And where is that? Pescoli wondered, staring at the arch of the bridge backlit by the rising sun, then watching as the body bag was loaded into the ME's van. Just where the h.e.l.l is that?

The buzz in the diner was all about the body that had been pulled from the river this morning, customers chattering and gossiping, bits of information floating in the din of the dining room. Over the clatter of forks, rattle of ice cubes, and gurgle of the espresso machine, the conversation was centered on a second body found in so short a time.

"It just never seems to end," Misty confided to Jessica when both were at the serving counter, picking up orders. "Hey, Armando, this omelet's supposed to come with guac!"

"S, s!" he snapped, irritated. He found a dish of guacamole and placed it on the platter. "Where is Denise? I cannot do this by myself!"

Denise Burns was a fry cook sous-chef. And she was over an hour late.

"She called Nell. Got caught in that mess of traffic near the bridge." Misty surveyed her two platters, then pulled them from the counter. To Jessica, she said, "We've already had one psycho this season and now this."

"You think there's a madman running around?" Jessica asked, eyeing a platter that Armando slid onto the counter. "Wheat toast," she said to the head cook, "not sourdough."

"Dios! I cannot work like this!" Armando grumbled just as Denise, in a gust of cold air, walked through the back door.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" she said, holding up her hands as if she expected Armando to open fire. "It's impossible to get through town right now. The d.a.m.n bridge I usually use is closed and all the roads are backed up." She was stripping off her jacket as she came inside and threw her purse, scarf, and phone into her locker. It banged shut as she reappeared, wrapping an ap.r.o.n around her slim waist. "Bring me up to speed," she said to Armando as she twisted her hair into a net and began washing her hands.

After slapping a stack of wheat toast onto the counter, he began reading off the orders to her, rapid-fire.

Jessica carried her platters to a table near the windows where a mother of three kids under six was trying to convince her three-year-old daughter to eat "one more bite" of a barely touched waffle. The baby was picking at Cheerios on the high chair tray, and the third child, around five, was plucking the blueberries out of his pancakes.

"Sorry for the delay," Jessica said, finally delivering the parents their breakfasts.

The mom said, "No problem," though it sounded as if it really was a major inconvenience. The dad didn't look up from his cell phone.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"Catsup," the mother said as her husband eyed his small screen.

"The body they pulled out of the river today was a woman," he told his wife. "There's talk that she might've been murdered."

Jessica's heart lurched.

"We moved here to get away from all of that, George!" the mom hissed. "Isn't that what you said? If we leave the city, life will be safer. Slower paced?"

"Who gots murdered?" the three-year-old asked.

"n.o.body. I mean n.o.body we know." The mom shushed her.

Jessica moved out of earshot, wending her way through the tables, telling herself this latest murder had nothing to do with her. Nothing. It was just partial stories, bad information, gossip.

But throughout the morning shift and into lunchtime she heard more and more about the woman found in the Grizzly River, supposedly first seen by a woman who owned wolves and cast spells, a witch of sorts, if the gossip could be believed. Table after table of patrons speculated about the ident.i.ty of the woman and if, as Misty had mentioned earlier, another madman was in their midst.

Around ten, a big man came into the diner and though Jessica was certain she'd never seen him before, there was something familiar about him. Within minutes, she realized he was Zedediah, "Big Zed," Grayson, Cade and the fallen sheriff's brother. She steeled herself, wondering if Cade would join the large man, but thankfully that wasn't the case. He was seated in Misty's section, so she didn't have to deal with him.

Others did, however, including Nell, who deigned to come out of the office to offer condolences. She'd been tallying receipts from the day before, balancing them with the payments received. "So sorry for your loss."

"Oh, Zed, a shame about Dan. Such a good man," a seventyish woman with a red beret pinned to her shiny gray hair offered up, her friend nodding solemnly.

"We're gonna miss Dan. h.e.l.luva man," a farmer-type put in.

"The town will never be the same," declared another man in a suit.

And so it went for the hour that Zed occupied his chair. He was alone, an unread newspaper spread on the table. He scooped up his paper as soon as he was finished eating, squared his hat onto his large head and, after paying his bill, strode quickly out of the building.

