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# TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

About the Author

Links to My Other Books

And I looked, and behold a pale horse:

and his name that sat on him was Death.

~Revelation 6:8

# Chapter One

There was something about the dark.

The way it surrounded completely—a gentle embrace that comforted with a soft sigh and a delicate touch. The way it could intimidate and threaten, so the blackness was almost debilitating.

The dark wielded power.

But to me, the darkness was a place to hide—a place to bury my face when it was covered with tears, and a place to huddle protectively when the nightmares came lurking. And they always lurked. The darkness was a place to escape when life invariably turned to shit.

My name is J.J. Graves, and the darkness had become my friend over the past months. So it seemed fitting that I wait until that blackest time of the night to slink my way back home—to the place that had left a bitter taste in my mouth and sweat coating the palms of my hands. To sneak back into the town that had raised me and gossiped about me with equal fervor.

I jerked at the wheel of the old Suburban and pulled to the side of the road on the outskirts of Bloody Mary, Virginia. I lowered my head to the steering wheel and took a few desperate breaths that did nothing to relieve the tightness in my chest. The windows steamed slightly and the sound of harsh breathing echoed in my ears. I tried to ignore the pounding inside my skull and the way the heater couldn't quite chase away the chills that racked my body, but it was no use.

"Come on, Jaye. You can do this."

My voice was still hoarse and low, though the pain had been gone for several weeks. The doctors said to be patient. That things would return to normal the more I let myself heal. But I wondered how anything would ever be normal again when all I could think about was the blood coating the floors of my childhood home—violent splatters that gleamed like the black center of a Burmese ruby as death tried to claim me. I still heard the deafening sound of the gunshot and felt the blood that rained down on my skin like scalding tears in my dreams. It was easy to forget how hot fresh blood was. It was always cold by the time I had my hands in a body on my table.

Jeremy Mooney had taken something from me that day, when he'd had his hands wrapped around my throat. I couldn't say exactly what it was he'd taken. I only knew I was different now. I'd watched him murder a man I'd been intimate with—a man I'd told myself I could love if I only allowed it. Guilt and self-loathing ate at me because I hadn't known if I could really be in love with Brody, while feelings I couldn't put into words were forming for Jack—the man I called my best friend. The guilt still ate at me. And I'd been avoiding Jack because of it.

I didn't love easy, and honestly I wasn't even sure I knew what love was. I'd thought my parents had loved me. But I'd been wrong there too.

Terror had crippled me after my brush with death. And I hated that about myself. I'd never been a coward. Had never been one to hide from a scandal or the terrible things life seemed hell-bent on throwing in my path. Lord knows I'd faced enough of them in my thirty years. But I guess everyone has a breaking point, and I'd finally met mine.

I was broken. And I had no idea how to fix myself.

I took another deep breath and slowly straightened my spine, wiping the inside of the windshield with the back of my sleeve to clear away the steam. I put the car in drive and checked my mirror for any traffic before I pulled back onto the road. It was habit. There would never be any traffic on these back roads at this time of night.

Bloody Mary, Virginia was like a throwback to another century. It was one of the four towns within King George County and it was full of just shy of 3,000 of the most contrary people I'd ever met. My mother always said it was because there was nothing to do in town except drink or procreate. My mother, come to find out, had been a consummate liar, but I was pretty sure she was right about that one thing.

It was a postcard of a town—towering trees and clapboard houses with American flags flying from the porches. The main roads were bricked and the sidewalks were cracked. It was a town that boasted family values and the American Dream. The shops closed before dark and everything was shut down on Sundays. People got up early and worked hard, and they went home to their families and home-cooked meals.

King George wasn't a rich county, for the most part. There were pockets where the wealthy lived, of course, because the scenery lent itself well to the monstrous homes those with money tended to own. But most people in King George County were solid, blue-collar working class. It was a good place to raise a family and settle down to a comfortable life.

Maybe that was the reason driving back home made me feel out of place. A family and a comfortable life didn't seem to be in the cards for me. I was fourth generation mortician. First generation law-abiding citizen. And I was all that was left of the Graves family legacy. By all accounts, I should have been buried next to my parents in the Bloody Mary Cemetery. But for some inexplicable reason, I was still breathing. The blood was still pumping through my body and causing my heart to pound erratically in my chest. I had no idea why God had chosen to spare me. It was just another thing to feel guilty for, wondering if He'd made the right decision.

My headlights slashed across the old playground equipment on the opposite side of the country road—rusted seesaws and metal slides that would blister the backs of some poor kids' legs in the heat of the summer. There were patches of dirt where grass should have been and scarred picnic tables strategically placed under the towering oaks. It was a park well tended, but in an area that couldn't afford anything better.

The crunch of gravel beneath my tires seemed unusually loud over the whirr of the car heater, and my head turned automatically in surprise when a gust of wind had the seesaw moving up and down on its own, giving a ride to what I imagined to be the ghosts of two invisible children. My skin chilled and my flesh pebbled as I got the sense I wasn't alone.

But it wasn't ghosts I had to worry about. It was flesh and blood. Human. At least what was left of him. His skin was pale in the glare of my headlights, and now that I'd seen him I wondered how I ever could have missed him.

"Oh, shit."

I made a hard left with the wheel and drove onto the playground, so the bright yellow of my headlights gave center stage to the man chained to the tree. His naked body was mangled and so bloody I couldn't pinpoint the mortal wound. Heavy chains wrapped around his chest—I got the impression they were there to hold him up instead of restraining him. His dark hair hung down and his hands were limp at his sides, though from the looks of his misshapen fingers they would have been useless anyway.

I felt the initial rush of fear even as my training kicked in.

In a former life that seemed like an eternity ago, I'd been a medical doctor doing rounds in the ER at Augusta General. After my parents had died amidst lies and scandal, I'd had no choice but to pack up and move back to Bloody Mary and take over the family mortuary business. Mostly because it was damned hard to do rounds while the FBI was trying to question me about my parents' illegal activities. It didn't put patients at ease when they found out my parents had been using their funeral home to hide and transport smuggled goods. Sins of the fathers, and all that. Go figure.

Once I'd moved back home and taken over the business (or what was left of it), I'd somehow gotten roped into acting as coroner for the whole county. Fortunately, we didn't get a lot of suspicious deaths in this part of the country, unless you counted the serial killer who'd murdered three people last winter. Almost four.

I took a long look around the area and shoved my cell phone in my pocket before flinging the door of the Suburban open and stepping to the ground. The piercing cold of a March wind slapped at my face and sliced through my long wool coat, past the threadbare lining and straight to my bones. I didn't bother with gloves. I stuck my hand inside my coat pocket and pulled out the small Beretta that had become like an appendage since my incident.

The wind blew the door of the Suburban shut almost before I could get out, and I looked around slowly, trying to see beyond the thick copse of trees and past the shadows that resembled grotesque pictures of my darkest nightmares.

Guilt was a vicious and cruel emotion. In the past I would have rushed straight to the victim, searching for that one last hope that he might have a chance for survival. But I learned the hard way that survival is something you have to fight for, and sometimes you have to be selfish when it comes down to your life or a stranger's.

I breathed out slowly and put the Beretta back in my pocket, focusing my full attention on the man. If I'd had my wits about me sooner, I would have realized at first glance that hope for his survival had run out a long time ago.

Whoever had done this to the man had made a mess out of him. It looked like his hands and feet had both been crushed, as well as his knees. There were small wounds all over his body, but most of the blood loss came from the area of his genitals. Someone had decided to castrate the victim and remove all signs of his manhood. Blood loss and shock would have been enough to kill him.

I fought back the urge to start an examination. I didn't have my kit or any gloves, and technically I wasn't coroner since I'd taken leave after my own brush with death.

But something stirred inside me that I hadn't felt over the last few months. A spark of life. Of purpose. Lying in a hospital bed gave a person too much time to think—to question how much worth one really had. And I wanted this case. I wanted to keep my mind and my hands busy so I wouldn't think of other things.

