But Ramsey's attention had been diverted. There was a flash of something in the trees beyond the house. "Is someone out in those woods?" She pointed a finger. "I saw something move."

The woman gave a quick glance over her shoulder. "I don't see nuthin'," she said, her words an ironic echo of her earlier declaration. "Pro'bly a deer."

"This deer was wearing overalls and a flannel shirt," Ramsey said drily. "Is Duane out there?"

"He's in the house. Y'heard 'em earlier, din't ya?"

Ramsey's attention returned to the woman. "Anyone else living here with you?"

"We don' got no kids, Duane 'n' me. Maybe someday."

Ramsey took the moment to fervently hope not. Digging into her pocket for a card, she held it out to the woman. "If you think of anything that you've forgotten, please call me at the number listed there."

"Ramsey." The woman studied her name as if she hadn't heard it earlier. "Odd sorta name for a woman."

With a tight smile, Ramsey started the vehicle. "I'm an odd sort of woman." And that was probably one of the few truths spoken here in the last few minutes.

Mary retreated toward the house, and Ramsey attempted to turn the car toward the drive without backing over one of the chickens.

In her rearview mirror, she saw the man again, this time taking cover in the trees lining the rutted drive. Maybe there was a meth lab somewhere in the woods surrounding the house. Certainly there was some reason Mary had grown more accommodating when Ramsey had bluffed about a warrant.

She'd mention it to Rollins and let him worry about it. It would be easy enough to check out whether Duane Tibbitts worked third shift at the mill, too. But as she bumped along the road watching for the lane to the next property, she had a feeling that the rest of the afternoon was going to be just as fruitless.

Dusk had settled, painting the normally sunny kitchen with shadows. "Please," Beau Simpson croaked. He tried to rise from the round-backed kitchen chair. A tap of the rifle barrel to his shoulder had him sinking again, fear congealing in a tangled knot in his stomach.

He swallowed, throat dry as dust despite the beer he'd just finished. "It don't gotta be this way."

"It has to be just this way, Beau." The other man's voice was calm. "You were trusted to do one job. And you fucked it up. They're goin' to identify the woman eventually. Do you get what that means? They'll identify her, and it's all your fault, because she never shoulda been found to begin with!"

Beau tried to think of something, anything to say. Could come up with nothing. If only Marvella would come home early for once from her Wednesday night pinochle game. Just once if she'd cut short the gossip and dessert, pick up Pammy Jo from her mother's, and come home and interrupt this scene. Give him time to think of another way.

"I thought someone was comin'," he defended himself. He'd seen lights in the woods. He had. "I figured dump her quick before I get discovered. Better that she be found than I be caught haulin' a dead body on my back."

"Better that you did your job and we wouldn't be in this mess. What was your job, Beau?"

He wasn't a man given to tears, but he started to cry then. Sobs racked his big frame. "I did what I could."

"What. Was. Your. Job?" The rifle barrel punctuated each word with a jab to the shoulder.

He didn't want to say it. Saying it would make it sound like he'd failed, and he'd done the best he could! And there'd been no harm done. Not really. Even discovering the woman's name wasn't going to lead anyone to them.

But in the end, the look on the other man's face had him swiping at his eyes with the back of his hand and obeying. Because that was what Beau always did when this man told him something.

"Wrap the chain around the body and dump it off the north side." The north side of the pond had the sharpest incline, reaching eighteen feet deep barely a foot from the edge.

"That's right. Instead you dumped her in a coupla feet of water and didn't weight her down at all." The voice had gone calm. Deadly calm.

Beau knew how dangerous this man was. Knew it didn't pay to cross him. But still he gaped in stunned disbelief when the shotgun, taken from his own gun rack, was shoved into his hands.

"You're gonna do the right thing now." The tone was low, persuasive. Beau stared at the gun barrel disbelievingly. Raised his gaze to see the man pull a handgun from his waistband at the small of his back. His gloved hands aiming it toward Beau.

"You're gonna wrap your lips 'round that barrel." The words were so cool and easy. As if describing how to take apart a carburetor. "Far enough inside that the bullet goes into your skull and not through the roof of your mouth. That's how you'll make this right."

"I ain't killin' myself . . . You're crazy!" Beau shoved to his feet, only to be stopped by the pistol pressed close to his temple. Slowly. Slowly he inched back down into his seat again.

"Yes, you are, and I'll tell you why. Because if you don't, I'm comin' for Marvella next time. You remember everythin' we did to the last one? What you did?" He waited for Beau to nod. "Well, it'll go worse with your wife. I'll make sure of that. Or maybe I'll just wait a few years and snatch Pammy Jo. Do her the same way."

The tears scalded his eyes now. Fear shredded his heart. "She's just a little girl!"

"You're the one needs remindin' of that, not me. You fucked up bad, but you can do the right thing here. You can save your family." The man reached over and guided the barrel to Beau's lips. "Otherwise . . . they're damned, Beau. All because of you."