Misty sidled over to Jessica and confided, "That's one of the dead sheriff's brothers. You know, there's a strange thing about him. He doesn't quite seem to fit with the others. Dan was a handsome man, as was his brother Bart, the one who offed himself in the barn. You heard about that?"

Jessica nodded, though she didn't admit she'd heard about the suicide from Cade, years before. Luckily, Misty didn't ask.

"Well, that Bart, he was a looker, too. And Cade . . ." Misty made a big show of fanning herself. "Hot, let me tell you. That cowboy can park his boots under my bed any day of the week. Any day. But Zed," she said, watching through the window as the big man made his way to a huge king cab. "He's different. Not just in size being that he's a head taller and got seventy pounds or so on his brothers, but he keeps more to himself. Not as friendly. Almost . . . oh, I don't know, darker somehow. Someone you wouldn't want to meet at night in a deserted alley, you know what I mean?"

Jessica watched Zed put his truck into gear and drive off.

"Oh, maybe I'm all wet. I mean, Zed's done nothing to make me think there's anything wrong with him. It's just that he's so d.a.m.n different from his brothers." Misty shrugged. "But it takes all kinds, now, doesn't it? Say, would you cover for me for a minute? I need to take five." She was already reaching for the pack of cigarettes in her ap.r.o.n pocket and heading for the back door before Jessica could agree.

Near noon, Jessica learned that Sheriff Blackwater had held a press conference. According to the customers who had smartphones and Nell, who caught it on the office TV, he'd stood on the steps of the department and made a public statement. She'd been too busy to watch the report, but from what she could gather from the customers who'd caught the news, the acting sheriff's speech had been short and concise without any room for questions. The sheriff's department wasn't giving out much information other than that the woman's death was being investigated as a homicide. Her name wasn't being released, pending notification of next of kin.

Jessica went cold inside.

Another woman fished out of a body of water.

Talk of mutilation.

Has he followed me?

She nearly dropped a tray of drinks, she was so distracted.

Quicksilver memories slid through her brain-seeing him for the first time at her parents' home near the river, the smell of magnolia in the air, spring air clear, the cloudless sky a cerulean blue, the murmur of guests as they'd wandered the grounds. His gaze had found hers and she'd sensed then that he was a rogue, a handsome man whose civility was probably only skin deep, that there was more to him to explore.

He'd wooed her easily, his laughter infectious, his kisses promising so much more, his hands on her body exciting and a little rough, but she'd wanted something that would crack the veneer of her family's genteel and oh, so fake civility.

The summer had swept by in dark moonlit nights, hours of pent-up pa.s.sion, and quick decisions that, in hindsight, had proved deadly-a wedding on the broad lawn under a hot August sun. Sultry air and thick clouds, a storm brewing that had been, as she looked upon it now, a warning she hadn't heeded.

"Jessica?" Misty's harsh voice broke into her reverie. "I think table seven might want those." She nodded her head at the tray of burgers Jessica had been holding, the one that shook in her trembling hands. "Hey, you all right?"

"Fine," she said, swiftly returning to the harsh lights and noisy din of the diner. She didn't bother to explain. Couldn't. She just set about her work, listening hard to the bits of conversation that buzzed through the diner and telling herself that she couldn't take a chance any longer. Whether the woman who had been found under the falls was the victim of his cruelty or not, it was time to take action.

Chapter 16.

Pescoli eyed her ring, the diamond glittering brightly under the failing fluorescent tubes humming above Blackwater's head in the meeting room attached to his office. Blackwater was presiding over a hastily convened gathering and she'd taken her usual chair, the spot where she'd sat so many times while Grayson had spoken to them. A small group had been called in for a briefing and discussion of the case uppermost on the minds of the citizens of Grizzly Falls. The windowless room felt close.

"Okay, looks like we've got ourselves a serial killer," Blackwater said, standing at the head of the long cafeteria-style table where everyone else was seated.

"Another one," Brett Gage interjected. As the chief criminal detective, he oversaw all cases, and, like Dan Grayson who had been his boss, he gave those under him free rein. At forty, he was only slightly older than Pescoli. A runner who was in great shape, a father of two who had completed four or five marathons-maybe more than that.

