Finally, I turn on the television, find the local news, and listen with half an ear as I unpack my clothes and put them away. I try to focus on the case as I set up my laptop and log onto my e-mail account. But the encounter with Tomasetti has left me unsettled. Combined with thirty-six hours without sleep, I can't concentrate and I'm too tired to be productive. I answer a few e-mails and head for the shower.

The truth of the matter is, I don't know where our relationship is heading. I enjoy being with him, working with him. My trust in him is absolute. I respect him on every level, and I believe those sentiments run both ways.

The long-distance aspect of our relationship has worked for both of us. We're too independent for anything too cozy. But I know that no matter how hard we try to keep things simple, relationships have a way of becoming complicated.

There are times when I think I love him. I want to be with him when I'm not. He's constantly in the periphery of my thoughts. When something amazing happens, he's the one I want to share it with. I honestly don't know if that's good or bad. Truth be told, it scares me. I can't seem to get past that little voice in my head that tells me what we have is too good to last.

I know my own heart, but so much of Tomasetti remains a mystery. Three years ago, he was married and had children. I don't know if he was happy or discontent or, like the rest of us, somewhere in between. He rarely speaks of his past. But I know he loved them. I know he loved another woman and had children with her. And I know the loss of them nearly killed him.

Sometimes, when he's untouchable, when I can't reach him, I wonder if she's the one he wants to be with. I wonder if he's still in love with her. I wonder if I'm with him because she isn't, if I'm competing with a dead woman.

The sound of my cell phone drags me from a deep and dreamless sleep. I fumble for it on the night table, flip it open, put it to my ear. "Burkholder," I rasp.

Even before I hear Tomasetti's voice, I know it's bad. When a cop is awakened in the middle of the night, it's never good news.

"We've got a body," he says without preamble.

I sit bolt upright, disoriented, my heart pounding. The room is pitch-black, and for an instant, I can't remember where I am. Then the case rushes into my brain, the missing Amish teens, the blood on the road, and I'm out of bed and reaching for my clothes.

"Is it Annie?" I ask as I jam my legs into my slacks.

"I don't know."

"Give me five minutes."

CHAPTER 10.

The glowing red numbers of the alarm clock tell me it's 3:53 A.M. when I go through the door. Tomasetti has already pulled the Tahoe up to the gravel area outside my cabin and is leaning against the pa.s.senger side's front fender, talking on his cell phone. The night is humid and still, and I smell rain in the air.

He cuts his call short as I climb in. A moment later, he's behind the wheel and we're idling across the parking lot. "h.e.l.l of a way to start the day," he growls.

"Tell me what you know," I say.

"Not much. There's no positive ID yet. But apparently, the victim is a young female."

I think of a young life cut short, the parents who will be notified in the coming hours, the family that will be shattered by the news. I feel the familiar rise of outrage in my chest.

The tires spew gravel as we pull onto the highway. Beside me, Tomasetti scans the darkened storefronts and black shadows of the foliage as we cross a bridge and head toward town. He's in cop mode, I realize, already hunting for the perpetrator.

"Where's the body?" I ask.

"In a creek, evidently. Guy out fishing found her."

I cringe at the thought. Murder is always horrific, but water somehow always makes it worse. In terms of evidence, it has just made our jobs exponentially more difficult. "Anyone on-scene?"

"G.o.ddard's en route." He tosses me a grim look. "We're closer."

"Coroner?"

"There's a team from Youngstown on the way."

I glance at him. He looks grim and tired and not quite friendly. He's not a good sleeper, and I suspect last night wasn't any different.

We pa.s.s through Buck Creek and head north on a narrow two-lane road that cuts through a heavily forested area. A few miles in, we come to a rusty steel bridge. A big Dodge Ram is parked on a gravel turnout. Tomasetti parks behind the truck, kills the engine, and grabs a Maglite off the backseat. "There's another one in the door panel."

I find the flashlight and swing open my door. The night sounds-crickets and bullfrogs and nocturnal animals-emanate from the thick black of the woods.

Tomasetti is already walking toward the truck. "Where the h.e.l.l's the driver?" he mutters.

I look around, but there's no one in sight. I set my hand on my revolver as we start toward the Dodge. Chances are, this call is exactly as it seems: a citizen who's stumbled upon a terrifying scene. But we're all too aware of the fact that where there is murder, there is also a murderer. More than one cop has been ambushed when he thought he was walking into a benign scene.

Lightning flickers on the horizon as I reach the truck. Tomasetti tries the driver's door, but it's locked. Using the Maglite, he checks the interior, sets his hand on the hood. "Still warm."