Panic flooded his mind, a rising tide of fear. He couldn't think. Couldn't, not when the mental images the man's words had planted bloomed. Of Marvella stripped and stretched out like a whore. Of sweet li'l Pammy Jo, wrecked and ruined.

He began to shake, sweat dripping down his neck, his mind scrambling for a way out. But he realized there wasn't one. He'd seen what was done. He'd participated. And he knew what this man was capable of. He'd feared this all along, hadn't he? He'd known that failure wouldn't be tolerated.

His lips parted. He tasted cool metal and gun oil.

Listening to this man now wasn't his biggest mistake. It was listening to him in the first place.

He thought of his wife and little girl, and mourned wildly for the sight that would greet them when they walked in the back door.

And then he pulled the trigger.

Chapter 6.

Ramsey unlocked the mobile lab with one of the two keys that had been provided, and stepped inside. She'd worked with Jonesy enough to first pause in the small outer area to slip on a lab coat, shoe and hair covers, and plastic gloves before continuing into the lab. A frown of annoyance crossed her face when she didn't see Jonesy at work.

It was nearly eight A.M. Not exactly the middle of the night. Maybe the scientist had worked late getting the lab set up, but she'd explained she was in a hurry for the tests to get started, hadn't she?

She walked farther into the lab, looking more closely at the tubes and vials and machines covering its counters. One of the machines-she couldn't name it on a bet-was humming and a red light winked from its front panel. Maybe Jonesy had gotten started last night. Maybe he'd worked all night and was just now getting some sleep while the tests were . . .

A slight sound had her whirling toward the back of the RV. Just in time to see a bare-assed Jonesy coming out of the bedroom lodged in the rear.

The sight of his nudity seared her retinas. "Jesus!" Ramsey clapped a hand over her eyes. "Strike me blind now."

"God almighty, Ramsey." Jonesy squealed like a girl. She heard a door slam and sincerely hoped he was on the far side of it. "What the hell are you doing here at the butt crack of dawn?"

"Poor choice of words," she muttered. In a louder voice she called, "It's almost eight. Figured you'd be working by now."

"I'm not punching a clock, for Godsakes." She heard a door open a few moments later, followed by the sound of furious footsteps. "If I were, I wouldn't have been working my ass off until after two this morning. You want strictly eight to five, let me know right now. And take your damn hand away from your face!"

Ramsey cracked her fingers a fraction to make sure it was safe before lowering her hand. Jonesy was dressed-thank God-in a clean set of scrubs and booties on his feet.

"So you got started on the tests last night?"

The man glared at her. "You're a piece of work."

Belatedly, she reached for tact. "I appreciate the hours you're putting in. Really. Especially after the long drive yesterday. Ah . . ." She searched for more pleasantries. "Have you had breakfast?"

"I'd be having it now if you hadn't barged in."

"Because I'll be glad to get you something." If bringing him a doughnut and coffee from the motel office would placate him, she figured it was little enough to do. A happy scientist got quick test results. At least that's what she was counting on.

"Really?" He cast a wary glance toward her, obviously still smarting from their earlier encounter.

She could have told him she was the one who was going to carry those emotional scars for the rest of her days, but wisely kept the comment to herself.

"I wouldn't mind a cheese omelet. Maybe some hash browns. Do they do biscuits and gravy down here? I'll bet they do. A couple pancakes. Blueberry if they have them. Maybe you should write this down."

Ramsey opened her mouth to protest. Going a few yards to the motel office and heading downtown to a restaurant for take out were two very different things. "I was on my way to the sheriff's office." The look on his face had her acquiescing with ill grace. "But I can stop first and bring something back for you." She seemed to recall Mary Sue mentioning a place that served breakfast in town.

Ramsey waited while Jonesy rummaged around for a paper and pen to write down his order, the irony not lost on her. Her playing nice would keep the man happy. But it wasn't going to do a thing to erase the sight of his nudity from her memory. It was enough to make her wish for selective amnesia.

The din in The Henhouse almost had Ramsey, by no stretch of the imagination a morning person, backing out again. It was packed, and the voices of its many occupants melded into a drone reminiscent of its namesake. With a quick glance around, she saw that all the booths were filled, but there was an empty stool at the counter, so she slipped onto it.

A harried-looking waitress stopped to fill the coffee cup of the woman next to her, so Ramsey said, "Excuse me, do you . . ." And then stared at the woman's back when she flitted away as quickly as she'd stopped, refilling cups all the way down the counter.

"You'll have to be faster than that if you expect to get Vicki's attention," observed the woman at her side.

"I guess." Ramsey looked at the woman and was struck with a vague sense of familiarity. "Do they have take-out here?"

"Yes, and you really won't have to wait long for Vicki to come zippin' back so you can order. She's got a method to her, and if you let her go, she's pretty systematic."