I needed to call into the station and report the scene, but even the thought had my breath hitching and sweat trickling down my spine in cold rivulets. I wasn't sure I was ready to face them all. My friends. My acquaintances. My enemies. Being back in town would almost be as big news as the body. But mostly I wasn't ready to face Jack.

There wasn't a choice. The universe had decided it wasn't through with me yet, even though I'd started to wonder. I'd have to face everyone sooner or later, so I pulled the phone from my pocket and dialed before I could second-guess myself.

"Dispatch," a woman answered.

"This is Doctor Graves. I've got a body."

# Chapter Two

I moved the Suburban and parked a little further down the lane to let the official vehicles get through, and I sat there in the dark with my coat wrapped around me until the first squad car arrived on the scene. I'd only had to wait about fifteen minutes. That had given him long enough to roll out of bed, throw on some clothes and make the drive across town. Not bad.

The eerie yellow of headlights cast shadows around the sharp bends in the road as the black and white came to a stop in front of me. He hadn't bothered with flashing lights or blaring sirens. It wasn't Jack's way. He was a good cop. Too good of a cop to be stuck in Bloody Mary writing traffic tickets and settling petty disputes. But he had his own demons to deal with, and I knew better than anyone that sometimes you just needed a refuge. Maybe I'd never really understood the demons he faced until now.

My lungs started to burn, and I realized I was holding my breath. It had been twelve weeks and four days since I'd last seen him, and I hadn't even been able to say goodbye or tell him I was running away for a while. I couldn't face him. Not after everything we'd been through.

He'd have understood my reasons for leaving, and he would have helped me pack and make the arrangements with more ease than I'd managed on my own, but things were off between us. Jack Lawson was the best friend I'd ever had. He was still the best friend I ever had. But something had changed in those days before my near death, and we looked at each other differently now. Or maybe it was just me looking at the world differently, and it wasn't him at all. That would almost be worse somehow.

Jack's deputies wouldn't be far behind him, and part of me wanted to stay hidden inside the Suburban until there was a crowd surrounding us. That cowardice was the exact reason I pushed open the door and put my shaky legs on the ground. I left my headlights on, and I leaned against the hood of the car, trying to look casual, and then I watched as he reached into his cruiser and grabbed two silver travel mugs of steaming coffee and a high powered flashlight.

I tried to look at him as a stranger would. We'd been in and out of each other's pockets our whole lives, and it was easy to take someone for granted when they'd always just been there. I'd forgotten how big he was—six-feet-five-inches of solid muscle—broad shoulders and lean hips. He'd been S.W.A.T. in D.C. before he'd taken the job of sheriff here, and he still kept the same rigorous exercise regimen.

His dark hair was cropped close to his head and a five o'clock shadow peppered with the occasional hint of silver covered his face, though he was only a couple years over thirty. His buckskin colored shearling coat was unzipped so I caught a glimpse of his green flannel shirt and shoulder holster as he walked with easy strides towards me. He was backlit by the glare of his own headlights, and even in the shadows, he made an impressive picture. He'd always been too handsome for his own good, but I'd never thought of him as such until recently. He'd just been Jack.

"Your hair's longer," he said, handing me one of the mugs.

I tried not to flinch at his nearness. I'd had a little trouble with people being close enough to touch me after my incident. He pretended not to notice when I scooted over a little, and he leaned against the hood next to me as we sipped our coffee in silence for a few minutes.

I'd never been one to think on my appearance overly much. I'd spent too many years in med school and living on an hour's worth of sleep to have time to care. But part of me wondered what exactly Jack saw when he looked at me. I hardly ever wore makeup, but I had good skin, nice grey eyes, and high-cheekbones I'd inherited from someone. I was mostly average in every way—average height, average weight, average breasts. Not like the women he was normally attracted to. And I knew, because I'd seen legions on his arm over the years.

"I wasn't expecting you until sometime tomorrow," he said, breaking the silence.

I looked up sharply so my eyes rested on his chin. I didn't quite have the courage to look him in the eye yet. I hadn't told anyone of my plans to leave my parents' cabin in the Poconos. I hadn't even decided I was leaving myself until twelve hours ago. Some of the things I'd found out about my parents while staying there hadn't made it a place of rest. And the FBI had managed to find me there as well. Almost two years after their drive over a cliff and there were still unanswered questions. I knew some of the answers now. But I wished I didn't.

Jack's fingers barely touched my chin and he tilted my face up until our eyes met. I tried not to jerk out of his grasp, but it was difficult. The only thing that kept me still was the fact that I knew he'd be hurt if he knew I no longer liked to be touched. Even by him.

"You didn't think you were staying up there all alone without someone keeping tabs on you, did you? What if you'd gotten into trouble or had a relapse?" He raised a brow in question and I could see the censure in his gaze, letting me know without words that he'd been hurt I'd left without saying goodbye.

I could have gotten angry at his overprotective nature, but I just didn't have it in me. I think somewhere inside, I'd known he wouldn't just let me go away on my own. He'd probably alerted every cop in the area to keep an eye out for me. I turned my head away, and he dropped his hand so it curled back around his cup.

"Backup will be here soon," I said to change the subject.

"We've got a few minutes. I told them to take their time."

"Why would you tell them that?"

He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of thin latex gloves. He held them up in front of my face so I had no choice but to stare at them.

"Because I thought I'd need the extra time talking you into coming back," he said, smiling sheepishly. "But I can tell by the gleam in your eye I might have overestimated my time frame a bit. I've got a job opening for a new coroner. What do you say, Doctor Graves? The hours are lousy and the pay is even worse."

He could have said a million different things on this first meeting after being separated for so long. He could have asked how I was doing or feeling. He could have pulled me into his arms and tried to rekindle that brief moment before my incident where the sparks between us had almost turned to flame. But he just stood beside me like he had my whole life—solid and undemanding—and given me the one thing he knew I needed more than anything else.

Tears clouded my eyes and I blinked them away rapidly before I made both of us more uncomfortable than we already were.

"It just so happens I'm between jobs at the moment," I said, taking the gloves.

Our hands met briefly and I jerked, but I felt the heat of his touch all the way to my toes. I pushed the feeling away and busied myself with putting on the gloves so I wouldn't have to look at him and see that he hadn't felt it the same as I had.

"Show me the body," he said, putting on his own gloves and turning on the flashlight. "Walk me through it."

I discarded my long coat and tossed it back in the Suburban, forcing myself to deal with the cold. I couldn't afford to ruin a perfectly good coat with blood and other unmentionable things that no dry cleaner would ever be able to get out. My finances were in dire straits at the moment, and a new coat wasn't on the list of necessities.

"I'd pulled over to the side of the road just there," I said, pointing to the skid marks my tires had made when I'd slammed on the brakes after my brief panic attack. Jack didn't say anything, but I noticed the corners of his mouth tighten as he looked at the evidence of my loss of control.

"I didn't see the body until I pulled back out onto the road and my headlights glanced off him. Scared the hell out of me," I admitted. "Playgrounds are creepy at night."

"I've always thought so," he agreed. "Worse than a graveyard."

We walked up to the tree where the victim was chained, and I felt my strength slowly seep back into my bones. My thoughts were sharper now and the cold had been forgotten. Only the victim existed for me now.

"I don't recognize him right off," Jack said, positioning the flashlight on the ground so it acted as a spotlight.

"Me either, but I'm not sure his own mother would recognize him at this point."

A couple of squad cars pulled in behind us, and the deputies were quiet as they got their equipment out of the car. Jack had managed to amass a competent police force over the few years he'd been sheriff, drawing in men who'd served in larger cities and who had specialized in different areas. I recognized Marcus Colburn immediately. The same man who'd tried to kill me had murdered Colburn's pregnant lover. I was actually surprised to see he'd stuck around, especially since his lover had still been married to one of Bloody Mary's council members during their affair. The situation had been messy at best.

I was willing to bet Jack had gone to bat for him. Colburn had worked as a cop in Bloody Mary for ten years, but before that he'd worked violent crimes in Arlington, so his experience was invaluable to a small force like ours. He helped train the younger cops when something like this came up. Jack nodded to his detectives and we took a couple of steps back so they could start documenting and securing the scene.