I drop to my knees, shine my beam along the ground. "No one underneath."

We're checking the truck's bed when I hear something large crashing through the brush on the other side of the bar ditch twenty yards away. At first, I think it's some kind of animal-a rutting buck or a black bear-charging us. Adrenaline skitters through my midsection. I raise my sidearm and spin to face the path cut into the trees.

Tomasetti rounds the front of the truck and comes up beside me, his Glock leading the way. "Police!" he shouts. "Stop! Identify yourself !"

A man bursts from the darkness, stumbles, and goes to his hands and knees in the gra.s.s. Both Tomasetti and I take a step back as he scrambles to his feet and lunges toward us. I catch a glimpse of a bald head and a tan flannel shirt.

"Jesus Christ!" he cries as he uses his hands to scale the incline.

"Hold it right there, partner," Tomasetti says. "I mean it."

His voice is deadly calm, but the man doesn't seem to hear him. He's either high on drugs or terrified out of his mind. Considering the nature of the stop, I'm betting on the latter.

I maintain a safe distance as the man regains his footing and stumbles up the side of the bar ditch. He's breathing so hard, he's choking on every exhale. He's slightly overweight and falls to his hands and knees in the gravel ten feet away.

Tomasetti dances back, keeps his weapon trained on the center of the man's chest. "Get your hands where we can see them."

The man is so out of breath, he doesn't raise his hands. "For G.o.d's sake, don't shoot! I'm the one who called the cops." He gulps air, chokes on his own spit, and begins to cough.

Scowling, Tomasetti lowers his weapon, but he doesn't holster it. "What happened?"

"There's a f.u.c.king dead body down there!" the man chokes out.

Tomasetti's eyes dart to the woods. Using his left hand, he shines the beam of the Maglite on the trailhead. Nothing moves. It's as if the forest has gone silent to guard the secrets that lie within its damp and murky embrace.

"Is there anyone else down there?" Tomasetti asks.

"I didn't see no one except that f.u.c.kin' body." He coughs, taking great gulps of air. "Just about gave me a heart attack."

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Danny ... Foster." The man raises his head and squints at us. "Who're you? Where's Sheriff G.o.ddard?"

I pull out my identification and hold it out for him to see. "You got your driver's license on you?"

He straightens and, still on his knees, digs out his wallet and thrusts it at me with a shaking hand.

Tomasetti comes up beside me and glances at the wallet, then frowns. "What are you doing down there?"

"F-fishing."

"At four o'clock in the morning?"

"Well, I gotta be at work at eight," he snaps.

Tomasetti holsters his sidearm, and I do the same.

The man looks from Tomasetti to me. "Can I get up now?"

"Sure," I say.

He hefts his large frame and struggles to his feet. He's a short, round man wearing oversize khaki pants, a flannel shirt, and a fishing vest. From ten feet away, I see that his crotch is wet.

"What happened?" Tomasetti asks.

"I was fishing by that deep hole down there, about a quarter mile in." Swallowing hard, Foster jabs his thumb toward the path from which he emerged. "I'd just put my line in when I noticed something on the bank, tangled up in some tree roots." He heaves a phlegmy cough. "I thought it was one of them mannequins, like at the department store down there at the mall. I put my light on it and got the shock of my life. Scariest d.a.m.n thing I ever saw."

"You sure she's dead?" Tomasetti asks.

"Her eyes were all f.u.c.kin' gla.s.sy and looking right at me." He blows out a breath. "She's dead all right."

Tomasetti digs out his cell phone, hits speed dial. I listen with half an ear as he explains the situation to G.o.ddard and asks him to set up a perimeter with roadblocks around this part of the creek.

"What did you do after you found the body?" I ask.

"I puked my guts out; then I called nine one one." He takes a deep breath, blows it out. "Then I got the h.e.l.l out of there."

The flash of blue and white lights on the treetops announces the arrival of a law-enforcement vehicle. I glance behind me and see a sheriff's department cruiser park behind the Tahoe.

"Where, exactly, did you find the body?" Tomasetti asks.

Foster thrusts a finger toward the mouth of the path. "Take the trail. You'll hit the creek a quarter mile in. Go another thirty yards and you'll see it on your right. There's a tree grows into the bank. Floods washed out the soil and the roots are exposed. She's jammed up in all them roots."

Beyond where Tomasetti stands, I see Sheriff G.o.ddard slide out of his Crown Vic, his Maglite in hand, its beam trained on the fisherman. "Danny?" he calls out. "That you?"

