"What happened to her?" she asked, studying the victim.

She'd been short, around five-two, Pescoli guessed, with long brownish hair on the curly side that was stiff and riddled with tiny ice crystals. The woman's face was heart-shaped, with a straight little nose and blue eyes that were fixed, seeming to stare blindly upward. Neatly plucked eyebrows and thin cheeks lay above cold, blue lips. She was wearing a dress, gray and fitted, earrings that looked like diamond studs, and fingers and toes that were polished a matching cranberry hue. Unbroken fingernails, neatly manicured, suggested there had been no struggle. Well, except for the ring finger of her left hand, most of which was missing.

What's up with that? The killer's trophy? Or an accident that had sent her running here? Pescoli regarded the wooded foothills where snow was covering the ground, boulders and snags protruding from the thick white blanket, the nearly frozen stream softly gurgling as it wound between the trees.

Slatkin glanced up, his blue eyes finding her gaze. "Don't know yet. Maybe drowned. Or could be head trauma. Got a few bruises." He frowned thoughtfully, eyeing the woman's slim throat. "Possible strangulation." His thick eyebrows drew together over his cold-reddened face. "Won't know until the autopsy."

Nodding, Pescoli stared down at the dead woman and wondered what had happened to her. How had she ended up in this creek? Had she made it under her own power, or had someone left her here? And why here? She glanced around the stretch of ranch land where field met forest. Why had this place been chosen as either the killing ground or dumping spot? Eyeing the creek, she saw that it was deep enough for a body to submerge, despite the encroaching ice. Where was the woman's coat or jacket? Her shoes? Her purse and, especially, her finger?

What kind of whacked-up freak would cut off the finger?

Of course, Pescoli reminded herself, we don't know one hundred percent that the woman has been murdered.

The missing finger certainly suggested that something violent had gone down, maybe even some kind of accident. She had learned over the years not to make quick a.s.sumptions, though oftentimes her gut instinct proved right. Until all the facts were in, however, she wouldn't make a final decision.

Once more, she looked at the left hand where a finger had been severed, the bone and flesh visible. Her stomach turned a bit and she drew her eyes away for a second, nausea building.

She'd never been queasy at a crime scene, except years before . . . Oh, G.o.d. Another roll of her guts, and saliva gathered in her mouth. For the love of- At that moment, she knew she was going to be sick. She turned away, took a few steps from the creek, and just managed to get behind a fir tree before she upchucked into the snow. She hadn't thrown up at a crime scene since . . . she was pregnant with Bianca. Morning sickness. Perfect.

"Hey!" Alvarez said. "You okay?"

Pescoli heaved once more, then straightened, a sour taste in her mouth. "Fine," she lied, running her tongue over her teeth.

"Jesus, Pescoli! Look what you're doing to the crime scene," Watershed admonished. "It's not like you haven't seen a dead body before."

She didn't dignify his remark with an answer. To Alvarez, she said, "I'll talk to O'Halleran. You take the boy. See what he has to say. Maybe he saw something he doesn't realize might help."

Alvarez was already on her way to the idling car where an officer was staying with Eli O'Halleran, and Pescoli walked over to where Trace O'Halleran was deep in conversation with Cabral.

Nurse Amy Blanchette was dead tired. Thankfully, her shift was nearly over. In five minutes, come h.e.l.l or high water, or even a d.a.m.n plague, she was "outta here." Northern General Hospital wasn't her idea of a dream place to work, but since Johns Hopkins and the Mayo Clinic didn't seem to be calling, she'd stick it out and collect her paycheck, at least until she could figure out if she was going to stay in Montana near her parents, who lived in Hamilton, or venture out into the much bigger world. G.o.d, she'd love to get out of the miserable weather and try somewhere a little warmer, or exotic, or at least, somewhere that had a little more mystique. A place by the ocean, maybe.