"Let's get spotlights set up," Jack called out. "It's too dark for Doctor Graves to examine the body. I want everything, no matter how inconsequential, tagged and documented."

A smattering of yessirs filled the air, and everyone got to work. Lights flashed from the cameras, but I hardly noticed as I tried to take in everything I could with a quick visual examination.

"He's been tortured," I said, thinking aloud to myself. "All his fingers are broken. Toes too. Not just broken, but crushed to pulp, as if a hammer had been taken to them. I don't suppose the mob has infiltrated King George County."

"Not unless you mean the mob that hit the Piggly Wiggly during that snowstorm in January. I had to arrest three women fighting over the last package of toilet paper."

"The fun never stops," I said dryly. "I'll be able to give you more specifics once I get him on the table. It looks like he's been out here a little while. Or at least dead a while. He's already out of the stages of rigor, so I'd put death between 30-48 hours ago."

"I'll check and see if we've had any missing persons reports," Jack said, using his cell phone to call into the station and make the request to whoever had drawn the short straw to stay behind.

"Someone was supremely pissed at this guy," I said once he'd hung up. "His kneecaps are shattered. The blood on the lower half of his body makes it too difficult to see his other wounds, but he was definitely alive when they relieved him of his genitalia. There's too much blood for it to be otherwise."

"Jesus," Jack winced. "Would that be the cause of death?"

"Most likely. If they didn't clamp the arteries and stop the blood loss, he would have gone into shock and eventually bled out. They knew what they were doing with the torture. Nothing was so severe it would have killed him."

"What about that?" Jack asked, pointing to the black spot just below the hipbone that was crusted with dried blood.

I leaned in closer to get a better look, and I hissed out a breath between my teeth. It didn't matter. The smell of charred flesh burned the inside of my nose, and I knew I'd be smelling it in my nightmares.

"He was branded," I said almost to myself, following the unusual pattern with the tip of my gloved finger. I looked up at Jack and saw the anger smoldering behind his dark eyes. "I'll take an imprint of it once I get back to the lab so we have a better picture, but it looks like someone left us a calling card."

"That'll certainly make them easier to find," he said.

"I need a camera and a recorder," I said. "I'll need to collect some samples here because of the shape the body is in. I don't want to pick up anything extra or leave something important behind."

Jack walked back to his cruiser and popped the trunk, producing both items.

"Record for me," I said, snapping a few close-ups of each area of the body. "The victim is male, between the age of twenty-five and forty-five. Brown hair, brown eyes. Small scar on chin not congruent with current wounds. Probably sustained from childhood. He's a big son of a bitch. Probably your height, Jack. But he's got a little more weight on him. Ligature marks are visible around ankles and wrist. Slight abrasions around the neck and a few rope fibers. Bones in the hands and feet are crushed. So is the patella and surrounding bones in the knees. Blood loss looks like COD as there are no other mortal wounds that I can see. Unless he had a heart attack from the stress first."

I took a step back and looked at what was left of what had been a man. There was pity inside of me, but also anger. I knew what real cruelty was, but it never ceased to amaze me that there were those who found joy in inflicting it.

"Jesus, Jack. What are we dealing with here?"

He held up a finger as his phone signaled a text message. "I don't know what we're dealing with, but maybe I know who. Reverend Thomas called into the station last night and said he thought Reverend Oglesby was missing—he's the new priest the church brought in a few months ago," he explained when he saw my blank look. "But the officer who took the call didn't put much credence in it because Oglesby was supposed to be on vacation for a week visiting his father."

I looked at the man strapped to the tree. A man who could have been someone chosen by the church to do no harm and help whomever he could. A man who was supposed to be gentle and kind.

"He deserves better than this," I said.

"Everyone deserves better than this. Let's cut the chains and get him the hell down from there."

# Chapter Three

An audible gasp could be heard from a few of the younger cops as the victim was lowered to the ground onto the clean plastic tarp I'd spread out. I didn't see any new faces in the crowd. Everyone on scene had been through the horrors of seeing death up close. But this death was something more. It was more personal. More violent.

"Go ahead and leave him face down and get the shots of his back," I said to Colburn. I took my own pictures, documenting each laceration.

"You got it, Doc." He didn't spare me a look, but he said, "It's good to have you back."

I nodded and realized that was as good of a homecoming as any.

"Is the perimeter up?" Jack asked Colburn.

"It's up. I've got Lewis and Martinez following the trail with flashlights, but we'll wait until daylight before we start combing the area. Nothing but woods and dead leaves around here," Colburn said, looking around us. "We'll be lucky to find anything more than beer cans and used condoms. The teenagers like to come out here to party."

"Yeah, well, at least they're using condoms," Jack said. "We've only got another hour until sunrise. Call in and get whatever you need for the search. Let's use three-man teams to keep the traffic down and switch them out every two hours so eyes can stay fresh. I don't want any screw-ups on our end."

"You got it, boss." Colburn moved off to give instructions to the others.

"Colburn seems to be doing okay," I said quietly. We both kneeled down next to the body, and I looked at the flayed skin on the victim's back.

"He's doing better," Jack said. "I thought I was going to lose him there for awhile. He wanted to quit. Started drinking a bit. But he straightened himself out pretty quick. Colburn's a fighter. After I convinced him to stay on, the city council decided they needed to get involved and boot him out of town. They wanted to make a law keeping known fornicators from representing the city."

I felt a laugh bubble up at the absurdity, but held it back in deference to the body in front of me. It was easy to forget that not everyone around us had seen as much death as Jack and I had in our lifetimes. Relieving stress and tension through laughter in the face of violence was commonplace with cops and morticians. But these guys were young and unseasoned, and they just wouldn't understand. They'd go home and make love to their wives or girlfriends in a frenzy of lust, or they'd find their tempers flare throughout the day while that adrenaline from fear and the thankfulness for just being alive tried to surface.

I scratched at my cheek with the back of my hand so no one could see me smile. "Did you tell them half of the city employees would have to resign? Including their sheriff?" I asked.

He turned to look at me, and I hadn't realized how close we were. Close enough that our whispers could only be heard by each other. Close enough that I could see how the black of his pupil melded into the dark brown of his iris. My lungs burned and I reminded myself to breathe. In and out. Inhale and exhale. Conscious breathing had become a habit over the past months. I knew all too well what it felt like when the air stopped. When the oxygen didn't fill the lungs, no matter how hard you tried.

"You're going to hurt my feelings, Jaye. Haven't you heard? I'm a changed man." His smile was pure sin. A little apologetic and a lot determined as he seemed to stare straight through me—to the part of me that was scared down to my toes to examine what it was he was trying to say—to the part of me that wanted him to touch me even though the thought of physical contact with anyone made me physically ill.

I cleared my throat and broke eye contact, not knowing what was going to come out of my mouth until the words formed. "You can tell the victim's been flogged with something other than a belt or regular whip. The jagged tears in the flesh indicate some kind of metal might have been sewn into the device." The words were stiff, as if I'd been giving a lecture instead of talking to the one person in the world who knew me best.

I felt more than heard Jack's sigh. His soft exhalation of breath fluttered the hair around my face, but I tucked the loose strands ruthlessly behind my ear, pretending to be completely absorbed in my analysis. It was a lie. My brain had stopped functioning the moment those dark eyes had dared to show me something a little more than I was ready for. Maybe I'd come back home too soon after all.

Jack didn't wait for me to get it together. He asked the obvious question. "What the hell is that white stuff?"

I shook free of wherever it was I'd mentally travelled and saw what he was talking about. Little white granules, no bigger than grains of sand coated the edges of the ragged flesh.

"Salt," I said, hoarsely. "Whoever did this poured salt in his wounds."

Jack pulled a small black case from the inside of his coat pocket, no larger than one of those useless evening bags women were forever carrying around, and he opened it to reveal an assortment of useful tools. I had one just like it, but I'd tossed it in a box to be given away to Salvation Army before I'd left town.

"Nice tools," I said, recognizing the set as my own.

