Could Frank have gotten past them, committed last night’s murder, then slipped back into his house again without being noticed?

That seemed hard to believe.

But not impossible.

“What makes you think he committed the murders?” Lyle asked.

His calm and reassuring tone seemed to help steady Angie. She took a deep breath, as if to gather her courage.

“I lied to you at the garage yesterday,” she choked out. “He wasn’t with me on either of those nights—not when Ethel was killed, nor when that woman over in Wildroot Run was killed either. And he wasn’t with me last night when this other woman was killed.”

“Good God!” Sheriff Clayburgh snapped loudly. Then he lowered his voice a bit.

“Why the hell did you lie for him, Angie?”

“You know what he’s like, Casey. You know how he is with women especially. He makes us act like complete idiots, the way he gets us under his control. I don’t know how he does it, but you and I both know it’s true.”

Clayburgh stared at the floor for a stupefied moment, as if trying to grasp what he was hearing. When he spoke, his voice was back to normal.

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“No idea at all. Like I said, he left the garage almost right away—as soon as we got word of this new murder. I called him at home a little while later, but he didn’t answer. Then I sent one of his mechanics over to his house to check up on him, but he didn’t find him there. You’ve got to find him, Casey.”

“We’ll do that, but … Angie, what motive do you think he had to kill Ethel and those other two women?”

Angie’s voice was trembling with what sounded to Carly like fear.

“I don’t know why he would have killed that woman over in Wildroot Run. And I don’t know why he would have killed the schoolteacher, either. But he and Ethel got so they hated each other. Ethel told me she wished he was dead, and he said the same thing about her. Well, I never really supposed Ethel would actually kill anybody, but Frank …”

Angie shuddered deeply.

“I think he’s capable of anything. And ever since Ethel was found dead, I’ve been wondering …”

She fell silent for a moment, then said, “Well, now I really do think he killed Ethel. Maybe he killed those other women and maybe he didn’t. I know I should have told you yesterday when you came by to talk to him. But I couldn’t do it—not with him right there in front of me. And this … new murder … maybe it’s my fault.”

“It’s not your fault, Angie,” Clayburgh said, slumping gloomily. “But honest to God, you should have told us.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Carly and Lyle exchanged a look. She knew they were both thinking along the same lines.

She could be right about Frank.

Carly and her partner were both familiar with cases in which someone committed multiple murders as a distraction, in order to disguise the fact that only one of the victims was the true target. Frank Weaver might have killed Robyn Sears and Uta Raife to distract from his own motive to kill his wife.

There was also another possibility. Someone else might have killed Robyn Sears, and Frank Weaver might have copied the killer’s MO when he killed Ethel to deflect suspicion from himself. Then maybe he killed Uta as a further deflection.

Lyle scratched his chin and spoke to Angie.

“When Frank left the shop this morning, did he leave on foot?”

“Why—yes,” Angie said. “He left his car parked in the garage.”

“That should make him a lot easier to find,” Sheriff Clayburgh said. “If he hasn’t picked up another vehicle somewhere.”

Carly silently agreed.

Angie Bremmer was now on the verge of tears.

“This is such a nightmare. I can’t believe it’s real. And now I’m so scared. What if he finds out I talked to you about this? What’s to stop him from killing me next?”

“We’re not going to let that happen,” Sheriff Clayburgh said. “I’ll make sure you’re protected until this whole thing is settled. What you should do right now is go on home, try to get some rest. I’ll send Officer Kenmore with you, and he’ll watch out for you. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe.”

Angie let out a bitter, wordless scoff of disbelief.

Sheriff Clayburgh called for Officer Kenmore, who was on duty at the station. At Clayburgh’s orders, when Kenmore arrived he gently escorted Angie outside to his vehicle.

“I’m not sure what to make of this,” the sheriff told Carly and Lyle. “About all the murders, I mean. But we’ve got to find Frank Weaver right now. I’ll send some of my guys searching the area.”

“Have them check his house again,” Lyle said with a nod. “Thoroughly.”

“OK, we’ll do that. Meanwhile, what about you two? You got to work fast this morning. Have you had any breakfast yet?”

Carly and Lyle exchanged surprised glances. In the chaos, they really hadn’t thought about eating. They shook their heads no.

“Well, you’d better do that,” Clayburgh said. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need you two to function at the top of your game here pretty soon. You can’t do that on an empty stomach.”

Or without coffee, Carly thought, suddenly realizing they hadn’t yet had any.

“There’s a little restaurant downtown called the Smokehouse,” Clayburgh said. “It’s nothing fancy, but they serve a fairly good sandwich there. I’ll tell you how to get there.”

A few moments later, Lyle and Carly were driving down Trench Hill on Carter Street, and they soon turned left onto Main Street and followed Clayburgh’s directions until they arrived at the Smokehouse.

Inside, it was a dingy establishment with a scuffed linoleum floor, dull Formica table tops, and tarnished and peeling chrome. Despite its shabbiness, the place had a pleasant feel to it, and a comforting food smell filled the air. Carly and Lyle sat down in a booth and studied the menus. It was too late for breakfast items, so they both ordered grilled cheese sandwiches and coffee.

As soon as the smiling, middle-aged waiter left their table, Lyle got a call from Sheriff Clayburgh.

When the call was over, Lyle told Carly, “Clayburgh said he sent a couple of guys over to Frank Weaver’s house. They found the door unlocked and even checked inside. He wasn’t there. They’ve got a bunch of other guys looking all around town. If he’s on foot, they’re sure to find him”

Lyle drummed his fingers on the table.

“I hope they’re not wasting their time chasing somebody who isn’t even the killer,” he said.

“You think he’s not guilty?” Carly asked.

“Well, his disappearance certainly suggests a consciousness of guilt. Maybe more to the point, he didn’t contradict Angie when she lied about his alibi when we interviewed him yesterday. If he’d felt secure in his innocence, he might have said so right then and there, if only out of concern for her. If he cares about her at all, he might not want her to put herself in legal jeopardy by lying to the police, and to no useful purpose. But even so …”

Lyle got quiet again as their sandwiches arrived. After the waiter left the table, he leaned forward and spoke more quietly.

“I keep thinking about what you told me the spirit said. Something about blood …?”

“She said the killer was bringing home the blood that had lost its way.”

“Yeah. How might that connect with Frank?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with him at all.”

“So maybe your spirit was just spouting nonsense?”

“I find that hard to believe. She seemed awfully emphatic.”

Carly took a bite of her warm toasted cheese sandwich and a sip of hot coffee. Lyle was looking thoughtful as he started in on his own late breakfast.

“It still bothers me that Frank might have slipped out last night without Clayburgh’s cops noticing it,” Lyle said. “I know these guys aren’t exactly accustomed to stakeouts, but even so …”

“That’s bothering me too. They’re inexperienced, but I doubt that they’re stupid. Could they really have missed him completely?”

“I’ll tell you what. As soon as we finish eating, let’s get Frank’s address and go have a look around for ourselves. Maybe we can get some idea of how everything might have gone down.”

Carly’s phone buzzed. She gasped aloud when she saw the name of the caller.

“It’s Chief Voss,” she said, wondering why their boss would be calling her instead of Lyle.

“Well, you’d better take that. It’s probably about your family issues.”

He’s right, Carly thought.

Voss might have new information about the man who had attacked Megan.

“I’ll just take a break so you can talk,” Lyle told her. He got up from the booth and disappeared in the direction of the restrooms.

Carly felt a surge of hope as she took the call.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The first words Chief Voss said to Carly were terse.

“I hear there’s been another murder.”

She swallowed her frustration. She’d hoped their boss was calling with news about her sister’s trauma. But then, maybe he still was. Naturally he’d want to discuss the case before anything else.

“I’m afraid so, sir,” she replied. “A schoolteacher’s body was found in another graveyard.”

“Are you making any progress?”

“We may or may not have a break. We’ve got a suspect, anyway.”

“Is he in custody?”

“No, but we expect to apprehend him soon.”

She heard a familiar growl of discontentment.

“I don’t need to tell you …”

Voss broke off in mid-sentence, but Carly knew what he meant.

You need to wrap this up before someone else gets killed.

“We’re trying, sir.”

“You two are too good to let this thing drag on. I expect you to have it all worked out by nightfall.”

“We’ll certainly do our best, sir.”

A silence fell.

Isn’t he going to tell me anything I want to know?

Carly struggled to keep her voice calm, but she couldn’t help stammering.

“Do—do you have any news … about …?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Voss said, still in a perfectly businesslike tone.

Carly struggled to stay calm.

“I heard from Quincy Duncan’s staff in Nepal,” Voss said. “The sherpas who were sent out for him are bringing him back to his lodgings in Kathmandu. His staff tells me we should hear from him soon—perhaps as early as tonight.”

“Oh, that’s—good to hear,” Carly said, trying not to sound disappointed.

The truth was, she would much rather hear that Duncan had gotten back and Chief Voss had already talked to him.

She heard Voss clear his throat.

“However … I’ve got some rather important news on another front. It has to do with the man who was holding your sister captive—the man you killed at Quincy Duncan’s place in California.”

Carly could barely breathe for a couple of seconds. She still hadn’t gotten used to hearing Megan’s abductor, torturer, and would-be murderer referred to as “the man you killed,” even though it had been self-defense.

“I must say, you did a very good thing by killing him,” Voss told her. “The world is better off without him.

At those words, Carly felt her whole body relax.

“Were you able to identify him?” she asked.

“In a manner of speaking. We’ve got a DNA match, anyway—or maybe I should say several matches. He’s gone by quite a number of names over the years, and in quite a few different places. In Augusta, Georgia, his name was Thomas Barton. In Portland, Maine, he went by the name of Henry Beck. In Wichita, Kansas, his name was Lew Wheeler. In Sacramento he was called Charlie Mitchell, and in Albuquerque he was Art Butler. He’s gone by other names in other places. And whoever he was in the first place, he’s no stranger to the Bureau.”

“How so?”

“He murdered people in all those places and hacked up their bodies. The MOs were so much alike, we were able to figure out that the killings were the work of one man, but we were never able to catch him. But based on DNA samples and descriptions we’ve gotten of him, we’re all but sure he was the man you shot. His days of killing are over now. Like I said, you did the world a favor.”

“So—so Megan was his next intended victim,” Carly stammered.

“It’s hard to come to any other conclusion. You arrived just in the nick of time.”

Carly’s mind boggled at what she was hearing. She knew she ought to feel relieved to know the man’s identity at last. Instead, she felt just as confused as before, and her head was still stuffed full of questions.

Why was Megan ever his target?

Why did she run away all those years ago?

Where has she been all this time?

Why didn’t we ever hear from her?

She wanted Voss to tell her so much more—more than he could possibly know, she was sure.

But before she could even think of what to ask, she heard a familiar rasping voice.

“What do you think you’re doing, girl? When are you going to stop all this dawdling?”

Carly felt a surge of alarm.

It’s her. That spirit I’ve been hearing from.

The spirit spoke again.

“Do you hear me? Stop this nonsense this very minute. Pay attention.”

Carly swallowed hard. Could the spirit possibly have picked a worse time to make herself heard than right now, when Carly was in the middle of an urgent conversation with Chief Voss? Carly wanted to snap in protest, “Go away. We’ll deal with this later.”

But the spirit clearly had different ideas.

“Don’t pretend you can’t hear me, girl. You and I have got business to take care of. Right now.”

Carly realized that she had no choice but to end the phone conversation.

“I—I’ve got to go,” she stammered to Chief Voss.

“Has something come up?” Voss replied with a note of surprise.

“I—I don’t know. We’ll report to you … as soon as anything happens.”

Carly abruptly ended the call and pocketed her cellphone—much too abruptly, she was sure. But the spirit seemed to approve.

“There now. That’s better. Now pay attention. And follow me.”

“Follow you?” Carly replied with her thoughts.

“Yes.”

“But how?”

“How do you think? I swear, it’s looking more and more like I’ve got to do your work for you. Just follow your nose.”

Carly stood up and glanced around the restaurant in confusion.

To her shock, she felt a palpable tug, as if someone was trying to lead her toward the front door.

She spotted Lyle standing in a nearby hallway studying his cellphone, which she was sure was just his way of giving her some privacy for the call from Voss.

Rushing over to him, she stammered, “Lyle, we—we’ve got to go. Right now.”

“Huh?”

“We’ve got to leave here. We’ve got to go … somewhere.”

“But why?”

When she didn’t reply, Lyle’s eyes widened.

“Oh,” he said in a startled, halting voice. “It’s another … one of your … things.”

Carly nodded.

“We’ve got to go,” she repeated.

Lyle put away his phone, then hurried back to the table and left enough money to pay for their meals plus a hefty tip. He followed Carly out the front door onto the sidewalk and into the chilly late autumn air.

Carly now felt as though she were some sort of a human compass needle, headed in the direction where the spirit wanted her to go.

“You’re getting warm, girl,” the inner voice said. “Just keep on walking.”

“I will,” Carly murmured aloud, quickening her pace.

“Are you talking to … someone … right now?” Lyle asked, trotting along to keep up with her.

Carly nodded. The strange magnetic pull drew her straight along Main Street. When they reached a street called Vernon, she felt a tug that led her to the left around the corner. Lyle kept trotting at her side.

At the far end of Vernon Street, an old-fashioned steel truss bridge rose from the dense underbrush and crossed over the Lost Stag River. The bridge was covered by vines, ivy, and rust. A barrier displayed a warning sign:

CONDEMNED

DO NOT ENTER

“Keep going, girl,” the spirit voice insisted. “You’re getting warmer and warmer.”

At the barrier, Carly and Lyle found themselves looking through a dense tangle of bushes.

“Looks like a dead end,” he commented.

But through the thick foliage, Carly saw something that made her heart jump.

“The bridge, Lyle,” she said. “It’s covered with boards!”

“So it is!”

The two of them pushed their way through the bushes until they reached the old bridge. Although the structure was steel, the entire roadway was paved with thick wooden boards. Just like the ones in her vision, these were rotting and precarious.

“You’re burning up now,” the voice said.

“But—but where—?” Carly began.

“Just keep going!”

Carly took a hasty couple of steps forward. A board cracked under her feet, and she almost fell.

“Watch out,” Lyle warned. “This thing is condemned for good reason.”

She continued more cautiously, testing each board before putting her weight on it, and Lyle walked directly behind her. They were about a quarter of the way across the bridge when something caught Carly’s eye.

“There it is!” she said.

The spirit voice let out a sardonic chuckle.

“Yeah, there it is, all right.”

The familiar dark red bloodstain was visible on the mottled planks, right next to a break in the boards that made a large gap. Carefully, Carly and Lyle made their way forward until they reached the stain.

“This is it, Lyle,” Carly said breathlessly. “This is where one of the murders took place.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Carly knelt down next to the stain and touched the boards.

“Was it Uta who died here?” she asked the spirit with a silent thought.

“What do you think?” the spirit answered.

Carly felt like cursing the spirit for her taunting replies.

Lyle knelt down beside her to examine the stain and the hole in the broken planks.

“How do you think it happened?” he asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine. The spirit got us here, but she’s being none too informative about the details.”

Lyle looked around and squinted with thought.

“Maybe the killer took the victim by surprise, and she tried to run away across this bridge. It looks like maybe the planks gave out from under her right here, and the killer stabbed her to death before she could get loose.”

“That’s how it looks to me,” Carly agreed.

Lyle let out a groan of frustration.

“The thing is—what are we supposed to do now that we’ve found this spot? I mean, we’ve got to alert Sheriff Clayburgh that we’ve found where the most recent killing took place. That’s not the kind of information we can keep to ourselves. But how are we going to explain how we found it?”

Welcome to my life, Carly thought yet again.

After all, she’d had to deal with much the same dilemma many times. The only thing that had changed was that Lyle now had to face it with her.

Then she heard Lyle gasp with surprise.

“We’ve got a visitor.”

He was looking back the way they had come.

When Carly turned, her mouth dropped open with disbelief.

Frank Weaver himself was standing there on the precarious planks, staring straight at them.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

What’s he doing here? Lyle wondered.

Lyle’s head was already reeling from the weird way in which he and Carly had arrived at this spot. Even though he mostly accepted the notion that she talked with the dead, a small part of him still thought she might be hallucinating. But however her sources worked, he knew that the information she got was solid. And now, following her lead, they had found where one of the murders had happened.

And now the very man Sheriff Clayburgh and his men were searching for at that very moment was standing just about thirty feet away, staring right at them.

Lyle reminded himself of one of his investigative maxims.

Coincidences happen.

Of course, Frank could have stepped through the thick foliage and onto this condemned bridge where a woman had been murdered purely by chance. It was also possible that Frank had simply spotted the two FBI agents and had followed them here out of pure curiosity.

He doesn’t even seem to think he’s maybe about to be arrested.

