"So his claim could be legitimate?"

"As a matter of fact, I did some proactive checking on that very thing, just so I'd know where to find the information in case anyone needed it."

"And what did you find?"

"Nothing. When that old mental hospital was originally put up, a standard survey revealed no trace of former Native American habitation on that patch of land. Of course, they called them American Indians then, but you know what I mean. It was classified *clean and pristine,' as we say unofficially."

"So I have nothing to worry about?"

"We have better technology now, and I'm sure if you dug down far enough and sifted every square inch of dirt, you'd find some trace of human activity. These lakes have been around for a long time, after all. But those guys back then knew their stuff, even without computers and DNA analysis, so until there's hard evidence to the contrary, I'm inclined to think they got it right."

"That's not just you sticking up for your profession, is it?"

"Maybe a little. But if there was serious doubt, we'd get out there and look around. Fieldwork is fun."

Ethan tapped his fingers on the desk. "I'm supposed to start tearing down the building next week, Lannie. I really don't want to get blindsided."

"I can understand that. If you like, I can come over and check it out, unofficially officially, if you know what I mean."

"That'd make me sleep better," Ethan said.

"I thought that's what that blond reporter was for."

Ethan felt his cheeks burn. "Ah. She's old news."

"Really?" Lannie said with mock interest. "So she's on the market?"

"She'd eat you alive, Lannie."

"A man's got to die of something."

After the call, Ethan retrieved the survey maps of the lakefront and studied them. How exactly had Bloom gotten title to such a prime piece of real estate? For that matter, why had it lain undeveloped for so long in the first place? Lakeside property in Madison was in sky-high demand.

He scanned the lakeshore to either side of the parcel. There were effigy mounds in three nearby city parks, but they made no pattern implying one might have originally been located at the hospital site. Still, if Stillwater was part of some fringe group-and God knows Madison had plenty of those-his performance might be the start of something darker and more dangerous. People with environmental blinders on thought nothing of doing things that resulted in human injuries or death.

He gazed out the window at the capitol dome and went over his options, but he knew there was only one real choice. And he'd made it when he shook hands with Bloom.

IN HIS OWN office on the west end of the isthmus near the university hospital, Garrett Bloom continued to pace. It was his preferred mode of thinking. He'd worn the carpet in a circuit from his desk around the guest chair, to the door, and back. "Maybe it's Seth Golfine," he said at last.

"No," Rebecca Matre said. She sat on the edge of the desk, legs crossed below a tight skirt. She knew he frequently checked out her legs, and she liked it. Then again, he checked out every woman's legs. "If he was against it," she continued, "he'd do it in public. Remember the hissy fit he threw when you wanted that homeless rapist released on bail?"

"Homeless accused rapist," Bloom corrected. "And that scene at the lake was pretty fucking public."

"But he wasn't there. He's too much of a media whore to let someone else take the spotlight." She smiled. "And personally, I'd just as soon never see him walk around in a loincloth."

Bloom barked a laugh at the image. "You're definitely right about that." He paced some more, then snapped his fingers. "Maybe it's Asshole Anspach."

"And why would he do it?" Becky asked wearily. They'd spent the morning this way, as Bloom went down his list of enemies, trying to figure out who might be behind the ceremony's disruption. It was a long list, and Becky was already exhausted. But so far they'd identified no one who seemed likely to concoct such a bizarre stunt.

"Why would he do it?" Bloom repeated. "To make me look bad, that's why. To get revenge for all those times I've pushed things past him to get them approved by the full city council."

"It seems out of character for him. He's more the slash-your-tires-in-the-parking-lot type."

"Ah, you're right. It's silly. Still ..." He stopped at the window and looked out at traffic on University Boulevard. "It looks like the only way to find the brain behind it is to find the body first. We have to locate that guy-the one who came out of the lake."

"Kyle Stillwater?" Just saying the name sent an intimate flutter through Becky. She'd been awake a good part of the night fantasizing about him. It was out of character for her; Becky just didn't lust after good-looking men like that. She preferred men of substance, with brains and goals and power. Like Garrett Bloom. But her body had certainly pursued its own ideas, leaving her with no choice but to indulge them. Her cheeks reddened at the memory.

Bloom was too preoccupied to notice. "That's not his real name, I'm sure. *Stillwater'? Give me a break. But just to be safe, can you do some of that Internet hoodoo that you do so well? See if you can find out anything about him?"

