He nodded. "Okay, then. But I accept no real responsibility, you understand?"

"I'm all for doing that whenever you can get away with it," Ethan agreed.

"Hey, Ethan!" someone shouted from the back of the building. "There's something weird here."

RACHEL BLINKED AND shook her head a little. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

The man at the counter scowled. He was a new customer, possibly a first-timer, and she was not making a good impression. "I said I'd like a Texas omelet with an order of hash browns cooked extra-crispy." He over enunciated each word as if talking to an idiot.

"Got it," Rachel said, and turned to go.

"Can I get a drink?" the man snapped.

"Of course," she said, forcing a smile. The man had every right to be annoyed.

"Orange juice. Without the pulp, if you've got it."

"We do."

"Thanks," he said with no sincerity.

She put the ticket on the carousel and spun it for Jimmy. She knew Helena watched her with concern, but she deliberately avoided any eye contact. Then she did something she seldom did: She left the diner and went upstairs to her apartment, leaving Helena alone with the end of the breakfast rush.

When the door closed, she did not open any blinds or turn on the lights. She sank onto her couch and took several deep breaths. She could not put into words how she felt, except to say that it was somehow, fundamentally, wrong.

It had begun with her dreams during the fitful couple of hours she managed to sleep after returning from the lake. In them she was being sexually taken multiple times, in ways similar to the spirits' approach to their trysts. Only she wasn't in the water, and while she couldn't quite make out the faces of the men, she sensed that they were all somehow Kyle Stillwater.

And then they all stopped just when she was about to reach climax. They would withdraw from her, laugh cruelly, and pass her to the next one. She seemed to be unable to resist them, caught in that insidious dream weakness that kept her immobilized except for involuntary grunts and thrusts.

She had showered repeatedly that morning, unable to feel completely clean. Her skin still felt damp and clammy, as if the mud from her encounter with Kyle Stillwater still clung to it. What had she been thinking? She wasn't some drunken sorority girl at a frat party.

And that didn't even begin to cover the strange near-death experience with the old woman. Had it really happened? Or was it just her brain firing randomly from lack of oxygen?

It felt real. Unlike conversations in real dreams, this one hadn't faded with wakefulness. If anything, it was even more vivid.

Tainter jumped on the cushion beside her and snuggled down against her thigh. She idly scratched the base of his skull and murmured, "Kitty, your mama made a bad decision last night."

A soft knock came from the door. "Come in," Rachel called, expecting Helena or Jimmy.

Instead Becky opened it, peered into the gloom, and said, "Rachel?"

"Light switch is by the door," Rachel said, getting to her feet wearily.

Becky turned on the light, then closed the door behind her. Rachel stood uncertainly, never knowing what the correct greeting was. She waited as Becky looked at the ceiling, the floor, the furniture-anywhere but at her sister.

"I think I did something terrible last night," Becky said at last as she ran a finger idly around the framed Frida Kahlo print beside the door.

Rachel said nothing.

"You know I've been working for Garrett Bloom, right?"

"Yes."

"Well ... I'm also ... um ... I'm in love with him."

"With Garrett Bloom?" Rachel asked dubiously.

Becky's head snapped around. "What, you don't think a man like that could find me attractive?"

"That's not what I meant. I thought he was married."

"His wife is a dried-up old harpy who he won't divorce because he loves his kids too much. If that's any of your business."

"It isn't," Rachel agreed.

"And for your information, he's wonderful. He's kind and gentle."

"Does he know how you feel?"

"He does now. I called him last night and left a voice mail telling him all about it. I was a bit tipsy."

Rachel shook her head. She had no patience for this. "Becky, you're a goddamned idiot."

Becky's eyebrows rose. She started to speak, then turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her. Her footsteps echoed on the stairs.

Rachel knew better than to follow. A scene with Becky in the parking lot or, worse, in the diner would do no one any good. Besides, she was really in no position to claim the moral high ground.

And dammit! There it was again, that sense that she had done something wrong. Becky was in love with a married man, not her.

She went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. She wished she had time for another shower, although she doubted what she wanted to wash away was susceptible to soap and water. Instead, she returned to the diner and worked very hard to keep her mind on her job.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

LATER THAT MORNING, a battered white Jeep parked at the curb behind the two police cruisers. The door opened, and a petite woman with straight black hair tied in a haphazard bun climbed out. She put on sunglasses and looked around the area.

Then she raised the yellow police tape at the perimeter and ducked under it. She called out to one of the workers. "Hi! I'm supposed to ask for a Mr. Walker, or a Detective Walker. Is it the same guy?"

