I winced at the memory. "I saw the body of an old man set on fire."

"Was he alive when the killer set him on fire?"

"No, thank G.o.d. I think he had a heart attack or something," I said, staring out the window. Looking back at Abby, I reached out and touched her arm. "I felt his fear, Abby. I smelled it."

"Did you recognize him?"

"No," I said, dropping my hand. "The killer's aura surrounded them, making it difficult to recognize anything."

I stared out the window again. What a great way to learn a new psychic skill. Watch a murder, see an aura. The thought made bile rise in my throat and I coughed to clear it.

"How was he dressed?"

"I don't know: Overalls, all the old men around here wear them."

Abby narrowed her eyes while she thought. "Do you remember the color of his hair, his eyes?"

"He was bald."

"Again, most of the old men around here are bald. Anything else?"

"The killer carved something on the man's forehead."

"Like Brian?"

"Yup, just like Brian. This murder is the work of the same killer."

"Did you sense anything from the killer?"

"Rage, hate." I chewed the inside of my lip. "Umm-a sick sense of satisfaction. He's accomplishing some sort of mission that only he understands. In his mind he has a reason for killing. Pretty twisted, huh?"

Abby arched her eyebrow. "Obviously. The killer is sick and twisted. Did you see his face?"

"No," I said, hitting my fist on the door in frustration. "In the vision he kept his back to me the whole time."

"What was he wearing?"

"Hard to say-the mist was thick-all black. Maybe a long coat and boots."

Abby frowned. "A lot of people wear black. What about the knife? Can you describe it?"

I closed my eyes and tried to recall the vision. "The knife was shiny, curved, but not a hunting knife. It was-" With my finger, I traced a pattern in the air. "The blade was wavy." I opened my eyes. "It's not a knife, it's a dagger. And on the metal piece above the hilt, I think it's called the guard guard, the dagger had two sharp points on either side of the blade. What a nasty weapon."

Abby thought for a moment. "Did it look old?"

"No, just sharp and wicked."

"The dagger sounds unusual." She glanced at me again. "You know you're going to have to tell Bill about the dagger, don't you?"

"If I do, don't you think he might want to know how I came across that piece of information? And I can't tell him, can I?"

"I'll think of something," she said, dismissing my words with a wave of her hand. "Did you hear any sounds?"

"Squawking chickens," I said, tracing a pattern on the window with my finger.

Abby slammed on the brakes and whirled toward me.

I flung the door open and jumped out. Resting my hand on the side of the Jeep, I wretched until my stomach was empty. Abby stood behind me, rubbing my back. When I'd finished, I wiped a trembling hand across my mouth and turned to her. Silent tears ran down my face.

"He was going to kill Gus, wasn't he? But Gus died on him." I swiped the tears away. "He set the body on fire and left the body where he knew I'd stumble onto it."

Abby gathered me in her arms and patted my back, as though I was still a child. "Yes, dear, he did." She tightened her arms around me. "After five years, Brian's killer's found you."

Chapter Fourteen.

I was hiding, hiding in my office to avoid the curious. Earlier, I had tried working at the counter, but the stares and whispers of the library's patrons had finally become too much to tolerate. I didn't blame them for their curiosity; it was the second time in less than six months a dead body had been found in Summerset. Both found by me. Six months ago, people were direct and questioned me relentlessly, wanting to know the "inside" story; but now they weren't as direct. Instead, they stood in tight little groups, whispering. And casting surrept.i.tious glances my way. When I caught their eyes, they quickly looked away. It was almost as if they held me somehow responsible for the trouble the town was experiencing.

What would be next? Tar and feathers? Run out of town on a rail?

Scrubbing my face with my hands, I tried to get rid of my ridiculous thoughts. I jumped when a knock sounded at my office door. The door swung open and Sheriff Bill Wilson stood in the doorway.

"Sorry to bother you, Ophelia, but I have a few more questions," he said, shutting the door firmly. After walking to my desk, he pulled the extra chair closer to me and sat. He hunched over and absentmindedly twirled his hat in his hands before he spoke.

Bill stopped his twirling and looked right at me. I met his stare and tried to look innocent.

"Run it by me again. Why were you in the ditch?"

I picked up a paper clip and twisted it with my fingers. "I told you. I smelled something funny and I went down to investigate."

"And found the dead hog."

"Yeah."

"What happened next?"

I sighed. "It startled me and when I turned to run I tripped. It knocked the wind out of me. While I was lying there, I saw the material sticking out of the dirt."

"Why did you come and get me? Why didn't you push the dirt away to see what it was-if you were curious?"

Bending the paper clip back and forth in my hand, I tried to think of an answer to Bill's question. I couldn't tell him about feeling death, seeing a vision of a man being brutally murdered while I lay there.

"It seemed strange, that's all."

"Why did it seem strange? People dump stuff in ditches all the time. It could've been anything. It could've been an old shirt someone threw away."

"But it wasn't."

"How did you know, Ophelia?" he asked while his eyes drilled into mine.

"I didn't didn't know. I saw the material sticking out and it looked as though something was buried there. I thought it was odd. I mean, why would someone bury a tarp or an old shirt in a ditch, for Pete's sake?" I paused a few beats while I stared back at him. "Are you accusing me of something, Bill?" I asked, frowning. know. I saw the material sticking out and it looked as though something was buried there. I thought it was odd. I mean, why would someone bury a tarp or an old shirt in a ditch, for Pete's sake?" I paused a few beats while I stared back at him. "Are you accusing me of something, Bill?" I asked, frowning.

