That proved to be an understatement. The tiny apartment was filled with pizza boxes, fast-food bags, and soda cans crushed flat and placed in paper bags. There was a TV, an old Xbox, and a few paperback copies of famous plays. On one wall hung the only decoration: an 810 professional glossy of Kyle Stillwater, his shirt open to show his chest and his long, shiny black hair. Across the bottom, written in bright blue ink, was the word "Super!"

Stillwater, dressed only in tight blue jeans, kicked aside enough detritus to expose the couch. "Have a seat."

"No, thanks. Is anyone else here?"

"No."

"Are you an actor, Mr. Stillwater?"

"Yeah."

"Do you own a white wig?"

He blinked. "Huh?"

"How old are you?"

"Um ... twenty-three."

He looked it, too. The man who disrupted the ceremony, though, had been at least ten years older. Could it have been makeup? "Where were you this afternoon between twelve and three?"

"Here. I was sick, I think."

"You think?"

"No, I was sick."

He didn't sound guilty or stoned, just sleepy and confused. He also wasn't anything like the sex god described by the women who saw him at the park. Then again, he was an actor. "Someone who called himself Kyle Stillwater disrupted a civic event in Olbrich Park."

Stillwater looked like he had trouble following her statement. "Someone ..."

"There aren't a lot of Kyle Stillwaters in the area. In fact, there's precisely one."

"Well, it wasn't me!"

"Can anyone corroborate that?"

He looked confused at the word "corroborate."

"Can anyone give you an alibi?" she repeated patiently.

"No, I've been sick. I told you."

He wasn't old enough to be the guy from the park, she thought, and he certainly seemed legitimately sick, or at least out of it. She could haul him in for questioning, see if he was on drugs, but her gut told her this wasn't the guy. "All right, Mr. Stillwater, it looks like some weird case of identity theft. Someone used your name. But I'm going to leave my card so if you hear anything you can call me. You'll do that, right?"

Stillwater took the card and looked at it. "Yeah, sure."

WHEN THE POLICEWOMAN left, Kyle Stillwater put the card under a magnet on the refrigerator, stumbled back to the bedroom, and was unconscious before he hit the mattress. In his dreams he swam without any need to breathe, past the faces of others similarly engaged.

AT MIDNIGHT, RACHEL could stand it no longer. For discretion and safety she wanted to wait until later, but the need was simply too great. She'd been pacing her apartment, naked, for an hour.

The parks all closed at eleven, and since the Korbus kidnappings, the police had been extra-diligent about chasing people away. They also made frequent patrols during the night, but that wasn't a problem. She needed only a small window of time unobserved. Once she got into the water, she'd be fine.

She put on her T-shirt, running shorts, and tennis shoes; locked the door behind her; and started down the street toward Hudson Park. The air shimmered with humidity, making halos around the pink streetlights. Insects swirled about them, and when she began to jog she felt tiny midges against her legs and face.

The sidewalks were deserted, and most of the houses were dark. She ran silently through the neighborhood of big lakeshore homes, breathing methodically and enjoying the feel of fresh sweat on her skin. The whole Arlin Korbus affair had made her slightly paranoid; she checked often for pursuit and perused shadows for unexpected movement, but she could accept this small-scale PTSD. Korbus was dead by her own hands, and the chances that another of his ilk lurked nearby were astronomical.

"Rachel!" someone called out.

She jumped, startled, and would've sprinted away had she not recognized the voice. A young man emerged from one of the side streets, also dressed for running. His hair was dyed jet-black with lighter tips, and he had huge hoop modifiers in his earlobes. She'd met him once before, on a night when she was too busy to stop and talk. "Ace, right?"

"That's it," he said with a grin. His inherent shyness overcame his attempt at blase cool. "Ace is the place. Mind if I run with you?"

Something about his boyish friendliness made her smile. "Okay, for a bit. But part of the reason I run at night is for privacy."

"I understand. Me, too."

They ran three blocks without speaking, their feet making smack-slip noises on the concrete. A carful of teens passed and hollered something, but it was drowned out by their thumping bass. When Ace and Rachel reached Williamson Street, where Father Thyme's coffee shop and the Sparkler pizza place were still crowded, Rachel stopped, put her foot on a fire hydrant, and stretched her calf muscles. Ace did the same, and she caught him surreptitiously trying to peer down the neckline of her T-shirt.