Frank called out to them in a quavering voice.

“How did you find this place?”

Lyle’s amazement took another leap.

He knows.

He knows the murder happened here.

And there’s only one way he could know …

“Frank, come over here,” Lyle said. “My partner and I would like a word with you.”

Frank nodded mutely and began to pick his way carefully across the old boards toward them.

At least he’s not running away.

In a few moments, Frank was standing just a yard away from them. He looked down at the boards with the red stain on them.

“So this is where Punkin died,” he said in a hushed voice.

Lyle and Carly exchanged glances.

“Punkin?” Carly mouthed silently.

Lyle wondered the same thing. Did he mean Uta Raife?

Is he confessing that he killed her?

“And this is where it started, too,” Frank added. “With me and Punkin. It started right here.”

This is where what started?

“Did you do it, Frank?” Lyle asked. “Did you kill Uta Raife?”

Frank let out a scoff that sounded full of self-loathing.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I did.”

Lyle and his partner glanced at each other again.

“It’s actually a pretty simple question, Frank, with no ‘maybes’ about it,” Lyle said. “Either you killed Uta or you didn’t. The same with the other two murder victims. All we want is the truth.”

“Did you know Uta Raife?” Carly added. “Or Robyn Sears?”

Frank let out a groan of despair.

“I didn’t know the woman over in Wildroot Run. But Uta … Punkin …”

His voice faded, and he made a distraught choking sound.

Lyle suddenly realized, Punkin was a pet name for Uta Raife.

Well, I’ll be damned.

He’s one busy guy.

“You were having an affair with Uta, weren’t you?” Lyle stated. “Just like you’ve been having an affair with your wife’s sister. And both of them at the same time.”

Frank heaved an enormous sob.

“Two women I loved … and both of them dead.”

Lyle saw Carly’s eyes light up with surprise. He realized that none of her strange spirit voices had tipped her off to this entanglement. Some things still had to be discovered the old-fashioned way.

“The question is,” Lyle said to Frank, “did you kill them yourself?”

“I never meant them any harm.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

“I cared about both of them. And now they’re dead. It must be … because of …”

Frank couldn’t finish his thought. He let out a low wail of grief and sank to his knees.

Lyle said to Carly, “You’d better call Sheriff Clayburgh and tell him we found our suspect.”

While Carly made the call on her cellphone, Lyle got out his handcuffs. He put them on Frank Weaver and read him his rights.

“Clayburgh is on his way,” Carly said.

Lyle helped Frank struggle to his feet again and kept one hand on him as they made their way back across the rickety old bridge. They had nearly reached the shore when the board he stepped on gave a loud cracking sound.

Then there was nothing at all beneath that foot.

Lyle’s arms flailed the air, but he found no handhold.

He was falling.

He heard Carly yell.

Then a strong hand gripped Lyle’s arm.

With a firm grip, even with his hands still cuffed, Frank Weaver pulled Lyle back to solid footing on the bridge.

“Lyle, are you all right?” Carly cried.

“We almost lost you there,” Frank said flatly.

“Thanks,” Lyle said. “That would have been a bad fall.”

“You got to know your way around to be out on this bridge,” Frank muttered.

At that moment, Sheriff Clayburgh and one of his officers appeared through the brush at the end of the bridge.

“Weaver, you’re under arrest,” Clayburgh yelled.

“Yeah, the agent told me.”

Lyle’s mind was full of new questions as they all reached solid ground. And he felt more than a little weird about what had just happened.

Rescued by a murder suspect.

That’s definitely an experience I’ve never had before.

I guess life is full of surprises.

*

The man stared across the street, peering through the small gaps between leaves of bushes that concealed him. He was squatting there watching the nearest back yard, hoping he’d not be noticed.

I shouldn’t be doing this, he told himself.

For one thing, he was supposed to be at work. He’d been missing more and more time during the last few days, but he had to prepare for his killings.

He had plenty of sick days stored up, and he could have just called in sick, but he was an honest man, and he couldn’t bring himself to lie. It seemed more acceptable to just not go to work at all, even though it would surely lead to him getting fired.

Not that it matters, really.

He knew that what he was doing was awfully risky, but the urge to take some time watching his next victim was too powerful to resist. Yesterday he’d stood watching Uta Raife helping her students off the morning school bus. Just like now, that had felt like the right thing for him to do.

She’s a person, he reminded himself.

You’re going to kill a human being.

Don’t ever forget that.

Four people were playing badminton in the back yard—two children, a boy and a girl, and two adult women. There was a lot of giggling going on, because the game was unfolding in a pretty silly manner. It was really too chilly to play outside, and the players were too bundled up to move around at all gracefully. But that hadn’t stopped them from trying, to their considerable amusement.

The man knew that the younger of the two women was Adele Bishop, and the children were her daughter, Cindy, and her son, Jason. The older of the two women was the object of the man’s keenest interest. Her name was Anne Bishop, Adele’s sister-in-law. He didn’t know her personally, but he knew quite a bit about her.

Anne had been born and grown up here in Otisville, but she now lived in faraway Wheeling, West Virginia. She’d moved away quite a few years ago, but once a year she always came back for a few days to visit her brother, Archie, and his family.

And this time she’s coming home for good.

As usual, that thought gave him a deep sense of satisfaction.

There was a lot of playful chatter and laughter among the four badminton players. The most impish was six-year-old Cindy, who liked to make up rules in mid-game and stomped her foot and sulked when things didn’t go her way. None of the other players scolded her. They laughed instead.

They’re all so happy.

Although he didn’t wish to cause them any grief, he knew that his task was going to break the hearts of Adele and her husband and two children. There was nothing he or anybody else could do about that.

The game finally broke down in a fit of childhood giggles and adult laughter, with little Cindy complaining about the cold and the others teasing her about it.

At last the players all adjourned to the house. With nothing more to see, the man left his hiding place and walked away, thinking ahead to tonight’s endeavor.

It should be easier than the others.

After all, he’d closely observed Anne’s movements during prior visits to Otisville. And he knew that she made a nightly pilgrimage to the little graveyard behind the Presbyterian Church to visit the graves of her long-dead parents.

It was going to be easy to ambush and kill her right there in the cemetery. And this time, he wasn’t even going to have to transport her body somewhere else to bury her. He could do it right there, on the spot. She would already be in exactly the right place.

As he continued on his way, he glimpsed an approaching police car.

Are they coming for me?

But he realized that the vehicle was coming from the direction of the Vernon Street Bridge. Then it passed by him without stopping.

The man wondered—had the police figured out that Uta’s murder had taken place there? He couldn’t imagine how they would work that out so soon. He was sure that no one had been watching when he stabbed Uta Raife to death and hauled away her body.

In any case, it hardly mattered if they found the murder site, as long as no one had caught on that he was the killer. And he doubted very much that that was ever going to happen. For the time being, he needed to go home and get mentally and emotionally prepared for tonight’s task.

And a very important task it was.

Don’t ever forget, it’s up to you.

You’ve got to keep bringing home the blood that’s lost its way.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

“What do you mean, you think might have the wrong man?” Sheriff Clayburgh demanded.

Carly exchanged glances with Lyle. She knew they were both thinking the same thing.

How are we going to explain this?

The two agents were sitting in Clayburgh’s office, where both the sheriff and his deputy were staring hard at them. Lyle had just remarked that the man they’d arrested might not be the one they were looking for.

Hamner looked confused and the sheriff sounded alarmed.

“How is that even possible?” Hamner said, echoing the sheriff’s question.

Carly agreed with her partner. She thought Weaver’s behavior at the bridge had seemed grief-stricken rather than guilty and remorseful. And he had stopped Lyle from taking a bad fall. Even so, both she and Lyle knew that this man could still turn out to be the killer they were looking for.

Weaver was in a jail cell just down the hall. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer yet, but he was still too distraught to say anything coherent, much less offer any kind of legitimate confession.

“It’s just a hunch we both have,” Lyle said calmly.

“A hunch?” Clayburgh snorted in derision. “I just don’t get it. If he’s not our man, what the hell was he doing on Vernon Street Bridge? From what you told me, he led you right to that pool of blood on those boards.”

“And before he broke down, didn’t he as much as confess that he’d been having an affair with Uta Raife?” Deputy Hamner added. “It sure sounds like a classic case of a killer returning to the scene of the crime.”

“What else could he possibly have been doing there?” Sheriff Clayburgh put in. “How would he even know there’d been a murder there if he hadn’t committed it himself?”

And there it is, Carly thought. The thing we can never explain.

It simply wasn’t true that Frank had led them to that pool of blood, and neither Carly nor Lyle had actually said that it happened that way. Clayburgh and Hamner had drawn that conclusion based on the rather evasive account they’d heard of Frank’s apprehension and arrest.

Neither Carly nor her partner wanted to lie to the local law officers, but they simply couldn’t tell them the truth—that the spirit of some unknown fourth murder victim had led them to that spot, and Frank had arrived there on his own for reasons they didn’t yet understand.

There was a knock on the door, and a cop poked his head inside.

“Excuse me, Sheriff …”

“What is it, Kenmore?”

“Jordan Morley just called. He was fit to be tied. He’d just heard that Uta was killed on the Vernon Street Bridge. He said he’d seen her and talked to her there last night, must have been right around the time she was killed. He’s pretty shook up about it.”

“Go have a chat with him, see if he can tell you anything worthwhile,” Clayburgh said.

“I’ll do that, Sheriff,” Officer Kenmore said, ducking outside again.

Meanwhile, Carly could tell by Lyle’s expression that he was processing a new theory—hopefully one that didn’t hinge on supernatural communications.

“I think maybe Weaver had a different reason for going to that bridge,” Lyle said.

“Like what?” Clayburgh asked sharply.

“Angie told us that Frank left his shop as soon as word got there about Uta’s murder. And we don’t know where he went for a while after that. But if he’s not the killer, that means he’d just then found out that a second woman he cared about had been murdered. That would have come as a tremendous shock. It wouldn’t be unusual for him to go out walking with no destination in mind, trying to make sense of what he’d learned.”

“But why would he wind up at that bridge?”

“Maybe that location meant something special to him. It’s a secluded place, and almost nobody ever goes there, and …”

Lyle fell silent for a moment.

“He kept referring to Uta as ‘Punkin,’” he finally said. “Obviously a pet name. And he said, ‘this is where it started—with me and Punkin.’ He said ‘it started’ right there on the bridge.”

“That bridge was probably where the two of them held their trysts,” Carly added. “Maybe even where their affair actually started.”

“That might explain quite a lot,” Lyle said with a nod. “Maybe when Frank was wandering around in a grief-stricken state, he just naturally wound up at the bridge where he and ‘Punkin’ used to meet.”

The sheriff scoffed incredulously.

“So you telling me—what? That he went there for purely sentimental reasons?”

“You might put it that way,” Lyle replied.

Clayburgh scowled and shook his head.

“The Frank Weaver I know isn’t the sentimental type. And breaking down like that isn’t like him. All that sobbing he’s been doing suggests to me that a massive amount of guilt finally got the best of him.”

“He might have broken down out of pure grief,” Lyle suggested.

“A macho guy like Frank?”

“Macho guys can be soft and fragile underneath,” Carly remarked.

“Yeah, and when they break, they break hard, and they fall all to pieces,” Lyle added. “Think about it from his point of view, Sheriff. He’d always considered women as conquests rather than human beings—until two of them he was close to were brutally murdered. Suddenly he saw them in a whole different way. He realized he’d always cared for them more than he’d admitted to himself—that he’d actually even loved them, maybe.”

“It was more than he could deal with,” Carly added. “And he couldn’t help wondering whether their deaths had something to do with him, whether he was somehow responsible for what had happened. That’s why he’s acting so guilty. He feels guilty.”

Sheriff Clayburgh and Deputy Hamner exchanged astonished looks.

“I’m really having trouble getting my head around all this,” Clayburgh grumbled.

“Me too,” Hamner agreed. “And if the two of you are right, where the hell does that leave us?”

Lyle let out a discouraged sigh.

“It leaves us with a killer still at large. And he’s going to murder someone else if we don’t catch him.”

“I don’t know about this,” Clayburgh said. “You haven’t sold me on Frank’s innocence yet—not by a long shot.”

“I understand that,” Lyle told him. “And you may be right, but we’ve still got some loose ends to tie up. For one thing, we need to talk to that bar owner, Keith Gustafson. Judging from the fact that he apparently stayed home last night, he’s probably not a suspect. But we know he was having an affair with Ethel. He might have important information for us.”

Before anyone could say anything more, the sheriff’s phone rang.

“Clayburgh here,” he said, taking the call. “Hello, Tater. What’s going on?”

Clayburgh’s eyes widened and he let out a groan.

“Holy crap, you don’t say. OK, then. Hamner and I will get right over there.”

Clayburgh ended the call and growled under his breath.

“Rudy and I have got to leave you for a while,” Sheriff Clayburgh said to Lyle and Carly. “Something else has come up. There’s been a murder—don’t worry, it’s got nothing to do with our serial. But I swear, I don’t know what this community is coming to.”

“What’s going on?” Hamner asked.

“Stanley Ellis has finally gone and murdered his wife. Shot her in the head.”

“No kidding! Well, I guess it’s no surprise. Stan’s always been kind of a ticking bomb. And Thea must have been hell to be married to all those years.”

“Yeah, and now Stanley’s holed up in their house threatening to kill himself.”

“Is there anything my partner and I can do to help?” Lyle asked.

“Naw, this one’s a strictly local thing, not FBI business. I’ve known Stan since I was a kid and he used to chase me off his lawn. If anybody can talk him out of shooting himself, I can. But this is going to tie Rudy and me up for a little while.”

“We’ll keep working on our own, then,” Lyle said.

Sheriff Clayburgh fell silent for a moment.

“To tell the truth, I don’t understand why the hell the two of you aren’t getting ready to head back to Quantico right this minute. I don’t see this the way you do. If I’ve ever known anyone to act like a guilty man, it’s how Frank is doing right now.”

“Just try to bear with us, Sheriff,” Carly said.

“Easier said than done. I haven’t updated the mayor about recent events, but I’m sure he’s heard the news that we’ve arrested Frank, and he probably thinks the case is over and I’ve already sent you back home. I sure don’t want to tell him otherwise.”

Clayburgh let out a scoff of discontent.

“And damn it all, I think we’ve got the right man, even if you don’t. But don’t let that stop you from talking to Keith Gustafson if you think that might help. I don’t suppose it can hurt.”

“OK, then,” Lyle said. “Just tell us how to get to Bogo’s Tavern.”

“And give us a list of contact information for everyone we’ve interviewed so far,” Carly added.

She felt a theory simmering in her mind, and she had the feeling she was going to have to do at least one follow-up interview with a particular person. Deputy Clayburgh hastily gave Carly and Lyle the information they asked for. Then the four of them headed out of the station toward their respective vehicles.

As Lyle started driving down Carter Street toward the downtown area, Carly made a cautious suggestion.

“Lyle, could our visit to Keith Gustafson at Bogo’s Tavern wait just a little while? There’s something I think maybe we should do first.”

“What’s that?”

“I think we should pay Lulu Watkins another visit.”

Lyle glanced over at her with surprise.

“Lulu Watkins? What’s she got to do with anything right now?”

Carly paused to think for a moment.

“Ever since we met her yesterday, I’ve had the feeling she might have information we might need to know.”

“Like what?”

“Something … well, historical, I guess. It’s like I said before, Lyle—I think maybe the murders have something to do with local history, with family connections. Remember what the spirit said to me about the killer? ‘He’s bringing home the blood—all the blood that’s lost its way.’ And Pastor Marks said that Uta Raife was ‘back home at long last.’”

Lyle shook his head skeptically.

“That’s a pretty hazy theory you’re trying to hatch, Carly.”

“Right now, yes. That’s why I want to talk to Lulu again. I think maybe she can give us some clarity.”

Lyle let out a grunt of irritation.

“Well, I’m looking for some clarity, too. And I think the way to get that clarity is from the man who was Ethel Weaver’s boss and was also having an affair with her. We’re going to talk to Keith Gustafson before we do anything else. If you want to talk to Lulu afterwards, I guess that’s fine with me.”

Carly was startled by his impatient tone. It wasn’t like her senior partner to pull rank on her like this, but she recognized the discomfort in his voice. He must be feeling the need to take charge of a solid, traditional-style investigation.

“OK,” she simply said.

As he continued driving down the hill, Lyle spoke again in a more gentle tone.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk together since we were at the Smokehouse. Did Chief Voss tell you anything you wanted to know?”

“Yeah. He found out some more about the man who was trying to kill Megan when I found her—the man I had to kill in self-defense.”

“No kidding? Who was he?”

“Well, he seems to have gone by a number of names over the years. Whoever he was originally, he’s committed murders under different identities in Georgia, Maine, Kansas, and—”

Lyle interrupted with a snort of surprise.

