She was unsurprised to learn Mark Rollins wasn't in.

"He got a call last night on the Simpson suicide," the dispatcher, Letty Carter, confided. "Beau blew his brains out while Marvella was at her card club, and the whole town's buzzin' 'bout it. Some are sayin' the store was in trouble and he was 'bout to lose the business his daddy built. But if you ask me, there's been emotional problems in the Simpson line for generations. Beau's grandma was a drinker, and his great-aunt Beulah was given to talkin' to people no one else could see."

Ramsey digested the gossip silently. She'd be willing to bet Letty was old enough to have been acquainted with both Simpson's relatives. The dispatcher was as wizened as a dried apple, and by the end of her shift each day, her makeup settled into the deep creases in her face. Her hair was a brassy blond color that even Ramsey could tell wasn't professional. She wore bright pink lipstick and matching fingernail polish.

Noticing the nails jerked her attention back to her task. "I'm sure the sheriff has his hands full right now, so I'll catch up with him later." She handed a copy of the sketch to the older woman. "I'd like this faxed to every law enforcement entity in a fifty-mile radius. Let them know we're looking for an ID on a homicide victim."

Letty studied the sketch. "Pretty girl." Regret tinged her tone. "It's a cryin' shame what was done to her. I'll take care of it right away."

But hours later, Ramsey reflected that Letty's swift follow-through might well be the last bit of assistance she received that day.

She turned right as prompted by the in-dash GPS, and made her way into the town of Steadmont, population two hundred fifty. Armed with a stack of sketches, the maps she'd pried away from Letty again, and a Yellow Pages listing of salons in the vicinity, Ramsey had so far covered six towns east and south of Buffalo Springs. She'd decided to hit the smallest ones first, figuring a person would be missed more quickly in a town of seventy-two than one of three thousand. So far, her methods had met with a noticeable lack of luck.

She'd taken time to swing by Leanne's place and show the sketch around, but no one there recognized the victim. That fact hadn't been surprising.

Since she wasn't cursed with aYchromosome, asking for directions didn't bother her. And it hadn't taken her long to figure out the fastest way to find the addresses on her sheets was to stop at the first gas station or woman on the street and ask. When she spotted a female out watering flowers, she did just that and was directed to a small pretty shop around the corner from the main thoroughfare.

But the owner at Pine Creek Nails shook her head when shown the picture of the woman. "No, she don't look familiar. Not one of my regulars, that's for sure, and I'd remember a walk-in that came in that recently. A French manicure, you say?" The operator squinted at the picture again. "I don't get much call for that here. Did you try Susie at Look Sharp? She's just a few blocks west of here."

"I'll check there next, thanks." After leaving the sketch and her card with the woman, Ramsey headed back to her vehicle.

When her cell rang, she recognized Matthews's number and answered. She'd dropped off a copy of the nail salons on her way out of town and requested that he head out the opposite way from Buffalo Springs to begin canvassing the places. "Tell me you're having better luck than I am." As she spoke, she pulled away from the curb and headed in the direction of the other salon.

"Possibly." Matthews sounded a great deal more chipper than he had that morning, so maybe his hangover had subsided. "I'm in Tallulah Falls, northwest of Buffalo Springs about thirty miles. And I have an operator here who thinks she recognizes the sketch as a woman who came in a couple weeks ago. Thing is, she swears this woman she worked on didn't have any tattoos. Said they'd talked about them and that both had agreed they didn't go in for that sort of thing."

"It's possible the victim was lying, I guess," Ramsey said slowly. "The tattoos aren't new, the ME said. His estimate was a couple years old for the one on her back and older than that for the one on her ankle."

"Anyway, I'm here while the operator is talking to the other workers trying to come up with the woman's name. If it pans out, I'll stick around and follow up, see if I can find out where she lived and worked."

"Great." A hum of interest sparked. "Keep me posted."

Ramsey knew better than to hang her hopes on the lead he was following, but it was more promising than anything she'd come up with today. Her fortunes continued as the next operator denied recognizing the sketch but told her of a woman who did nails out of her home. Ramsey had a similar lack of luck there, so she checked off the town and headed to the next, but not before hitting a fast food drive-through on the way back to the highway.

As she munched on fries and a sandwich, she thought about the tattoos Matthews had mentioned. They'd follow up on them if this lead didn't pan out, but tattoos were notoriously hard to trace. People didn't necessarily get them close to home, often bringing one home as a "souvenir" from vacation. Ramsey couldn't imagine wanting to risk carrying hepatitis back as a souvenir, but there was no accounting for taste.

