WAKING EVIL.

by Kim Bahnsen.

For Michelle-.

who was brave enough to join the family first and has been enriching our lives ever since.

We love you!

Prologue.

The canopy of trees blocked the full moon, allowing only an occasional sliver of light through the dense foliage. The branches were intertwined, like the fingers of lovers, but there was nothing romantic about the still, waiting air of the woods. Even the nightly serenade of nocturnal creatures was silenced for the moment in an eerie lull.

"C'mon." Robbie Joe gave a slight tug to Becky Ritter's hand as he sent a quick glance behind them. No lights. The others hadn't gotten this far yet. "Told you this was a shortcut. We're goin' to beat everyone for sure. The trail is right over here."

"That little bitty thing?" Becky came to a complete halt, playing the beam of the flashlight over the direction he'd indicated. "Robbie Joe Whipple, that is not a trail. It's barely an animal path and leads right through those brambles. My legs are goin' to get all scratched up if we follow it." To remind him of the seriousness of the possible damage, she shone the flashlight on the legs in question. And they were, to Robbie's adolescent mind, the stuff of fantasies, left bare by minuscule denim shorts. He could imagine how they'd feel under his hands, sleek and smooth, or better yet, wrapped around his hips, tight and demanding.

But even more vividly, he could imagine beating everyone else back to Sody's parking lot, lording it over the rest of the losers when they came straggling in. Or better yet, rubbing his feat in the face of that hotshot Timothy Jenkins, who was really such a candyass he probably would never get out of the car if he did make it to the woods.

When Becky didn't respond to a discreet tug on her hand, he switched tactics. "Girl, I purely can see why you wouldn't want a scratch on those fine legs of yours." He didn't have to feign the admiration in his tone. "And I swear on my granddaddy's grave, if you get one little ol' mark on 'em, I will personally apply my grandma's special ointment to every square inch. Scout's honor."

She giggled and gave him a slight push. "Don't you try your fast talk with me, Robbie Joe. I've heard 'bout your reputation."

"Now don't you go believin' everythin' you hear." Wise advice, since anything that would have reached her ears had been manufactured, exaggerated, and repeated by him in a diligent and as yet unsuccessful quest to end his blasted state of virginity. "If it gets too thick in there, we'll turn back. You have my word on that."

But still she hesitated, looking over her shoulder and inching closer to him. "What about those sounds I heard earlier? The ones that sounded like screams."

"Told you, it was probably just a bobcat. And they're scared of humans, so it'll make itself scarce when it picks up our scent." He hadn't actually heard the sounds she referred to, doubted that she had either, but he wasn't going to quibble with an opportunity to get his hands on the girl the football team called "Backseat Becky." Slipping his arm around her waist, he gave her a light hug and hoped her reputation was more deserved than his own. "I'm not lettin' anythin' happen to you. And I'm not gonna let Cami or Merilee get that batch of switchgrass back to Sody's before you and blather about it for the rest of the summer."

"That's true." To his relief, she began moving toward the path. "Cami does like to go on. And if Merilee and Jon win, we'll never hear the end of it, either." Merilee was her latest frenemy, although the girls spent so much time together Robbie had to wonder when Becky had had occasion to earn her famed reputation.

"Here, give me the flashlight." He noted that the beam had gone dimmer and prayed the batteries lasted until they got out of the woods. He hadn't made this trip for years, not since he was a kid, and never at night. With false bravado, he said, "I know this area like the back of my hand. We'll be back at Sody's before the rest of those guys even get here." Already he was wondering how many of the other couples would make it this far. Easy to talk big back at Sody's. But laughing at local superstition safely in town was a lot different than being smack-dab in the center of the woods at near midnight.

He swallowed, wished for some water. The night air felt thick and close, as if the dense canopy above shut out oxygen the way it did light.

It was slow going, seeing as how he had to hold the briars out of the way each time for Becky to walk through. And the trail had gotten more overgrown since the last time he'd been here-what? Three years ago? He hoped they'd still be able to get to Ashton's Pond this way. Becky would never forgive him if they had to turn back without getting that batch of switchgrass that would prove their bravery to the others.

"Oh my gosh, this is so spooky." Becky's giggle sounded a little strained. "How much farther to the pond, do you think?"

"It's not far now," he lied, although, truthfully, Robbie couldn't recall exactly how much longer they'd have to walk. He tripped, nearly fell, and threw a hand up to halt Becky while he played the light over the ground beneath him. "Watch out for this log. Almost fell on my ass."

But when he tried to help her over it, Becky stood stock-still. "What . . . what's that?"

Those looming shadows had to be trees, didn't they? Trees and thickets and overgrown brush. He played the flashlight around, saw nothing but a pair of yellow eyes peering at him from a low hanging branch.