"A recent acquisition. I probably even know where you could get a set for yourself."

"That could be useful, considering my new job."

He pulled out what looked like a dentist's pick and handed it to me. I scraped gently at the salt until I had enough to put in one of the plastic Ziploc bags rolled up inside the case. I passed the tool back and grabbed the tweezers so I could get the rope fibers I'd seen around his neck.

"Where are his clothes?" I asked. "Where's his car?"

"I've got a uniform checking out Reverend Oglesby's house, but he lives over in King George Proper, so it'll be a while before he reports in."

"Hand over a couple of the larger bags," I said. "Most of his fingernails have been removed, but he still has the thumbnail. Maybe he's got some skin under there."

I bagged both of the victim's hands, though the task was more unpleasant than I remembered. It might've had to do with his hands feeling like sacks of uncooked rice floating in gelatin instead of skin and bones.

"Do you want to turn him?" Jack asked.

"No. I've got everything I need for now. I can do more at the lab. There's not much more for me to do here."

Jack nodded and called out to a couple of his men. "Let's get him loaded up."

My lab was in the basement of Graves Funeral Home, and it had all the necessary equipment for preparing the flesh for burial or making serious Y-cuts for autopsies. It hadn't been used in a while, and I was nervous about seeing it after being gone for so long. Would the smell of embalming fluid and antiseptic have dissipated over time, or would that lingering scent of death still hover in the air?

I stood up and let a couple of the uniforms maneuver the victim into a body bag. An ambulance had arrived on scene at some point and one of the EMTs had wheeled over a gurney. The back of my Suburban was stacked high with suitcases and a few boxes of my parents' belongings I'd found in a closet at the cabin. Once I got rid of the boxes and burned everything inside of them, I'd have a lot more room for bodies in the back. Until then, I had to make do with the ambulance.

"I hope you're not expecting a fast turnaround on this, Jack. That guy has so many wounds I'm not even sure where to start. And—" I took a shaky breath before I could finish. "I just don't know how long it will take me."

I saw his hand coming and braced myself for the touch. He watched me closely as the weight of his hand landed softly on my shoulder. The longer we stood there like that—after I reminded myself to keep breathing—the more I started to relax. The tension crept out of my body and I kept my eyes steady on his. The strength and support of his touch never wavered. I could trust Jack with my life. I already had.

"Just take it one step at a time. I'll be with you every step of the way on this one. At least until you get settled back in."

I'd normally be annoyed at having someone underfoot while I was working. Especially Jack. He'd never been comfortable watching the things I had to do down in the funeral home basement, and I didn't need to lose focus if I was going to do this job well. But I was grateful he'd taken the choice away from me. The last thing I wanted was to be alone with a John Doe and my own thoughts. I'd never been truly comfortable with the dead. Or at least I'd never been before. Maybe things would be different now that I'd almost been one of them.

"We need to verify ID so I can notify next of kin. I'll get his prints and make a comparison from inside his house."

We walked back to our cars and I pulled off the latex gloves with a snap before shoving them in the back pocket of my jeans. I opened the door of the Suburban and propped my foot on the sideboard before turning back to Jack. The sun was just beginning to lighten the sky to a pearl grey. Colburn and the other cops would be starting a search of the area before too much longer, and I'd be back on familiar ground, keeping company with the dead and wondering why I wasn't one of them. Life was a funny thing. A finite thing. And you never realized how finite until you'd crossed that line from life to death and then back again.

"Jaye?" Jack asked. By the look on his face it was obvious he'd tried to get my attention more than once.

"Sorry." I scrubbed a hand over my face and then massaged the back of my neck. "I guess I'm just tired. It's been a long night."

"You should grab a couple of hours sleep before you start on the body. He'll keep until we verify the ID. Where are you staying?"

I turned my head and watched the light spread through the trees as the sun rose. I didn't want to face the question Jack was really asking. Whether or not I'd be able to stay alone in the house I'd almost died in.

"I'll stay at the funeral home for now. I've decided to put the house on the market."

It was the first time I'd said it out loud, but immediately I felt as if a giant weight had been lifted off my chest. I was selling the home that I'd grown up in. A crumbling legacy I was supposed to pass on to my nonexistent children. And I was okay with it.

"You know I've always got an extra room if you need it," Jack said, tucking my hair behind my ear. "And I'll even promise not to sneak in and take pictures while you're in the shower and sell them for a quarter in the lunchroom."

I narrowed my eyes, remembering the moment well. Third grade hadn't started off well for me. My dating life had pretty much been ruined by the time I was eight. "You still owe me eleven dollars for that stunt."

"You can send me the bill. Or I can buy you a cheeseburger."

"That's a damned expensive cheeseburger. I think a cheeseburger and a beer will cover the tab. "

He smiled—a flash of white teeth and just the hint of one dimple that had driven one of his high school girlfriends to rhapsodize over it on the bathroom wall at the stadium in haiku.

"Works for me," he said. "It's a date."

Jack was already inside his cruiser by the time I got my mouth closed. I had a feeling I'd just been manipulated by a master.

"Dead body," I reminded myself. "Priorities." I slammed the car door shut and started the engine. Inhale and exhale. Breathing gave me something to think about the whole way back to the funeral home. I was alive. That was the only thing that mattered. Everything else could wait.

# Chapter Four

Graves Funeral Home was on the corner of Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. It was a three-story Colonial monstrosity with dark red brick and huge white columns. Two gnarled elm trees with roots that clawed up from the ground like bony fingers arched from either side of the sidewalk to form a canopy of sorts. The branches were as bare as the rest of the yard.

Across the street was a strip mall, and by the looks of it, it had fallen on hard times. The bad economy had hit King George pretty hard since most of our businesses were small and locally owned. Three of the four stores had For Rent signs in the windows. Only the Laundromat had survived. Nothing much else on the street had changed.

The funeral home brought in just enough income to keep the creditors at bay. There'd been a short time where I thought the FBI was going to shut it down for good, but they'd been satisfied to confiscate the funds they'd found in different offshore accounts once they'd cleared my name and decided I'd had no idea what my parents had been up to. They'd let me keep the funeral home, my family home and the cabin in the Poconos, since those were inherited properties left by my grandparents. I personally would've preferred they'd taken the ramshackle house and left me with the millions, but I hadn't gotten a say in the matter.

Despite the name, Bloody Mary wasn't overrun with deaths—violent or otherwise. So I spent more time doing crossword puzzles and watching reruns of Law and Order than I cared to admit.

Daylight was in full swing by the time I made my way into the Bloody Mary city limits. King George County was set up in a triangular grid that backed up to the Potomac River on one side and was hemmed in by the Rappahannock on the other. It was divided into four towns. Bloody Mary and King George Proper sat along the Potomac shoreline, and Newcastle and Nottingham were down below. The Square sat in the middle so parts of it were in each different city. There were only 19,000 people that made up the population, but sometimes it seemed awfully crowded.

I ignored the stares from those who were out early or heading into work. An empty school bus passed me, and I realized I'd completely lost track of what time of the year it was. I'd been living on autopilot, from one day to the next, going through my parents' belongings and the documents I'd discovered. I hadn't really been living these past months at all. Just trying to get through to the next day.

There was still too much winter left for spring to have made an appearance, but the weather would turn to warmer temperatures in the next week or two. I'd be glad for it. It seemed like I'd been cold for too long.

Jack's cruiser was parked in the circular drive in front of the funeral home, and the ambulance had pulled underneath the metal portico attached to the side of the building. I'd learned from experience it wasn't a good idea to traipse fresh corpses through the main lobby, so we always used the side door.

The door was larger than average and had a ramp that led directly into the private kitchen. And inside the kitchen was the reinforced steel door that led to the lab. The side door was propped open and they'd already wheeled the body inside by the time I got out of the Suburban.

Jack knew the code to get down to the lab, so I decided to stay out of the way for the moment—or maybe I was stalling—and instead went in through the front entrance. The temperature wasn't much warmer on the inside. I'd had the electricity turned off before I'd left, but someone had turned it back on, and I could hear the low hum of the heater. That would have been Jack's doing. The dark wood floors had been polished to a shine and the front foyer smelled of lemons and beeswax.