LA sounded good. Or maybe San Antonio or somewhere in Florida. Anywhere she didn't have to wake up to piles of snow and freezing temperatures would be nice. Better still, a hospital where she didn't work with her d.a.m.n ex-fiance, who'd decided to bail six months into the engagement. Thankfully, she'd only lost her heart, not her life savings on a wedding. But even though she tried desperately to work opposing hours, she ran into Dr. Dylan Stone-yes, he sounded like he was one of those fake doctors on an old soap opera-too often. The fact that he was dating a handful of her coworkers made her working environment all the more caustic. By summer, she swore, she'd have that job elsewhere.

She had a few more minutes of her ten-hour workday to get through. A few nurses and orderlies on her shift were starting to leave while the nurses for the next ten hours were arriving. The hub was a little chaotic with the switch. Nurses who were leaving exchanged patient information, a few jokes, and a little bit of gossip with the nurses coming on duty. Worse yet, the flu had not only infected several patients on the wing, but the staff as well, devastating some of the teams. Her floor in particular was short-handed and the staff was forced to depend upon recruits from other areas of the hospital, sometimes working for the first time with newbies. Just today, Amy had shared her area of the wing with a couple orderlies, two doctors, and a nurse she'd previously never met.

But it was about over.

"One more patient," she reminded herself as she responded to the call light for room 212. The patient, Reina Gehrig, was a real pain in the b.u.t.t. Amy wasn't one bit sorry that she would be able to p.a.w.n the older woman off on Mona Vickers, the nurse scheduled to take over Amy's patients. Mrs. Gehrig in particular, seemed to believe she was the only patient in the entire hospital.

Most definitely a pain in the backside.

Forcing a smile, Amy slipped into the room where Reina Gehrig was propped in her hospital bed, television tuned to a game show, her head swiveling expectantly as the door opened.

"How're you doing?" Amy asked, turning off the call light.

"Oh, not so good, I'm afraid," the small woman said. She was a frail thing with a lined, narrow face and a halo of thin white curls that didn't quite hide the pink of her scalp.

She's lonely, Amy thought and felt a little ashamed for thinking badly of her.

Barely a hundred pounds, with hazel eyes that snapped behind the folds of her eyelids and thick gla.s.ses, Reina said solemnly, "I think there's something wrong."

"Well, that won't do." Amy gave the woman a smile. "Tell me, how do you feel? Rate your pain." She indicated the chart that hung on the wall that showed caricatures of faces in varying expressions of discomfort.

" 'Bout an eight, maybe a nine, I'd say," the patient said. "And it doesn't just hurt in my leg, but all over." Frowning a little, she added, "I think I might be coming down with something. The flu's going around this year, you know. And my neighbor Elsa, she caught it. Nasty stuff."

"Hmm. Well, we can't have that," Amy said. "Let me check your vitals again."

The patient's chin suddenly thrust out. "I need to see Doctor Lambert."

"She didn't do your surgery." Amy checked Mrs. Gehrig's temperature, blood pressure, and pulse again, noting that everything was in the normal range, right where it should be. "Dr. Bellingham says you can go home tomorrow."

"Oh, I don't think so. I'd feel a lot better if Dr. Lambert had a look at me." Mrs. Gehrig was nodding in her bed as if agreeing with herself. Her thin hands, with veins visible, plucked at the edge of the sheet covering her.

"I'll let her know," Amy promised, "and mark it on your char-"

"Room two-o-six STAT!" Polly, another floor nurse, poked her head into the room as she pa.s.sed the open doorway just as Amy heard the Code Blue announcement from the speakers in the hallway.

"What?" Mrs. Gehrig was confused.

Amy was already reversing toward the door. "I'll be back."

"No, please-" Mrs. Gehrig's face folded on itself in disappointment. "Wait! Where are you going? I need-" The rest of her request was cut off as Amy rushed toward the room a few doors down.

"Mr. Donnerly's coding!" Polly called to her as they entered 206.

Already, the room was bustling with staff members. The patient had recently had heart surgery and had been improving enough to be released from ICU to his private room. One nurse was handling his chest compressions while another had a bag valve mask in place over the patient's mouth and nose. A doctor was giving orders as the defibrillator cart was rolled quickly inside and another locking cart with narrow drawers for medications followed. Amy stood at the ready should she be required to administer the epinephrine or whatever other drug the doc ordered.