Relief flooded him. "That? It's just an owl, Becky. Can't hurt you."

"Not that, 'tard. That!" She flung her hand out, her voice growing shriller. "Where's that fog comin' from?"

He saw it then, little curls of vapor rising from the ground. Wrapping around tree trunks, winding through bushes. A sheet of ice kissed his skin. Because this was no ordinary fog, that was for damn sure. This was red mist. The stuff of local legends.

For an instant, for one terrifying moment, Robbie Joe was afraid he was gonna pee himself then and there. He didn't even have time to be grateful for the way Becky launched herself into his arms, barely registering that the position had her boobs flattened against his chest. He could only focus on the fog-the red mist-and how it wound around his legs, seeming to grow thicker by the moment.

"Shit," he whispered, his mind blank with panic. His muscles went tense as he poised to run, to race the hell out of there, the dare be damned. But then he saw the lights. Little dancing balls of it, flickering all around them, bouncing high and then skipping from shadow to shadow. He went limp with relief. "Sheeeee-it," he repeated, louder this time, and added a laugh for emphasis. "If that's the best you can do boys, you need to spend more time in chemistry. Mr. Stokowski would be purely disappointed that you couldn't come up with anythin' better than this."

"What?" Becky hissed her fingers clenched on his sides. "What is it?"

With his free arm he guided the girl in the direction of the pond again, kept his voice loud enough to be overheard by the guys who must be hiding nearby. "Just some of the assholes thinkin' they can scare us with some lame-colored smoke and covered flashlights." Leastways, he figured that's how they did it. Chemistry, or school in general, wasn't his strong suit. "C'mon, we gotta hurry."

He held tight to Becky, and she stumbled along beside him, questions spilling from her lips. "How do you know it's them? How do you know it's not . . . ?"

"Because there's no such thing as the red mist," he said grimly. "It's all a bunch of superstitious shit dreamed up by drunks in our parents' generation." But there wasn't a doubt in his mind that it was his generation responsible for him nearly disgracing himself back there.

Already he was plotting revenge. Which ones were in on the joke? Arends, for sure, that rat bastard. Maybe even Gallop. Yeah, this was Lenny Gallop's speed, all right. He heard nothing around him. Certainly not Gallop's obnoxious donkey bray of a laugh. Which meant the guys were already heading back to Sody's to tell how they scared the shit out of Robbie Joe Whipple.

And everyone would have a good laugh at his expense. The knowledge burned in his chest. He'd never hear the end of it, no matter how many times he denied falling for the prank. Unless he put a spin on it, walked back into Sody's with a handful of the switchgrass everyone was supposed to get, and act like he hadn't been phased a bit. Shoot, was that s'posed to scare me? Must not have spooked me much if I went ahead to the pond and got this.

Becky was breathing hard, but he barely noticed. He was too concerned with the upcoming scene back at Sody's. Yeah, that's how he'd play it, calm and unconcerned. Looks like I was the only one with the balls to go clear to the pond. So who you callin' the candyass?

"You're sure it was some of the guys?" Her voice was shaky. "Because the fog's up here, too."

"Yeah. But we're goin' to show them all up when we get back with that switchgrass." They broke through the trees ringing the water then, stepped into the clearing with a suddenness that was disorienting.

"They must be still 'round here," Becky whispered. "The lights . . . see them? If they're doin' that somehow with their flashlights . . ."

"Maybe that part wasn't them." And he was in no mood to linger here, even if his friends were still somewhere in the woods behind him. Ashton's Pond wasn't inviting in the daylight, and night didn't improve the atmosphere. Its deep, dark depths were still, and he knew from experience that the waters held a smell that didn't wash off the skin, no matter how you tried. He'd seen copperheads here before, and Robbie played his flashlight carefully over the area to be sure they wouldn't encounter one.

"Those lights are probably just caused by fireflies. They have those special ones in the Smoky Mountains. Ever hear 'bout that? They all turn on and off at the same time."

"Oh." Becky's voice was steadier now. "It's sort of pretty. And . . . wait!" She grabbed his arm, guided the flashlight to the weeds growing near the water's edge. "There's the switchgrass. All we have to do is cut some and head back. Where's your knife?"

He dug in his jeans for his pocketknife and opened it before handing it to her. She walked gingerly on the mucky ground surrounding the pond before squatting next to the weeds, while he trained the flashlight on the clump she was interested in.

"If you're right, and some of the guys were back there, then some of the girls are in on it, too," she said, her voice muffled by her position.