"Yeah, Bud." The man heaves a huge sigh. "I'm here."

The sheriff nods at Tomasetti and me, then turns his attention to Foster. "What the h.e.l.l you doing out here this time of the morning?"

"Fishing, like I always do. There're large-mouth ba.s.s down in that deep hole. I don't know why everyone keeps asking me that when I done answered already."

"Well," the sheriff drawls, "you know how cops are."

I see sheet creases in his face and I know he was also ripped from his bed, the same as Tomasetti and I, and he's not in a very good mood.

G.o.ddard shines his light on Foster's clothes. "How'd you get that mud all over you?"

Foster looks down at his pants, realizes his crotch is wet, and pulls out his shirttail to cover it. "I got so shook up when I found that woman down there, I dropped my flashlight and got off the trail. I fell down in some bramble."

Tomasetti looks at G.o.ddard. "You get a perimeter set up?"

G.o.ddard nods. "I got two deputies out there. State Highway Patrol's on the way. We're covered, but barely."

"We'd like to take a look at the scene, if it's all right with you," Tomasetti says.

The flash of relief that crosses the chief's face is palpable. Most cops are, to a degree, adrenaline junkies. When something big goes down, most want to be in the thick of it. Some, I would venture to say, have an overstated sense of morbid curiosity. G.o.ddard seems to break the mold on all counts. "Probably best if a bunch of us don't trample the scene," he says. "You two go on, and I'll wait for the coroner."

With Tomasetti in the lead, we descend the steep shoulder, cross through the bar ditch, and enter the path cut into the woods. The canopy closes over us like a clammy, smothering hand. Around us, the woods are dark and damp and alive with insects and nocturnal creatures. Mist swirls along the ground and rises like smoke from the thick undergrowth. Neither of us is dressed for wet conditions-no boots or slickers-and within minutes the front of our clothes is soaked.

The redolence of foliage and damp earth and the dank smell of the creek curl around my olfactory nerves as we move deeper into the forest. Dew drips from the leaves of the brush growing along the path and the treetops overhead. Mud sucks at our shoes. The low rumble of thunder tells me conditions are probably going to get worse before they get any better.

Tomasetti's Maglite penetrates the darkness like a blade. But the path is overgrown in areas and difficult to follow. Twice he veers off the trail and we have to backtrack.

"There's the creek."

I follow the beam of his flashlight and catch a glimpse of the green-blue surface of slow-moving water. We continue for a few more yards, and I spot the tree Foster mentioned. An ancient bois d'arc grows out of the steep bank, its trunk leaning at a forty-five-degree angle. "There's the tree."

My heart taps out a rapid tattoo as we approach the water's edge. Vaguely, I'm aware of the flicker of lightning overhead and the patter of rain against the canopy above. Tomasetti stops where the ground breaks off and shines the beam downward. The dead are never pretty, but water does particularly gruesome things to a corpse. I come up beside Tomasetti and my eyes follow the cone of light.

I see the glossy surface of the muddy bank, the spongy moss covering the rocks, and the spindly black veins of roots. My gaze stops on the gauzy fabric flowing in the current like the gossamer fin of some exotic fish. I see the white flesh of a woman's calf, a slightly bent knee, a waxy thigh. Lower, the foot is swallowed by the murky depths below. She's clothed, perhaps in a dress, but the current has pushed the skirt up to her hips, exposing plain cotton panties-the kind a young Amish woman might wear.

She's faceup; her left arm is twisted at an awkward angle and tangled in the roots. My eyes are drawn to the pallid face. Her mouth is open, as if in a scream, and full of water and leaves. A cut gapes on her lower lip. Her eyes are partially open, but the irises are colorless and cloudy.

"f.u.c.k me," Tomasetti mutters.

Looking at the body, watching her long hair ebb and flow with the current is surreal. Neither of us moves or speaks. The tempo of the rain increases, but I barely notice. I don't feel the wet or the cold. I can't stop looking at the dead girl, and I wonder how her life came to this terrible end so long before her time.

I pull myself back to reality. When I speak, my voice is level and calm. "How long do you think she's been there?"

"She's intact. No deterioration that I can see."

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. "No visible wounds," I say, thinking about the blood we found on the road that afternoon.

"Still wearing her underclothes."

But we both know it's no guarantee that a s.e.xual a.s.sault wasn't committed. Perpetrators have been known to re-dress their victims. "No makeup or jewelry. Nails are unpainted. Tomasetti, that dress is an Amish print."