It would be difficult to trace the artist and find records far enough back to identify the victim, especially since neither of the tats had been especially unique. And she knew from experience on other cases that tattoo places regularly went out of business, making them even harder to trace. If the ID process boiled down to tracing the tattoo, it was going to be an exercise in frustration.

Keeping an eye on her mirrors, she punched the accelerator. It was getting on toward late afternoon. She'd likely have time for only two or three more towns before they closed, unless she found a salon that kept evening hours.

The town of Kordoba bore more than a passing resemblance to many of the towns she'd visited that day, and according to the map, boasted slightly more residents than Buffalo Springs. There were four places listed on the White Pages printout for nail salons, but the owner of the first informed Ramsey that one of them was out of business, and a third had moved her salon to her home in the country.

Given the time, she didn't linger, leaving the picture and card with the woman to head to the other salon in town. This one was right on Main Street and outfitted with a candy pink and white striped awning and enough pink adornments inside to make Ramsey feel a bit nauseous.

The operator though, a redhead by the name of Tammy Wallace, reminded Ramsey of Leanne with her sense of style. She came bustling out of the back room when fetched by one of her employees, wiping her hands on a towel and wearing an expression of polite puzzlement.

Ramsey showed her ID, saying, "I'm working as a consultant with TBI, and we're seeking information about the woman in this picture." She handed her the photo of the sketch. Saw the woman's gaze drop to it and widen a bit.

Instinct had her pressing, "Do you know this woman?"

Her manner decidedly cooler, Tammy looked at Ramsey. "Why did you say you're lookin' for her?"

Adrenaline was firing along nerve endings. "It's very important that you tell me what you know about this woman, ma'am. You recognize her, don't you? Has she been in here before?"

With a little sigh, she said, "Follow me." Ramsey trailed after her to the back room, which turned out to be a small office. Tammy reached past her to shut the door, saying, "Bless their hearts, but those girls out there have the fastest tongues this side of the Mississippi. That woman in the picture? Her name is Cassie Frost. I've done her nails every month or so since Christmastime, I guess." A little smile played around her mouth. "French manicure, clear polish. She's not much for change. But she's a real nice gal. Have the feelin' she's had some hard luck lately, not that she's ever complained to me. Real pleasant." She gave a helpless shrug. "That's all I know. Tell me I didn't just land her in a heap of trouble."

Adept at evading questions in such matters, Ramsey said, "When was the last time you saw her?" And found herself holding her breath until the woman's answer came.

"I don't know. I'll have to check the appointment book. Sometime within the last couple weeks, I think."

"Would you happen to know where she lives? Where she works?" Ramsey pulled a notebook out of her pocket. She'd look at that appointment calendar. Check out everything this woman told her about the woman in the sketch.

But her gut told her Cassie Frost was the name of their Jane Doe.

"Yeah, she worked here." The owner of the Thirsty Moose, clad in a filthy white apron, desultorily wiped the bar. "She don't no more, and next time you see her, you can tell her that for me, too. Hasn't shown up for work in more'n a week. I figured she skipped town, but either way, she don't need to be stoppin' by for her last check. Left me high and dry lookin' for a bartender, and I'm keepin' her pay for my troubles. I gotta right to do that, too."

He had a unique grasp of the law, but Ramsey was more interested in details he could provide about Cassie Frost. "How long did she work for you?"

The man lifted a beefy shoulder. "I gave her a job before Christmas, I guess. My other guy quit on me suddenly, and I was desperate, same as I am now that she left. Claimed she had bartendin' experience and proved it by mixin' some decent drinks for me."

"She provide you with ID when you hired her?"

Ramsey slid a glance at the uniform at her side. After her conversation with Tammy Wallace, she'd contacted Powell, who'd sounded decidedly more cheerful when she filled him in. He'd promised to round up Matthews and anyone he could from Rollins's department and join her here. As per his instructions, Ramsey had placed a courtesy call to the local police to let them know the investigation was moving to their town. Kordoba PD in turn had sent Officer Michael Dade to accompany her to Cassie Frost's last employer.

"Sure. I need it to fill out the paperwork for her W-2, don't I?"

"Can we see it?"

The owner jerked his head to the half dozen patrons in the place. "Look, I got customers to tend to. I don't got time to . . ."

"We certainly understand if you're busy right now, sir," the young officer said politely. "And we can do this later." Ramsey opened her mouth to protest as he went on. "We can send someone back after closin' time. Should we say two A.M.?" He pulled out a notebook and pen, moving over to peer at the liquor license posted on the wall, jotting down the number. "That will give us time to check a few things out."

