"I walked from it to the house without incident." She doubted the same could be said if he insisted on accompanying her back to the vehicle.

He stopped and leaned a shoulder against the wall. "Okay."

"And you can drop that easygoing affable bit," she informed him, feeling surer of herself now that there was some distance between them. "I know it's just a facade to get what you want."

"Just because it gets me what I want doesn't make it a facade," he pointed out.

Ramsey waved a hand dismissively. "Whatever. It doesn't work with me. I'm not going to sleep with you, so you'd be wise to save your energy for . . ." She gestured to the equipment. "Your work."

"Good advice." He let her walk through the door. Get as far as the porch before adding, "Thing is, though . . . you kissed me back. I want you to remember that, Ramsey. 'Cuz I'm gonna have a heckuva time forgettin' it."

Up t' no good, the man was. Yessiree.

Ezra T. peered from behind the cool mossy tombstone at the person crouched in the center of the cemetery. That's what people said 'bout him sometimes, out in them woods. Up t' no good. He liked the sound of that. Made him feel like one of them spies in that show on TV.

He squinted his eyes. The man was too far away to tell who it was. But he seemed to be alone.

Disappointment surged. So it wasn't the couple he'd seen here once, he could tell that much. He'd watched them havin' butt sex in one of them little buildings with the dead people inside. Crept up real close, so he saw the whole thing. Got himself a good ol' stiffie, too.

Ezra T. knew 'bout butt sex. You got it when you was bad or done somethin' wrong. He and some of the other boys at the home in Memphis was bad sometimes. When he was, one of the workers, Tommy Lee, would creep in his room late at night. And would put a pillow over his head while he was hurtin' him, all the time whisperin' that was what happened to bad boys. Yessiree. And he'd get worse, lots worse, if'n he ever told anyone.

He'd never told. But when he got bigger, Tommy Lee started leavin' him alone, even when Ezra T. was very bad. And one time he'd been walkin' by and seen the man mop-pin' the floor real close to the big ol' steps leadin' up to their floor. Ezra T. had reached out quick as a snake and pushed Tommy Lee, hard. And stopped to watch him bounce and roll down to the bottom of the steps. Everyone said later that somethin' musta attacked Tommy Lee's heart and that's why he died. But Ezra T. knew better. 'Cuz that's what you got when you was bad. Yessiree.

He crept closer, quiet as a fox sneakin' up on a rabbit. The man wouldn't hear him, neither. Ezra T. could imitate any animal in the woods. The calls they made. The way they moved, all silent and quick. He was fast, though not as fast as the deer or the rabbits. But faster than the boys who chased him sometimes, chunkin' rocks at him and callin' names. Those boys didn't know what could happen to 'em when they was bad.

The man had set up some sort of light. That was stupid. Dead people didn't need lights. And he was takin' a bunch of stuff outta bags and turnin' them on with clicks and whirs. Ezra T. remembered that stuff. He'd seen it down at Ashton's Pond.

He'd seen that man there, too. Stryker, Duane had said his name was when Ezra T. told him 'bout it. Said the man chased haints and goblins and stuff.

That was stupid, too. Ezra T. coulda told the man dead was dead. He'd seen dead before, hadn't he? He oughta know.

Growing bored, he looked back toward the fence he'd climbed to get inside. He could go home. Or back t' the woods.

He gave a little shiver. But at home, Mary and Duane would be smokin' the smelly stuff and yellin' at him to get on outside. And the woods . . . he hunkered down behind another tombstone and wrapped his arms around his middle, rocked a little. He didn't want to hear the screams again. It was gettin' harder and harder to tell if they was in his head or comin' from deep inside the woods.

All he could be sure of was that woman they'd found-the one in the pond-had been very, very bad.

Yessiree.

Chapter 10.

If he hadn't stopped that afternoon and looked at a map of the cemetery, Dev would have been reduced to stumbling around for hours, shining a light on tombstones to find the one he wanted. As it was, he'd had little problem finding the first ones he was interested in located in one of the oldest parts of the area.

He wore a camper's light on his cap to keep his hands free. He shone the light on the stone in question. Despite their violent parting, Harold Bean and his wife Wilma rested for eternity side by side, sharing one stone. Squatting down to read the faded inscription, he realized with a jolt that the couple had been younger than he when they'd died. Wilma had been-he did a quick estimation-twenty-two and her husband eight years older. There were no children listed.

He scooped up the multifield meter and the temperature sensor. Neither had picked up anything out of the ordinary remaining stationary at the gravesite, so he'd walk around a bit to see if he got any activity.