"How long?" the doctor asked.

"Coded under two minutes ago," a floor nurse who had been attending Benson Donnerly said as the rest of the team continued working.

"Pulse?" the doctor asked and another nurse pressed against the patient's neck, checking the patient's carotid artery.

"No pulse."

"Code Blue!" another page called over the loudspeaker, adding to the tension.

We're here already, Amy thought, refusing to be distracted in case she was needed.

"Code Blue! Room two-twenty!"

"What?" The doctor turned his head.

"Has to be wrong," Polly said, surprised.

"Double-check," he said, nodding at Amy, who quickly slipped out of the room and caught up to two nurses headed rapidly down the hallway.

"Let's go," Reba, a tall RN with a single braid falling down her back said to Amy. She was hurrying, the braid swinging side to side as she tried to keep up with Brad King, a male nurse with a trimmed beard and long, athletic stride.

Avoiding an orderly heading in the opposite direction, Amy hurried to fall into step with Reba. "Wait," she said, trying and failing to keep up. "The patient who's coding is in two-o-six." She hooked her thumb in the direction of Mr. Donnerly's room.

"Yesterday's news," Brad said over his shoulder as he broke into a jog and Reba followed suit. "We've got another patient coding."

Two cardiac arrests on the same floor at the same time? It happened, of course, but very infrequently. "But-Hold up." Amy was processing what the senior nurse had said. "Two-twenty?" she repeated, hoping she'd misunderstood. "Isn't that the sheriff's room?"

"That's right," Brad confirmed as he pushed open the door of the room where the patient lay unmoving, his chest no longer rising and falling, his pallor weak, his eyes closed.

Oh, no.

His heart monitor was visible from the doorway and the green line moving across the screen remained level, not so much as b.u.mping the slightest as a piercing sound that should have been softly beeping was a steady, ominous warning.

Brad moved to the patient's side and started compressions on his chest as Reba found the bag valve mask to force air into the patient's lungs.

"Make sure the doc knows that we've got a second cardiac arrest. We need a defib cart ASAP!" Brad was still working over his patient as he barked at Amy.

"The cart's in Mr. Donnerly's room-"

"Order another one."

"There's only one on the floor."

"Then get one from another floor. STAT!" he ordered as he worked over the patient who, so far, wasn't responding. His heart monitor showed a flat green line, its high-pitched whine piercing. "For Christ's sake, move it!"

Amy was already turning into the hallway to get more help, but her own heart was pounding double-time at the thought of losing this patient, who just happened to be the sheriff of Pinewood County.

Chapter 5.

Hearing the sound of another vehicle approaching, Pescoli looked up and squinted through the curtain of falling snow. She and Alvarez were about to leave the O'Halleran ranch as they'd already taken statements and looked around as much as they could in the frigid conditions. The victim's body had been taken to the morgue, the emergency workers had left, and the O'Hallerans had returned to their house. A guard was still posted near the front gate and the crime scene team was still finishing up gathering trace evidence, but her work was done.

A Jeep emerged, twin headlights cutting through the gloom, big tires kicking up snow. The driver parked next to the crime scene van, cut the engine, and emerged swiftly. Blackwater.

"Just what we need," Pescoli said under her breath. Half expecting to see the KMJC news van following in his wake, she glanced to the ruts cut into the snow where half a dozen or more vehicles had come and gone, mashing the snow beneath dozens of tires.

But Blackwater was alone, no entourage of reporters following.

A first. Well, that wasn't really the truth, but she wasn't in the best of moods after losing her breakfast and dealing with the bitter cold as, potentially, another nutcase of a killer was making his presence known in this part of the Bitterroots.

Blackwater's expression was grim as he strode through the powder to her vehicle.

"We're just about done here. Wrapping things up," Pescoli told him.

"Good. I need to talk to the both of you. In person." A muscle worked in his jaw.

"Something up?" Pescoli asked as Alvarez's eyes narrowed a fraction.

He hesitated, glanced at the woods for a second, then forced his gaze back to the two detectives standing before him. "Bad news," he said.