“Holy smoke! You must be talking about the Axe Killer.”

“You’re familiar with the case?”

“I’ve heard about it, yeah. He’s been killing people and hacking up their bodies all over the country. The agency’s been looking for him for years, but he’s a slippery bastard. He moves around so much and changes identities so often, nobody’s been able to catch him. I always wanted a chance to track him down myself.”

Lyle let out a hearty chuckle.

“Hey, Carly, you may have cracked your biggest case yet! And you didn’t even know it while you were doing it! I’ll bet Voss is pretty happy with you right now.”

Carly flashed back to Voss’s words.

“You did the world a favor.”

“Well, at least Voss is glad this guy has been stopped forever. But even so …”

Carly’s voice faded.

“I can imagine you’ve still got all kinds of unanswered questions,” Lyle said sympathetically.

“More than I can count.”

“Has Voss managed to get in touch with the owner of that house?”

“Not yet. He expects to hear from him soon.”

“Well, maybe he can tell you more about what happened.”

“I hope so.”

They turned onto a side street and soon arrived at Bogo’s Tavern. Like the Smokehouse, the exterior had the weathered look of a longtime Otisville institution.

When they walked inside, the dimly lit bar was almost empty, which was hardly surprising for this time of the afternoon. Only three customers were there, all of them men playing pool. A large, imposing guy was behind the bar wiping down surfaces with a rag.

Lyle called out to the group.

“We’re looking for Keith Gustafson.”

The man behind the bar showed a hearty smile.

“Here I am.”

Carly and Lyle produced their badges.

“I’m Agent Ramsey with the FBI, and this is my partner, Agent See. We want to talk to you about the three recent murders.”

A look of genuine sadness crossed Keith’s face.

“I’m glad to help out however I can,” he said. “Poor Ethel.”

“We understand that you knew her well,” Carly said.

“Oh, yes. She was an excellent employee, just wonderful with the customers. And she was a great friend.”

Lyle squinted at the man skeptically.

“Was that all she was—a great friend?” he said.

A trace of alarm fell over Keith Gustafson’s features.

“I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do.”

Keith shook his head in mute protest.

“Let me remind you,” Lyle said, “it’s a federal crime to lie to the FBI.”

Keith visibly swallowed down a knot of anxiety. He glanced at the three men playing pool, who had stopped there game and were staring at him with surprised interest.

“Let’s talk inside my office,” he growled.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Carly felt hopeful as she and Lyle followed the scowling tavern owner into his office. She thought the man’s attitude suggested he might actually have something to tell them.

The untidy little room smelled of whiskey and cigars. Keith Gustafson sat down in a creaky old wooden swivel chair behind a battered desk and glared up at the two agents. Since no other chairs were in sight, Carly and her partner remained standing.

After a moment of awkward silence, the seated man asked, “How did you know? About Ethel and me, I mean?”

“Frank Weaver told us,” Lyle replied.

Carly realized that her partner wasn’t mentioning where Frank was at that moment. She knew it was a tactical decision. Since Keith might be a potential suspect himself, Lyle wasn’t ready to let him know they already had another suspect in custody.

Keith tilted his head with surprise.

“You mean Frank knew about us?”

Lyle shrugged.

“It doesn’t sound like he and Ethel kept many secrets from each other.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. She never told me that. She always acted like she was keeping it a secret from him. I thought it was a secret from everybody, including those guys playing pool out there. But I guess even they’ve figured it out now, judging from their faces when you asked me about her.”

Lyle crossed his arms.

“First things first. Where were you all of last night, when Uta Raife was killed?”

“I was right here, with those guys out there. After closing time, we had an all-night poker game. Sometimes we do that just to beat insomnia. They’ll vouch for me if you ask them.”

“What about the night when Ethel was killed?”

Keith shook his head.

“I went home after we closed up. Went straight to bed. And no, I’m afraid nobody can confirm that. I live alone. It was the same the night before that, when that woman was killed over in Wildroot Run.”

“What can you tell us about your relationship with Ethel?”

Keith heaved a long, sad sigh.

“Well, I know it wasn’t smart getting mixed up with her. And it wasn’t like me to have an affair with a married woman. I don’t normally do that kind of thing. But Ethel …”

His voice faded, and he got a faraway look in his eye.

“She was so … sad,” Keith said.

“How do you mean?” Carly asked.

Keith swiveled in his chair a bit, making a squeaking sound, before he replied.

“Her marriage was hell for her. I don’t know what Frank told you, but he was a terrible husband. He had a temper, and he cheated every single chance he got. I think he had some idea that he was … well, entitled to be some kind of bastard. Ethel deserved so much better. And … well, she looked to me for comfort.”

He shrugged wearily.

“I don’t want you to think I was taking advantage of her unhappiness. The truth is, we were both awfully vulnerable. I’ve been lonely pretty much all my life. It’s hard to find your soulmate in a little town like this—for me, anyway. And I … well, I really felt something for Ethel. And she definitely felt something for me.”

Carly noticed a glistening in the man’s eye.

His voice was choked when he spoke again.

“And now she’s … gone.”

The two agents allowed a moment of silence to settle over the room. They both knew better than to rush such a crucial interview. Meanwhile, Carly was trying her best to assess the man as a suspect.

He seems to be sincerely grieving.

Of course, so had Frank Weaver. But although she and Lyle harbored plenty of doubts about Frank’s guilt, Carly had to admit that he seemed a more likely suspect than the one they were talking to right now.

Lyle started asking questions again.

“What else can you tell us about Ethel?”

“Well, it was more than just her marriage that was making her unhappy. She hated Otisville. She’d been stuck here all her life and felt like she was being suffocated to death. She wanted out, she said. She wanted to divorce Frank and move to Charleston or Huntington or Wheeling, any place with some life to it. She made no secret of wanting to get out. Almost everybody she knew was aware of it.”

He fell silent for a moment.

“What they didn’t know was … she wanted me to go with her. Well, I’m a cautious guy by nature, and I inherited this place from my father, and I told her I couldn’t just pick up and leave. I was just too rooted here. Besides, I didn’t want to be responsible for the end of her marriage.”

Keith’s shoulders sagged with despair.

“It seems so wrong now. I can’t help thinking I was selfish. If only I’d said yes, gone away with her somewhere, maybe she could have been happy. Maybe we both could have been happy. And maybe …”

His voice choked and fell silent, but Carly knew the words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“Maybe Ethel wouldn’t have been murdered.”

She wondered whether Keith might be right to feel that way. Maybe if he hadn’t been so cautious about their future, they would both be somewhere else now, and Ethel would be safe from harm.

Keith seemed on the verge of tears now. But he drew himself up and seemed to pull himself together.

“Have you got any suspects? Aside from me, I mean?”

“We’re working on it,” Lyle replied evasively.

Keith scoffed bitterly.

“Well, let me save you some trouble. Frank killed her. It’s as simple as that. And he killed Uta Raife, too. Did you know Frank was having an affair with her?”

Lyle tilted his head, feigning ignorance.

“No kidding? How do you know?”

“Hey, you hear lots of stuff in a joint like this. Not much goes on in this town that people don’t talk about here at Bogo’s. Just hang around here if you want to find out anything that’s going on in Otisville, it’s better than a daily newspaper. Yeah, Frank and Uta had a thing. If that doesn’t cinch his guilt for at least two of the murders, I don’t know what does.”

Carly could practically hear the wheels turning in Lyle’s mind.

“Have you heard anybody mention anyone else who might have meant Ethel any harm?” Lyle asked.

“No one at all. It’s like I’m telling you—”

Lyle interrupted him firmly.

“Just bear with me, please. My partner and I have to consider all possibilities, however unlikely they may seem. What about Uta Raife? Did you ever hear of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her? Anybody who was angry with her?”

Keith squinted thoughtfully.

“Well, now that you mention it … there were rumors that she was at odds with her boss, the principal of the school where she taught. Adam Bell’s his name. Nobody seemed to know what it was all about, except they were overheard arguing in his office, and it sounded like he threatened to fire her. Folks say they haven’t been on speaking terms for quite a while now.”

Keith scoffed again.

“But … naw … Principal Bell isn’t any killer. Whatever was going on between him and Uta Raife couldn’t have been that bad. Just some workplace issue, probably—some little professional tiff. Frank Weaver’s your man, I’m telling you. If I were you, I’d arrest him right now.”

Lyle cracked his knuckles and fell quiet for a moment.

“Thanks for your time, Keith,” he finally said. “Let us know if anything important occurs to you. And don’t leave Otisville until we solve this case.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Keith said. “And I’m glad to help if I can.”

All three of them left the office, and Keith returned to his post behind the bar. Carly and Lyle walked on past the pool players, ignoring their curious faces.

When they got back to their car, Lyle asked, “What do you think of Keith Gustafson?”

“I don’t think he’s the killer.”

“Me neither.”

Lyle started the engine.

“Find the address for the elementary school. We need to pay this principal a visit.”

Carly’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Wait a minute,” she protested. “I thought we were going to pay another visit to Lulu after we talked to Gustafson.”

“That was before we heard of a ‘professional tiff’ between Uta Raife and her boss. We need to check out Principal Bell, find out what he has to say.”

“But Lyle …”

“But what?”

It took Carly a moment to think what to say.

“I’ve got a really strong gut feeling about this. We need to talk to Lulu as soon as we can. I really think these murders have something to do with local history.”

“Is that spirit talking to you again?”

“Not just this minute, no. But I keep thinking about the things she’s said already—especially about the killer ‘bringing home the blood.’ And now we know something we didn’t know before—that Ethel was planning to leave Otisville, and people around town knew it. Don’t you see the pattern?”

“What pattern?”

“In a manner of speaking, the killer took Uta Raife home. And he made sure that Ethel Weaver would never leave home.”

“Oh, Carly …” Lyle muttered.

“Doesn’t it make sense to you?”

“Not really, no. According to Lulu, Robyn Sears wasn’t even from Wildroot Run. How does she fit the pattern?”

“That’s what I hope Lulu can tell us. Is there any harm in checking?”

“We don’t have time for dead-end interviews. At the very least, the school principal knew things about Uta Raife that we might need to know. And he was somehow at odds with her. He might even be a suspect. The same certainly can’t be said for Lulu Watkins.”

As Lyle drove them through town, he glanced warily at Carly.

“Aren’t you going to find the address for the school?”

Carly stifled a deep sigh of frustration. Every time she thought she’d won her partner’s trust in her visions, he kicked back into skeptical mode. She realized that his own decades of success were based on well-established investigative skills. Could he ever fully accept her working with spirits of the dead?

“Lyle, I know you’re still having trouble getting used to how this thing of mine works. But you’re going to have to accept my hunches. I can’t always explain what they mean and I can’t guarantee they’ll bear fruit. But I just can’t ignore them, and frankly, neither can you. They’re part of what we do together—or at least they are now that you know about them.”

A silence fell between them.

“OK, we’ll do it your way,” Lyle finally said. “But first, give Lulu a call, make sure she’s home and she’s willing to talk to us. She’s a pretty cranky lady. I don’t want to waste a trip out there if she’s just going to slam her door in our faces.”

Carly found Lulu’s number in the list they’d gotten from Sheriff Clayburgh and made the call and put it on speakerphone.

“Lulu, this is Special Agent Carly See,” she said when Lulu answered. “We met yesterday in Wildroot Run.”

“So we did. What’s this all about?”

“Have you heard the news that there’s been another murder victim?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard. It’s that teacher lady, and they found her body over in Brewster, didn’t they?”

“That’s right. My partner and I would like to come out there and ask you a few questions.”

“I answered a lot of questions yesterday. I told you pretty much everything I know about … well, everything I know.”

“Maybe not everything,” Carly said.

“How do you mean?”

Carly paused to think for a moment.

“Lulu, you said something yesterday that stayed with me. You said people in these parts don’t remember anything anymore. You said they’ve forgotten who they are, where they came from—‘the very dirt they’re made of,’ you said.”

“So I did. What of it?”

“I think … maybe …”

Carly struggled for a moment to find the right words.

“I think maybe the killer feels the same way.”

Carly heard Lulu let out a grunt of irritation.

“Are you saying I’m a suspect now?” she said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“What are you saying?”

“I think maybe the killer somehow believes he’s bringing his victims home. And we think maybe you might be able to help us understand that. We think you might be able to help us.”

A long silence fell.

“Get here as soon as you can,” Lulu finally said. “I’ll meet you at the graveyard.”

And without another word, Lulu ended the call.

Carly and Lyle exchanged startled glances. She could tell that Lulu’s words had piqued Lyle’s interest.

“The graveyard?” he asked with surprise.

“That’s what she said.”

Lyle switched on his turn signal to change direction.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

This had better not be a dead end, Carly thought as their vehicle pulled into the near–ghost town of Wildroot Run.

Lyle turned a corner, and sure enough, they saw a small woman standing in the little graveyard behind the church. Lulu Watkins, bundled against the chilly air in a scarf and overcoat, was waiting there for them. She stood unmoving while Lyle parked the car and the two agents got out and walked toward her.

Carly saw that the shallow grave where Robyn Sears had been buried was covered over now. Before she could make any comment, Lulu spoke out sharply.

“Arnold filled this up a little while ago. I bailed him out of jail this morning, so he’s back home now. That was right stupid of you, arresting him like that. I could have told you for sure he never killed anybody.”

“He was window-peeping, Lulu,” Carly replied.

“So I’m told, so I’m told. Well, it’s a fine day when Sheriff Casey Clayburgh has to call for the FBI to help him catch window-peepers. That’s one hell of a way to spend taxpayers’ money. And it was right inconvenient for me, having to fetch a ride to take me to and from Otisville to bail Arnold out. The poor boy might never have got out of that cage if it warn’t for me.”

Lulu shuffled her feet, then continued more calmly.

“When we talked on the phone, you said the killer might feel the way I do about people in these parts.”

Carly nodded mutely.

“Well, as you know,” the tiny old woman said, “I’ve got a thing about the history of this county. And I figure maybe there’s some history here you might want to know about. Maybe it’ll even do you some good. Come with me.”

Aware that Lyle hadn’t said a word so far, Carly followed behind Lulu. She was relieved to see that her partner was moving along with her. After a short distance, Lulu stopped at a headstone. She pointed to the inscription on it and waited, as if giving the FBI agents time to figure it out.

Rupert and Millicent Sears

loving husband

loving wife

loving parents

The dates on the stone indicated that both of the people buried there had died a little more than a decade ago.

“Robyn’s parents?” Carly asked. “So this is where they are buried?”

“That’s right.”

Carly’s brow crinkled at what seemed like a contradiction.

“Um … but didn’t you say yesterday that Robyn Sears didn’t actually live here in Wildroot Run? You said she wasn’t from these parts. You said she lived in Charleston, and she came out here to take care of her aunt, and—”

“I’ll get to that stuff, sweetheart. Don’t rush me, OK?”

OK, Carly thought silently.

Lulu crossed her arms and stared at the stone.

“Millicent Sears—Millbrook was her maiden name—was born and raised right here in Wildroot Run. When she was just a slip of a girl, she fell in love with Rupert Sears. Rupert was an Otisville boy, born and bred, so naturally I disapproved of her eloping with him like that. But they settled in Charleston, where Rupert became an insurance agent. And they had a daughter, Robyn, and raised her right there in Charleston.”

Lulu shook her head at the memories she was conjuring up.

“Poor Millicent—she was right miserable in Charleston. She was homesick for Wildroot Run, kept begging Rupert to move them back here, but he wouldn’t listen. Then when she died of breast cancer, his conscience started eating at him, and he felt bad about taking her away from home, so he made sure she got buried here. And when he died himself a few years later, he made sure he was buried right here beside her.”

Lulu pointed to the stone again.

“And here they’ve rested together ever since. And as soon as that coroner over in Charleston gets through poking around at Robyn’s body, I expect she’ll get planted right here with them, even though she never properly lived here.”

Lulu looked expectantly at the agents.

“Tell me—is that maybe the kind of ‘history’ you wanted to know about?”

“It might be,” Carly said.

In fact, things were coming together in her mind. Again she remembered the spirit’s words.

“He’s bringing home the blood—all the blood that’s lost its way.”

And now Carly knew something she hadn’t known before—that Robyn Sears had roots here after all. In fact, she was connected to Wildroot Run by her very blood. So “bringing home the blood” could have something to do with this killer’s motive after all.

A glance at Lyle told Carly that he was still skeptical.

He’s still not sold on even being here.

Carly hoped to change his mind.

“Lulu, like I told you over the phone, my partner and I think maybe the killer is trying to bring his victims home. Or else trying to keep them from leaving home.”

Lulu sighed bitterly as she thought that over. Then she nodded slowly.