"Yes, another one." Blackwater nodded curtly. "And that's not making the mayor very happy. She called this morning and reminded me of the fact that our little corner of the state seems to be a hotbed for homicide. I couldn't argue. She's worried about a ma.s.s exodus of citizens and I don't blame her. When we actually confirm that these two victims were killed here in Grizzly Falls by the same person, all h.e.l.l will break out."

"Again," Gage said, and Blackwater sent him a quick, hard look. Everyone in the department knew that Gage was angling for the vacant under-sheriff job and, apparently, he was determined to make his mark at this meeting. Politics. In the middle of a homicide investigation.

"Right, again. My point." Blackwater wasn't backing down. "So, it's early, I know, but what have we got?"

Alvarez, seated next to Pescoli, said, "We're a little ahead of the game on this one. We know the victim died last night. Sometime between ten and two is the best guess, taking into account the temperature of the water. This makes sense as so far, no one saw or heard anything."

"In the middle of town? Before the bars closed?" Blackwater asked.

"I said, 'so far,' " Alvarez repeated. "Deputies are still checking with the establishments open last night. We also think we might have an ID. There were several cars left down by the waterfront, but one, a late model Mercedes, has Washington plates and is the only vehicle not registered to a local. We checked with Washington DMV. The car is registered to a Calypso April Pope."

"Seriously?" Pete Watershed said, chewing his Nicorette gum with a vengeance. He was the only deputy in the room, called in for some reason only Blackwater understood. "Calypso? Who would name a kid that? Calypso April Pope? Jesus!"

Pescoli shot him an oh-just-shut-up look which he ignored.

Alvarez barely missed a beat. "That's the name on her license and the picture looks like our victim."

"Calypso danced her last dance," Watershed said.

Blackwater glared, reminding him, "You're here by invitation. And next time?" His face was set in disapproval, his irritation palpable. "Lose the gum."

Watershed's jaw quit moving and he swallowed hard, his chosen way to dispose of the gum, as Blackwater explained, "Deputy Watershed thought he saw the victim's car earlier, pushing the speed limit around ten last night, but he'd already pulled someone else over for DUI, so . . ."

That cleared up the reason for Watershed's appearance. It wasn't a major connection, but something. Still the deputy, handsome and always thinking he was G.o.d's gift to women, bugged Pescoli. She'd been on the b.u.t.t end of his jokes one too many times.

Alvarez said, "We're trying to find out more about Ms. Pope. So far, no missing persons report has been filed. We're attempting to find any connection between victim one and victim two, a.s.suming they were both killed by the same person."

The meeting went on with plans to call in the Washington State Patrol and, of course, inform the FBI, as it appeared as if they had a serial killer on their hands. There was discussion about procedure and autopsy reports and other details of the crime before the short meeting was adjourned with Blackwater saying, "Let's find this guy. If we can do it without the feds, all the better." Before anyone could protest, he held up a hand. "Hey, if we need them, yeah, work with them. They have access to manpower, equipment, you name it. The important thing is to get our man." With that he sc.r.a.ped his chair back and everyone filed out of the room.

Pescoli was two steps down the hallway when Watershed caught up with her. "So, are congratulations in order?"

"What?" she looked up sharply, her mind zeroing in on her pregnancy.

"Noticed the ring," he said, nodding to it.

She braced herself. Watershed and his ilk were the reasons she'd taken the ring off for awhile.

"You gettin' married again?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"To Santana? Jesus, Pescoli, don't you ever learn? A cop, a trucker, and now what? Some G.o.dd.a.m.n horse whisperer dude? You know, your track record is-"

"My business. Keep your nose out of it and shove it up your a.s.s where it feels at home," she snapped.

"Wow. Touchy."

"Yeah, I am, so maybe you should back off a bit. It's legal for me to carry a firearm, remember."

"Someone's having a bad day. That time of the month?"