The first floor consisted of a chapel, two small family rooms and a large kitchen. A wide staircase sat in the middle of the foyer and led up to an open loft and balcony that was used to serve refreshments or light meals if the family requested them. Three private viewing rooms surrounded the loft, and then another set of stairs was hidden off a small hallway where the bathrooms were located. I hadn't been up to the third floor in years, but if it was going to be my new home I'd have to get over the fact that sleeping in the same house with the dead had always creeped me out a little. Though the thought of sleeping in my old house creeped me out even more, so it was the lesser of two evils in this case.

"Thanks for opening it up for me and having it cleaned," I said as I heard Jack's footsteps come up behind me. "It makes it easier."

"Yeah, well, if I'm being honest, it was Vaughn's idea."

I'd dated Vaughn for a few weeks in high school, but it was short-lived since he also discovered he was gay during the same few weeks. I'd already decided he made a much better friend than boyfriend, but that was mostly just for my ego since it sounded better than me having the ability to turn men gay. He was just one of the gang now—me, Jack, Eddie, Dickie and Vaughn—the Five Musketeers. Jack and Eddie were the only two in the group who weren't completely dysfunctional, but we didn't hold it against them too much.

Jack cleared his throat. "You know he always thinks of that kind of stuff before the rest of us. Me and Eddie and Dickie just did what we were told. Vaughn thought it would be nice for you to come back to a place without dust and mice."

"Mice?" I asked, whirling around to face him.

"Only a couple of little ones," he said, holding up his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate. "The exterminator has already been out, and you should be vermin free. Even the third floor."

"Oh," I said, thinking of what else might be waiting for me on the third floor. "Thanks. To all of you." The silence was only awkward for a moment.

"Come on," Jack said, holding out his hand and waiting patiently for me to take it. I stared at it a few seconds and then reached out to take hold. I reminded myself it was only Jack and it kept the panic at bay.

"Come where?" I asked.

"Let's go up and check it out."

"You mean the third floor?"

"Yep."

"The same third floor where my great-grandmother was pushed to her death?"

"The one and only. She probably won't even haunt you, since you're family and all."

"Maybe it's not such a good idea. Have I told you that none of the women in my family have lived past the age of fifty? My great-grandmother was only thirty-six."

"Then you've got a few years in you yet. Besides, I'm not going to let anything happen to you. This is called facing your fears. You won't lose all that tension in your shoulders until you do."

"I'm pretty sure I won't lose the tension in my shoulders until I'm six feet under," I said, dragging my feet a little. "I need to get started on the body. There's no need to do this now."

"What are you, chicken?" Jack asked, making bwakking sounds until I felt the challenge of facing a dare surge through my blood. My feet took the stairs two at a time as Jack came up behind me. I'd never been able to resist a dare.

"You're so juvenile," I said. "You making those ridiculous sounds is not the reason I'm doing this."

"Sure it's not," he agreed.

"I'm just trying to appease you so I can get to work."

"I'm like an open book to you," he said with a straight face. "You know me too well."

I stopped at the bottom of the third floor stairs and narrowed my eyes at him, but he kept smiling so the one dimple at the corner of his mouth appeared. When had the damned thing become so distracting? Why was I even noticing?
I averted my eyes quickly and instead focused on the stairs. The carpet runner was faded blue with small gold roses and it was a lot skinnier than I remember it being as a child. I hadn't stepped foot on the third floor since I was a child and had scared myself witless by listening to Jack and Dickie tell ghost stories about it.

"I've been up," Jack said softly. "There's nothing there except a few pieces of furniture covered in sheets. I'll get the guys to help move whatever you need from your house so you can get settled."

"That's good." My throat had seized and the words barely came out. Jeremy Mooney had broken my voice, the doctors had told me. It would never be the same as it was. I'd never be able to sing badly to Madonna on the radio or scream at football games. But at least I could speak. I swallowed a couple of times and my hand clamped around the stair rail.

"There's no need to do this now," I said. "I'd rather just get to work. It doesn't matter where I sleep."

What I'd left unspoken was that I hardly slept at all—when I did manage to finally nod off, it was from sheer exhaustion, and only for short amounts of time.

Jack took my hand again and I tensed, but he waited until he felt me relax inch by inch. He pulled me closer until I stood flush with his body and he just waited. Waited as dizziness swept over me and claustrophobia surrounded me. He waited until the fear passed and I was left with nothing but the light and him. I leaned my head against his shoulder and his arms came around me. This time there was no tension at the touch. It was just the two of us.

"Why won't you let me help, Jaye? You think I can't see your terror every time I get close? I can feel you trying to pull away from me and deal with this on your own, but I'm not going to let you. It's going to take time to heal. For all of you to heal, not just the physical. You almost died."

His hands stroked my back in soothing circles and my arms came around him, holding tighter and tighter as I tried to find an anchor for the emotions rioting through my body. Yes, I feared. But I also needed to be held. Hadn't realized how much I needed it until just now. Warmth and something else infused my body.

He ducked his head so his lips were against my ear, and I shivered at the touch. "Whether you want to hear it or not," he said. "I love you. I'm not going to just sit by and watch you wither away."

I stiffened in his arms at the mention of the L word. I cared about Jack more than anyone else I'd ever known, including my family. Jack was my family. But there were lots of different kinds of love, and neither of us had a good track record when it came to the emotion. What if I let myself love him and he changed his mind? I'd never had to do without him in my life. Or worse, what if I let myself love him and he was taken from me like Brody had been taken from me?

"Shh," he said. "Don't tense up. I'm not going to push you or pressure you, Jaye. I'm just going to be your friend for now. And I'm going to keep loving you, no matter how stubborn you get. Now nod if you understand."

A strange sound came from my throat that was supposed to be a laugh but sounded more like a wheezing wild animal. I nodded and felt something break loose inside me.

It felt a little like hope.

# Chapter Five

"You don't have to do this," I told Jack two hours later. "There are limits to friendship."

"Nope," he said, only slightly pale. "I've made it this far. I can make it through the autopsy. It's the embalming fluid that gets to me, and you can hardly smell it anymore. I'll be fine."

Jack could stomach violent crime scenes all day long, but when it came to being enclosed underground in a place I frequently drained body fluids, he couldn't quite keep it together. I didn't even know what the smells would be like to someone who wasn't accustomed. I'd grown too used to it over the years. I made sure the ventilation system was on as high as it would go and got to work.

I'd gotten the body set up on blocks so he was easier to clean, and I stood back while Jack inked the victim's fingers to get prints. Officer Cheek had been the one to check Reverend Oglesby's home and retrieve prints so we could use them in comparison to our victim. He'd also reported back there was no sign Reverend Oglesby had been at the house for a few days. The Reverend's car hadn't shown up either, so Jack had put an APB out on a 2001 white Honda Accord as soon as he'd received the word.

I'd already taken all the samples I could from the body and documented the exterior wounds on my recorder so I could make a written report later. The strong scent of disinfectant clung to the body now and I had him prepped and ready to begin the autopsy.

Somewhere between the third floor stairs and the white sterile box of my lab, I'd started to feel almost human again. Maybe it was because of Jack. Or maybe it was because I had something to do with my hands. But the great pressure that had sat on my chest like an elephant was gone for the moment.

Unfortunately, I was exhausted past the point of doing any good. The slight tremor in my hand wasn't the only thing keeping me from proceeding with the autopsy. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept. Or eaten for that matter. The thought of food had my stomach clenching with pain, but nothing sounded good so I ignored it.

"His back teeth are all missing," I said. "Presumably pulled during the torture, which is going to make identification harder if this happens to not be Reverend Oglesby and there are no reports of other missing members of the community. The killer did leave the victim's fingerprints intact, which is sloppy if you're trying to hide someone's identity, which leads me to believe the killer wasn't trying to hide the victim's identity at all."