Robbie was only half listening. Her shorts were low riders, and her position gave him an excellent view of the crack of her ass. He was more a tit man himself-at least he'd like to be-but Becky did have a very fine ass. Timothy Jenkins claimed to have tapped it on prom night, but Jenkins was a liar about most things, so his story about pounding it to Becky doggy style in the back of his mama's van was most likely a fantasy. But the vision did hold an allure that Robbie Joe couldn't help but contemplate.

"If I find out that Merilee planned this with Jon, I'll slap her senseless." She sawed at the clump with determined motions. "You and I will have to synchronize our stories. We don't want them tellin' everyone that we . . ."

Her scream then echoed across the pond and back, reverberating through his skull, bouncing off the trunks of trees surrounding the area. She scuttled backward, whimpers coming from her lips in staccato bursts. When she hurtled into his arms, the flashlight went sailing from his limp fingers. He stared in horror at the sight she'd uncovered.

The flashlight rolled, its beam bouncing crazily until the Mag-Lite came to a rest shining on the spot where Becky had been cutting switchgrass at the pond's edge.

Spotlighting the human foot that had been hidden by the tall grass.

Attached to a body immersed in the cool dark water.

Chapter 1.

The helicopter landed in the clearing with a slight bounce before settling on the ground again for good. Ramsey Clark shouted her thanks to the pilot, shoved open the door, and jumped lightly to the ground, her lone bag slung over one shoulder. She ran in a crouch to avoid the rotors, heard the whop-whop-whop behind her indicating the pilot taking off.

She jogged toward the cluster of four people waiting nearby. The three men wearing suits each held a hand over his tie to prevent it from dancing in the breeze generated by the chopper's rotors.

"Director Jeffries." The hand she offered was engulfed in the older man's pawlike grip and squeezed until she had to hide a wince. The chief of Tennessee Bureau of Investigation hadn't changed much in the years since she'd left its ranks. His craggy face might be a little ruddier. His mop of white hair a bit shorter. But his six-foot frame was still military straight and as lean as ever.

"Good to see you again, Clark. I hear you've been makin' quite a name for yourself with Raiker Forensics."

Since the director wasn't prone to flattery, and since he could have heard it only from Adam Raiker himself, Ramsey allowed herself to feel a small glow of satisfaction. "Thank you, sir. I think I've learned a lot."

Jeffries turned to the two men flanking him. "TBI agents Glenn Matthews and Warden Powell. You'll be assigned to their team. If you need more manpower, give me a holler and I'll talk to the boss."

Ramsey nodded her appreciation. Jeffries had no superior at TBI, so they were being given carte blanche. Raiker had told her to expect as much.

The director turned to the man in the sheriff's uniform on her right. "I believe you know Sheriff Rollins."

Frowning, she was about to deny it. Ramsey knew no one in Buffalo Springs, Tennessee. But the sheriff was taking off his hat, and recognition struck her. "Mark Rollins?" She shook her former colleague's hand with a sense of deja vu. "I didn't know you'd left TBI."

"Couple years ago now. Didn't even realize I was interested in movin' back home until the position of sheriff was open." Rollins's pleasantly homely face was somber. "Have to say, tonight's the first time I've regretted it."

"I assume you've looked at the case file."

Ramsey's attention shifted back to Jeffries at his comment. She nodded and he went on.

"Rollins has his hands full here calmin' the local hysteria, and after a week, we aren't progressin' fast enough to suit the governor's office. The area is attractin' every national media team in the country, and the coverage is playin' hell with his tourism industry expansion plans." The director's voice was heavy with irony.

"I understand." And she did. Being brought in as a special consultant to the TBI pacified a politically motivated governor and diminished some of the scrutiny that would follow the department throughout the investigation. If the case drew to a quick close, the TBI reaped the positive press. If it didn't . . . The alternative didn't bother her. Ramsey had served as shit deflector many times in the past in her capacity as forensic consultant. If the investigation grew lengthy or remained unsolved, she would be served as sacrificial lamb to the clamoring public. Or to the state attorney's office, if someone there decided to lay the blame on Jeffries.

"Raiker promised a mobile lab."

"It'll be here tomorrow. But for certain types of evidence, we may need access to the TBI facility on an expedited basis."

"We'll try to speed any tests through the Knoxville Regional Lab." Jeffries beetled his brows. "Just help solve this thing, Clark. It's causin' a crapstorm, and I don't want a full-fledged shit tornado on my hands."

Ramsey smiled. She'd always appreciated Jeffries' plainspokenness. "I'll do my best, sir."

"Can't recall a time that wasn't good enough for me." Clearly finished, he turned to his agents. "I'll expect daily updates. And keep me abreast of any major developments." Without waiting for the men's nods, he turned and strode briskly toward a road about a quarter mile in the distance. Ramsey could make out two vehicles parked alongside it.

"I'm guessin' you'd like to get on into town, drop your stuff off in the room we lined up for you," Mark was saying.