“Makes sense, I suppose. That’s why I thought you might want to see where Robyn’s parents got planted. And I guess I wouldn’t blame you if you suspected me of all these murders, the way I go on and on about people forgetting where they came from and all. Well, I’m not like whoever’s doing this. Somebody’s got a really sick idea of tradition and blood and roots and all. I could never do anything like this.”

Neither Carly nor Lyle said anything in reply, but Carly heard her partner’s muffled scoff. It was obvious that Lulu didn’t have the sheer physical strength to kill these women and then transport the bodies and bury them.

If she had any part in this, she wasn’t alone.

But Carly felt sure that Lulu wasn’t involved in the murders at all. Still, there were still too many unanswered questions. Neither Carly nor Lyle was ready to actually tell this woman she wasn’t a suspect.

Then Lulu seemed to relax a little. She spoke in a friendlier tone.

“I surely do want to help you however I can. How can I do that?”

Carly thought for a moment. It occurred to her that there was something she could ask Lulu about, something she couldn’t bring up with the police.

“Lulu, my partner and I also think there’s actually been a fourth victim we haven’t identified, and whose grave we haven’t yet found. It might be anywhere in Venable County.”

“Lord have mercy,” Lulu murmured in a horrified voice.

“You know a lot about local history. Maybe you can help us find the fourth victim. Or maybe you can help us figure out who the killer might be targeting next. Maybe it will keep someone else from getting killed.”

“Come over to my place,” Lulu replied with a nod. “Let’s see what we can find.”

Carly and Lyle followed the woman the short distance to her house. They passed through the large front room full of antiques and bric-a-bracs into a smaller room with heavy bookshelves covering all the walls. The bookcases were stuffed to overflowing with leather-covered volumes.

“I’ve got a ton of local information here,” Lulu said. “Gathered it up mostly by myself. I interviewed hundreds of people over the years, most of them long dead now, and the transcripts are right here, along with a ton of other stuff. The records at the county courthouse are nothing compared to all this. Where would you like to start?”

Before Carly could think of what to say, she was startled to hear Lyle speak up for the first time.

“We now know that both Uta Raife and Robyn were buried in the same graveyards where their parents were buried. That might be part of the killer’s MO. Could you tell us if Ethel Weaver’s parents were buried on Trench Hill?”

“I believe I can,” Lulu said.

She reached for an atlas-sized volume and opened it on a big table in the center of the room. From it she unfolded a large chart that showed all the graves in the Trench Hill Cemetery. She pointed to one pair of graves.

“There they are—Ethel Weaver’s parents, James and Nicole Buchanan.”

Carly noticed a flicker of interest in Lyle’s eye as he saw the locations of the graves. They were among the newer sites near Ralston Street, not among the older ones where Ethel had been left in a shallow grave.

But they’re in the same graveyard, all right.

“Now let me tell you a few things about James and Nicole,” Lulu said, reaching for another volume. “James’s daddy was Durrell Buchanan, who founded Otisville’s volunteer fire department, and his wife, Nancy, was the organist and choir director at the Baptist church, and …”

Lulu was chattering away now, pulling down book after book and opening them up on the table in the middle of the room.

Carly heard Lyle let out an audible groan.

She knew exactly what he was thinking—and she couldn’t help but agree.

She could go on for hours like this, and never tell us anything we really need to know.

When Lulu paused for breath, Carly gently interrupted.

“Excuse me, Lulu … but I’m not sure this really is the kind of information we’re looking for.”

“It’s not?” Lulu said, sounding a little hurt.

“I’m afraid not,” Carly said. “Like I said, we’re looking for connections between the victims—something that might lead us to the fourth victim, or maybe to whoever the killer is targeting next.”

“You mean like blood connections?”

“I think probably so. Do you think the three victims we know of might have been related to each other?”

Lulu scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Hon, everybody in this county is related to everyone else if you go back a few generations. People here don’t even know who else’s genes they’re wearing, you might say. Not that there’s any real incest or anything—I don’t suppose anybody marries anyone who’s closer than a third or fourth cousin, but even so …”

Carly gently interrupted again.

“So you’re saying the three victims we know of were almost certainly related?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Could you help us find out how?”

Lulu looked all around at her vast collection of leather-backed volumes.

“Oh dear …”

“Well?” Lyle asked with a trace of impatience.

“That might be like looking for needles in haystacks among this stuff. It sounds like you might need to look at some genealogical records. And that’s … well, that’s not exactly my specialty.”

Lyle gave Carly a slight nudge. She knew what he was trying to tell her.

He thinks it’s time for us to go.

But Carly wasn’t quite ready to go.

“Who do you think might be able to help us?” she asked Lulu.

“That would be my friend Libby Bader. She’s been obsessed with family trees in these parts her whole life. She’s got a pile of genealogies. They’re not strictly up-to-date. She’s old and can’t keep up with such things like she used to, and besides, she lives off the grid, so she doesn’t have access to the latest genealogical tech stuff. Even so, she’s liable to have some of the information you’re looking for.”

“Where can we find Libby Bader?”

“She lives on a little farm with her boy. They’re south of here on Rural Route 4. You take the first turn-off on your way back to Otisville, then drive on about ten miles or so.”

“Could we give her a call and let her know we’re coming?”

Lulu let out a grunting chuckle.

“Huh. No chance of that. Like I said, she and her boy live off the grid mostly. Oh, they get electricity, but no phone or internet or anything like that. They don’t even have plumbing and running water, if you can imagine. But don’t worry, she never goes anywhere to speak of. She’ll be at home if you show up there.”

Lyle gave Carly another nudge.

“Thanks for your time, Lulu,” he said. “We’ll be on our way.”

As he and Carly left the house and headed back to the car, Lyle complained.

“Well, that sure was a bust.”

“I don’t know—”

“Oh, come on, Carly. Don’t tell me you think we’re getting anywhere with Lulu Watkins. She’s no help at all.”

In his irritation, Lyle was walking faster than usual, and Carly had to trot along to keep up with him. She didn’t have a chance to say anything else to him on the way. When they got into the car, Lyle looked at his watch as he sat behind the wheel.

“Well, we shouldn’t have any trouble paying Principal Bell a visit before school lets out. Read me the directions on how to get there.”

But Carly had a different idea about what they should do next.

And Lyle might not like it.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

As Lyle drove them out of Wildroot Run, Carly took a deep breath and gathered her nerve to say what she felt like she needed to say.

“Lyle, I think we should go see Libby Bader instead.”

“Huh?”

“We need to look for blood connections. And Lulu didn’t have the right information. I think we need a look at those genealogical records. We need to find whatever connections there might be between the victims, then see where those connections lead us.”

“Carly, I really don’t think that’s going to get us anywhere.”

“We already know the victims had some things in common. Their parents were dead, and although they had roots in Venable County, those connections were kind of shaky. Robyn was planning to go back to Charleston, Uta had run away from Brewster, and apparently it was no secret that Ethel wanted to get out of Otisville.”

Lyle shook his head skeptically.

“None of that has anything to do with genealogy,” he said. “Anyhow, Lulu already told us everybody here is related in some way.”

“There’s got to be something more specific. Doesn’t it sound like the killer wanted to root them here forever, make sure they never went away? Don’t you think following up on all of it might be a good idea?”

“Not as much as heading over to the school and talking to the principal. I’m sorry to contradict you, Carly, but part of this is simply a matter of urgency. School’s going to get out soon, and the principal is liable to go home. We need to talk to him while we’ve got a chance. We’ve got to make it a priority. Don’t you understand?”

“I suppose so,” Carly said.

She really couldn’t deny that Lyle had a point—about the time of day, at least.

Meanwhile, she spotted a sign beside a narrow road that disappeared into a densely wooded area. “Rural Route 4,” it said. As the car cruised on past, Carly knew there was no point in trying to get Lyle to turn back, but that was the turnoff they’d need to take to go see Libby Bader.

He’s made up his mind.

Finally the school came into sight. The low, long, one-story building of steel, brick, and glass looked like it had been around since the 1950s. Lyle pulled into the parking lot right in front of the building.

They got out of the car and started walking toward the school, but suddenly Lyle stopped in his tracks.

He tossed the car keys to Carly.

“Here, you take the car.”

“What?”

“Go ahead and see Libby Bader if you feel so strongly about it. By now I ought to know better than to ignore your hunches. I’ll take care of business here. We don’t both need to talk to the principal.”

“But—but you won’t have the car,” Carly stammered.

“It won’t matter. It’s only a short drive to where you’re going. We can call each other when we’re through. You can swing back around and pick me up. Then we can decide what to do next.”

Lyle didn’t sound angry or resentful, just decisive. Carly stood beside the car staring dumbly as he strode off toward the school building.

Then she got back in the car and started the engine.

He’s my senior partner, she reminded herself.

I guess I’d better do as I’m told.

She made the turn they’d passed onto Rural Route 4, which was an unpaved one-lane road flanked by overhanging trees. As the car bumped along the rough surface, Carly spoke aloud to the sometimes quarrelsome spirit.

“Talk to me, whoever you are. Tell me what to do. Am I wasting my time right now? Should I just turn around and head back to the school? Just say something, OK?”

She wasn’t the least bit surprised to receive no reply.

*

The school receptionist told Lyle that Principal Bell would talk to him in a few minutes, so Lyle took a seat in the front office. He found himself thinking about his growing impatience with Carly. He also couldn’t help wondering whether she was right and he was wrong.

What did he really expect to get from talking to this grade school principal who supposedly had an argument with last night’s victim? Was this any more likely to get useful information than Carly was with her backwoods genealogy expert? Should he have skipped this interview, at least for the time being, and gone with Carly to see Libby Bader?

He honestly didn’t know.

Now that he had a quiet moment, his head was filling up with doubts and second thoughts. What should he have really said yesterday, when Voss asked him to take one last case? Why had he made working with Carly a condition for accepting it? Was it really true that he’d expected Carly to say no and put an end to the matter right then and there?

Wouldn’t it have been better to just flat-out say no?

As he sat waiting, he also wondered what had gone awry in their working relationship. Of course, this was the first case they’d worked on together in which her psychic abilities were no longer a secret between them. He’d actually been excited about that new twist in their relationship. He remembered what he’d asked Carly before this case started.

“What might we be able do together now that everything’s out in the open between us?”

Now he wondered whether they were able to do anything at all.

And maybe I’m the problem.

Maybe the very fact that he knew about Carly’s gift was getting in the way of her using it. Maybe the only way she could use it was if he didn’t know about it—or at least didn’t admit that he knew, or that he suspected. Maybe his questions about it were holding her back.

Lyle had no doubt that the killer had already chosen his next victim, and now he wondered if they were simply the wrong agents to be working this case. Maybe another team would have cracked it yesterday, before Uta Raife got killed.

And before someone else gets killed.

“Principal Bell will see you now,” the receptionist called out.

We’re running out of time, he thought as he got up from his chair and walked into the principal’s office.

Is either of us even in the right place to get any answers?

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Carly had a sinking feeling that she’d made a mistake.

Could I have passed it? she wondered.

But surely she would have spotted any kind of structure or even a driveway out here.

The pothole-ridden gravel road was taking her deep into the Appalachian countryside, raising a thick cloud of dust behind her along the way. She’d already driven beyond the ten miles Lulu had mentioned, and she seemed to have left all signs of civilization behind. The woods on both sides of the road were overgrown with thick underbrush, with no sign of a house or a barn in sight.

And yet Libby Bader’s house must be somewhere up ahead.

She drove more slowly, looking carefully all around.

There!

She caught a glimpse of something through the trees. Off on the right was a decrepit shingled roof that appeared to be sagging on the verge of collapse.

Can that be it?

She slowed down even more, watching until a driveway came into sight to her right. It was dirt-paved, but Carly could see by fresh tire tracks that it must be in current use. She turned into the driveway and slowed to a stop.

Sure enough, she’d arrived at what appeared to be a more-or-less abandoned little farm, with a broken-down barn, a chicken coop, and a peculiar house that had been oddly pieced together over the years. A battered pickup truck was parked inside the barn.

The main part of the house had apparently started off as a log cabin. Carly couldn’t guess how long ago it might have been built. Its logs had been covered over with wooden siding, but the siding itself was rotting and falling away to reveal the moss- and fungus-covered original structure. Sometime during years gone by, a rickety porch had been added, along with some roughly built wings for bedrooms and maybe a kitchen.

Carly made her way along a briar-flanked path up onto the porch, which looked just as treacherous as the wooden planks of the Vernon Street Bridge. She told herself that at least there wouldn’t be such a dangerous drop below.

She stepped lightly and cautiously toward the front door and gave it a knock.

She waited, but no one came to the door.

Carly reminded herself of what Lulu had said about Libby Bader.

“She never goes anywhere to speak of. She’ll be at home if you show up there.”

And the parked truck definitely suggested that someone was here. Carly knocked again, louder this time.

“Is anybody home?” she called out.

“Who is it?” an elderly voice called back.

Before Carly could reply, the person inside let out a chuckle.

“Oh, it’s you. I should have expected you. I’m sorry I can’t come to the door. Just let yourself in.”

Carly stood staring at the door, momentarily dumbfounded. Did the woman inside this old house really know who she was?

Surely not.

She must have been expecting someone else.

But an uncanny feeling was creeping over Carly, and she couldn’t bring herself to turn the knob and open the door.

The voice chuckled again.

“What’s the matter, afraid to come in? Don’t be silly, girl. I won’t bite. And you ought to know you can trust me. After all, have I led you astray until now?”

Carly felt a lump of apprehension in her throat.

“Until now?”

What did the woman mean by that?

Then the shock of realization literally knocked the wind out of her lungs.

It’s her!

It’s the spirit who has been reaching out to me!

Carly felt deeply unnerved. She just stood there, terribly confused and unable to turn that doorknob. She had seemed to be hearing the dead woman’s voice aloud, rather than just in her own mind. Now she realized that the internal communication was just more vivid and powerful than she usually experienced. This spirit was quite determined to get through to her.

And that voice began to sound just a bit impatient now.

“You’ve got to trust me, girl. Otherwise you’ll never get this whole business fixed and settled. And that’s what you’re here to do, isn’t it?”

Carly started to breathe again. This was like nothing she had experienced before. But it seemed that some sort of moment of truth had arrived.

She had to face it.

She slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open.

*

“It’s so terrible, what happened to Uta,” Principal Bell said to Lyle after they’d introduced themselves and taken their seats in the office. “We’re all in shock here at Otisville Elementary. I’m sure anyone among us will gladly do whatever they can to help you bring the monster to justice. I certainly will.”

Lyle had his pencil and notepad ready.

“Did you know the victim well?”

“Yes, you could certainly say that,” Bell said, leaning back in his chair and cradling his fingers together. “I try to maintain close and even friendly relations with everyone in my faculty and staff. I like to think of us all as a family.”

“Do you know anyone who might have meant Uta any harm?”

“No, I really don’t think so,” Bell replied in a low, pensive voice. “She was very well-liked, as far as I know.”

Lyle thumped his eraser against his notepad.

“Did you know the other two victims—Ethel Weaver and Robyn Sears?”

“Well, I know Ms. Weaver by name, and I think we may have been introduced at one time or another. Just about everybody in Otisville knows each other at least in passing and by name. But Ms. Weaver and I weren’t friends—nor even acquaintances really. And as for Ms. Sears …”

Principal Bell shrugged and continued, “Well, I didn’t know her at all. I don’t have any acquaintances over in Wildroot Run. And besides, I’ve been told she wasn’t a permanent resident there anyway.”

Lyle was sizing up the principal as he listened. The man was tall and gangly and possibly quite strong. Physically, he might well be capable of the murders in question.

I’d better get to the point, he thought.

“Can you account for your whereabouts last night?”

Bell squinted uneasily at the question.

“When Uta was killed, you mean? Well, yes. I was at home with my wife, Betty.”

“What about the night when Ethel Weaver was killed?”

“The same,” Principal Bell said, looking uneasy. “And I’m sure I was also at home when that other woman was killed over in Wildroot Run. Betty and I seldom go out at nights. Alas, there’s not much of a night life here in Otisville.”

“Can your wife confirm your whereabouts?”

Bell’s eyes widened with alarm.

“Really, Agent Ramsey, I’d much rather you didn’t ask her. Not that I have anything to hide, but … well, she’d find the question to be terribly upsetting. Is it really quite necessary to ask her?”

Lyle felt a slight tingle of suspicion. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair a moment before answering.

“That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Mr. Bell, we’ve been told that you and Uta Raife had a rather serious argument recently—right here in this office.”

“Oh, that,” the principal said with a scoff. “Well, that was nothing personal, believe me.”

“What was it about?”

“Something rather unpleasant, I’m afraid. Normally I wouldn’t feel at liberty to talk about it, but things being how they are now …”

Bell paused and tilted his head.

“Word was getting around Otisville that Uta had a drinking problem. I’d heard about it from several sources. It’s not the sort of thing I like to have people saying about anyone on my faculty, and I called her here and confronted her about it.”