"Killers," Jack corrected. "There's no way one person did all of this. The victim weighed over two hundred pounds and is built like a linebacker. He was tortured, but in very different ways, telling me everyone involved got their chance to inflict their own personal brand of pain. Then they chained him to a tree in the dark. Someone had to steady the dead weight of the body while they wrapped the chains around the tree. I don't even think two men could have done it by themselves. I'd say it'd take a minimum of three strong men."

I stood up tall and stretched, rubbing at the small of my back. "What we've got here is a healthy male in the prime of his life. He's strong, but not strong enough to fight off his attackers. He was restrained," I said, indicating the marks around his ankles and wrists. "Then he was systematically beaten. Blows to the torso first. Broken ribs that punctured a lung. Shots to the kidneys hard enough that he'd be pissing blood for days had he survived."

I could see it clearly. The body was a map, and blood and bone didn't lie. Every cut and bruise had its own time stamp. "They broke his hands next. Pulverized them to keep him from fighting back once they unchained him."

"He wouldn't have been able to think much past the pain," Jack said. "Thoughts of fighting back would have been replaced with thoughts of trying to survive. He wouldn't have tried to fight back at that point."

I touched Jack's back lightly but didn't linger. The reason he'd left the S.W.A.T. team was because of the three bullets shot into his chest during a raid. More bullets had taken the lives of six others on the team. He didn't talk about that time of his life, but I knew he was very lucky to be standing next to me today. We were both lucky.

"The lashings would have come next?" Jack asked. "You said something metal was tied to the end of the whip."

"Definitely metal. I pulled some rust and small slivers from inside the wounds for analysis. I don't know for sure it was a whip though. Could have been a belt. But from the length of the cuts across his back I'd say the weapon was a DIY project. Where the metal dug into the skin and sliced was probably six to eight inches long. Rough-edged and rusty. Your guess is as good as mine on what it could be."

Jack hmmed under his breath and said, "Give me a place to start looking. Where was he killed? Not at the place where we found his body."

"By the rate of decomp and the greenish tinge to the body, I can tell you he's been dead around two days. It's Friday morning so that's going to put his death early Wednesday morning."

"This type of torture would've taken time. The planning of it. The tools. But they wouldn't want to hold him for too long. So maybe he disappeared Monday or early morning on Tuesday."

I picked up John Doe's arm and turned it over. "You can see by the bruising around the wrists and the raw scrapes that they cuffed his wrists and then tied them above his head, most likely when they whipped him. The broken hands didn't work with the cuffs though. His hands would've slid right through and he'd have dropped to the ground before they could finish the lashes."

"Christ, people never cease to amaze me." Jack ran his hand over the top of his head. "He was relatively clean when we brought him in. If he'd been killed outdoors there would have been a lot more debris and dirt covering his body. Especially if he'd taken a fall to the ground."

"Exactly," I said. "I found tree bark along with the rust and slivers of metal in his back, and I found larvae in the open wounds giving me a decomp time consistent with a body who'd spent a few hours outside, but if he'd fallen to the ground after his hands slipped through the restraints, there'd be dirt and other debris embedded in the skin. He wasn't killed outdoors in my opinion. But they kept him upright somewhere, similar to how we found him."

"What makes you say that?"

"He's got ligature marks around the neck, but not deep enough to cause strangulation. The splinters I found in the buttocks and backs of the legs are different than the tree bark embedded in the skin. I can tell you he died standing or in a vertical position, tied to a rough wooden beam of some kind with a natural fiber rope around the neck, torso and thighs. All of his remaining blood is pooled at his feet and lower legs, so he would've been standing when they removed the genitals and let him bleed out."

"The location of death would have to be somewhere in the county," Jack said. "Far enough from the drop site but not too far away. It's never good to piss in your own pool. There's no reason to leave him where they did otherwise. So we're looking for a place large enough to hold several men and various tools for torture. They'd need privacy and it would need to be relatively soundproofed. It also needs to be a place with exposed wooden support beams. Piece of cake."

"We've got those buildings in the warehouse district," I said. "Some of them go vacant from time to time. And we've got barns."

"Which would be on private property," he said, looking up at me with serious eyes. "What I want to know is how they got him. Like you said, he's a big guy."

"I didn't find an initial blow that might have rendered him unconscious. There's nothing to indicate how he was incapacitated. There's no defense wounds that I can see, and his body is too battered to see any puncture marks from a syringe, even under the light. But that's how I think they did it. I'm willing to bet I'll find something in the tox screen."

"Or maybe he went willingly with his attackers," Jack said.

"It's a possibility. If he is Reverend Oglesby then all they'd have to do is tell him someone was in trouble and he'd go with them."

"What about the brand?" Jack asked, putting the fingerprint card inside an envelope and sealing it up.

"The brand is the only wound on the body that occurred post-mortem," I said. "In fact, by the lack of blood and the consistency of the skin tissue around the burns, I'd say it was inflicted a good while after death. Like it was an afterthought, or something they'd forgotten to do."

"So it could have happened after they tied him to the tree for us to find."

"I'd say that's likely. Let me get an inking of it for you to take with you. It's an unusual symbol."

I used a warm wax mold to take an impression of the brand, and peeled it back gently. I set it aside on wax paper, and once it dried we could run multiple copies to pass out to Jack's other officers.

"I've seen enough animals branded in my life to know they used a branding iron for this. They'd have to get it specially made. I should be able to run down some leads on that."

Jack's phone beeped in a series of shrill tones that made me jump, and he pretended not to notice my skittishness as he answered.

"Sheriff Lawson," he said.

I blocked out what he was saying and studied the wax impression. It was a shield with what looked like a sword on the inside, and on top of the sword hilt rested a five-point crown. It wasn't a symbol I recognized, but it reminded me briefly of something that Richard the Lionheart might have worn during the Crusades. Jack's back was turned, so he didn't see how my hand shook when I reached out to trace the outline.

I took a step back and flexed my hands into fists before walking over to the big stainless steel sink in the corner. I scrubbed with antibacterial soap until I was red and pruny. John Doe was going to have to be put on ice for a few hours. If I didn't get some rest I was likely to cut off my thumb with my scalpel. I could catch twenty minutes of sleep, sitting in my chair with the lights on, and that would be enough to get me through the rest of the day.

I was just pushing the body back in the refrigeration unit when I heard Jack say, "That was Officer Cheek again. They found tire tracks at the back of Reverend Oglesby's house and a couple of drops of what looks like blood. I think we need to go pay a visit to Reverend Thomas and get a better idea of timeline. It looks like we have a dead preacher on our hands."

# Chapter Six

St. Paul's Episcopal Church was on Queen Mary Avenue, only a few miles from the funeral home. I rode in the front seat of Jack's cruiser and fiddled with the heater. My coat was bundled around me and my scarf was wound up over my chin and mouth. I could never quite get warm, but Jack sat beside me in only his flannel shirt, so I figured it must just be me.

"When did Reverend Oglesby join the church?" I asked Jack.

He winced and shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably. "A couple of weeks after you went into the hospital. I've never actually met the man. He's not one to be seen around town much, and it's been a while since I've sat in a pew on Sunday mornings."

"Well, I guess it's nice to know I won't have to spend an eternity in hell by myself. I'd hate to think I'd be stuck down there with the rest of my family."

"You don't have to worry about that, sugar. We're the good guys. But I'm still not going to church. Every time I've tried to go to service it feels like Reverend Thomas is preaching on the sins of the body and lust, and how our duty is to settle down and procreate. And if we don't, we're damned to spend an eternity roasting in hellfire. I don't mind the settling down part, but the procreation part makes me break out in hives. I figure I've got some years of fun left before I start all of that. And I can get that same kind of abuse from my mother without having to wake up early and listen to Betty Schumaker butcher How Great Thou Art. Last time I was there she'd set it to rap music so it would be more current for the younger folks in the audience. I thought Reverend Thomas was going to have a heart attack. "

"Shut up," I said, laughing.

"I'm serious," he said, a smile quirking his mouth. "That woman has not perfected her beat boxing techniques. I thought her false teeth were going to fly right out."