"I already started," Becky said. "There's a local actor, a Native American, by the same name and who vaguely resembles the man we saw. I Photoshopped white hair on him, though, and it just wasn't him. I'll keep looking, though."

As she stood, she bumped into Bloom during one of his circuits, and he caught her awkwardly in his arms. Their faces were inches apart.

Becky gasped with delight. She enjoyed the way his hands felt through her blouse, their long fingers promising nimble foreplay. His left palm rested over the clasp to her bra, and she wondered if he could undo it one-handed. She felt his body against hers, lean and hard from regular exercise.

She looked into his eyes. Kiss me, she thought desperately, wishing she was telepathic. Bend me over your desk, or push me to my knees before you. It's all right, I'll do anything you want. Anything.

"Anything," she said, sighing.

He leaned close. His breath was minty. Then he released her. "Sorry, Becky, I should've watched where I was walking. Let me know if you find out anything."

Then he sat back behind his desk and pulled up something she couldn't see on his computer. Her skin tingled where he'd touched her through her clothes, and she seriously considered throwing herself across his desk and begging him to have his way with her. He was everything she admired: strong, committed to a cause, and mature. She wanted to be his lover, his student, his slave.

But she said, "No problem," and went back to her own desk outside his office. She closed the door behind her, knowing he preferred privacy.

CHAPTER TEN.

ON TUESDAY MORNING, Rachel's diner was as busy as ever. Rachel, Helena, and Clara waited on the customers. Clara, dressed in tight shorts and a push-up bra, was a hit among the young men, and even old Professor Denning let his eyes follow her a couple of times.

Marty Walker sat at his usual counter stool, immune to the perky breasts repeatedly passing by. He wore his lightweight summer suit, which did nothing to hide the bulge of the gun beneath his left arm. When Rachel brought him a coffee refill he asked, "So how's the tattoo removal going?"

"Surprisingly well," she said with no irony. "I think I'll be done early, in fact."

"I have a friend on the force who had to get his ex-wife's name taken off his arm. He said it was the second-worst pain he's ever felt."

"What was the worst?"

"Marrying her in the first place."

They laughed, and Rachel tried to make the next sentence sound as casual as possible. "Oh, by the way, I ran into your brother over the weekend. Literally, in fact. At the ground-breaking for the new community center."

"Oh, yeah, I heard about that."

Her blush hit before she could do anything to stop it. "He told you about it?"

"No, I mean I heard about what happened at the park when Aquaman came out of the water."

Rachel's blush deepened. "Oh. Of course. Yes, it was quite a show." Just walk away, she told herself, but her feet stayed resolutely put. "Ethan looked well," she prompted.

Marty shrugged. "He's healthy."

Don't do it, her common sense warned. But she said, "And I saw his girlfriend, too."

Marty frowned. "Girlfriend?"

"Julie. The reporter."

Marty laughed. "No, they're not back together. She's chasing, but he's on full evasive maneuvers. He knows better than to get caught up in that drama again."

Her knees grew weak at the rush of relief. "Really?"

He reached across the counter, took her hand, and said gently, "Rachel, you asked him to stay away, and he will until you tell him not to. He gave his word, and that's the most important thing he has. It's stubborn and ridiculous and old-fashioned, but that's what he's like."

"I know," she murmured, like a child caught in a fib.

Marty released her. "And I know he'd love to hear from you. I know it the same way I know the sun comes up in the morning. But one of you has to make the first move here."

"I know," she repeated, and rushed away to take another order as fast as decorum allowed.

MARTY CAUGHT HELENA'S eye across the room. The two of them had conspired to bring Ethan and Rachel together in the first place. Now they were working desperately, if delicately, to get them to at least talk to each other.

Helena shrugged. Marty nodded.

IN HIS EFFICIENCY apartment on the city's north side, Kyle Stillwater winced as he opened his eyes. He lay atop the covers on his bed, in nothing but his white briefs. The hangover rattling through his brain was the worst he could remember. As he stared up at the ceiling, he heard a fly buzzing against the window glass and Spanish-speaking children playing outside.

He swung his legs off the edge of the bed and sat up. What the hell had happened to him? His last clear memory was of swimming in Lake Wingra. He certainly hadn't been drunk then. In fact, he hadn't been drunk in six years-no mean feat with the alcoholism in his family. He fumbled for the remote on the nightstand and turned on the TV.