Ramsey hid a smile. The officer might be young, but he was no rookie. She watched the hidden threat register on the middle-aged man behind the counter, saw the moment he finished weighing his options before giving in ill-temperedly.

"All right, then." He jerked a head at Ramsey. "She can come with me and you stay here and watch my register. These thieves will rob me blind if someone don't watch 'em."

She trailed after him to the back of the dimly lit bar, into a rabbit warren of cramped back rooms piled with stock. Wedged into the corner of one of the rooms was a metal desk and file cabinet, apparently the sum total of the man's attempt at business organization.

He yanked open one of the drawers of the cabinet, muttering something under his breath she was probably better off not hearing. After leafing through files for a few moments, he withdrew one.

"Here." He jammed it into Ramsey's hands. "This is all I have on her. Like I say, she wasn't here long."

Ramsey flipped through it. Inside was a copy of the woman's social security card and a job application printed out in neat handwriting. She took a notebook out of her purse and started copying down details. "Was she still living at the address listed here?"

The man was craning his neck, trying to see out into the bar. She wondered if he was worried his handful of customers had mounted an attack on Dade en route to the cash register.

"Far as I know. She never said nuthin' 'bout movin'."

She set the folder down on the desk and followed him back out into the bar. "What about friends? Did you ever see her with anyone here? Did she talk about anyone?"

"She wasn't exactly the friendly type," the man said sourly. "She could mix drinks, but she didn't chat with the customers, know what I mean? I had to talk to her a time or two 'bout her attitude. I mean, nice lookin' gal like that, if she just worked it a little, she coulda brought in more business. Could be she was battin' for the other team, ya know? Maybe that's why she didn't like guy attention."

Ramsey shot him a look filled with dislike. She didn't envy Frost her time working for this jerk. She didn't bother telling the man that it was obvious the woman had attracted someone's attention.

And she'd ended up dead because of it.

Cassie Frost had rented a one-bedroom apartment over a department store on Main Street. And standing in the woman's home now, Ramsey felt an overwhelming sense of sympathy.

There were few personal belongings scattered around to stamp the room with her personality. The landlady, Phyllis Trammel, had informed them as she'd let them in that the apartment had come furnished and the tenant had paid promptly the first of each month.

The elderly lady sat on the sagging couch right now, clutching the sketch she'd identified as Frost in one hand. "Kept to herself," she said now, her voice quavering. "Was never any trouble, but not one to chat either. I know I haven't seen her car move for near two weeks. Price of gas, it just don't pay to drive if you can walk."

Powell and one of the deputies were searching the car parked out front now. Deputy Leroy Ross was searching the kitchen. Ramsey was in the bedroom, and the apartment was small enough to hear the entire exchange between Phyllis and Officer Dade. With her gloved hands searching the dresser drawers, Ramsey pulled out a small bound book.

Flipping through it quickly, she called out, "I've got an address book." At least it had a few addresses in it, complete with telephone numbers and e-mail addresses. But she hadn't noticed a computer in the apartment.

For that matter, there wasn't a telephone.

She dropped the address book in a clear evidence bag, sealing and labeling it. Then she stepped out into the main room and addressed Trammel. "Did Ms. Frost have a cell phone?"

The older woman looked at her with eyes rheumy with tears. "I believe she did. Yes, because I offered to have a landline hooked up for her-that would be thirty dollars extra a month-and she said no, she had a cell phone and she'd just use that. Never got one for myself. Don't see the need for all this new technology takin' over. . . ."

Ramsey had quit listening. "You find a purse, Matthews?" Few women would leave home without one. If she'd taken it with her, it could mean she'd gone willingly with the attacker. Or that she'd been snatched outside of the apartment.

"Not yet." He walked out of the miniscule bathroom with several evidence bags in his gloved hands. "Got a little recreational pot and a prescription for birth control pills from a local pharmacy."

Having finished in the bedroom, Ramsey moved into the small kitchen. The deputy was going through all the drawers and cupboards. There was an outside door with a deadbolt and, pushing it open, Ramsey saw it led to a rickety fire escape. She crouched down outside the door and examined the lock, but it didn't look like it had been tampered with. Pulling the door shut firmly, she waited a moment and tried to open it from the outside. She couldn't.

She had to rap her fist on it a couple times before Matthews opened it a crack. "Forget your key again, dear?"

"Both her doors were locked, Glenn. No signs of forced entry."

The agent shrugged and opened the door wider for her. "Maybe she knew the guy and let him in. Maybe he was never here at all, and she met up with him elsewhere."