"Thanks." Ramsey studied the woman for a moment longer. "You wouldn't be related to Leanne Layton, would you?"

"I would think so. I'm her mama." The woman flashed a smile reminiscent of her daughter's. "Proud one, too. That girl is makin' somethin' of that shop of hers. You ever been there?"

And it was, Ramsey thought ruefully, a charmingly worded hint that she could use an appointment. "Actually I have. I spoke to Leanne yesterday. And the night before. My name is Ramsey Clark. She was telling me that you're somethin' of an expert on the legend of the red mist."

"Well, bless her, I'm no such thing." Donnelle Layton patted her lips gently so as not to disturb the lipstick that looked to be the exact flaming shade her daughter wore.

The waitress stopped in front of Ramsey then, so she switched her focus long enough to place the order and then looked back at the older woman. "I'd like to come by and talk to you sometime about the history you've done of the town. Especially the different accountings of the legend."

Donnelle picked up her fork and toyed with it while maintaining a pleasant expression. "What brings you to Buffalo Springs, Ramsey? My, that's an unusual name. Pretty, too." Effortlessly she segued back to her original question. "Do you have kin nearby?"

"I'm from Virginia. I'm working with TBI on the murder that occurred near here recently."

"Must be an excitin' job." Donnelle lowered her voice. "My daughter can't get enough of those gory crime shows. I'm all the time tellin' her it's just not feminine to be that enthralled with all that killin'." She smiled sunnily. "Not that you aren't feminine. What I wouldn't give for your height." She stood, withdrew her wallet from her purse, and selected some bills to lay on the counter.

"About the legend . . ." Ramsey began again. "Leanne said I could find you at the Historical Museum on Wednesdays."

"I'm afraid I'm busier there than a one-eyed cat watchin' two mouse holes. But I do wish you well with your work, Ramsey." The woman slipped the strap of her purse over her arm. "And you make an appointment with my daughter, y'hear? She's a wonder with a pair of scissors. That's not pride talkin'; that's fact."

Ramsey was nothing if not persistent. She twirled on the stool as the woman prepared to walk away, unwilling to take no for an answer.

But before she could open her mouth, she heard the woman say, "Devlin Stryker, as I live and breathe."

As if her morning hadn't already started off ignobly enough, Ramsey thought sourly.

The second-to-last man she wanted to see-with the first being a nude Jonesy, but it was too late for that-was easing back from Donnelle's enthusiastic hug, one of her hands in both of his. "How's the beauty of Buffalo Springs?"

Ramsey managed, barely, to avoid rolling her eyes.

"I'm put out, is what I am." If Donnelle wanted to sound angry, she should eliminate the adoring lilt to her voice. "Leanne tells me you've been in town for days, and you haven't stopped by for dinner once."

"Just bidin' my time, Donnelle. How's Steve doin'?"

As the two commenced speaking of people that were unfamiliar to her, Ramsey lost interest and instead listened to the snippets of other conversations drifting around the restaurant.

". . . blew his head clear off, I heard . . ."

". . . Marvella is a case, I'll tell ya. Don't know what will happen . . ."

". . . know why he done it?"

". . . seen him yesterday and looked a might down to me. Thought to myself at the time that he . . ."

Shamelessly eavesdropping, Ramsey strained to hear more, but the fragments of conversation intermixed into an incomprehensible chatter. What she could make out was Donnelle's voice, clear as a bell.

"You come see me real soon. Stop down at the Historical Museum on Wednesday, why don't you? I'd love to spend some real time catchin' up."

Fuming, Ramsey threw a glance over her shoulder just in time to see Donnelle heading for the door. Dev turned and caught the full force of her glare and stopped midstep, his hands rising in surrender.

"I don't start full-on sinnin' 'til nine most days, so I'm pretty sure I'm innocent."

Ramsey faced forward at the counter again. "Of what?"

"Of whatever you're wantin' to slice me up over." Without waiting for an invitation-which she wouldn't have offered-he slipped onto the stool at her side and cocked his head at her. "Don't tell me. You're not a mornin' person."

"I sat right next to that woman and asked her if I could come by the Historical Museum and speak to her about the legend," Ramsey informed him, heat tingeing her tone. "She told me she was much too busy."

"I'm sure she didn't mean anythin' by it."

"I speak y'all, Stryker. No matter how politely it's worded, I can recognize the brush-off buried in the politeness."

"Well if you're that familiar with southern folk, you shouldn't be surprised to discover them closemouthed with strangers." To the waitress who hovered near him, he shot a smile and said, "Just bring the usual for me, Vicki."

"Sure thing, hon."

He returned his attention to Ramsey. "You actually carry a double whammy. Not from 'round here, and workin' for the law. I can't believe this is the first person you've run into who's not anxious to sit down and answer a bunch of questions."