Ramsey shook her head. "I want to see the crime scene first." Since diplomacy was often an afterthought for her, she added belatedly, "If that's okay."

The sheriff raised a shoulder. "It's all right with me. What about you fellas? Want to come along?"

The two agents looked at each other, and Powell shook his head. "We'll head back." He shifted his gaze to Ramsey. "We're set up in the local motel on the outskirts of town. One room serves as our office. We got you a room there, too, when Jeffries told us you were comin'."

And by not so much as a flicker of expression did he reveal his opinion on her being brought in on the case, Ramsey noted shrewdly. She'd have to tread carefully there, with both agents, until she was certain how her presence here affected them.

"I'll check in with you when I get to town, and you can bring me up to date on your notes so far."

When the agents headed in the same direction Jeffries had gone, she turned to Rollins.

"Let me get that for you." He reached for her bag, but she deflected the gesture.

"I've got it, thanks." She fell into step beside him as they walked toward the tan jeep emblazoned with SPRING COUNTY SHERIFF in black lettering on a green background. "Tell me about the case."

"Same ol' Ramsey." A corner of Rollins's mouth pulled up. "Always with the small talk. Chatter, chatter, chatter." His voice hitched up a notch as he launched into a mock conversation. "Well, I'm just fine, Ms. Clark. And how have you been? How's that new job of yours? The wife? Oh, she's fine, too. Still adjustin' to small-town life, but the two little ones keep her pretty busy. What? You'd like to see pictures? Well, it just so happens I have a couple in my wallet. Got them taken at the local Wal-Mart just last month . . ."

"I can play the game if I need to," she replied, only half truthfully. "Didn't figure I needed to with you."

He stopped at the vehicle, his hand on the handle of the driver's door, his face serious again. "No, you don't gotta with me. Figure we go far 'nough back that we can just pick up. But you'll find you'll get further with some folks in these parts if you put forth the effort. I know you never had much patience for mindless chitchat, but the pace is slower 'round here."

She was more familiar than he knew with the unwritten customs and tradition demanded by polite society in the rural south. Had, in fact, spent her adult life scrubbing away most of those memories with the same ruthless determination with which she'd eliminated her telltale drawl.

Rather than tell him that, she gave him a nod across the roof of the car. "I'll keep it in mind." She opened the back door and tossed her bag on the seat behind the wire mesh used to separate prisoners from the law enforcement personnel. Then she slid into the front passenger seat.

He folded his tall lanky form inside and started up the Jeep while she was buckling in. Several minutes later, he abruptly pulled off the road and began driving across a field. After the first couple of jolts, Ramsey braced herself with one hand on the dash and the other on the roof of the car.

"Sorry." Rollins seemed to move seamlessly with each jar and bump. "It'd take half an hour for us to get there by road. The kids that found the body hiked across through the woods on the other side, but going in from this direction will be an easier walk, though I'm told it takes longer. Brought the body out this way."

"Has the victim been ID'd yet?"

"Nope. White female, between the age of eighteen and twenty-five. Found nude, so no help with the clothin'." A muscle jumped in Mark's jaw. "Not from these parts, is all I know. No hits from any of the national missin' persons databases. The medical examiner took a DNA sample, and we submitted the results to the FBI's system, but no luck."

So a Jane Doe, at least for now. Ramsey felt a stab of sympathy for the unknown woman. Maybe she hadn't even been reported missing. She'd died alone and away from home. Was that worse than being murdered in familiar surroundings? Somehow it seemed so.

"How valuable have the wits been?"

"What, the kids?" Mark shot her a look. "Told us what they knew, which didn't turn out to be much. Both scared silly, of course. Spoutin' nonsense about red mist and screamin' and dancin' lights . . . Tell you what I think." The Jeep hit a rut with a bone-jarring bounce that rattled Ramsey's teeth. "I think half is fueled by that blasted legend folks 'round here insist on feedin' regularly."

"Legend?" The case file contained only facts of the case. But when facts were in short supply, other details took on more importance.

Rollins looked pained. "Guess you'll be hearin' it from 'bout every person you talk to in town. I know I can count on you, out of anyone, not to be distracted by nonsense." Still, it seemed to take him a few moments to choose his words. Or maybe he was saving his strength for wrestling the Jeep. Beneath the spread of grass, the terrain was wicked.

"We've got somethin' of a local phenomena called the red mist. Someone else could explain it better, but it's caused by some sort of reaction from certain plants in the area comin' in contact with iron oxide in stagnant water, coupled with contaminants in the air. Once every blue moon, the fog in low-lyin' areas takes on a red tinge for a day or two. Nothin' magical 'bout it of course, 'cept the way it makes folks 'round here take leave of their senses."