Bell scratched his chin.

“She didn’t take it especially well. She said she never, ever drank while she was here at school, and what she did on her own time was none of my business. Well, I told her that anything she did that reflected badly on the school was very much my business.”

Bell shrugged again.

“She disagreed very sharply. And I’m sorry to say my own temper flared, and I raised my voice. I regret it deeply now, and I suppose I always will. But please believe me, Agent Ramsey—I never meant Uta any harm, and I’m just as anxious to see her killer face justice as you are.”

Lyle studied the man’s expression carefully. He found some people easy to read, and he prided himself on knowing whether or not they were lying. But this man was harder than most.

It’s no great surprise.

In his experience, people in positions of public authority often had the best defense mechanisms. They had grown accustomed to putting on masks of sincerity, and sometimes those masks could be very convincing.

Or sometimes they’re not wearing masks at all.

For all Lyle really knew, Principal Bell meant every single word he was saying. But before he could think of a question that might draw him out, the receptionist poked her head in the office.

“Pardon me, Mr. Bell …”

Bell rolled his eyes with irritation at the interruption.

“Really, Ms. Clyburn, is this some sort of emergency?”

“Well … I suppose you could say that. A pipe burst in the boys’ restroom. There’s water everywhere. It’s pouring out into the hall.”

Bell shrugged slightly.

“Well, then, get the janitor to fix it.”

“But Conrad isn’t here.”

“Did he call in sick?”

“No, he just didn’t show up. He’s been doing that more and more these days.”

Bell sighed with dismay.

“Well, see if you can reach him somehow. And if you can’t find him, get the gym teacher fix it. Mr. Frisbie’s good at that sort of thing, even if he doesn’t like filling in for the janitor.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Sorry to bother you.”

The receptionist ducked out the door again.

Principal Bell shifted in his chair.

“I suppose I’d better look into this myself. I hope you don’t mind if I cut this short.”

“I do have more questions.”

“Well, maybe you can ask them as we walk,” the principal said, rising from his chair.

Lyle wasn’t exactly pleased. For one thing, he couldn’t tell whether Bell was really needed or simply found this “emergency” a convenient excuse to avoid further questions.

“I think I’ll wait here until you’re through,” Lyle told him.

The principal’s expression darkened a little.

“Have it your way, Agent Ramsey. Although I’m afraid you might be wasting valuable time.”

Principal Bell moved around the desk toward the door.

“Honestly, I should have fired that janitor of ours long ago. He’s no good at anything. But what can you expect from a man who doesn’t even know what size shoes to wear?”

Lyle’s curiosity was suddenly piqued. He wasn’t yet sure why.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing that would interest you, I’m sure.”

“It might be.”

The principal paused at the door and looked at Lyle, tilting his head with curiosity.

“Well, if you must know, Conrad has a rather sloppy appearance. He wears boots that are too large for him. It makes him look like some sort of oaf as he lumbers around the school. Can you imagine?”

An image flashed into Lyle’s mind. It was of the footprints at the crime scenes, surely made by the killer. He remembered his own words to the sheriff and his men.

“This guy was wearing boots that were markedly too big for his feet.”

“Wait a minute,” Lyle said sternly to the principal before he could leave the office. “Tell me more about your janitor.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

Carly could hear her heart beating as she stepped inside the little house. Apparently the spirit could hear it too.

“Now calm yourself, dear. It won’t do for your heart to explode on you.”

“Are you Libby Bader?”

“You’ve figured that out, have you?”

“And you’re … one of the victims?”

“Don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve still got some stuff to learn.”

“What do you mean?” Carly asked aloud.

“You’ve got to be alert now. You’re on the brink of finding the answers you’re looking for. But you’ve got to watch your step.”

“Tell me.”

“I can’t tell you. Don’t know how to tell you everything. Something … someone … keeps getting in the way. It’s up to you to watch out. Pay attention.”

Carly figured that was good advice. She stood still, taking in her strange surroundings. The room she had stepped into was snug and warm, despite the chilly autumn air outside. The light was dim, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust.

Most of the light came from a single lamp with a torn and dirty shade on a small wooden table. Some sunlight trickled through the room’s only window. Its dust-encrusted panes were patched over in broken spots with sheets of plastic.

Heat was radiating from an iron potbelly stove in the middle of the space, with a stovepipe that went up through a low, sagging ceiling. That ceiling appeared to be barely held up by roughly cut wooden beams. Freshly split logs were stacked on the floor near the stove.

Carly took another step into the room. She saw a ragged couch with the stuffing spilling out and a couple of stuffed chairs in similar condition. Prints of religious paintings hung on the walls. The most surprising object stood against the far wall—an enormous wooden pump organ that had seen much better days

Then a glimpse of movement caught Carly’s eye and she froze in place.

An old wooden rocking chair was moving—ever so slightly but definitely moving.

Could a disembodied spirit cause a chair to move? She couldn’t remember such a thing happening before.

“Who’s here?” she asked.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” the spirit voice replied.

“I mean who else?”

“You just be careful now.”

Carly could only suppose she wasn’t alone with this cantankerous spirit of a dead woman. After all, the stove was burning, and a lamp was lit, and a pickup truck was parked out in the barn. A living person must be somewhere nearby.

She put a hand on her weapon and called out sharply.

“I’m Special Agent Carly See, with the FBI. Whoever you are, show yourself.”

The spirit let out a rumbling cackle.

“Don’t waste your breath, girl. You’ll not get anywhere by yelling like that.”

“But who else is here?”

“You just have to watch your step.”

Carly felt increasingly frustrated by the spirit’s evasiveness. But it wasn’t the first time that a spirit had seemed incapable of saying everything she wanted to know.

It’s not just perverseness.

It’s just how being dead works sometimes.

She turned all around, warily surveying the quiet room until her eyes alighted again on the chair. The rocking movement was barely perceptible now, slowing and about to stop.

She stepped quietly across the room and peered through a low doorway into an adjoining bedroom. There she saw a large and bulky feather bed and a wooden cabinet, but no person was in sight. She quickly crossed the bedroom and opened the cabinet door.

Inside were a few old dresses and some women’s shoes. She crouched and looked under the bed, but found nothing there at all except wads of dust.

Carly crossed back through the living room to another door and looked inside. It was a tinier bedroom with a low, sharply sloping roof. The bed was much smaller, actually little more than a cot. There was a chest of drawers, but nothing big enough for a person to hide in.

Then she turned back and peeked through the living room’s other door. In the kitchen, a single wooden table was covered with checkered oil-cloth. There was a set of drawers, and a rack with some China and kitchen utensils on it. Another wide stovepipe rose through the ceiling above an old-fashioned wood-burning cookstove. The wood stacked beside it was split into smaller pieces. A back door was closed.

Nobody here either.

It didn’t appear that there were any other places where someone could hide in such a small house. But somebody had been here recently enough to leave the rocking chair moving slightly. They must have gone outside. Had that been a coincidence, or had whoever it was heard her coming and hurried away?

Carly was on the verge of stepping outside and calling out when her eyes fell on a small bookshelf on a little table against the living room wall. The leather volumes on that shelf were similar to those in Lulu Watkins’s house.

The genealogies! she realized.

She hurried over to the table and started to take one of the volumes off the shelf.

“Lord, don’t trouble yourself with those, girl. You’ll never make sense of them.”

“But that’s why I came here. The victims’ bloodlines—wasn’t that why they were targeted?”

“Let me save you the trouble,” the spirit said, suddenly more voluble than before. “Robyn was my grandniece once removed. Ethel was my great-grandniece twice removed. So was Uta, although she was over on a different branch of the family tree.”

“Is that why you were all killed? Because of your blood relationships?”

“It’s like I told you before—don’t jump to conclusions. Now quit dawdling and come with me.”

“But how?”

“The same way you did before, silly girl.”

And sure enough, Carly felt the same sort of ghostly but palpable tug that had led her earlier that day from the Smokehouse restaurant to the bridge where Uta Raife had been killed. This time it was drawing her into the kitchen.

“Where are we going?” Carly asked.

“You’ll know soon enough.”

The tug was turning into a steady, seemingly magnetic pull that drew Carly through the kitchen toward the back door to the house. Carly hesitated at the door, even though her hand was drawn toward the doorknob.

She knew that someone had been in the house just a short time ago. Whoever had left that chair rocking might well be just outside this door.

Was the spirit leading her into some sort of trap?

“Go on, open it,” Libby Bader’s spirit insisted.

Carly put one hand on her weapon and turned the doorknob with the other. She pulled the door open.

All she could see was a small open area and then an unsightly, unkempt jungle of weeds and brush and trees.

A quick glance around didn’t reveal anyone nearby, but it looked like there were plenty of places to hide. Many of those tree trunks were broad, and the vines grew thickly between them. The growth seemed to be mostly kudzu, which formed an impenetrable blanket in places.

“What now?” she asked the voice.

“Just keep going. You aren’t there yet.”

The invisible force drew her along a weed-encroached stone path.

“Is there anybody here?” she called out again.

“What did I tell you before?” the voice replied. “Yelling won’t do you any good.”

Up ahead toward the left was a little wooden outhouse, and toward the right was a rusted iron water pump. Carly kept her hand on her weapon as she moved along farther into the dense, brushy woods.

Suddenly she saw a sight that made her gasp aloud.

It looked like a shallow grave.

And above that grave stretched the gnarled and knotty branches of twisted trees.

They were the same trees she’d seen in her visions.

“I’m here,” she murmured with surprise.

“You’re here, all right,” the voice replied.

Carly could see that this grave must be older than the other three that she and Lyle had seen. The soil had settled, probably from rain.

“This is where you’re buried,” she said.

“You figured that out, did you? Smart girl.”

“But—but why?” Carly stammered.

“But what?”

“Why were you murdered?”

Again Carly heard that unearthly cackle.

“Murdered?”

“Yes. And when?”

“You keep jumping to conclusions, girl. Not everything happened like you think it did—at least not for me.”

Before Carly could ask another question, she heard a rustling sound nearby.

“Watch out now!” the voice screamed in her head.

Gripping her weapon, Carly whirled around just in time to see a shadowy figure burst out through the bushes, and she glimpsed the flat blade of a shovel swinging toward her head.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

The sound of a familiar, raspy voice urged Carly back to consciousness.

“Wake up.”

At first she was only aware of the pain in her head and aches all over her body. She remembered something slamming into the back of her head.

A shovel, she thought. Somebody hit me with a shovel.

The voice persisted.

“Wake up, I said.”

Carly managed to open her eyes, but what she saw sent her mind reeling.

Gnarled tree branches reached across her field of vision.

She tried to move, but found that she couldn’t do more than twist a little from side to side. Her hands were bound in front of her, and her ankles were tied together.

“Where am I?” Carly murmured.

“Where do you think?”

Carly recognized that voice. She was again hearing from the spirit of Libby Bader.

She rocked from side to side and found that she was in some sort of indentation in the ground.

Another grave! she realized with a shudder.

This one didn’t feel as deep as those where the victims had been buried. It must have been hastily dug after the man had knocked her out.

“You’re in some serious trouble, girl,” the spirit said. “I didn’t figure he’d take you by surprise like that. I thought you were too sharp to let such a thing happen. But now you’ve got to fix this whole thing. And it won’t be easy.”

Carly was about to yell back at the spirit for leading her into this when she heard somebody whistling nearby. Then a man appeared standing over her, looking down at her. He was wearing dirty coveralls and holding a shovel. His face was gnarled like the branches, and his teeth looked bad as he smiled at her.

“Feeling better, are you?” he said.

He reached into one of his pockets for something. Then he waved Carly’s semiautomatic Glock at her.

“I found this on you.”

He reached into another pocket and pulled out Carly’s badge.

“And I found this too.”

He tucked the badge back in his pocket, still holding the gun.

“So you’re Special Agent Carly See of the FBI. What brings you here?”

Again Carly heard that woman’s voice.

“Tell him the truth.”

Carly was still dazed and having trouble thinking things through. She wasn’t even sure what the “truth” was, and she wasn’t at all certain that she could trust Libby Bader’s spirit anyhow.

“Let me loose and I’ll tell you,” she said to the man.

“Huh-uh,” the man replied, shaking his head. “I’m not as stupid as you must think I am.”

Wriggling in vain, Carly was on the verge of asking him what his name was when the spirit seemed to guess her intention.

“Don’t ask! You’ll sound like an ignoramus! Let me tell you. His name is Conrad.”

When Carly hesitated, the spirit spoke again.

“He’s my son.”

But instead of making the situation clearer, that only stirred up a whirl of unanswered questions in Carly’s mind. Why had Libby Bader’s spirit led her here? Why had the dead woman’s spirit put her in the hands of her serial-killer son? Because that was obviously who Conrad Bader had to be.

In spite of her unanswered questions, she thought that maybe she now had at least a slight advantage.

“Conrad, you’re making a mistake,” she said, watching his face closely. “A huge mistake. You’ve attacked a federal agent. You’ll never get away with it. My partner will come looking for me. And then it will be over. I know who you’ve already killed. You don’t want one more murder on your head.”

Conrad’s thick eyebrows pulled together over the bridge of his nose.

“You’re bluffing,” he grumbled.

Of course, he was exactly right about that. But Carly couldn’t let it show.

“I’m not bluffing. My partner can track my location on my cellphone.”

Conrad Bader snickered and stooped over. He picked up a smashed cellphone and showed it to Carly.

“You mean this cellphone?”

He laughed and tossed the broken thing aside.

Carly was furious with herself. Why hadn’t she said that Lyle already knew where she was and was now on his way here? She’d never have made such a staggering mistake if her brain wasn’t still rattled from the blow to her head.

I’ve got to think more clearly.

Carly knew she had to backtrack.

“Conrad, I know who you are, and I know what you did, and I knew where to find you. Do you think I’m the only one who knows? How long do you think it will be before my colleagues come looking for me?”

“Long enough, I expect. You’ll be dead and buried, and I’ll be long gone before anybody gets here.”

Standing over Carly, he examined her gun with keen interest. He’d obviously never handled a Glock before and was fascinated by it.

Carly writhed vainly again.

He’s going to shoot me right here and now!

Libby’s spirit seemed to read Carly’s thoughts.

“Damn right, he’s going to shoot you. You don’t have time for fiddle-faddle. Like I said before, tell him the truth!”

Carly’s head swirled with confusion.

“The truth about what?” she asked silently.

“The truth about me!”

Her mind raced back through her previous communications with this spirit. Now it seemed clear that Libby Bader’s spirit had been equally frustrated by the limits of what she could actually say. The dead woman had been trying to tell her what her son was doing.

“He’s bringing home the blood—all the blood that’s lost its way,” she’d said.

She’d even told Carly why she was trying to help her.

“You’ve got to stop this from happening. It’s up to you. No one else can help.”

And now Libby was making a serious suggestion.

Tell the truth—about her.

Carly didn’t seem to have any options right now. Not only was she bound hand and foot, but her assailant was on the verge of shooting her with her own gun.

So she blurted out the truth.

“Your mother doesn’t want you to do this, Conrad.”

Conrad stopped looking at the gun and stared straight at Carly.

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Your mother’s been talking to me. She’s been trying to help me find you and stop you from killing anyone else. She wants it to stop right now.”

Conrad’s face twisted with confusion.

“My mother’s dead.”

“I know.”

“So she can’t talk to you.”

Carly swallowed down a knot of anxiety.

How am I going to make him believe me?

She steadied her voice as well as she could.

“I communicate with the dead.”

Conrad stared at her for a moment, then his lips curled into a sneer.

“I don’t believe it.”

Of course you don’t.

Libby Bader practically shouted inside Carly’s skull.

“Tell him I said he’d better believe it. Tell him it’s time he grew into his daddy’s boots.”

Carly was momentarily baffled.

His daddy’s boots?

Then she remembered.

Those footprints at the crime scenes.

Lyle had observed that the killer was wearing boots that were too large for him.

“Conrad, your mother says it’s time you grew into your daddy’s boots.”

Her assailant’s jaw fell slack.

“This is some sort of trick.”

“She says you’d better believe it.”

“No. You’re lying. You don’t know nothing about Mom.”

“You think you’re supposed to ‘bring home the blood.’ But she says you’re wrong. She wants you to stop.”

“Liar!”

“Why did you murder her?”

Conrad yelled, “I didn’t murder her!”

Carly saw Conrad grab his shovel by the handle. Again she caught a glimpse of its flat blade as it swung toward her.

“No,” the spirit voice shouted in her mind.

And again everything went black.

*

I shouldn’t have done that, Conrad thought.

He stared down at the FBI agent lying in the shallow grave. The woman was unconscious again, although he could see that she was still breathing.

But she’d pushed him to do this, he told himself. She’d infuriated him by accusing him of murdering his mother.