"The bar owner said the last time she worked was Friday, June fifth. Didn't show up for her shift the next day." And since she'd left at three A.M. and was due back on duty at five the next evening, they now had a window of time in which she must have met up with her killer.

"The body wasn't discovered until near midnight on the sixth."

"Yeah." She cocked a brow at the deputy, who was crouched down to look in the oven. He shook his head.

"Nothin' yet."

"Can you help me a minute?" Without waiting for Matthews's answer, she strode back to the bedroom where she'd left her evidence kit and the crime scene tools she'd retrieved from the trunk of her car. Reaching into one duffel bag, she withdrew a portable alternate light source and donned the goggles.

"You want to pull those sheets back for me?"

When the agent did so, Ramsey began to move the ALS meticulously over every inch of the surface of the fitted sheet. She indicated every hair found for Matthews to pick up with the forensic tweezers, wrap in tissue paper, and place in an evidence bag. Both sheets and the bedspread got the same treatment. But at the end of forty minutes, she turned off the ALS and pushed up her goggles. "The bedding can be bagged." Whoever raped Cassie Frost hadn't done it on the bed.

She turned to leave the bedroom and found Officer Dade standing in the doorway. He gave her a sheepish grin. "Sort of interestin' to watch you work. Where you from, Ms. Clark?"

With a polite smile, she started to brush by him. "Mississippi." She froze a moment, shocked that the truth had slipped out. She never admitted that. Tried as hard as she could not to remember it at all. "I was with TBI a while back. I've lived in Virginia for the last few years." She forced herself to move again.

"You're from Mississippi? Well, shoot, I'm from Mississippi, too!" The officer's delighted voice sounded behind her. "I'm from Biloxi, born and raised. Whereabouts did you live?"

"Cripolo."

She went to the couch and switched on the ALS, pulled down the goggles, and hoped he'd leave it alone. But the man trailed out into the room to stand next to her.

"Cripolo? That seems like a right nice li'l town. Driven through it a few times on the way to the coast. You ever get back to Mississippi?"

"Not much, no." Not ever, if she could help it.

Matthews was beginning to dust the surfaces in the apartment for prints. She directed the landlady to the only chair in the room and began to meticulously run the ALS over the couch. It was old and decrepit enough to hoard stains from a couple earlier decades. When she finished, she gave the carpet the same treatment. Next they'd bag any fibers or hairs, then photograph the area.

But she already had the feeling they'd discover Cassie Frost hadn't been attacked in her apartment at all.

She dreamt of Mississippi that night. Exhaustion had lowered defenses she usually kept well honed, and the images crept in, melding details-some eerily accurate and others oddly misshapen-in a seamless fabric only a dream state can achieve.

Ramsey moved restlessly under the sheet. Somewhere in that stage between dozing and the sucking depths of slumber, she fought a silent battle to wake and avoid the unconscious mental movie about to unfold.

The officer she'd met that day was there, his smile wide and friendly. You're from Mississippi? Well, shoot, I'm from Mississippi, too! But then his face blurred at the edges, took on another form as he mouthed words uttered by people he'd never met.

I say we fuck her now. What if she gets away?

Whereabouts did you live? Cripolo? That seems like a right nice li'l town.

The dark forest, its gaping shadows yawning like a huge mouth teethed with trees, was fringed with swamps that were inhabited by gators and cottonmouths. Her body shook as the decision loomed again in a terrifyingly identical replay. A hideous death ahead. A horrific experience behind.

Shit, where would she go? Into the swamps? It's no fun when they can't run. We'll fuck her later. First we hunt.

You ever get back to Mississippi?

Hands trying desperately to cover her nakedness. To fight off the cruel fingers that groped and pinched and penetrated.

Better run, cunt, less'n you want to start suckin' right now.

The girl in the dream ran.

Yee-haw!

The familiar echo careened through her mind, shot chills up her spine. Brought her upright in bed, quivering like she'd been afflicted with palsy.

It took several attempts for her trembling hands to grasp the hem of the sheet. To wrap it around her frozen body. And supreme concentration to push back the remnants of the haunting scene that still lurked, just waiting to spin out again when sleep disarmed her.

She drew in a deep breath. Followed it with another. And let the simple act press back the images that threatened to swarm.

Calmer now, she rested against the headboard, her heart galloping like a Thoroughbred under the wire. The girl in the dream didn't exist anymore. She'd made certain of that. Ramsey would never be that vulnerable again. And the memories of when she had been that helpless no longer had the power to weaken her.

She told herself that over and over as she resisted sleep and stared at the shade covering the lone window. Waited for the sky to lighten and send slivers of light around its edges. The only thing left of her past was memories, and those couldn't hurt her.