The smug weatherman said, "The forecast for today, Tuesday, is sunny and hot, with a slight chance of-"

Kyle sat up straight, his head suddenly clear. Tuesday? What happened to Saturday? Or Sunday? Or Monday?

He tried to stand, but his head swam as soon as he did, and he landed back on the bed. His stomach churned with nausea and panic. He crawled to the bathroom and vomited, then lay curled on the floor for a long time, too sick to even flush. He tugged a lock of his black hair over his eyes. At last he rose to pull the handle and glanced into the bowl.

He froze.

The contents of his stomach looked like lake water, algae, and silt. There was even a dead fish floating on top.

He vomited again and passed out.

WHEN THE BREAKFAST rush ended, the diner settled into the slow, comfortable space before lunch. The summer sun blasted through the windows and off the white walls made of dry-erase board. In addition to the day's menu, some of the panels sported elaborate customer artwork, including some leftover "Welcome back, Rachel" messages that hadn't yet been wiped away.

Helena's shift had ended at ten-thirty. Clara was the only other waitress on duty, and she was clearly exhausted. She went into the kitchen and wiped her neck with a wet paper towel. "I thought," she said, "that the summers weren't as hot in the north."

"No, they're not as long," Rachel said. "They're plenty hot. And we have wonderful humidity."

"I'll say. I used to spend my summers doing volunteer work on an elephant sanctuary in Tennessee, and this reminds me of that. Without the smell of elephant manure, of course."

"They have an elephant sanctuary in Tennessee?"

Clara nodded. "For abused zoo and circus elephants. They have all this acreage to roam on however they want. People can't come and stare at them, either."

"Sounds pretty freaky," Jimmy the cook said. He scraped leavings from the griddle and dumped them in the garbage. "I wouldn't mind wandering around on a big nature preserve. Seems kind of wrong that elephants get to do that and people don't."

"The elephants only get to do it because of the way people have treated them," Clara pointed out.

"Yeah, well, some people have treated me pretty badly, too," Jimmy mumbled.

Rachel's eyes fell on Jimmy's lean forearm. The muscles rippled beneath his skin, and Rachel suddenly recalled in uncomfortable detail the muscles across Kyle Stillwater's back. He'd passed so close on that first day that she'd felt the heat from his body, every muscle hard and perfect. It was a memory that had replayed itself endlessly in her mind and dreams, especially since she'd glimpsed the man at the park. Had it really been him?

Yet her reaction was not entirely one of lust, although that was definitely a component. It was, instead, a kind of cruel fascination, reminding her that twice she'd missed the chance to touch him. And it made no sense, since she was still fully and desperately in love with Ethan Walker.

But it was no longer images of Ethan that filled her head in the darkness. For the past two nights, she'd writhed in a tangle of damp sheets, alternately frenzied and lethargic. She felt taunted by her own body and the powers that possessed it, but sleep never came in any restful form.

Now a haze of feverish, unhealthy desire settled on her whenever she let her attention stray from any immediate task. She wondered if any of the other women from the ceremony had experienced the same thing. Certainly they'd stared as hard.

Oswald Denning sighed and stretched, his fingers threaded together over his head. The ancient tweed jacket that he wore in all weather revealed a split seam beneath one arm. "I think I shall adjourn to the library," he said as he stood. "Even at my age, *publish or perish' still applies. Good day, ladies."

As he went into the sun, a surge of AC-defying heat pushed its way inside. Clara fluttered the front of her apron. "I wish we had one of those airlock double doors like they have at Denny's."

Rachel looked up sharply. Before she could snap back, Jimmy said, "Don't tell me I just heard the D-word!"

Clara saw Rachel's expression. "Yikes, I didn't mean anything by that. They have the same doors at Walgreens too."

Rachel said, "We just try to live in a Denny's-free environment. They're our main competition. If we pretend they're not there long enough, maybe they'll go away."

Helena came in through the kitchen door. She wore a white button-down shirt over a bikini top, and tight black denim shorts. "How's it going?"

Rachel frowned at her and said, "What are you doing back here?"

"I just wanted to check on Clara," she said.

Clara, clearing Professor Denning's dishes, sighed loudly but said nothing.

"She's doing fine," Rachel said, loud enough for both women to hear.

"I like her," Elton Charles said from his corner table. "She's very perky."

Clara winked at him.

"You see?" Rachel said to Helena. "You have to cut the apron strings sometime."