Of course he’d done nothing of the kind. It had been an act of mercy. Mom had become hopelessly feeble and ill, and her mind had been going, and she’d asked him to put her out of her misery.

“Just like you’d do with a chicken,” she’d told him, handing him a knife.

And he’d done exactly as he’d been told. He’d made a slash across her neck from one artery to another. And Mom had smiled gratefully as the blood had spurted out of her throat and her life had ebbed away.

Of course Conrad knew that nobody would understand such an act. He’d wind up in prison if anyone found out about it. That was why he’d buried her out here, behind the house, where no one would ever find her grave.

That was why he’d allowed people to think she was still alive.

But as infuriated as he’d felt just now, he wished he hadn’t acted so rashly.

I should have listened to what this woman had to say.

I should have made her tell me …

But no, he’d only have been falling for her trick, whatever it was. He was sure the dead didn’t talk to the living. If such a thing was possible, Mom would have reached out to him by now. Mom certainly wouldn’t have reached out to an FBI agent instead. It just didn’t make any sense.

But she knows things about me.

And those were things nobody else knew except Conrad and his mother. The woman knew what Mom had always told him about Daddy’s boots—that it was high time he grew into them.

Did she even know how Mom had always insisted that he wear them anyway?

Mom had been cruel and mocking that way, always finding cunning ways to belittle him. But he’d always known she’d loved him. And even now that she was gone, he clung to the desperate hope of pleasing her at last. And that was why he’d already killed three women—and had made plans to kill Anne Bishop this very night.

Poor Mom.

She’d gotten so lonely.

And although Conrad didn’t believe the living could talk to the dead, he did believe in life after death, and he didn’t want his mother to be unhappy in the beyond.

And that was why he’d killed three people so far.

He remembered how often Mom had bemoaned what was happening to Otisville and the towns scattered around it. She said people had forgotten who they were, where they came from.

“Especially the young’uns,” Mom had always said.

She’d often recited the names of folks who were close in blood but didn’t even know who Mom was.

There had been Robyn Sears, her grandniece once removed.

And Ethel Weaver, her great-grandniece twice removed.

And Uta Raife, another great-grandniece twice removed.

And Anne Bishop—although Conrad couldn’t remember exactly how she was related.

And there were other names as well—all of them more or less distant cousins to Conrad.

Mom had bemoaned the fact that none of them were properly rooted where they should have been. Robyn wasn’t long for Wildroot Run—she’d be heading back to Charleston soon. Uta had run away from Brewster, where she really belonged, and she probably planned to get out of Otisville one of these days. Rumor had it that Ethel was also fixing to leave her husband and run off somewhere.

And then there were the women’s parents, who had died without Mom ever getting a chance to know them.

It had seemed such a shame to her.

“Those girls don’t even know I’m alive,” Mom had said, “and they’ll be gone before I get a chance to meet them.”

Conrad had wanted to fix that, for Mom’s sake. He thought it would be wonderful if they could all be together in the next life. Her nieces would love her when they met her. How could they help it? And Mom would finally get to be the loving aunt she’d always wanted to be.

The woman at his feet let out a semi-conscious groan, as if to remind him she was there.

It made Conrad wonder what would happen to him now.

This FBI woman had found him somehow. She’d also found the grave where he’d buried his mother. How many people might know where she’d gone? Were others like her on their way?

It saddened him to think the time had come for him to leave home at long last. But he couldn’t stay here and risk being caught.

Mom and I will be together again one of these days.

And then it won’t matter whether my boots fit.

But before he went away from here, he had one more task to carry out.

He began to shovel dirt onto the woman’s body.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

“Are you sure about this?” Sheriff Clayburgh asked Lyle. “Because we really are getting off the beaten track, so to speak.”

“I’m sure,” Lyle replied tersely.

At least I’m sure of something, he thought.

He had called the local police to pick him up from the elementary school, and fortunately they’d been free to come there right away. Now Clayburgh was driving the police van along the dirt-and-gravel road into the Appalachian countryside. Lyle was in front beside him, and Deputy Hamner and Sergeant Larson were in back. Lyle knew that this must be an uncertain errand as far as they were concerned.

The one thing he was certain of was that Carly was in danger.

When Principal Bell had grumbled about the shabby janitor who wore oversized boots, an image of the tracks Lyle had noted at the murder scenes flashed through his mind. At first it had seemed unlikely that the absent janitor could be the serial killer they were trying to stop. But then Lyle had learned that the janitor’s name was Conrad Bader, and he lived with his mother on a remote farm.

And Carly had just driven off to visit an elderly woman named Libby Bader.

Why the hell did I let her take the car?

Lyle knew he’d made a bad call. When he’d tried to phone Carly to warn her, he found that her cell was out of service, which could only mean she was in trouble. Fortunately, the sheriff and his men had already peacefully ended the standoff with the suicidal Stanley Ellis, and they had been able to answer his call right away.

But now Lyle felt helpless, being driven into what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. He growled under his breath as the van hit a pothole and lurched sharply.

“Are you sure we’re taking the right route?” he asked.

“Hey, you said Rural Route 4, didn’t you?” Clayburgh said.

“Yeah, that’s what Lulu Watkins said.”

“Well, the last I heard, this is where the Baders live.”

“You mean you’ve never been out here?”

“Never had reason for it. Not many folks ever did.”

The deputy and sergeant grumbled in agreement.

Lyle stifled a groan of frustration.

How the hell are we going to find the place in this jungle?

As if in reply, Deputy Hamner pointed ahead and called out.

“That looks like it up yonder.”

Sure enough, Lyle saw a battered and semi-collapsed shingled roof poking out of the surrounding forest. But as they got closer, he wondered if anybody could actually live there. It looked more like an abandoned ruin than a currently occupied dwelling. But as Clayburgh pulled the car into the driveway, Lyle recognized the car that was parked there.

“She’s here, and she’s in some kind of trouble,” Lyle said.

“That’s the car all right,” Clayburgh said. “But don’t jump to any conclusions.”

The sheriff parked the van, and all four lawmen got out. Lyle noticed that a pickup truck was parked just inside an old tumbledown barn, but he saw no one nearby. As they headed toward the front door of the house, they could see that it hung ominously open.

“That doesn’t look so good,” Deputy Hamner commented.

With his hand on his weapon, Clayburgh stepped up to the front door.

“Libby Bader, this is the Sheriff Clayburgh,” he called out. “I would like to speak with you.”

When there was no sound at all in reply, Clayburgh called again. “Conrad Bader, we heard you’re at home today. Come out and show yourself.”

Only silence followed.

“Bader, this is Special Agent Lyle Ramsey with the FBI,” Lyle called out. “Do as the sheriff says and show yourself, with your hands on your head.”

Again there was no reply, no sound at all from within the old house.

The lawmen all drew their weapons, and Clayburgh was the first to enter the house. Although they found no one at all inside the tiny home, the stove was still radiating heat.

“Can’t be all that far away,” Sergeant Larson commented nervously.

“The back door’s open too,” Deputy Hamner called out from the kitchen.

“Bader must be outside somewhere,” Clayburgh said.

But where’s Carly? Lyle wondered, growing more worried with every passing second.

The four men left the house and split up to search the grounds. Remembering the pickup truck, Lyle headed in the general direction of that barn. As he neared the barn door, he heard a voice from behind him.

“Put down your weapon.”

Lyle turned around and saw a middle-aged man with a homely face standing about twenty feet away from him. Lyle knew who he was by his ill-fitting boots.

Conrad Bader.

And he was pointing a pistol at Lyle—but not just any pistol.

Carly’s Glock! Lyle realized with alarm.

The man was wielding Carly’s service weapon.

How did he get it away from her?

He forced himself not to think about the terrifying possibilities. He was pointing his own weapon at Conrad and knew better than to waver in his aim.

“You put down your weapon,” Lyle said firmly.

“No, no, not me. You do it.”

Lyle held his gun steady despite the order. He knew that bluffing wasn’t going to be easy. This man seemed to understand that Lyle didn’t want to take the first shot if he could possibly help it. He had questions to ask and would do his best to take the suspect alive.

They were in a true standoff.

But neither of us has to die.

“What do you think you’re going to do now, Conrad?” Lyle asked.

“Do like I said! Put down your gun.”

“Answer my question first.”

The man’s eyes crossed a little, and he seemed less confident than he had a few seconds ago. He nodded toward his truck.

“You and I are going for a little ride.”

“You’re going to take me hostage?”

“That’s right.”

Lyle scoffed.

“How are you going to do that? You’ve got to get me to put down my gun first.”

“Do it or I’ll shoot!”

“I don’t think so,” Lyle said, keeping his weapon level.

And now he saw a way to bring this standoff to an end.

It had to do with how Conrad was holding the Glock. Lyle reminded himself that this surely wasn’t Conrad’s first time handling a firearm, living out here in the country like this.

A rifle or a shotgun, sure.

But it was easy to see he’d never handled a semi-automatic pistol. He gripped it in both hands the way he obviously thought he should, with his right hand holding the grip and the left hand giving support.

The way he’s maybe seen it done on TV.

But he really didn’t know what he was doing. And he was about to make a mistake Lyle had seen inexperienced shooters make before.

There’s no way he’s going to hit me.

Lyle decided to make his move. He took a step forward.

“Conrad Bader, I’m arresting you for multiple murders.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“You heard me. Put down your weapon and come peacefully.”

The Glock began to shake in Conrad’s hands.

“Don’t you come any closer.”

“Or what?” Lyle said, taking another step toward him.

“I’ll shoot.”

“OK, then. You do what you have to do.”

Lyle took a third step and saw the muzzle of the weapon flare. He heard the shot ring out. The Glock flew out of Conrad’s hand. He gripped his right thumb and screamed with pain.

Lyle felt a rush of satisfaction as he holstered his own weapon and rushed toward the man. It was hard to force Conrad’s hands apart to put him into handcuffs, but Lyle managed to do it despite his howls of agonized protest.

His thumb is broken—or at least dislocated.

Conrad’s blunder was to place his left thumb directly behind the slide, which flew back as the shot was fired and the shell was ejected, striking his thumb with tremendous force and sending the gun flying out of his hand. The bullet had missed Lyle by an ample distance.

“Where’s my partner?” Lyle demanded as he handcuffed the man’s hands behind his back.

“The lady agent?” Conrad said with a pained sneer. “You won’t be seeing her anymore.”

Lyle felt a surge of panic.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re too late.”

“Too late for what?” Lyle cried, shaking the man by the shoulders. “Tell me!”

Before he could get a reply, Sheriff Clayburgh and Deputy Hamner came running from separate directions.

“What’s going on?” the sheriff shouted.

“I heard a shot!” the deputy yelled.

“I’m making an arrest,” Lyle said, indicating the handcuffed man. “Hamner, finish taking him into custody. Get him to tell you what happened to my partner. Sheriff, we’ve got to go looking for her.”

Then they heard Sergeant Larson call out from a short distance away.

“Agent Ramsey, Sheriff, you’d better come over here!”

The two men broke into a run in the direction of the voice. They followed a thorny stone path into a dense thicket and thrashed their way along until they came across a small clearing.

The sergeant was standing there, pointing to the ground.

“Look,” he said.

Lyle staggered at what he saw.

In the clearing were two shallow graves. One looked like it had been there for some time. But the other was covered with fresh dirt, and a shovel was stuck into the soil beside it.

Carly!

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Carly recognized the raspy voice at once. The same gruff, cantankerous spirit had been offering her crucial but erratic aid ever since this case began.

It was the voice of Libby Bader.

That bit of memory was accompanied by a sinking feeling.

Where was Conrad Bader, the man who had attacked her?

And why was Carly herself in such pitch black darkness?

“Where am I?” she asked.

“Open your eyes and look.”

It hadn’t occurred to Carly until that moment that her eyes weren’t open.

When she did as she was told and tried to look around, she still couldn’t see much at all. She found herself in a dense, impenetrable fog. She recognized the setting. She’d met many spirits in a mysterious otherworld, often in dreams. But somehow this one didn’t feel quite the same.

“Am I dreaming?” Carly asked.

“Good question. Just think about it a minute.”

Carly struggled to recall just the past few moments. It was strangely hard to do.

She got a faint image of discovering a grave amid a tangle of brush with twisted trees overhead. Then she remembered realizing that it was Libby Bader’s grave, and then …

Carly’s mind reeled.

Now she remembered clearly the man knocking her out cold with a shovel.

And then she knew what must have happened next.

Of course!

I’m dead—and buried!

Carly felt a sudden surge of guilt.

“I failed you,” she said to the spirit.

“How do you think?”

“I didn’t stop your son from killing. I let him defeat me. And now he’ll keep right on committing murders.”

“Huh-uh. You’re wrong about that part. There’s been some stuff going on you don’t know about. He’s been caught but good. And that wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No, and that’s because you’re dead. It’s hard to figure out a lot of stuff when you’re dead. Especially at first. I ought to know.”

Carly didn’t feel like she’d entered any kind of spirit world. Was she going to be one of those ghosts who hung around, looking for someone to talk to, someone who could hear her?

“So this is what it’s really like?” she asked. “All this … nothingness?”

“Of course not. You won’t get to see the reality of it. Not right now.”

The spirit continued chattering.

“The thing is, you shouldn’t be dead. You’re not ready. It’s not your time. You’ve got things to do, places to be. Remember that sister you mentioned to me in a dream? Well, she’s alive, and it sure sounds like she’s going to need you. Other people need you too. You’re supposed to be out there in the living world for a long time, unless you’re dumb enough to get yourself shot or squashed up like a bug for no good reason. That part is always up to you.”

Carly’s heart sank. Had she finally made a stupid irreversible mistake? Was her life over way too soon?

But the spirit of Libby Bader was still scolding her.

“So tell me, girl … are you going to take death lying down?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Huh. You ought to have figured out the answer to that by now.”

Before Carly could ask the spirit what she meant, she felt a surge of energy and her surroundings began to fade. Everything around her went black—and cold, and heavy.

Carly was aware that she couldn’t move or breathe …

But she could hear her heart beating.

And she could feel damp, heavy soil around her.

She was no longer in that mysterious realm on the brink of the beyond.

The moment of her death had only been fleeting, as such moments sometimes were.

And now she had a chance to live.

But I’m buried!

She couldn’t breathe, and in a few moments she would be dead in earnest.

As she began to twist and writhe, Carly felt the loose soil give way around her.

Her hands were still bound, but she managed to push them upward, away from her body. Her fingers clawed frantically through the dirt as she struggled to free herself from her grave.

Then came a moment of tantalizing promise. She could feel her bound hands burst out through the surface into cold air.

But Carly still couldn’t breathe, and her heart was pounding harder than ever, and she knew that she was on the verge of terminal suffocation. Her strength was fading and she didn’t think she could force her way out of the grave before she lost consciousness again. This time it would be forever.

She felt a pair of strong hands seize her own.

An angel?

Am I dead yet again?

Sure enough, the hands were pulling her entire body upward. And then a light appeared …

The white light of the beyond?

She heard a muffled voice shout her name. She felt the soil fall away from her face. She glimpsed sky and gnarled tree branches above her, and then she saw a face—not the face of an angel, but one that was familiar to her from her daily life among the living.

Or maybe it is an angel all the same…

Lyle was using all his strength to haul her out of the grave.

In another moment, Carly rolled over onto her hands and knees, coughing dirt out of her mouth and blinking it out of her eyes.

She felt Lyle’s strong arm on her shoulder.

“Well,” her partner said, “I’m sure glad to see you.”

Carly tried to say thank you, but it just came out as another cough. She felt her stomach heave and thought she was about to throw up.

She finally muttered an incomprehensible word of thanks, then fainted into a more peaceful darkness, filled with gratitude for life.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

“Lyle, I can’t stay here,” Carly complained. “You’ve got to get me out of this place.”

She glanced around the little gray room, wondering where they’d put her clothes. She was wearing only a standard hospital gown and lying in a hospital bed in Charleston, West Virginia.

Her partner replied with a loud scoff. He was sitting beside her bed, holding her hand and shaking his head.

Carly vaguely remembered being rushed here by ambulance after Lyle had rescued her from the shallow grave a few hours ago. She felt daunted by the shiny equipment that hovered partly over the bed and the hanging bottle that trickled fluid into her arm.

“I mean it, Lyle. I don’t have to stay here overnight, do I?”

“Overnight? Carly, the doctors are gonna want to keep you longer than that. At least a day or two, even if it’s just for observation.”

“Why? I’m just fine.”

“You were knocked out cold twice today,” Lyle said sternly. “And you seem to have been clinically dead for a few minutes there. You’re still in ICU and they haven’t had time to fully assess the damage yet.”

“Hey, it’s no big deal. I’ve been through worse. For that matter, so have you.”

Lyle chuckled and shook his head again.