If you only knew, she thought angrily. Why did stupid guys always go there? She jabbed a finger at his chest. "If you haven't noticed, d.i.c.khead, things aren't all that great around here. Not only have we lost one of the best lawmen in the history of the state, but since he's been gone, two women have been killed and we've probably got a brand new sicko running around. Keep your adolescent remarks to yourself and stay out of my way."

"Sheeeit," he said as Joelle came clipping down the hallway, her eyebrows raised over the tops of her reading gla.s.ses at the exchange.

"Children, children, children," she chided.

Pescoli growled under her breath, stormed into her office, and started to slam the door, but Alvarez caught it, holding it open. "Why do you let him get to you?" she asked. "He's just a loser who loves baiting women. Don't go there."

"I usually don't."

"Stress of getting married again? Because this stuff"-Alvarez motioned to the piles of paperwork on the desk-"is always here, at some level."

"I guess it is the idea of walking down the aisle again," Pescoli lied. "But Watershed's right, d.a.m.n it. I'm not all that great at picking husbands." She dropped into her desk chair. "But I'm right, too. It's none of his d.a.m.n business what I do."

"Amen."

"What a tool." She scowled at the door, then determined she was going to shake it off. "Let's get to work."

Rather than drive all the way home, Jessica peeled off her work clothes in the small bathroom at the Midway Diner after her shift ended at two. She wasn't due back to work until four-thirty, for the early-bird dinner crowd, so she decided to make good on her vow to become proactive.

After changing into jeans and a sweater, then replacing her work shoes with boots, she found her jacket, threw it on, and made her way to her SUV where frost had collected on the windshield. The sun was actually out, beams glistening on the snow, the sky a clear, Montana blue, the day so bright she had to slip a pair of sungla.s.ses onto the bridge of her nose. If circ.u.mstances had been different, she might have felt lighthearted; as it was, a deep sense of dread clung to her.

She made one stop at the cleaners located in a strip mall on the outskirts of town. A smiling girl in braces worked behind the counter. After counting and gathering up Jessica's uniforms, she promised to have them ready the next day. "No problem."

Jessica left and slid behind the wheel of her Tahoe again, steeling herself. Facing Cade wouldn't be easy, but lately, what had been?

"Nothing," she whispered as she waited for a slow stream of traffic, four cars behind an older Cadillac that inched through the streets, as if it were rolling through glue.

Finally, she was able to turn down a side street before making her way to the county road leading out of town. Now that she had made her decision to face Cade again, she pushed the speed limit, afraid she might chicken out.

It wasn't all that hard to locate the Grayson ranch. Nearly everyone who had come into the diner had talked about the sheriff's death and how hard it was on a family that had been in the area for generations. Misty, always a fountain of gossip and information, had told her where the Grayson spread was located and Jessica had double-checked on the Internet and the white pages.

As the sunlight bounced off snow-covered fields, she followed the directions on her GPS to the address where an old mailbox confirmed that she'd found the Grayson homestead.

"Here goes nothing," she whispered as she cranked on the wheel and eased her SUV along the long lane that had, at one point, been cleared of snow, piles of the white stuff lining the drive, tracks visible in a newly fallen layer. Jessica's heart was thudding, her stomach in knots as she considered how Cade would react to seeing her as they hadn't parted on the best of terms. "Too bad," she reminded herself.

Wide fields flanked the lane as it rose to the heart of the ranch where a sprawling ranch house had a three hundred and sixty degree view of the surrounding property. Half a dozen outbuildings had sprouted around the residence, but Jessica zeroed in on a garage, the doors open, one bay empty, another filled with a pickup that was facing outward. Thankfully, Big Zed was gone, or at least his truck was. She needed to talk to Cade alone.

"Now or never," she said, eyeing the rearview mirror and catching the reflection of her oversized shades in the gla.s.s as she parked near a path winding to the front door. She cut the engine in a parking area where the snow had been mashed by various vehicles and pocketed her keys.

She hiked her way toward the three front steps that had been cleared of snow, and climbed them to a broad porch where a dying wreath was mounted upon a ma.s.sive door.

She rapped loudly. Three sharp knocks. From inside, a dog began barking wildly as if his sudden rash of loud woofs made up for the fact that he'd been asleep at the switch, not hearing that a stranger had arrived.