She laughed. From most men it would be either threatening or insulting, but it endeared this boy to her even more. "Ace, do you really think my boobs are that different from any other woman's?"

He looked down. "Well, they're all beautiful in their own way."

She mussed his hair like a child's. "Ace, really. I'm too old for you. You should have a girlfriend your own age."

He still didn't meet her eyes. "I did, sort of. We just broke up. She just seemed so ... immature sometimes."

"She'll grow up. And so will you." She nodded toward the street that led eventually back to the lake. "This is where we split up, okay? I'll see you around." She crossed the street before he could say anything else.

Still smiling at the smitten boy's sincerity, she passed the looming trees of big Martyn Park, where dozens of people lounged in the shade or tanned beneath the sun during the day, and continued around the curve to her precious refuge, Hudson Park-barely larger than the low effigy mound it existed to protect. Soon she would be naked, caught in the carnal embrace of her waterborne lovers. She began to tingle with anticipation.

But suddenly she froze. In the night's silence, the squeak of her sneakers against the pavement as she stopped might as well have been a scream.

A tall silhouette stood at the top of the hill-her hill-beside the effigy mound. He gazed down at the hidden spot where she undressed and entered the water. And the stranger did not move or look back, even though he must've heard her approach.

The broad shoulders and narrow hips were thoroughly masculine. Her first hopeful thought was Ethan! If it was him waiting for her, knowing she would come to this park, she would throw herself in his arms and make love to him right there. And never let him go.

But the instant she had the thought, she knew it was wrong. The silhouette did look familiar, but it was definitely not Ethan Walker. It was also too broad and muscular for Ace. Who was it, then?

Except for breathing, she did not move. And for a long time, neither did the stranger. Then he crouched and did something with his hands near the effigy mound's head. She drew breath to shout, but sweat trickled into her eyes. In the brief moment as she paused to wipe it away, he vanished into the shadows.

She walked slowly forward, alert for any movement. She crossed the damp grass and reached the spot by the effigy mound, every muscle tense. In the faint illumination from the streetlights, she saw a dozen small rocks arranged in a circle a foot in diameter. She picked up one and held it toward the pinkish lights. It was a normal rock-the smooth kind found in any garden, or pulled from any stream or lake-but painted on it was a strange symbol.

She carried it up the hill to see it better. It resembled the Christian ichthus symbol but instead of graceful curves it had sharp edges and points. When she touched it with her finger, she saw that it was drawn on with mud. Her touch smeared one line.

She was about to toss it aside but at the last moment felt a powerful compulsion to return it to the ring on the ground. After she did so, she took several deep breaths and looked out at the water, which was normally inviting and irresistible. Now, though, it seemed subtly repellent. Encountering the stranger here had somehow broken the mood.

She could still swim, she knew. Chances were the spirits, with their intimate knowledge of her moods and responses, would have her moaning within minutes. Or she could go to another part of the lake. The spirits would be there wherever she swam, but she just couldn't muster the desire to act on those certainties.

Who had the man been? And why did he look familiar? She knew many men socially, most through the diner, but she could not place this one.

Then as a little shudder ran through her, she realized who he was: Kyle Stillwater. She'd watched the half-naked Adonis stride into the lake, and he'd looked exactly like this man in silhouette. But why in God's name would he be here? And what did that circle of stones mean? Had he built it or just examined it as she did?

It was all too weird. She turned and jogged back the way she came, then cut up three blocks before turning back toward home. Her feet echoed oddly, as if someone followed and matched her stride precisely, but whenever she looked back, the sidewalk was empty.

CHAPTER NINE.

POSTED BY THE Lady to the Lady of the Lakes blog: Those of you who were there know what I'm talking about. The big ground-breaking ceremony for the new community center was hijacked by one fine piece of manhood who came out of the lake in a temper and very little else. The Lady isn't sure about his claims regarding the plot of land, but she does agree that he can protest anywhere he wants to.

Does anyone have any good pictures to share?

THE STORY OF Kyle Stillwater's startling appearance at the park was on the front page of the Sunday Capital Journal and was the lead on the three local TV stations. Missing from them all, though, was any picture of the man himself. Owners of every electronic recording device-digital still cameras, video cameras, or cellphones-found that any images were hopelessly corrupted.

Even Julie Schutes, who had checked her photos right after she took them, had found them pixilated beyond any possible use once she returned to her office. Only one picture-a distant one that showed Stillwater as a mere silhouette standing in the lake and taken from her stall by a seller of hemp products-survived.

