Richard knelt beside me in the snow, then carefully chipped away at the mound. He stopped after about a minute, studying it.

"Well?"

He pointed to an ice-encrusted protrusion. "See this, it's a pancreas."

"Human?"

"It sure looks like it to me." He straightened, looking at me expectantly.

"I think I'm ready to warm up my feet now."

We gathered our things, all but the shovel. I rubbed it down with my snowy glove to remove any stray fingerprints. We left it standing in the snow to mark the spot, and trudged back to the car.

I noted the odometer reading while Richard made a U-turn, then we headed back toward Holland. "Now what?" he asked.

"I guess we report it."

"How do you report something like this?"

I hadn't thought of that. "You have a lawyer in Buffalo?"

"Yes."

"Before we do anything, maybe you should call him. I don't want to be interrogated by the cops without one. Hayden already warned me off. When he finds out what we've found-"

"We?" Richard echoed.

"You were there, too."

His expression was grim. "What if we reported this anonymously?"

"Smart move. Otherwise how are we going to explain this? 'Uh, hi, I'm a nut-case fresh from the Big Apple. I found these guts on the side of the road.'"

He was not amused.

"And I'll tell you something else. Who do you think will be the prime suspect?"

Richard stared at me. "You, of course."

I shook my head. "I'm not the expert on anatomy."

It took a moment for that statement to sink in. He blanched. "Jesus."

I consulted the atlas. "Take the next cutoff. We have to get out of the area fast. Someone might remember the car. 'Course the California plates will confuse the cops for a while," I said, thinking aloud.

"We are going to report it, aren't we?"

"Sure, but I'd rather wait until we get back to Buffalo. From a pay phone. Then we'll hide Brenda's car in the garage." I stopped myself. "Do I sound paranoid?"

"Just a little," he said, and smiled. He was quiet for a while. "I owe you an apology."

"What for?"

"You knew where to find. . . ." His words trailed off. "I didn't want to believe you."

"Yeah, but you humored me."

"I was determined to prove you wrong once and for all. But this-this is creepy."

"Tell me about it. You're not the one it's happening to. But if you want the truth, I didn't know if we'd find them. On a gut level, I trust these feelings, yet I'm afraid to. I'm afraid to look like a fool. I keep hoping this blasted insight will just go away."

It was after two when we returned to Amherst. I dialed 911 from a pay phone in the parking lot of a Jubilee grocery store. Disguising my voice with a lousy Texas accent, I told them where to look, and hoped like hell they'd take me seriously. If not . . . I suppose it wouldn't matter; finding frozen viscera wasn't going to solve the case. But it was a stepping stone for me. Time to start adding things together.

I found Richard staring out his study window, sipping a dark Manhattan. Under my arm was the dog-eared manila envelope.

"Is the sun over the yardarm?" I asked.

"It is for me. It's not every day I find that kind of buried treasure."

"I can't wait to see the six o'clock news." I sat down behind his desk, moving his papers, books, and mementos aside. He watched as I spread out the newspaper clippings, my notes, and everything else I'd collected on the Sumner murder.

"I've got some ideas on who the killer is, but I want to bounce them off a neutral party."

"I don't know how neutral I can be, after this morning."

"Well, I figure we're in this together now, right?" He didn't say no, so I took that as assent. "You read the newspaper profile of the killer?"

"Yes."

"What do you think?"

"I don't have an opinion."

I handed him the clipping and he read parts of it aloud. "The assailant is probably between the ages of thirty-five to sixty, strong, an active outdoorsman or hunter. No known motive."

"I think they're wrong. I think the killer is little Jackie's mother."

"Which little Jackie? Which mother?"

"Sharon Walker. I have this funny feeling . . . and lately my funny feelings have been correct."

"What do you know about this woman?"

"Virtually nothing. She had a child on January tenth four years ago. I know her father had business dealings with Sumner. I know her father's company went bankrupt. That's it."

"That's what your friend, Maggie, told you, right?"

I nodded.

"How can you conclude she murdered him with just that?"

"I can't. That's why I have to find a way to prove it." I sat back in his chair. "Obviously there's no paper trail to lead the police to her."

"You mean checks, love letters-that kind of thing?"

I nodded. "That invitation I found in Sumner's office may be the only thing he kept."

"Are you sure it came from her?"

"Am I positive?" I thought about it for a moment. "No. But it seems likely."

"So what's her motive for murder?"

"I have no idea. But I'll find out."

