She pushed Rachel away to the end of the couch. "You think I had something to do with it?"

"No!"

Becky jumped to her feet, fists clenched. "You do, don't you?" Then her anger changed to fear, and she collapsed on the couch again. "Oh my God, if you do, then the police will, too, won't they? When they hear that message ... Maybe he deleted it? Can they get it back if he erased it?"

Rachel reached for her hand. "I don't think you had anything to do with it."

Becky looked at her desperately. "I didn't! I swear! I can't go to jail, I just can't, I couldn't bear it, I-"

Rachel took her by the shoulders. "Rebecca, stop it. Take a deep breath."

Becky did her best to comply. Rachel brushed her sister's hair back and asked, "Are you on any medication these days?"

"Oh, now you think I'm a murderer and crazy too?"

"No, because I was going to offer you a Xanax!" Rachel shouted. She forced herself to calm down. "I still have some from when I was in the hospital. I thought you might like one."

Becky started to snap out a reply, but she didn't have the resolve. Instead she just collapsed inward, sinking into the couch and cradling her head.

There was a soft knock on the door. It opened slightly, and Patty peeked in. Her voice shook with nervousness. "I don't mean to interrupt, but I wondered if I could do anything to help."

"No, she's just upset," Rachel said. "She got some terrible news."

Becky suddenly jumped up and pointed at Patty. "You wish she was your sister instead of me, don't you? Well, you just get her out of here, you hear me? This is family, and it has nothing to do with her!"

Patty stared, clearly shocked by this outburst. Rachel gently pushed Becky back onto the couch and said, "I'll be down in a bit, Patty. Thanks for checking on us."

"Okay," Patty said, her lower lip trembling.

Rachel closed the door and whirled on Becky. She was hazy no longer. "If you ever talk like that to one of my friends again, especially in my own home, I'll knock you across the room. There's no excuse for that!"

Becky slid from the couch to the floor, keening like an old woman. Rachel rolled her eyes, then helped her sister into the bedroom, onto the bed, and under the comforter. Becky curled up like a child, still whimpering, and Rachel drew the blinds and turned off the lights.

"I'm going downstairs to make you something to eat," she said from the door. "Just try to relax and rest. I'll be right back."

"I loved him, Rachel," she said between sobs.

Rachel sighed. Despite it all, Becky's ability to love with her whole being was something she envied. "I know, sweetie. I'm so sorry."

When she got downstairs, Michael Buble blared from the CD player. Helena met her in the kitchen. "What the hell was that?" she hissed. "We could hear the shouting down here. I had to turn up the music."

Rachel turned down the volume as Patty emerged from the bathroom, her eyes red from crying. Rachel wrapped her in a hug. "I'm so sorry, Patty," she said. "She's just upset."

"No, it's okay. I was intruding," Patty said. She pulled away and managed a smile. "Look, I'm going to go. If you need me, call. Otherwise I'll see you tomorrow, maybe." She quickly departed.

"So will Becky be staying with you for a while?" Helena asked.

"I don't know. She's not in very good shape."

"And how is that anything new?"

Rachel looked over sharply, but Helena just met her gaze. Helena had known Rebecca long enough to be able to make statements like that. "It's not new," Rachel said at last. "It's just family."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

KYLE PARKED IN front of the small wooden house at the end of the dirt driveway. Laundry fluttered on the clothesline, and a pair of chickens skittered off when he opened the truck's door. A thin woman with black hair opened the front door and pointed silently toward the barn. Kyle nodded.

In the barn, Henry Hawes had some two-by-fours stretched across sawhorses and was cutting them to the same length. Henry was sixty years old, wide-shouldered, and short-haired. His Native American ancestry showed up mainly in his cheekbones and dark eyes. A big flop-eared mongrel licked himself at the man's feet. Henry looked up, saw Kyle, and rocked back slightly on his heels.

"You could answer your phone," Kyle said.

"Wouldn't matter. I'd just tell you to come see me anyway," Henry said. He narrowed his eyes and studied the younger man. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into, boy?"

Kyle quickly ran down the events of the past few days-especially the things that he'd apparently done without knowing it. Henry listened until he finished, then slowly and deliberately rolled a cigarette.

Kyle tried not to show his frustration. Henry was one of the few Native Americans who had supported his desire to become an actor, and Henry had interceded with Kyle's parents on his behalf. Besides, rushing a man like Henry was like urging a glacier to hurry. The shaman took as long as he took.

"You swam in Lake Wingra," Henry said at last. "You know the stories about that place, right?"

"I know lots of stories," Kyle said defensively. "I don't base my life around them."

"I do," Henry said simply as he lit the cigarette. "There's things in that lake. They were sent there long before we came along, for being evil and spiteful. They're not happy about being there, but they can't leave unless somebody carries them out."

"Carries how?"

Henry touched his heart. "Inside."

"What, like demon possession?"

"Exactly."

Kyle laughed-even though he instinctively knew this was true. "You're telling me I'm possessed by a demon from Lake Wingra?"

"Not a demon like the Christians describe but a spirit that's evil because it wants to be. Because it likes it. It's using you to cause pain, misery, confusion, and maybe even death."

Kyle stuck his hands in his pockets and looked out the barn door toward the house. The laundry was very colorful, very bright. "So you think I killed Garrett Bloom?"

"Not you. The spirit. Using your hands."

"I don't think the cops will appreciate that distinction."

"Or maybe it wasn't you. It could've been something in the man's life coming home to roost."

"So what do I do, Henry?"

"I don't know. I can see it around you, though, like a faint shadow. It's growing stronger. And it's learning its way around. Soon it won't need you at all."

"So it'll kill me too?"