Pescoli felt her back muscles tighten. "What?"

Beside her, Alvarez drew a sharp breath as if she guessed what was coming.

"It's the sheriff," he said solemnly, the corners of his mouth twisting downward. "He didn't make it."

"What?" Pescoli exploded. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, G.o.d." Alvarez leaned hard against the front panel of Pescoli's Jeep, her knees buckling. Her face had washed of all color and she was shaking her head. Even as she did, she made the sign of the cross over her chest.

"No!" Pescoli stared down Blackwater and fer vently shook her head. "Not Dan Grayson. There must be some mistake."

"I wish there was." Blackwater seemed sincere, holding back his own emotions. "Grayson's heart stopped. A Code Blue was issued, and as I understand it, the team was there in seconds, trying to get him going again. Spent nearly forty minutes trying to get a pulse-defibrillation, epinephrine, whatever it is they do to bring someone back, but it was over. They couldn't revive him." He glanced from Pescoli who'd gone numb with disbelief to Alvarez who turned her head away, probably to hide her tears.

"What the h.e.l.l happened?" Pescoli demanded, gesturing angrily. "He was getting better. Stable, that's what the hospital and his d.a.m.n doctor said. They even moved him out of ICU because he'd improved, right?" She didn't wait for an answer. "He was shot in the head, not the heart, for Christ's sake! His heart was fine. Strong." She swung back to look at Alvarez for confirmation, but her partner didn't respond. To Blackwater, she snapped again, "What the h.e.l.l happened?"

"The hospital is checking. Could be that the injuries he sustained were too much for him and his heart just stopped," Blackwater said without his usual bl.u.s.ter. To his credit, he seemed genuinely disconsolate. "I don't know. No one does. Yet. He'd been through a lot."

"Through a lot and out the other side!" Pescoli insisted, though the truth, like the steadily falling snow, was cold and bleak as it settled over her. "Oh . . . oh Jesus," she finally said in a rush as she started to believe what Blackwater was saying.

"I came out to tell you myself, so you wouldn't hear it on the police band or the news or from someone else."

Alvarez let out a soft moan.

"They told us he would be all right," Pescoli said. "And those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds lied." Turning to Alvarez, she said, "Let's go."

"Where?" her partner asked and even as she did, she seemed to stiffen her spine, to gain control, her mask of always cool detachment slipping back into place.

"To the hospital to get some d.a.m.n answers. To find out what went on, why they lost him." As she said the words, the full truth hit her like a ton of bricks. Grayson was gone. Forever. She'd been there when he'd been shot and in her mind's eye, it was Christmas morning once more and she watched in horror as the bullets from a hidden a.s.sa.s.sin's rifle had struck the tall man with kind eyes and a thick moustache.

Grayson's body had spun with the first bullet, his ever-present Stetson flying off his head, the split kindling he'd been carrying flying end over end to land on the snow-covered earth. With the second shot, his head had snapped back and he'd fallen to the snowy ground and lay inert. Pescoli, who had been driving to his house to ask about cutting back her hours, never got the chance.

She'd been the first responder, viewed his blood, prayed like she'd never prayed before and then had sworn vengeance on his a.s.sailant, that coward who had hidden in the snowdrifts with a high-powered rifle aimed straight at Dan Grayson.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h!" she said angrily and kicked one of the Jeep's tires in fury.

"You're not going anywhere," Blackwater said. "You've got a new case to investigate with the Jane Doe found right here, so I suggest you start." He frowned. "h.e.l.l, I know this is a blow for the two of you and the whole department. That's why I came out, but that doesn't mean we still don't have jobs to do." Snow was collecting on the brim of his hat and shoulders of his jacket. Though there was a trace of compa.s.sion in his eyes, he remained rigid, ever in charge. "The Missoula police are on the scene and the hospital is double-checking every procedure, all of his vital signs records, every report and notation. Of course, there will be an autopsy."

"f.u.c.k the autopsy!" Pescoli said, her anger exploding. "I'm going to the hospital, whether you like it or not!"

"Detective," he warned.