“I suppose that’s true. But just humor these doctors, OK? They’re nice people. And they’ll be a lot happier if you don’t make waves. You heard what they said, things are already looking good with you, and they’re moving you out of the ICU into a regular room tomorrow. And what’s your hurry, anyway? We’ve wrapped up the case. Conrad Bader’s in jail and he’s confessing his guts up. You should take a well-deserved rest.”

Carly fell silent for a moment. Lyle was right about the case, at least. After her rescue from the shallow grave, Carly had recovered her wits enough to watch as the police van drove away with Conrad Bader in custody.

And from what Lyle had been telling her just now, Conrad was telling the police everything that Carly had already realized—that he killed and buried his mother as an act of mercy, and then proceeded to track down and kill more-or-less distant relatives in a twisted attempt to keep his mother happy in the afterlife.

The case was closed, indeed.

And now that it was over, Carly felt a powerful urge to get on with other things.

“I’ve got to go to Megan,” she said.

Lyle stroked her hair comfortingly.

“Carly, you know you can’t do that. You’re not even allowed to see Megan. She panics whenever she sees you. Give her time, she’ll get better, and then you’ll be able to spend all the time you want with her. Meanwhile, you just stay put, OK?”

Carly frowned.

“I’m not making any promises,” she said.

“Do it for me.”

“I’ll try—I guess.”

A silence fell between them. Finally Lyle spoke again.

“We did some pretty good work on this case, didn’t we?”

“We sure did,” Carly said.

“I had my doubts for a while. I thought maybe we’d lost that magic touch. But in a way … well, this case turned out to be more remarkable than most. I could almost get used to working like this. Solving cases and knowing what I know now.”

“Almost?”

Lyle smiled sadly and fell silent again.

“Are you thinking maybe you shouldn’t retire after all?” Carly said.

Lyle chuckled.

“No, I’m not thinking that. This is the end of the road for me, I’m sure of it. Something in me has finally snapped, I guess. I actually don’t want to do this job anymore.”

Lyle’s lips pursed and his brow knitted.

“Carly, I literally saw your grave. I thought I’d lost you for good, just like I lost Dawn.”

Carly heard his voice thicken at the mention of his former partner, who had been killed in the line of action before Carly joined the FBI.

“I can’t go through that again,” he said, lowering his head. “I just can’t.”

Carly reached over and lifted up his chin. She knew all too well how haunted he was by that awful memory.

“Hey, I understand, Lyle. You do what you think is best for you. You’ve got a great retirement to look forward to. I kind of envy you. It will be really hard for me to start over …”

Her voice faded and Lyle chuckled again.

“Maybe you should just tell your new partner the truth about yourself from the get-go. It might save a lot of trouble in the long run.”

Carly laughed.

“Yeah, and whoever gets stuck with me will think I’m crazy from the get-go. That’s one way to get kicked out of the FBI in a hurry. You know I can’t do that, Lyle. The truth is, I’ve got no idea how I’m going to handle it.”

Now that she thought about it, Carly wasn’t at all sure she could handle working with somebody else—with having to hide her abilities and having to come up with explanations for her insights, with being some kind of freak in such a conventional world.

Lyle seemed to read her thoughts. His eyes softened.

“Maybe you shouldn’t try. To handle it, I mean.”

Carly tilted her head with curiosity.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s none of my business of course, but …”

“But what?”

Lyle let out a long sigh.

“I’d feel a lot better about things if you’d consider … well, moving on to a different kind of life. You’re too young to keep getting hit over the head with shovels and buried, stabbed, suffocated with pillows, drowned in water-filled milk containers, and all that kind of thing.”

Carly gave him a punch in the arm.

“I’m not so young,” she said. “I’m thirty.”

“That gives you plenty of time for a lot of life to happen. A different life. All the more reason to think about a change. Believe me, it doesn’t get any easier to turn your life in a different direction when you get as old as I am. Now’s the time to get started.”

“You must think you know everything about me.”

“I do, pretty much. Don’t forget, I’ve got amazing powers of observation. And it doesn’t take a master detective to figure out there’s a man in your life. You’ve even told me his name. Whatever’s going on between you and this guy named Mark, you’d better pay attention to it. You might miss the chance of your life. You might miss the chance to have the life that you could really enjoy.”

Carly remembered the words of the cranky spirit who had lectured her.

“You’re supposed to be out there in the living world for a long time, unless you’re dumb enough to get yourself shot or squashed up like a bug for no good reason.”

And now her partner was telling her the same thing.

She stared into his eyes for a moment.

I guess he does know pretty much everything about me.

Realizing she might start crying if she wasn’t careful, Carly changed the subject.

“Did you bring me my computer pad, like I told you to?”

Lyle plopped his satchel in his lap and patted it with his hand.

“Yeah, here it is. But I’ve got half a mind not to let you have it.”

“Why not?”

“You tell me. What do you want to do with it, anyway?”

Carly rolled her eyes.

“Lyle, don’t play games with me. A murderous psychopath smashed my cellphone. Until I get another one, that pad is my only connection to the outside world.”

“So why do you need to be connected to the outside world? You need some rest. You need the outside world to leave you alone—for tonight, at least.”

Before he could stop her, Carly deftly snatched the satchel away from him. She opened it and took out the computer pad and tossed the satchel back to him. She hugged the pad to her chest to keep him from taking it back.

“You’re welcome,” Lyle said.

“Thank you,” Carly replied.

Lyle yawned, then got out of his chair.

“I’m beat,” he said. “You wouldn’t be this onery if you weren’t actually okay. I’m going to find a hotel and get some sleep.”

“You do that,” Carly said. “And tomorrow morning, come and spring me out of this joint, OK?”

“Fat chance of that. The doctors might want you to stay for a week or two.”

“That’s not even funny.”

“Who says it was supposed to be?”

Lyle gave her a friendly little kiss on the forehead and walked toward the door.

“Uh, Lyle …” Carly began.

He turned in the doorway to look back at her.

“If this is really our last case … we’re not going to be strangers, are we?”

Her partner smiled from ear to ear.

“Not a chance of that, kid. I’ll be your friend for life.”

Carly laughed with relief.

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Lyle left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Carly alone. She turned on the computer pad and looked at its screen. She felt desperate to reach out to somebody—to Mom, or Dad, or Mark, or Dr. Lunoe, anybody who could tell her what was going on with Megan. But now that Lyle was gone, a wave of exhaustion swept over her.

Do I even have the strength for that kind of thing?

She decided to close her eyes for a moment before she made such a decision …

*

Carly was awakened from her slumber by the ping from her computer pad alerting her to a text message. When she looked at the screen, her eyes widened to see that it came from Chief Voss:

We need to talk. Right now.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

A moment later, Carly was sitting in the hospital bed with her computer pad propped against her knees, face to face with Chief Voss on a video call. She was glad that she could hold the pad close enough that he couldn’t see all the trappings of the ICU room.

His usual no-nonsense expression gave her no idea what he might have to say to her, and she hoped she didn’t appear as nervous as she felt.

“Congratulations on closing the case,” Voss said. “I’ve gotten an excellent report from Sheriff Clayburgh about the work you and Agent Ramsey did together. I look forward to reading your own report. It sounds like a job well done.”

“Thanks, sir,” Carly said, relaxing a little. But she was sure that he hadn’t called just to congratulate her.

Voss peered more closely into the screen.

“You look a bit worse for the wear, Agent See,” he said. “I hope it’s nothing too serious.”

“Nothing I’m not used to, sir,” Carly said.

Although being dead was kind of a new experience …

“Well, to get right to the point,” Voss continued, “I finally heard from the man you asked me to look for.”

“Quincy Duncan?”

“That’s right. In fact, I’ve got him on the phone on another line right now. It’s early morning in Nepal.”

Carly let out a gasp of excitement.

“Can I talk to him?”

“You certainly can. In fact, he wants to speak with you face to face, via video. Are you ready?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Excellent. I’ll link you to him. But there’s one more thing …”

Voss fell silent for a moment.

“I’m going to let the two of you talk together privately. I’d rather stay out of it, if you don’t mind.”

Carly was on the verge of asking why, but she remembered that Voss had already bent the rules by using FBI resources on Carly’s personal behalf. He’d found the identity of Megan’s attacker and actually gotten in touch with Quincy Duncan. That was more than Carly had any reason to expect. After all, this wasn’t official business.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

Chief Voss ended the call without reply. A few moments later, another face appeared on the screen. It was a man with a high-domed forehead, a long, scraggly beard, and warm, sensitive eyes.

“Special Agent Carly See, I presume,” the man said, his voice sounding hoarse and rather weak.

“That’s right.”

“My name is Quincy Duncan. I believe we have a few important things to discuss.”

“I believe so, sir.”

Carly felt a little embarrassed at the understatement.

“Oh, please, don’t call me ‘sir,’ my dear,” Duncan said with raspy laugh. “You might as well call me Quincy, like everyone else does. May I call you Carly?”

“Of course.”

Quincy coughed and cleared his throat.

“I hope you’ll excuse my voice, Carly. I haven’t spoken to a human soul for, oh, some seven months or so. I was expecting to stay silent for a few months longer.”

“I—I’m sorry you’ve had to break your vow of silence on my account.”

The man chuckled and coughed again.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really. No inconvenience at all. Sometimes the urgency of worldly matters vastly outweighs the relative importance of spiritual exploration. This is definitely one of those times.”

He cleared his throat again.

“Agent Voss sent me a picture of your sister—Megan’s her name, is it?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I recognized her right away, although at the time she called herself Emily and not Megan. She came to me under … well, rather extraordinary circumstances.”

He scratched his beard and thought for a moment.

“I believe you’re familiar with my home in California on the Pacific Coast—Belle Mer, I call it.”

“Yes, I’ve been there.”

It was, of course, the place where Carly had found and rescued Megan—and where she had killed an assailant in self-defense.

“Well, Emily, as I knew her, arrived at my house one night completely out of the blue, about a year ago. She was running away from somebody, she said—somebody who had been pursuing her for years and intended to kill her. I offered to call the police, but she was terrified by the idea. She seemed to think she’d be in even more danger if the police were involved.”

Quincy cleared his throat and tilted his head.

“The poor dear was really quite traumatized—and it was a longstanding trauma that had taken a toll on her mental health over many long years. She couldn’t seem to remember her real name. ‘It was so long ago,’ she kept telling me. I thought maybe I could help her …”

Quincy paused and shrugged slightly.

“Carly, if you’ve heard of me, you might know that I’m something of a … well, a self-help ‘guru,’ although I truly hate the term. Suffice it to say I’m a certified therapist, and I’ve developed techniques for getting to the root of traumas and relieving them. I did my best with her that night, and she seemed to feel a bit better, but she still couldn’t tell me anything about her past. It was late by then, and the poor dear was exhausted and fell into a restless slumber.”

Quincy squinted his sensitive eyes as he kept remembering.

“I let the girl sleep, but a short time later I found that she had slipped out of my house into the night. I never saw her again.”

Carly’s heart sank at what she was hearing. Quincy seemed to sense that she was disturbed.

“I’m afraid I’m not telling you all that you might wish to hear,” he said.

No, you’re not, Carly thought.

But she could hardly blame Quincy Duncan for that. She was grateful to him for making an effort to clarify what he could.

“I don’t know why she came back to my home in my absence, when you found her there and saved her life,” Quincy added. “Perhaps she was thinking she’d be safe with me after all, not knowing that I was on the other side of the world by then. But apparently that horrible man caught up with her and held her captive in my beach house, which wasn’t difficult to break into. Chief Voss showed me some pictures of him, but I’m sure I never saw him before in my life.”

Quincy scratched his chin.

“I’m certain it was the man she’d said had been pursuing her for years. And he surely did intend to kill her. I’ll always regret not being there when she needed me most. But it’s miraculous that you arrived in time to save her. I can’t imagine how you managed that.”

Carly didn’t reply. She’d been led to that location by messages that Megan sent during the times when she was dead. But that was certainly too weird to explain, even to a guru therapist.

Quincy shrugged again.

“Is there anything else I can tell you?” he asked.

Carly thought hard.

“You said you’d … done something to try to help with her trauma.”

“That’s right.”

“And you said she’d seemed to feel better.”

“Oh, yes. Markedly. I really had hopes for her—for a little while, at least.”

“Can you tell me … what technique you used?”

Quincy smiled slightly, and his eyes crinkled with kindness.

“That’s a very good question, my dear. My method begins with a mantra, a word or sound that induces a meditative state. Unlike some so-called gurus, I don’t select such a mantra myself. I leave it to my patients to find their own personal mantra for themselves. And your sister came up with one that struck me as quite intriguing. Let me see …”

Quincy tapped his chin with his finger.

“It was a sound … a rather soothing sound. It went something like this—wwwhhsssshhhhh. I didn’t know what it might mean, but it sounded rather like the wind.”

Carly felt a tingling of realization from her head to her toes.

Not like the wind, she thought. More like the sound of waves.

“Her mantra took her into a deep, comfortable, meditative state,” Quincy continued. “When I asked her to tell me about it, she only said she gone to her ‘secret place,’ a sort of imaginary refuge, and that she hadn’t been there for a long time and had forgotten how much she’d loved it there.”

Her ‘secret place’! Carly thought.

“She said there was only one person she could ever trust enough to go to this place with her. She couldn’t remember who it was, but she was sure it was someone she loved very much. Carly … I think that person was you.”

Carly’s breath was coming in gasps now.

“Oh, thank you, Quincy. Thank you. I believe you’ve helped me a lot.”

“Really?” Quincy said, raising an eyebrow. “I’m rather surprised to hear that. But I’m pleased nonetheless.”

“Can I get back in touch with you?”

“Anytime, my dear,” Quincy said with a chuckle. “You’ve reminded me that I quite enjoy talking. I don’t imagine I’ll lapse into an extended silence again any time in the near future.”

The video call ended and Carly sat staring at the screen for a moment.

I’ve got to get back to Currie, she thought.

I’ve got to see Megan.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Three days later, Carly sat in a conference room at the Corley Mental Health Center in Currie, Illinois. Her parents were also there, and so were Mark and Dr. Noelle Lunoe. Carly was trying to persuade the psychiatrist to allow her to try to communicate with Megan. But Dr. Lunoe was understandably wary of even allowing Carly into the same room with her.

“This worries me, Ms. See,” Dr. Lunoe said. “You know what happened the last time she even saw you.”

Carly stifled a sigh of despair.

How can I explain how this time is different?

Or at least might be different?

Just this morning, Carly had left her own hospital room in Charleston. After she’d been moved out of the ICU and into a regular hospital room, she’d made a huge fuss about having to leave. After a couple of days, her doctors and even Lyle had finally agreed to let her go. She’d caught the first flight she could to O’Hare International Airport, where she rented a car and drove straight here.

And now she had just finished telling Dr. Lunoe, her parents, and Mark the story that Quincy Duncan had told Carly about his experience with Megan, including his attempts to try to help her remember who she really was.

Carly took a deep breath and chose her words carefully.

“Quincy told me he’d found a sort of ‘mantra’ that calmed Megan down. It was a sound like this—wwwhhsssshhhhh. He also told her she spoke to him of a secret place—a refuge where she would allow one other person to go.”

Carly swallowed down a knot of anxiety.

“I think that person was me. And I think I even know what place she meant.”

Carly reached into her handbag and pulled the object she’d brought here with her. It was Megan’s water globe with its bubbles and dolphins. Carly had been carrying it with her everywhere she went for quite some time.

“She used to tell me this was her secret place,” Carly said. “She always felt safe going here in her imagination. But I was the only one she ever told about it. And I think …”

Carly’s voice faded for a moment.

“I think I’m the only one who can reach her.”

The group sat in silence.

“I’d like to hear what the rest of you think about this,” Dr. Lunoe finally said to the others who were present.

Mom was the first to speak.

“I think we should give Carly a chance to try.”

Mark and Dad murmured in agreement. Carly could barely breathe as she waited to hear what Dr. Lunoe had to say.

“I’ll let you see her, then,” the psychiatrist finally told Carly. “But if she reacts at all like she did the last time she saw you, I’ll insist that you leave immediately. And if you push the issue, I’ll call security.”

“I understand,” Carly said, hoping against hope that things were going to work out this time. The entire group left the conference room and headed down the hall to Megan’s room. They walked inside and found Megan asleep in her bed.

Carly sat down at her bedside and stroked her hair and whispered in her ear.

“Wwwhhsssshhhhh.”

Megan’s eyes opened. To Carly’s relief, she didn’t show the slightest trace of alarm. Instead, she repeated the sound herself.

“Wwwhhsssshhhhh.”

Carly smiled and held the globe in front of her. She gave the globe a gentle shake so that the bubbles danced around the frolicking dolphins. Megan stared with fascination into the globe.

Carly murmured again in a low, gentle tone.

“Wwwhhsssshhhhh.”