Most interesting were the photographs taken on actual film by a couple of camera buffs. In these, Stillwater's features were both blurry and distorted: His eyes were round and black, his nose and chin elongated, and his mouth a death's-head grimace.

These photos did not run in the papers, and the photographers were unable to scan them and post them online. When they tried, the hardware and software refused to cooperate.

The newspaper's staff researcher did find the photograph of a local actor known as Kyle Stillwater-a one-quarter Ho-Chunk Native American who'd done some modeling and commercial work. He resembled the man who'd crashed the ceremony, except that he was ten years too young and his hair was jet-black. And when shown his picture, all the women who'd been at the park that day were absolutely certain it wasn't the same man, because this mundane Kyle Stillwater just didn't affect them the same way. At all. It couldn't be him.

No one could reach the actor for comment. His agent in Chicago said he would pass along any media requests but could assure the authorities that his client had no paying jobs at the moment.

--- WHEN ETHAN WALKER got to work Monday morning, Garrett Bloom was already there, pacing in front of Ambika's desk. Her expression indicated just how long that had been going on. "I thought you got here at ten," Bloom snapped without preliminaries.

Ethan clenched his teeth in annoyance; he didn't like being scolded, let alone in his own office before he'd had his coffee. He glanced at the clock. "It's five after."

"That's still late."

"Since I'm the boss, no one usually complains about my punctuality."

"On most days," Ambika muttered.

Bloom scowled at her, then said urgently, "I have to talk to you in private. Now. It's important."

"Okay. Ambika, hold all my calls until Mr. Bloom and I are finished."

"Of course, sir," she said coolly.

Bloom barely waited for the inner door to close behind them before he said, "You've got to start doing the serious construction now. Today, if at all possible. Bring in a crane, knock down some walls, that sort of thing. Stuff people can see."

"Why is that?"

"Momentum, son. A body at rest tends to remain that way, but one that's moving is hard to stop."

"That's *inertia,' not *momentum.' "

"Well, whatever it is, we need it."

"Because of what happened at the ceremony?"

"Yes!" Bloom exclaimed as if it was the dumbest question in the world. "It has nothing to do with whether or not he's right, or legitimate, or anything. He's drawn attention, and that's what's important. I expect a half-dozen Native American activists in my office before the day's over."

"Isn't that what James Red Bird is supposed to handle?"

"Jim is a good man, and loyal, but he's a behind-the-scenes worker. This has changed the whole game plan."

"Why?"

"Because even if that lunatic was right, it's immaterial, because it can't be proved without a full-on archaeological dig that could take months, even years."

Ethan hoped his sinking dread didn't show. "That's true."

"But there's no evidence, Ethan, and I'm certain no elected official in his right mind would shut down something that provided jobs for hardworking Americans. In this economy, jobs outweigh history."

"Except to stray Native Americans."

"Exactly!" Bloom almost shouted, missing Ethan's irony entirely. "That's why we need to get the ball rolling."

Ethan thought hard before speaking. "The soonest I can do what you're asking is next week."

"Next week?"

"Yes. And you'll have a hard time finding anyone else who could do it faster-and frankly, I wouldn't trust anyone who said they could."

Bloom thought for a moment. "Then that's the best you can do?"

"It's the best anyone can do," Ethan said firmly. "I promise, a week from today there will be a procession of very visible big trucks carrying debris while we gut the building. And then we'll very publicly knock it down."

Now it was Bloom's turn to ponder. "All right, then. If that's the best that can be done, that's what we'll do. Thanks, Ethan. I'm sorry this has all gone to hell this way."

When Bloom departed, Ambika came in, crossed her arms, and said, "He is not a nice man. Before you arrived, he stepped out in the stairwell to make a phone call. His voice was very loud. He called someone a *dumb Indian.' For a moment I thought he was referring to me, but it was the person on the other end of the phone. I do hope he won't be a frequent visitor."

Ethan assured her he wouldn't-and then, when Ambika had returned to her desk, he dialed up the State Archaeological Commission office. He had a friend on staff there and knew he could get straight information.

"Yeah, I saw that on the news," Lannie Boyd said when Ethan reached him. "They didn't have a picture of the guy, though. I was curious to see if he was someone I knew."

"Is that likely?"

"I cross paths with a lot of so-called activists. Some are legitimately concerned with tribal dignity, and some are just out to see their names in the papers."