With the Beans being the first identified victims associated with the pattern of the red mist, he'd figured they were the likeliest place to start. But before the night was over, he'd take a reading at the gravesite of each victim Donnelle had mentioned.

Including his daddy's.

There were many in town who wouldn't list Lucas Rollins in the victim column, but until Dev was finished with his own investigation here, he'd reserve judgment on that himself. Regardless what anyone else thought of him, or of his profession, he was first and foremost a scientist. He was interested in proof. What constituted that just differed a bit from what satisfied the law.

He stepped surely around the overgrown graves, headed by pitted and crumbling headstones. The cemetery was located on the outskirts of town, with the newest area on the other side of the site, its markers gleaming and shiny. But he'd always preferred this section, with the huge old trees seeming to spread their branches protectively over the dead.

He'd played here as a kid, he recalled, with friends from town. They'd fought their fair share of Indians and waged more than a few intergalactic battles before invariably being shooed away by the groundskeeper.

The memory brought a smile. Eddie Hammonds had been in charge of the place then, and he'd always pretended to turn a blind eye to their presence for a couple hours before chasing them off. The new guy he'd met this afternoon had gotten all pinch-faced and disapproving when Dev had shown him the note from Mark, typed on sheriff's department letterhead, requesting he'd be allowed access to the place tonight. But there had been little he could do, other than to snappishly demand that Dev lock the old iron gates behind him when he left.

It was a pretty certain guess that kids weren't allowed in here to play these days.

Lora Kuemper hadn't been listed on the plot chart he'd checked this afternoon. But ninety years ago, people were as likely to bury their dead on their property as in town in a cemetery, especially farm dwellers. Cal Hopkins's name, though, had been found, and it was to his grave that Dev made his way now.

He'd spent his fair share of nights in cemeteries over the years, but this was the first time he hadn't had to drag along machines specifically to detect hidden sound or technological equipment. He didn't have to worry about disproving alleged hauntings this time around.

As he walked, he idly played the laser pointer of his infrared digital thermometer around the area. The temperature sensor gave an instant reading, and more than once it reflected a relative cold spot, what some would insist indicated a spiritual presence. Dev would have liked to investigate the spots further, but he forced himself to stay on task. It really wasn't important whether former residents of Buffalo Springs were resting peacefully. What mattered was whether those associated with the red mist still felt the need to make their presence known.

In the end, he found no signs that Cal Hopkins's spirit was raising paranormal hell. Lucien Tarvester hadn't been buried here, so he made his way across the graveyard to a slightly newer section.

To the section that housed his daddy's grave.

He stopped at the sites of Jessalyn and Sally Ann Porter first. Paused a long time, watching the illuminated dial of the multifield meter intently. Interestingly, there was a bit of activity, with the needle swinging slowly back and forth before settling into a normal setting. Which made him wonder whether that was . . .

"What do you think you're doing?" A hard cold hand landed on his shoulder.

"Jesus!" Dev jumped like a flea off a wet dog. Logically, he knew it wasn't Jessalyn Porter demanding he state his business. But he was startled enough that he stumbled backward a bit, landing against a body that was all too solid.

Swinging around, recognition flickered. The person was only slightly more welcome than had it been one of the long-time residents of the cemetery resurrected to accost him. "Ah . . . evenin', Reverend."

Reverend Jay Biggers glared at him, shielding his eyes from the glare of the illuminated lamp on Dev's cap. "Stryker." Somehow he'd always managed to make the name sound like a curse. "What are you up to sneakin' 'round here in the middle of the night? Decent people are sleepin' at this hour, not out desecratin' the graves of others' loved ones."

"You'll be happy to know I only desecrate on the third Wednesday of the month. The graves are safe for the time bein'." Dev shifted a bit to avoid stepping on the nearest plot as he put a little distance between them. Biggers had the dour demeanor of a revivalist preacher at an atheist convention and had always smelled, Dev thought fancifully, a bit of brimstone.

The man stared distrustfully at the instruments he still held. "Tell me you aren't despoilin' this hallowed ground by your ghost-huntin' antics. This is an abomination, Stryker. I demand that you leave immediately."

"I'll be done in another hour or so."

"Right. This. Instant!" The man's voice quivered with the same fervency he usually reserved for the pulpit. But his zeal was lost on Dev.

"The thing is, Reverend," Dev started reasonably, "You don't really have the right to be orderin' me off the premises. This isn't church property, it's county. I have permission to be here, which, I have to point out, you don't. So technically . . ." He paused a moment to watch the vein in the man's prominent forehead begin to throb. "You're the one without a right to be here now, not me."

"Right? Right?" The man's face, usually sallow, went florid. "My position grants me the right. God himself grants me the right."