"That's not what I'm talking about," I said, slapping him on the arm. "Go back to your mother. She couldn't possibly be abusing you in any way. That woman would commit murder for you, and she'd beat Reverend Thomas on the head with her handbag the whole time she was pulling you out of the fiery depths of hell."

"Maybe," he said, lips twitching. "But that's easy for you to say. You haven't had to listen to her talk about how nice it would be if she had grandkids before she gets too old to enjoy them."

"That's what you get for being an only child."

"Which is exactly what I told her. She stopped talking about it once I started signing her up to get information from adoption agencies. Apparently, she doesn't want to raise another child. She just wants to spoil mine and send them back home with me."

"I always thought your mother was a smart woman."

Jack grunted and we drove on in companionable silence. St. Paul's was almost a hundred years old. It was a large, square box of freshly painted white wood with a sharp steeple and a bronze bell that was rung every blessed Sunday morning and could be heard all over town. I'd gotten used to sleeping with my head under my pillow so I wouldn't be disturbed by the reminder that I could add sloth to my considerable list of other sins.

We pulled into the recently paved parking lot behind the church, the smell of fresh tar still heavy in the air, and Jack parked in the little graveled driveway beside the rectory. We got out of the car and headed to the front door of Reverend Thomas's personal lodgings, but I heard the crunch on the gravel behind us and we both turned around to see who was there.

"Lorna," I said on a gush of breath. I couldn't decide if I was more annoyed at Lorna for sneaking up on us, or at myself for startling so easily.

Lorna Dewberry was a small sprite of a woman in her mid-forties, and she'd been the church secretary for almost twenty years. She held a basket of what looked like herbs hooked over her wrist, and a pair of shears and gardening gloves lay on top of them. If I ever bothered to do yard work, it looked like I spent half my time rolling in the mud, but Lorna looked fresh and spit-polished.

Her face was smooth with only a few fine lines around pale blue eyes, and she never bothered with makeup of any kind. She'd been overheard telling more than one person that makeup was the Devil's tool. Her hair was a mousy brown that was always pulled back in a neat bun at the nape of her neck and she was allergic to color of any kind. I'd never seen her in a dress that wasn't brown or navy or black. Sometimes I liked to think she added color to her wardrobe by wearing red lacy underwear or the occasional thong, but it probably wasn't normal to think about what people wore under their clothes, so I never mentioned it aloud.

"Good morning, Sheriff," she said, gifting Jack with a simpering smile that had my hackles rising before I could control it. I forced myself to relax. I'd never been jealous of Jack's hordes of women. There was no reason to start now, especially considering Lorna was the polar opposite of Jack's type.

Lorna's smile disappeared and a stern frown took its place when she turned that watery blue gaze to me.

"I didn't realize you were back in town, J.J. We all thought you'd decided to go for good since trouble seems to follow you around. Sins of the father. Remember that. Repentance is the key, child. I'm sure I'll see you at services Sunday morning."

A snarl was trying to work its way out, and I was thankful at that moment that my voice chose to fail me. I'd been considered a bad omen of sorts ever since I moved back to Bloody Mary. When I'd been growing up, I'd always been known as that odd Graves child—the one whose parents liked being with the dead more than socializing with the living. The one whose grandmother had drunk herself to death and whose great-grandmother had been pushed from a third-story window. I came from bad stock, but I was fourth-generation so they tolerated me. Jack's mother was the only one who'd really welcomed me into her home and treated me like one of her own.

Now I was known as that odd Graves woman, whose parents had killed themselves to avoid going to federal prison for running an international smuggling ring through their funeral home. After I'd gotten my head bashed in and my throat crushed this past December, I'd heard a lot of people say it was no more than I deserved, considering what I'd come from. No more than they'd expected. As if I was the one who needed to pay for my parents' misdeeds. Them driving off a cliff into their own fiery hell hadn't been punishment enough, apparently.

Jack took a step closer to me and put a protective hand on my shoulder. I didn't even flinch this time. I wasn't sure if it was to show his support or hold me back in case I decided to pop Lorna in her prissy mouth, but it made me feel better all the same. Especially since Lorna didn't particularly care for the fact that Jack and I had always been close.

"We're here to see Reverend Thomas," Jack said. "He's expecting us."

She nodded stiffly and switched her herb basket to the other hand so she could dig in her apron pocket for keys. "I'm supposed to show you into his office. One of the water heaters busted this morning, and the Reverend is talking to Leo Sklut. Ever since Leo put his name in the yellow pages under the plumbing section he thinks he can charge an arm and a leg for his services. The Lord will show him the way, or Leo will burn in a fiery hell with the rest of the sinners of this world."

"It's going to be crowded down there," I muttered. Jack pinched my arm, but I could feel his silent laughter as we followed Lorna inside.

She led us through a plain entryway with dark wood floors and stark white walls. Small ornamental crosses hung on the walls to the left, and a large picture of the Virgin Mary holding a baby Jesus was painted on black velvet and framed in gold on the right. It smelled of Pine Sol and old people, and I had the sudden urge to turn around and go back outside so I could breathe the fresh air of the newly tarred parking lot.

"Please don't touch anything," Lorna said as she showed us into the Reverend's office and pointed to the two straight-backed chairs in front of a scarred wooden desk. "The Reverend is very particular about his things. He said he'd only be a few minutes."

She tried to back out the door, but Jack stopped her. "While we're waiting, I'd like to ask you a few questions about Reverend Oglesby."

Lorna's eyes went hard and her mouth pinched, but she nodded and stepped back inside the room. "Very well. Though I won't participate in vicious gossip. I know how these investigations go. You think you can horn in on people's private lives and then all you cops sit around your box of donuts and judge the law-abiding citizens of this town. The Bible says, Judge not, lest you not be judged. Remember that, Sheriff, so you don't end up on the path to hell with this one."

"Ms. Dewberry," Jack said with more patience than any one man should possess, "This will go much faster if you'd just let me ask a few routine questions."

Her lips pinched together even tighter, if that was possible, and she nodded her head.

"Is it possible for you to get me a photograph of Reverend Oglesby? It would be helpful to the investigation." What Jack wasn't saying was that it would be nice to see what the man was supposed to look like without his face bashed in.

"All of the pastoral staff has a photograph taken to hang on the wall in the church lobby. You're free to look at it at any time, just like the rest of the congregation." She folded a neat pleat in her dress and crossed her feet at the ankles.

"Was Reverend Oglesby fitting in okay here at the church? Any trouble with one of the congregation members or maybe other staff?"

"Of course not. Reverend Oglesby was sent over to help Reverend Thomas late last December. The Reverend's getting older, and it's been harder on him to keep up with his hospital visits and the extra duties that come along with a growing congregation, so Reverend Oglesby was here to take some of the load. Not that Reverend Thomas was shirking his duty, mind you. I don't want it being spread around that he's lost interest in doing the Lord's work."

"No, ma'am," Jack said.

"And he fit in as well as anybody. He did his job and did it quietly, and I resent you implicating that there might have been bad blood between Reverend Oglesby and those of us who work here at the church. We all have one mission, and our personal feelings will never get in the way of that."

"Did anyone from the congregation pay closer attention to him than they should have? Did he seem overly interested or worried about anyone in particular?"

I could follow Jack's line of thought easy enough. He wanted to know if Reverend Oglesby had been killed by jealous lovers or angry fathers.

"His personal life is none of my business. It isn't Christian to pry. He was a man who did his job."

"You never saw him around town? Never saw him talking to other members of the church outside of Sunday morning? Come on now, Lorna. This is Bloody Mary. You can't sneeze without bumping into someone on the street that you have to stop and talk to for five minutes."

"I've answered what I'm going to answer. You won't get information so you can spread tales from me."

"Ms. Dewberry," Jack growled, the first signs of irritation starting to show. But he was interrupted by the rattle of the old iron doorknob as Reverend Thomas pushed his way into the room.

"Now, Lorna," he said, his deep baritone just a little louder than an indoor voice required. "That's not what the Sheriff means, is it Jack? It's our duty to remember a man's soul has departed, and if we can help we will."