"No, I'm not, but it seems to me that you're getting yourself involved in some pretty weird stuff lately-"

"But-"

"No, let me finish. I know you weren't involved in any way with Adam Hoffman. You didn't have anything to do with the drugs and the murder of Hoffman's accomplice. You stumbled into that whole mess last fall. But what happened after Hoffman captured you and Delaney? Your story has so many holes in it that I can see right through it. And there's Benny's crazy statement about hexes, witches, and rats rushing at him and Jake."

"Please. Poor Benny is-and always has been-his brother's dupe. He was so scared that he would've said anything."

Bill twirled his hat again. "Okay. You're right. Benny wasn't the smartest guy in the world to start with. But the bottom line is that six months ago you involved yourself in an official investigation and almost got yourself killed." Bill stood and walked to the door. Turning, he gave me one last look. "Stay out of this investigation, Ophelia. I don't intend to be tripping over you this time."

Before he could open the door, it opened a crack and Darci stuck her head in.

"Excuse me. There's someone else here to see you, Ophelia," she said, opening the door wider.

Henry Comacho stood at her side.

"Hey, Jensen, thought I told you not to trip over any more dead bodies," he said, staring right at me.

Comacho sat in the chair Bill had vacated. We eyed each other in silence as if we were two opponents in some kind of serious card game, taking each other's measure.

Not a single expression flitted across his face and I hoped nothing showed in mine.

His dark brown eyes looked as hard as stones, shielding the thoughts that must be churning in his mind. His lips were held in a firm line, not a glimmer of a smile, a smirk, or a frown. In fact, his face was so lacking in humanity that it could've been carved from ice.

His frame sat in the chair easily, but I saw the tension in the lines of his body. If I uttered one word wrong, he'd strike.

"I know what you're trying to do," I said, finally breaking the silence.

He leaned forward, relaxing a little. "Really? What do you think I'm trying to do?"

"Get me blabbing. It makes people uncomfortable to be confronted with prolonged silence. They have a tendency to try to fill it any way they can, even if it means jabbering," I said, crossing my arms. "I watch Cops Cops."

His face cracked into a smile. "Oh you do, do you? What else do you know about police investigation?"

I picked up the pencils lying scattered across my desk. "Not much. Oh, the 'bad cop, good cop' thing."

"Maybe Joe and I should've pulled that one on you when you were in Iowa City. Maybe we would've got more information from you."

"Look, Comacho, I don't have any information. Period," I said, opening a desk drawer and shoving the pencils I'd picked up inside the drawer.

I paused in the act of pushing the drawer shut. I didn't know anything about the murder, not really. Unless you counted the fact that I knew what the murder weapon-the dagger-looked like. I guess, strictly speaking, Comacho would would count that. I chewed on the inside of my lip. d.a.m.n-how would I get that piece of information to him without telling him how I knew? count that. I chewed on the inside of my lip. d.a.m.n-how would I get that piece of information to him without telling him how I knew?

"You have something to tell me?" he asked while he studied my expression.

"Ahh no," I said, trying to settle my face into a mask while I closed the drawer.

His eyes didn't blink while he studied me. "You're sure?"

"Yes," I said, concentrating on not squirming in my seat.

"Okay, you want to tell me what you were doing in the ditch?"

"That's the same question Bill asked and I'll give you the same answer. I smelled a strange odor and thought I saw something. It's human nature to investigate," I said, leaning forward and crossing my legs.

"If it's your nature to investigate, why didn't you push the dirt back when you saw the corner of the buried tarp?"

"Another one of Bill's questions. Don't you guys ever compare notes? If you did, I wouldn't have to answer everything twice."

"Humor me."

"I thought it strange, someone taking the time to bury whatever it was in a ditch. Why not dump it and walk away? Why bury it?"

"Because they don't want it found."

"Exactly." I sat back in my chair, satisfied. "And maybe it was something illegal, so I asked Bill to take a look."

"You weren't afraid whatever someone wanted hidden might tie in to the demonstration and the vandalism that has occurred at the PP International facility?"

"What? Why would I think that? How could a dead body be related to the situation with PP International?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Finding a dead body in the ditch is causing them a lot of problems. There are investigators crawling all over the place. It's brought them unwanted publicity."

"Someone planted a body to inconvenience PP International? That's crazy."

"Maybe, maybe not. I've seen crazier reasons for murder." He c.o.c.ked his head. "There's already been trouble at the facility. The manager had his tires flattened."

"Flat tires aren't the same thing as murder."

"No, they aren't, but in these situations, violence can escalate. We don't have an I.D. on the victim yet, but won't it be interesting if the victim is somehow tied to PP International?"

I bowed my head. The victim wasn't tied to PP International. Poor old Gus had nothing to do with them. If only I could let Bill know his John Doe was Gus, but I couldn't. Not without telling him how I knew. I raised my head and saw Comacho staring at me.

"Isn't your grandmother leading the group trying to stop them?" he asked thoughtfully.

I sat up straight in my chair and narrowed my eyes. "You keep Abby out of this."

"Her group will profit from any trouble caused to PP International, won't they?"

I shot out of my chair. "Are you accusing Abby of something?"

He looked up at me and gave a tiny shrug.