"A powerful friend, but in this case, he's trumped by the sheriff. I'll leave when I'm done here and not before."

The man's large worn hands clenched at his sides. "I have to say I'm not surprised at your flagrant disregard for simple decency. Given your bloodline."

The urge to punch the man didn't stem from his words. No, that temptation arose from Dev's sudden vivid memory of summer bible camp when he'd been about ten. The churches in town joined forces when it came to saving the local youngsters' souls from the devil that would likely lodge there given too much free time. That particular summer it had been Biggers's turn to supervise the events. One day he'd delivered a particularly impassioned sermon on sin, and with his gaze fixed on Dev, had assured the unruly group that murderers burned in hell for all eternity.

It had been the last day his granddaddy had forced him to spend in bible school.

"I'm sure you've saved many a soul with that Christian attitude of yours," Dev said tightly. Because it seemed wiser, he began moving away. "Maybe if your tolerance was as well-developed as your self-righteousness, your wife wouldn't have run off with the Schwan's man a few years back." A low blow, but Dev didn't mind fighting dirty with bullies, especially so-called moral ones.

"You'll be condemned to perdition, Devlin Stryker," the man's voice thundered behind him. "You'll burn in hell for this godless activity you embrace."

"See you there. In the meantime, you're violatin' a county ordinance by bein' here at night. I'd advise you to leave before I tip off the sheriff."

"We've got a couple prints that can't be matched to any of the kids' shoes. Here." Powell tapped one picture from the array on the table in front of them. "And here."

Ramsey narrowed her eyes as she studied the photos. Most of the kids had been wearing sneakers, which seemed to be part of the teen uniform these days. But Robbie Joe had had boots on that night. And from the look of these photos, someone else had, too.

She snatched up the magnifying glass a second before Matthews reached for it and took a closer look. Trampled was the best description of the area around the shore of the pond. Print over print. But with the magnification, she could see that the sneaker prints, and the boot print attributed to Robbie Joe, were on top of the faint boot marks that had been made sometime earlier.

"Still no way to know if those footprints were made by the perp," Matthews pointed out, leaning uncomfortably close to peer over her shoulder. Ramsey shrugged him away.

"Look at the heel marks on that boot print going toward the pond and the matching one leading away. The first one's deeper, isn't it?" If the UNSUB was carrying something heavy, like a body, the print going toward the water should be deeper than the one leading away from it.

Powell held up a sheaf of papers. "The techs made measurements from the casts we took and determined that it is. Glenn's right, there's no way to be certain. But it's sure possible they could belong to the perp."

Matthews straightened. "So all we have to do is check the boots of everyone in a tri-county area or so and we'll solve this thing."

Ramsey ignored his barely checked sarcasm. This gave them something to hold in reserve, for when they did get a suspect. Something that could tie the guy to the crime or eliminate him as suspect. As such, it was valuable, even if it didn't lead them to a specific individual right now.

"We should receive the LUDs for Frost's cell phone by the end of the day." Powell dropped the papers on the table and leaned both hands on it, looking from one of them to the other. "I'll update Jeffries while I'm waitin' for the phone records. I've already contacted the resort owner at Pine Lake. He affirms Quinn Sanders and Sarah Frost had reservations for the date in question. But someone needs to go down there and show him pictures of them and all the people they claim were with them. Get a positive ID, and then see if anyone there can alibi them for the time of death. Then we'll need statements from everyone who was in the Sanders group that weekend."

"I think Ramsey'd be best for-" Matthews started.

Powell interrupted him. "You're goin'. Do you good to give the women in Buffalo Springs a rest for a few days."

That surprised a half smile from Ramsey. She'd wondered just how much of Matthews's pastime that Powell was aware of. Apparently little got by the man.

"I'd like to run down that substance in the victim's stomach," she said. "Talk to the people around here who are known to dabble with healing or holistic health. See if I can get an idea of what the plant is, who uses it, and for what purpose."

Powell nodded. "I'd also like you to check in with that nail gal who gave you Frost's name again. Find out if the victim mentioned someone botherin' her. I have a meeting with Rollins this mornin', then I'll head back to Kordoba, too, and start talkin' to customers who frequented the bar, ask them the same thing." After a moment, he added, "How far have you gotten on the ViCAP printout?"

"Not far," she said blandly. In fact she'd looked at the huge stack of responses and immediately determined to narrow the search. "I want to resend a more specific request focusing on multiple attackers, foreign substance ingested, and the method of killing the victim."

He grunted. "That should keep you busy for a while. But in the meantime, start goin' through the responses we do have."

Ramsey caught Matthews's grin from the corner of her eye. Clearly he was feeling better about his assignment. Probably looking forward to a new locale for picking up unattached women.