At the sound of her mantra and the sight of the globe, Megan’s eyes lit up and she actually smiled.

“Oh!” Megan said in a delighted voice, clapping her hands together softly. “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“My lord!” Dr. Lunoe gasped.

Carly breathed a deep sigh of relief.

“Everything’s fine now, Megan … wwwhhsssshhhhh … You’re in your secret place again … wwwhhsssshhhhh …”

Megan closed her eyes and her smile widened.

“And you’re here with me!” Megan said.

“That’s right.”

“And I’m … alive!”

“Yes, you’re alive. I’m not reaching out to you at the brink of the beyond this time. I’m right here with you in your secret place. You’re alive and you’re completely safe.”

Then Megan’s face darkened a little.

“But that man … the man who is trying to kill me …”

“That man is dead, Megan. I killed him.”

“Dead?” Megan whispered.

“He will never hurt you again.”

Megan’s head swayed from side to side and she let out a gasp of joy.

“Oh, thank you, Carly. Thank you.”

Mom broke the brief silence that followed by rushing forward and throwing her arms around Megan.

“You’re home now,” Mom said. “You’re safe, and we’ll always be here for you.”

Even Carly’s father was crying now, and he and Mom desperately tried to hug Megan at the same time.

It worked, Carly thought with a smile.

She felt Mark’s arm wrap around her shoulder in a hug that welcomed her home too.

*

As astonished as Dr. Lunoe was by Megan’s apparent breakthrough, she wasn’t ready to release her, at least not right away, and Carly couldn’t really blame her. For one thing, Megan still didn’t seem to remember all that had happened to her during the time when she’d been missing.

A couple of days passed, during which Carly stayed at home with her parents. One morning she got a call from Dr. Lunoe.

“Ms. See, your sister seems … like maybe she’s ready to remember.”

Carly gasped with excitement.

“What has she told you?”

“Well, she hasn’t told me anything. She says she wants to see you. She says she wants …”

Dr. Lunoe fell silent for a moment.

“Well, she says she wants to take a walk with you.”

“A walk?”

“That’s right. In Currie. And I think maybe …”

Carly sensed that Dr. Lunoe was struggling to make a decision.

“I think maybe it might be a good idea. Could you drive over here to the mental health center? I’ll release her—at least for a while. And we can see … well, we’ll see how things work out.”

“I’ll be right there,” Carly said.

Carly jumped in her car and drove to the Corley Mental Health Center, where Dr. Lunoe released Megan into Carly’s care. As Carly and her sister stepped outside the hospital and walked toward Carly’s car, Megan took a long breath of cool fresh air.

“It’s so nice to be outside,” she said with a smile.

“Where do you want to go?” Carly asked her.

Megan’s brow crinkled with thought.

“Let’s go over to the high school,” she said.

Wondering why Megan had this particular destination in mind, Carly drove them to the brick building where she had passed much of her teenage years, but where Megan’s education had been cut short by her disappearance.

As they stepped out of the car, Megan looked at the front of the building.

“It all started here,” she said.

“What started here?” Carly wanted to ask.

But she knew she mustn’t push her sister.

Let her take her own good time.

“Carly, do you remember Mr. Aldridge?” Megan murmured.

Carly recognized the name immediately.

“Terry Aldridge, your favorite English teacher,” she said. “He was only in Currie for a year. In fact, he left …”

Carly’s own voice faded.

He left shortly after Megan disappeared, she realized with a shock.

“I liked him so much,” Megan said. “He was so … so inspiring, and so kind, and so funny, too. He got me interested in reading really good books, and … and … he inspired me to start writing poetry! He said I really had talent! He made me feel so good about it. I suppose I … well, I actually had kind of a crush on him …”

Megan fell silent for a moment.

“Come with me,” she finally said.

Carly followed her sister a couple of blocks until they arrived at a small bungalow with a garage.

“This was where he lived back then,” Megan said. “One day I was late turning in a paper for his class, so I finished it after school and decided to drop it off right here, so my grade wouldn’t get marked down. I rang the doorbell, but he didn’t answer. I stuck my paper in the mailbox and started to walk away when I heard …”

Megan pointed to the garage.

“It was a noise coming from his garage—a kind of chop-chop-chopping sound. I walked over and looked into the garage door window and I saw …”

She inhaled sharply.

“Mr. Aldridge was in there. He was hacking up something with an axe! It was … it was a dead human being.”

Carly held back a gasp of horror.

“I recognized the poor man’s face,” Megan said. “I’d seen him around during the last couple of days. He was just some … bum, I think, somebody homeless, a hobo or something, passing through Currie on his way somewhere else. I don’t suppose anybody ever knew or wondered what happened to him.”

Megan fell silent again. Carly thought back to what Chief Voss had said about Megan’s mysterious attacker, who had been wanted for a number of similar grisly murders.

“He’s gone by quite a number of names over the years, and in quite a few different places.”

Apparently one of those places had been Currie, and one of those names had been Terry Aldridge.

Megan still seemed calm, despite the horror she was describing, but her expression darkened.

“He saw me looking in the window. He looked back at me. And Carly, I … I’ve never seen such evil in anybody’s eyes before. He didn’t say a word to me, but his eyes said so many awful things. He was going to kill me, his eyes said. And if he couldn’t kill me now, he’d give me no place to hide. He’d find me sooner or later. And if I told anybody what I’d seen …”

Megan sighed deeply.

“He wouldn’t just kill me. He’d kill everyone I loved—you, Mom, Dad, Mark, just … just everyone.”

Megan sighed deeply at the memory.

“I got away from there before he could catch me,” Megan said. “I guess he couldn’t follow me all the way through town with blood all over him, but I knew he’d come after me. I ran away from Currie and just kept running. I was afraid for my life—but I was even more afraid for everyone I loved. I ran to so many places—Cedar Rapids first, I think, then Omaha—and I kept changing my name and doing whatever I had to survive, and sometimes I’d settle down for a year or two or even three, but … but …”

She shook her head with profound sadness.

“Sooner or later he always found me. One day I’d look up and see him watching me. He always said the same horrible things with his eyes. And he’d laugh. And I kept running away from him. I was so, so terrified that I … I started to lose myself, lose my past. I forgot who I was. I forgot you, Carly … and I forgot Mom … and Dad … and Mark …”

Megan’s voice faded.

Then she put her arms around Carly and cried softly.

“But I’m safe now, aren’t I? You saved me. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“That’s right,” Carly said, holding her sister as if for dear life. “You’re home again. And we’re all so happy.”

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

It was about two in the morning by the time Carly arrived home after closing the case she’d been working on in Chicago. The little town of Currie was quiet, dark, peaceful, and sleepy. She was grateful to be home again, even though the Chicago murder case had been pretty routine.

As she pulled into the driveway, she admired the broad porch and gabled upper story of the charming house.

Awfully big for just two people, she thought with a smile.

But then, she and Mark expected to have company one of these days. They’d bought the house a year ago, shortly before their marriage. As she got out of the car and walked toward the front door, she thought about their plans to start a family soon—a family of four, if all went as they hoped.

Yes, soon it will be time.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. She wasn’t surprised to find everything dark and silent, because Mark, of course, had gone to bed a while ago. But Carly had one more thing to do before she turned in for the night.

She sat down on the living room couch and took out her cellphone. She typed a two-word text message.

“I’m home.”

In less than a minute, she received a reply.

“Thanks for letting me know, kid.”

Carly smiled at the thought of her former FBI partner keeping such close tabs on her from so far away. Even now, while he was in Peru visiting Machu Picchu and exploring ancient archaeological sites there, Lyle still expected her to report to him. He needed to know she was safe. He’d always been a loyal and trusted friend, but now he seemed to be more like a second father.

Even so, Lyle had made no secret that he was having a great time. At long last, he had the leisure to fully satisfy his restless curiosity about humankind, human nature, and human history. While roaming the deserts of New Mexico and Arizona, he’d become fascinated by the ancient cliff dwellings of the Anasazi culture. Ever since then he’d been traveling all over the world exploring ruins and archaeological sites in far-flung places.

From time to time, they would talk for hours on the phone. Lyle would share newly found bits of wisdom with her and she would regale him with tales of her latest detective work—all of which was quite tame compared to what they had been through together.

Carly closed her eyes and leaned back and reflected on things.

Two and a half years ago, she had been conflicted about continuing her work with the BAU after Lyle retired. He had even nudged her in a new direction.

“Believe me, it doesn’t get any easier to turn your life in a different direction when you get as old as I am. Now’s the time to get started.”

Megan’s rescue and recovery had brought on a sort of epiphany to Carly. She recognized possibilities she hadn’t seen before. She could live among people who knew about her strange gifts and who appreciated the person she had become. Maybe she could finally just be herself here.

She’d left the FBI and settled down right here in Currie, and Mark had been delighted to become her partner in this new life of hers. He was still a successful small-town lawyer here. Carly helped him out with routine investigative work, but there wasn’t much investigating to do in Currie.

Because of her sterling reputation in law enforcement, the Chicago police soon reached out to her. The cases she worked for them were less dangerous than those she’d faced in the FBI. She also found out it wasn’t so hard to conceal the role her psychic gift sometimes played when she collaborated with them.

This time, the wife of a prominent car salesman had reported her husband missing, and Carly had gone to help track him down. But before long, the missing man himself started coming to Carly in visions to reveal that his wife had hired a hitman to murder him.

She’d found it easy to point the police toward hard evidence needed to find the man’s body, and to bring his wife and his killer to justice—and all without a hint of any threat to herself. And without so much as having to mention that a dead man had come to her aid.

She yawned and took off her shoes and went upstairs. As she tiptoed into the bedroom, hoping not to wake up Mark, his drowsy voice murmured in the dark.

“Did everything go OK?”

“It went just fine, Mark.”

“Catch any bad guys?”

“Oh, maybe a couple.”

“Good for you. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Carly chuckled at the very idea. She knew that a few minutes after she started her story, Mark would fall fast asleep. He’d put in a long, hard work day himself.

“Tomorrow morning, OK?”

“OK.”

Carly reflected on the case as she went to the bathroom and got undressed and took a shower. When she came back to bed, Mark was sleeping soundly so she climbed under the covers and snuggled close to him. Soon she felt a welcome slumber coming over her. It was a good feeling, and she felt grateful for all she now had in life.

We’re all together.

Mom, Dad, Mark, Megan …

Those astonishing moments when Megan had remembered her past had only been the beginning of a long recovery, which was still very much in progress. But soon after that breakthrough, Dr. Lunoe had released her patient from the mental health center, and Megan was living at home with Mom and Dad. She was even attending the local community college, obtaining her first credits toward a teaching degree.

Carly remembered that the psychiatrist had seemed puzzled by some things Carly had said to Megan during that mantra-induced trance.

“I’m not reaching out to you at the brink of the beyond this time.”

It was the only time anyone outside of Carly’s immediate circle had heard any hint of those terrifying encounters when Megan had been clinically dead.

But then maybe Dr. Lunoe wasn’t so puzzled after all.

Maybe she suspected the truth.

If she did, she had shown considerable sensitivity in not pressing the issue. Now it remained a secret among the people Carly cared for most—Megan, Mom, Dad, Mark, and Lyle.

As she lay there basking in the joy of the life she now led, Carly fell fast asleep.

She recognized the familiar dense fog as the shadowy realm where she often met spirits of the departed. And this time, she knew right away she was dreaming.

Up ahead a silhouetted figure was moving about. Carly couldn’t see who it was, but she sensed that the spirit was friendly.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Don’t you recognize me?” replied a soft, elderly voice.

“I can’t even see you.”

The figure stepped toward Carly until she could see that it was an old woman with her hair bound up in a bun, her face wrinkled with kindly, loving lines of a life well-lived.

Carly recognized that face from family pictures she’d seen long ago.

“Grammie Prescott!”

It was Mom’s grandmother and Carly’s great-grandmother—a woman who had died before Carly was born. Mom had told her a secret about Grammie Prescott—that she, too, had had a gift for speaking with the dead, a gift that had been passed down to Carly.

“I’ve been watching you, sweetheart,” the spirit said. “I’ve been watching you for years.”

“But why—why didn’t you show yourself? Why didn’t you speak to me until now? You might have told me …”

“Told you what? About your gift? Oh, sweetheart, I couldn’t do that. It’s the sort of thing one has to learn about for oneself. And I must say, you’ve been a wonderful learner. And you’ve put your gift to use in ways I couldn’t even dream of when I was alive.”

Grammie Prescott took another step toward Carly.

“But there was something else you had to learn, a lesson that took a lot longer. And I think you know what it is.”

Carly thought for a moment.

“I’m more than just my gift.”

“That’s right. You’re a human being with a life to live, and people to love and nurture. And you’re doing awfully well at that now, Carly. It’s been a joy to watch you grow … and live.”

“Thank you, Grammie.”

“Thank you, dear. Is there anything else you’d like me to tell you?”

Something occurred to Carly—something that had been on her mind for quite some time now.

“When I have children … will they … have this gift too?”

Grammie threw back her head and laughed.

“Silly child! Do you think I can tell the future? Surely you don’t believe in that kind of superstitious nonsense.”

Carly laughed as well.

“No, of course not,” she said.

Grammie started to move backward into the fog.

“You’ll see more of me now. I’ll stop by to chat with you now and then.”

“I’d like that.”

“So would I. Goodnight, dear.”

“Goodnight, Grammie.”

As Grammie disappeared into the fog, the dream faded, and Carly See fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep.

NOW AVAILABLE!

GIRL WITHOUT A CHANCE

(A Tara Strong Mystery—Book 1)

A woman escapes from the clutches of a serial killer in a small, mountain town, and Deputy Sheriff Tara Strong must race to decode the incoherent victim’s report and save the next one before it’s too late. But in a shocking twist, Tara realizes she is up against a killer more diabolical than she could imagine—and that, with her own life at stake, some of a town’s secrets are best left buried.

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GIRL WITHOUT A CHANCE is book #1 in a new series by #1 bestselling and critically acclaimed mystery and suspense author Rylie Dark, whose books have received over 2,000 five-star reviews and ratings.

Tara Strong has risen to become her county’s Deputy Sheriff through her bravery and her brilliant capacity to enter killer’s minds. Small-town life in the mountains, centered around their picturesque lake, should be idyllic. But Tara has already seen enough to know that there is a dark side to everything, that small towns hide secrets, that everyone has something in their past—and that a killer may just be lurking right next door.

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Books #2-#5—GIRL WITHOUT A HOME, GIRL WITHOUT A TRACE, GIRL WITHOUT A NAME, and GIRL WITHOUT A PRAYER—are also available.

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“Fantastic book! It was hard to put down. I can’t wait to see what happens next!”

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GIRL WITHOUT A CHANCE

(A Tara Strong Mystery—Book 1)

Rylie Dark

Bestselling author Rylie Dark is author of the SADIE PRICE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); of the CARLY SEE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); of the MIA NORTH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); of the MORGAN STARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); of the HAILEY ROCK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); and of the TARA STRONG MYSTERY series, comprising five books (and counting).

ONLY MURDER (a Sadie Price FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), NO WAY OUT (a Carly See FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), SEE HER RUN (a Mia North FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1), and TOO LATE (a Morgan Stark FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1) are available as free downloads on Google Play!

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Rylie loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.ryliedark.com to learn more and stay in touch.

BOOKS BY RYLIE DARK

TARA STRONG MYSTERY

GIRL WITHOUT A CHANCE (Book #1)

GIRL WITHOUT A HOME (Book #2)

GIRL WITHOUT A TRACE (Book #3)

GIRL WITHOUT A NAME (Book #4)

GIRL WITHOUT A PRAYER (Book #5)

HAILEY ROCK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

BEHIND YOU (Book #1)

BESIDE YOU (Book #2)

AFTER YOU (Book #3)

WATCHING YOU (Book #4)

JUDGING YOU (Book #5)

SADIE PRICE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

ONLY MURDER (Book #1)

ONLY RAGE (Book #2)

ONLY HIS (Book #3)

ONLY ONCE (Book #4)

ONLY SPITE (Book #5)

ONLY MADNESS (Book #6)

MIA NORTH FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SEE HER RUN (Book #1)

SEE HER HIDE (Book #2)

SEE HER SCREAM (Book #3)

SEE HER VANISH (Book #4)

SEE HER GONE (Book #5)

SEE HER DEAD (Book #6)

CARLY SEE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NO WAY OUT (Book #1)

NO WAY BACK (Book #2)

NO WAY HOME (Book #3)

NO WAY LEFT (Book #4)

NO WAY UP (Book #5)

NO WAY TO DIE (Book #6)

MORGAN STARK FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

TOO LATE (Book #1)

TOO CLOSE (Book #2)

TOO FAR GONE (Book #3)

TOO LOST (Book #4)

TOO BROKEN (Book #5)