Richard took a deep swallow of his drink and pulled up a chair beside me. "Okay. What've you got in mind?"

I savored the moment; he was hooked.

"First of all, a trip to the library downtown. They should have all the newspapers on microfilm or CD-ROM for the time when Walker Construction went under. I can lift names and interview the former executives or employees. If I can get a fix on this woman without tipping my hand-"

"But aren't her former co-workers likely to go straight to her and warn her about you?"

"Not if I can find a disgruntled employee or two. Someone with an ax to grind is likely to tell me the dirt that went on before the company collapsed."

Richard took another long pull on his drink. "This really is a nasty business you're in."

"Murder is a nasty business, and I think Sharon Walker killed Matt Sumner. And she did it in front of her son."

"You said that before. How do you know?"

"I kept getting all these feelings: fear, triumph, horror. It took me a week to sort it all out. The emotions came from all of them at the time of the murder. Somehow I got caught up in it. What's weird is I started feeling all this before Sumner was murdered. And, let me tell you, it's bad enough to have your own fears without experiencing somebody else's."

Richard studied me. "I still think this would make a fascinating study. You really should let UB's Psych Department-"

"No way! I'm not going to be anyone's guinea pig."

"Oh." He sounded disappointed.

"What do you have in mind?"

"I keep thinking about my grandmother. What is it you sense upstairs? What is it of her that's left up there? And why is it in my grandfather's room?"

"I've been wondering about that myself-trying to work up the courage to face it."

He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. "Well, I'm fortified. Let's go."

This wasn't how I'd planned to spend the rest of the afternoon. But I found myself following in his wake, glad it was still daylight. I didn't think I could face the old lady in the dark of night.

I started up the stairs, dread closing around my chest. Richard paused at the landing. As I topped the last step, he reached for my elbow to steady me. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," he said.

Panic churned through me. I was tempted, really tempted, to run back down the stairs. But- "If not now, it'll still be waiting for me tomorrow or next week."

My words sounded a whole lot braver than I felt.

Richard opened the bedroom door. The sun had disappeared behind the trees, leaving the room gloomy with shadows. Because I was prepared, whatever loomed inside did not reach out for me. I took a steadying breath and entered. The furniture was mahogany, just as I remembered it from glimpses years before. A faint odor of fresh paint still clung to the off-white walls. The new carpet was beige wall-to-wall. The room was pleasant, neutral, with absolutely no soul of its own. I stood in the center and concentrated. Murmuring voices echoed. Something that wasn't from the here and now?

"Well?" Richard asked.

I cocked my head, listening. "I hear something. Like voices behind a wall." I walked around the room and paused at a highboy, ran my hand across the top. The dread grew stronger, threatening to choke me.

Bright light flared behind me.

I whirled to find the shadows replaced by morning sunlight flooding through the windows. The rose-colored cabbage-flowered wallpaper was back. Mrs. Alpert stood in the doorway where Richard had been only moments before. Dressed in a drab wool skirt, with a crisp white blouse under a navy sweater, she looked like an ancient, stern librarian. She leaned on the cane in her right hand; in her left she clutched a piece of paper. Her bloodshot eyes bulged in anger; her paper-white skin was wrinkled ten years beyond what I'd ever seen.

"What is this?" she nearly screamed, her thin voice shrill in the virtual silence.

I turned to see what she was looking at. Old Mr. Alpert stood in front of his closet, fastening a cardigan, his skeletal, heavily veined hands fumbling with the buttons.

"None of your business," he said, and closed the door.

"You bought her flowers, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did. It's the least I can do for her now. Goodness knows I should've done more for her in life."

"How dare you say that to me? She took my boy. She stole him!"

"And you stole her child."

Dizziness rolled over me as I realized who and what they were arguing about.

The scene wavered, images colliding like a double-exposure. I could just make out Richard standing where I'd left him in the open doorway. His mouth moved, but I couldn't hear what he was saying.

As Mrs. Alpert stepped between us, the past obliterated him.

She leaned heavily on her cane, spittle flying as she spoke. "I took what was mine. Flesh of my flesh."

"You destroyed her-drove her insane."

Furious, she came at him, smacked him on the arm with her cane. "How dare you talk to me like that!"

Old Mr. Alpert glowered at her for a long moment, then without a word turned for the closet. He took out a suitcase, set it on the bed, and opened it. He crossed to the dresser.

"What are you doing?"

"Packing." He took out shirts, set them in the suitcase, then turned to another drawer, taking out underwear and socks.