But Ramsey was content enough with the tasks she'd been given, with the exception of the bottomless pile of ViCAP responses. She'd had a feeling from the beginning about the unidentified substance found in Cassie Frost's stomach.

Instinct told her if she found out what it was, it might just lead them to the killer.

After checking on Jonesy's progress sorting out the fibers they'd collected from Frost's apartment-and getting an unkind, growled response-Ramsey headed to her car. She figured she could put in a call to Tammy Wallace, the owner of the nail salon the victim had frequented, as she was driving into town.

The woman sounded harried when she answered. Ramsey had a moment to wonder just how busy a person could be who painted fingernails all day for a living before she began.

"I sure don't recall Cassie mentionin' anyone who was botherin' her," Tammy said in response to Ramsey's first question. "I think I told you she didn't offer much personal information. I didn't even know exactly where she lived."

"So she never mentioned her ex-fiance, either?"

There was a pause. "Is that what it was?" There was a measure of sympathy in her voice. "I got the feeling someone had hurt her badly. That she was sort of usin' some time to recover, you know? But she never seemed scared or anythin'. Just sort of . . . sad, I guess."

Ramsey paused her vehicle at the end of the drive, waited for a total of four cars to go by on the blacktop before pulling onto it. That constituted Buffalo Springs's morning traffic jam. "Did she ever talk about her sister?"

Again there was a short silence. She knew she'd taken the woman by surprise. "No-o." The word was drawn out. "If I'd had to guess, I'd have figured she didn't have one. Come to think of it, I think she might've told me she didn't have any family. That's odd, isn't it?"

Not really, Ramsey could have told her. God knew she didn't spend time talking about her own. Cassie had probably been doing her best to forget she had a sister. She'd been betrayed in the most intimate way possible by the two people she'd probably trusted most in the world.

Life, she reflected, could be a real bitch.

"Any of the other gals in your salon ever talk to her? Do her nails maybe?"

"Oh, no." It was clear from Tammy's voice that she'd ventured into a forbidden area. "She was my client, and no one else would have worked on her nails. But she got her hair cut here once. If you give me a few minutes, I can check on who cut it, if you'd like to talk to her."

Ramsey agreed to hold as she drove slowly into Buffalo Springs. It was, if one liked small towns, a sort of quaint place. The streets were wide and lined with storefronts, many of them still filled. Some had modern facades, but others, like the museum, had been restored to the original front, dating, she supposed, back well over a century.

Flags lined the streets, left over from Flag Day, and barrels of flowers dotted the curb and spilled bouquets of color in front of shop doors. And everywhere she looked, it seemed, there were small clusters of people passing the time of day.

Three older men sat on a bench in front of a barbershop that still had an old-fashioned striped pole. Kids rode bikes down the street with little heed for the intermittent oncoming traffic. A small group of people were gathered outside the car repair station; another set were talking on the steps of the post office. Most raised a hand in a friendly wave as she drove by, in the manner of people in a small town. Either they recognized you, figured they knew you, or soon would. Most would find the scene charming. Friendly.

Of course, most hadn't lived in a place similar enough for comparison. Most hadn't experienced walking by similar bunches of people. Hearing their conversations stop, only to start again a few moments later.

Most, she thought grimly, didn't realize the weight of the stigma that came from being born poor white trash in just this sort of town. How desperate the need to escape could be.

How that desperation could fuel decisions that were regretted for years afterward.

Tammy came back on the line then and introduced the hairdresser who had trimmed Cassie Frost's hair two months ago. Ramsey asked her much the same questions she'd asked Tammy, with the same lack of results. She disconnected the call just as she spotted a parking spot close to her destination.

Minutes later, she was pushing open the door to the Buffalo Springs Family Health Clinic to find herself in a surprisingly modern lobby area. She walked up to the front desk where a woman in her late fifties was multitasking by talking on the phone while typing at the computer. Her dark hair was liberally threaded with gray and worn in two soft wings on either side of her face. Her nameplate read Jenny Callison.

The woman smiled at Ramsey and lifted a finger long enough from the keyboard to indicate for her to wait a minute.

Ramsey used the interim to gaze around at the other occupants of the waiting area. There was a couple who were easily in their nineties, a bearded man holding a blood-soaked bandage to his hand, and a younger woman with a boy who looked as though his biggest health problem was boredom. He kicked at the legs of his seat with increasing volume as he stared in disgust at the ceiling while his mother flipped through a magazine.

When the receptionist disconnected the phone, she looked up at Ramsey with a warm smile. "Thanks for waitin'. How can I help you?"

"I'd like to see Doc . . . Doctor Theisen, if I could."