Again Henry touched his chest. "Not the way you mean. It'll kill you here. Then it will walk the world with your face."

With that, the old man turned on the saw and applied it to the plank. And the shriek of metal cutting wood echoed the scream of despair in Kyle's head.

ETHAN'S STOMACH RUMBLED as he drove down East Washington toward home. He passed Rachel's diner, but the sun's glare made it impossible for him to see inside. She hadn't returned either of his calls from the previous night, and she must've seen them by now. It was plain that she simply wasn't interested. The combined ache of his stomach and his heart made him doubly sad as he drove on.

He reached his office after a sandwich, a quick shower, and a change of clothes. Ambika stood the moment he walked in. "You might want to take a deep breath," she said.

He looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. "Why?"

She nodded toward his inner office. "You have company."

"Who?"

She pursed her lips, as if the name itself was unpleasant. "Vincent Anspach."

Ethan's eyebrows rose. "Really?"

"Yes. He wants to change the purpose of your current building and make it into a shopping center. With his principal opponent out of the way, he figures it's an ideal time."

"And he told you all this?"

"No, he told me nothing. And he called me *sweetheart.' But he's been in there on his cellphone since he got here, and his voice carries."

As if on cue, a deep male voice said, "Harold, that's great. Send it out as a news tip and see who bites. I'll be available for comment tomorrow. Can't make it too easy for them, can we?"

"Oh God." Ethan sighed.

"Shall I bring you coffee?"

"Bring me crack," he said wryly. Then he opened his office door. "Mr. Anspach. Good to see you again."

Vincent Anspach turned and offered his hand. He was a big, rugged man, potbellied and sun-blasted. His shirt was open enough to show his salt-and-pepper chest hair. "Terrible thing about Garrett Bloom," he said in a voice better suited to calling football plays. "Just awful. First those poor girls got kidnapped, and now this. I tell you, Madison's just not safe anymore."

"I thought you and Bloom didn't get along."

"Oh, I couldn't stand the self-righteous little bastard, but I enjoyed having him around. He made things interesting."

Ethan looked to see what might've been moved. All the paper on his desk had been shifted slightly. Luckily he'd thought to lock his computer, or all his files might be on a zip drive in Anspach's pocket. The man had that sort of reputation. "What can I do for you?"

Anspach stepped close. "Ethan, I think we have a golden opportunity here. I know you're charging ahead on that community center project, and that's all well and good. But I think that property would better serve its neighborhood if it was developed commercially, don't you?"

"I don't have an opinion either way. I'll keep building what I've contracted for until I'm told differently. But it's not zoned for commercial use, I do know that much."

"Zoning issues are a problem, yes, but not an insurmountable one. But tell me-how far along would you have to be before changing it from a community center into, say, a shopping center would be more trouble than it's worth?"

"Garrett Bloom's not even cold yet, Vincent," Ethan said. "Maybe you should wait awhile to pounce."

"Come on, Ethan, you know how the world works. If somebody doesn't step in, then those Indians'll raise such a stink that the land will just go to waste. I heard they found arrowheads or wampum beads or something there. If it falls apart now, you get nothing. Is that what you want in this economy?" When Ethan didn't answer he continued, "So how much time to repurpose what you're doing?"

"There's a lot of variables to consider," Ethan said evasively. Anspach had a valid point, but Ethan wouldn't be hemmed in so easily.

"Oh, I know, I know. There always are. But just roughly."

"It would have to be pretty soon. And I'd need new plans and permits, and that zoning issue would have to be addressed."

Anspach smiled and patted Ethan's shoulder. "That's fine. And would you have any problem with that on, say ... moral grounds?"

"I have no problem with honest work of any sort."

"It would be honest, I assure you. And profitable. I'll be in touch about this, okay?"

After Anspach left, Ethan sat down and considered what was underfoot. If the project changed direction, it wouldn't really affect him; he could build a strip mall as easily as a community center. But it would certainly change the public's perception of his company, since being associated with Anspach would attract a shadier kind of attention than he liked. The question was, did it matter? Work was work, and with things as they were, if he could get it, he should. Shouldn't he?

He stared out the window at the capitol and pondered this. Then he picked up the phone. The lone sandwich had not subdued his hunger, and he felt the need for company that didn't make him feel like he needed to wash his hands afterward.

--- "REBECCA WAS PRETTY upset," Helena said as she wiped down the tables after closing. She and Rachel were alone in the diner, the late-afternoon sun making them both sweat profusely. The air conditioner ran only when there were customers, and then only when it was absolutely necessary. The old building was about as well insulated as a colander.

"Yeah," Rachel agreed. She assumed Becky was asleep; she certainly hoped she was. "She was in love with the guy who got killed."

"I gathered that. He was married, wasn't he?"

Rachel shrugged. "It doesn't matter now."

"Do you think Becky had anything to do with-"

"No!" Rachel snapped. "For God's sake, Becky used to campaign to keep rabid dogs from being euthanized. She couldn't kill anything."

After a long moment of silent work, Helena said, "So do you want to talk about what's bothering you?"

Rachel propped the mop against the counter. Helena was her best friend, and her sole female confidant. If she couldn't share something as basic as an ill-advised tryst, how deep could their friendship truly be? "Man troubles, too, I'm afraid."

Helena blew a strand of hair from her face. "Still debating whether to call Ethan Walker?"

"No, that's not it." Rachel looked up at the ceiling and let out a long breath. "I got caught up in the moment last night, and did something I shouldn't have."

"Was this with someone we both know?"

"No. And it doesn't matter who, anyway."

"Maybe not in the grand scheme of things, but I'm going to obsess over it until I find out. Do you really want me to wonder if every man who comes in the diner might be the one?"