The nearest man removed his hard hat and shook his head. "No, ma'am. They're brothers."

"Really?" she asked.

He gestured with the hat. "That's Marty. He's the cop."

She turned as Marty Walker emerged from a door in one of the standing walls, then extended her hand to him and smiled. "Hi. I'm Amy Vannoy from the State Archaeological Commission. Lannie Boyd got called away at the last minute and asked me to come down in his place. Something about some artifacts discovered here?"

"Yes. Let's find my brother, and he'll show you what we found."

"Wait, you found something?"

"Just a little while ago. Aren't you here because of that?"

"No, I'm here to confirm there was nothing to find."

As they crossed the grass toward the remains of the building, Amy nodded toward the picnic table, where technicians continued to look for clues. "What happened there?"

"A homicide," Marty said simply. "A man was killed."

"How?"

"Unpleasantly."

"I'm sure. But I'm a scientist, not a squeamish housewife. You can share the gory details."

"The victim was tied to that picnic table, his chest was cut open, and somebody cut out his heart. They also cut off his right hand."

Before Amy could inquire further, Ethan emerged from the building. He held out his hand and said, "I'm Ethan Walker, the contractor doing the renovation. And you are ... ?"

"Amy Vannoy," she said to Ethan as they shook hands. "Lannie Boyd sent me down here to check out your site. But I think I can also help you. Pinning the right hand of a sacrifice to a tree is a very specific bit of ritual from the stories of the Lo-Stahzi."

"Really?" Marty was suddenly interested. "Can you tell me more?"

"May I take a closer look at the crime scene?"

Marty raised the yellow tape around the table so Amy could duck under it. She looked at the table, then at the tree, and said, "Was he cut here, just under his ribs?"

"Yes."

"And his heart was removed that way?"

"So it appears."

She looked at the table again. "Which end was his head on?"

"This one."

"Ah. That's wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"The Lo-Stahzi always sacrificed their victims with the heads toward the water, so the souls could run downhill into the lake. They believed the water was a conduit to the afterlife."

"Is that a fairly obscure bit of trivia?" Marty asked.

"That's what you get with the Lo-Stahzi," Amy said. "They're an extinct tribe, so there's no one to ask. There's lots of bits and pieces, but many of them contradict each other. I'm probably the leading expert, and what I know with certainty wouldn't fill one sheet of a legal pad. There's only one real book on the subject, and most of it is nonsense. But my guesses are more educated than anyone else's." She turned to Ethan. "Lannie said you hadn't found anything, but when I got here they said you had."

"Yes, just this morning," Ethan said. "It's a little suspicious, since no one remembers it being there before, but I want to make sure it's okay before we keep working."

"Show me."

Ethan led her to one end of the excavated foundation. Four workers stood in a circle around a shallow hole. They stepped aside for Amy, and when she crouched to examine the hole, they stared at the top of the pink thong that showed above the waistband of her slacks.

She picked up some dirt and filtered it through her fingers. "Why were you digging here?"

"Looking for an old sewer line," Ethan said.

"Have you been digging here today?"

"No, not since yesterday. We were about to start again when we found those." He pointed to two small stone arrowheads and pieces of what appeared to be broken pottery protruding from the soil.

She stood, wiped her hands on her pants, and said, "Fail."

Ethan and Marty looked at each other, then at her. "What do you mean?" Marty said.

"This dirt isn't native. Somebody dumped it here, along with these beauties." She picked up one of the arrowheads, spit on it, and rubbed it clean. "I have no doubt this is a genuine artifact, but it's not a rare one, and it sure as hell wasn't originally buried here."

Marty looked at her skeptically. "You can tell that without any lab testing or microscopic analysis or anything?"

"Dirt is a huge part of archaeology, and I can tell that this dirt did not come from this sediment. Besides, look at the fence. You can see some of the dirt stuck to the razor wire where they dumped it over."

"So whoever did this was in a hurry," Marty said.

"Probably. If it was the same person that killed the guy, I could see why he wouldn't want to dally."

Marty nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Ms. Vannoy. If you'll excuse me, I need to call our forensics people about this." He went outside the gate and down the hill for privacy.

"So is there any reason we can't continue working?" Ethan asked her.

"Nah. I'll take these pieces with me and see if I can figure out where they came from. Do you have a card? I'll let you know what I find." And she walked back up the hill toward her waiting Jeep.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

KYLE STILLWATER STAGGERED out of his apartment into the sun, leaving the patio door open behind him. He squinted into the light and stumbled over his rusted hibachi grill. He wore a T-shirt with a motorcycle on it and jeans that were split at the knee.