Reverend Thomas was a stooped man of close to eighty years of age with kind brown eyes and a sharp wit that didn't put up with any nonsense. It seemed he'd grown shorter over the years, and his black, natty suit seemed to swallow him whole as he'd shrunken. His papery thin skin hung on his bones, and his earlobes and nose had almost doubled in size since I was a child. His hair was thin and solid silver, but he kept it combed ruthlessly back with Brylcreem. I'd always been distracted by the wild tangle of wiry hair that sprouted from his ears.

"Thanks for seeing us, Reverend," Jack said.

He waved his hand in dismissal and turned to me. "It's good to see you back, J.J. I've said many a prayer for you these past months."

"Thank you, Reverend." I was uncomfortable with the kindness, and I wasn't really sure if he'd been praying for my recovery or praying for my soul like Lorna. Kindness was harder for me to understand, so I usually just expected the worst from people. I understood why some were wary and hostile toward me. It made sense in an odd way that they would be.

"Come talk to me when you're ready, child. And make sure you're taking care of the physical needs of your body as well as the spiritual. I'm sure Jack will be a great help to you if you'll let him."

I nodded and then turned my attention back to Jack to get the focus off me.

"You called the station last night and reported Reverend Oglesby missing," Jack said. "What made you do that? Wasn't he supposed to be visiting his father?"

"Yes, that's right." The Reverend steepled his fingers together. "After services last Sunday, Daniel was supposed to drive to North Carolina to see his father. The man's battling Alzheimer's, and Daniel's been worried about him. Mr. Oglesby has a full-time nurse who stays with him, but his episodes have gotten more frequent of late. Daniel had planned to stay the week and drive back tomorrow morning so he'd have time to prepare for Sunday services."

The Reverend stopped and his lips seemed to tremble a bit. "Would you like some tea, Reverend?" Lorna asked. I'd forgotten she was there, she'd been so quiet in the corner.

"Please, Lorna. And for our guests as well."

She didn't look quite as happy to see to that chore, but she nodded and slipped quietly out the door to head to the kitchen.

"Go on, Reverend," Jack prompted.

"I tried to call," he said. "Daniel took his cell phone with him in case I needed to contact him, and I called Tuesday morning after my hospital rounds to let him know that Mrs. Perry was in a bad way. Daniel had been seeing to her regularly, and I knew he'd want to know. There was no answer, so I left a message. Mrs. Perry passed on yesterday evening, so I called again and there was still no answer. I knew Daniel would have returned my call if he'd been able. That's when I started to feel that something was wrong. I had Lorna go through the personnel files and get his father's home number, and when I called, Mr. Oglesby answered the phone and said Daniel never came home. He was quite lucid at the time, and his nurse confirmed when I spoke to her as well."

"Why didn't they report it?" I asked.

The Reverend sighed. "The nurse wasn't aware Daniel was supposed to make a visit, and his father had forgotten until I mentioned it on the phone. I happened to catch him on a fairly lucid day, so once I reminded him Daniel was supposed to be there it all came back to him. Unfortunately, he became quite upset and agitated once he knew Daniel was missing. His nurse had to give him a mild sedative."

Lorna came back in with a tea tray, and we all watched as she set it on the Reverend's desk and prepared to pour.

"What about his personal life?" Jack asked. "Was he engaged? Did he date? Was there anyone special in his life?"

If I hadn't been watching Lorna so closely, I'd never have noticed her bobble the teacup before she set it in front of Reverend Thomas.

"Thank you, Lorna," the Reverend said, taking a quick sip before answering. "No, Daniel didn't have any outside relationships that I was aware of. He was devoted to the church."

"What about you, Lorna?" Jack asked. "Do you know if Reverend Oglesby had any close personal friends in the area?"

Lorna sat back down in the chair she'd vacated earlier and went through the same ritual of pleating the front of her dress before crossing her ankles.

"Like I said before, it wasn't my business to pay attention to things like that. The only time I ever saw him was here at the church. He lived over in King George Proper instead of Bloody Mary, so he did most of his errands there. I don't know why he chose to live so far away from the church, but he did. Maybe he didn't want anyone knowing what he was up to in his off time. It's suspicious behavior in my opinion."

My eyebrows rose almost to my hairline at her presumption. For someone who spurned the sins of gossip, she sure didn't mind dishing it out.

"Now, Lorna," the Reverend admonished. "Let's not make something out of nothing. Reverend Oglesby lived in King George because there wasn't anything available for lease here in Bloody Mary at the time. He was going to finish out his lease on the little house he was renting over in King George, and then he was planning to move into the old Tompkins place down the street since it's gone on the market. I believe he'd already made the down payment."

Lorna pursed her lips in disapproval and Jack closed his little notebook and got to his feet. "That'll be all for now, Reverend."

Jack looked at me and held out a hand to help me stand. I put my hand in his without thinking. I was a little dazed, and I wondered briefly if I might have dozed off at some point. I'd run past the point of exhaustion a long time ago.

"How soon will the body be available for burial?" Reverend Thomas asked. "We'll want to do it here at the church and bury him with the respect he deserves."

I was very aware that Jack was still holding my hand, but I didn't want to make a scene by pulling it away. Lorna's eyes were glued to our attachment, no matter how innocent, and I knew she'd take every opportunity to make it more than it was.

"He'll be ready tomorrow afternoon at the earliest," I said. "I still have the autopsy to do. But I need a family member to sign for the body or for them to give proxy to you. We can talk about burial arrangements then."

"I hope you'll consider that we're a poor church and can't afford the price you'd normally charge for a burial. I'd hate to have to bury the Reverend with a pauper's service."

"I'm sure we can work something out," I said through gritted teeth and what I hoped was a smile.

What he really wanted was for me to provide all the services and materials for free. Most people never thought further than what my services cost. They never took into account that I'd already paid for the coffin and would lose money there, or that I had to pay the men who dug the grave and lowered the body into the ground out of my own pocket. Not to mention I wouldn't get paid a dime for preparing the body. I'm sure I could add selfishness to the other sins on my list, but a girl had to make a living.

"Very good then. We'll see you some time tomorrow after I speak with his father. Daniel's with the angels now. There's peace in knowing that."

I nodded and wished I could agree with him. I'd never had a fear about the afterlife until I'd found out what kind of people my parents really were. Not until I'd stood on the precipice between darkness and light myself. Now I just preferred not to think of a heaven or a hell. Eternal darkness suited me just fine. Maybe I could finally get some rest.

# Chapter Seven

"What do you know about Lorna Dewberry?" Jack asked once we were back in the car.

We'd gone inside the church and stared at the framed picture of Reverend Oglesby that hung on the wall in the vestibule. It didn't take me five seconds to know we'd found our victim. The age and shape of the face was right, and the tiny scar on his chin was a match.

"Probably not as much as you do. She's third generation. Never married or had any local relationships that I can remember, but she's a good bit older than we are so that's not saying much."

I turned Jack's heater up to full blast and held my hands in front of the vents. I'd forgotten my gloves when we'd left the funeral home. I just couldn't get warm, dammit.

"She was hiding something," he said.

I froze with my hands in front of the heater and looked over to study his profile. His face was a mask of concentration, and I knew he was running scenarios through his head—discarding and rearranging the facts we'd gathered so far. His index finger tapped on the wheel to some unknown rhythm.

"I don't know how you could tell anything with that stick shoved up her ass. You think she knows what happened to the Reverend?"

"I don't know, but the longer we stayed and asked questions, the more nervous she got. It's worth getting a background check on her."

"You should just ask your mom," I said. "She knows everything about everyone."

I rubbed at my gritty eyes and wished I'd remembered my sunglasses along with the gloves. Sleep was creeping in on me no matter how hard I tried to fight it. Nothing good ever came with sleep, but I wouldn't be able to fight it off forever.

"The last thing I want to do is bring my mother in on a police investigation. She'd be running the whole damned department by the time it was through."

It was true. Mrs. Lawson was one of the most efficient women I'd ever known. When my parents had died, it had been she who'd knocked sense into as many people as she could intimidate to have them bring meals by the house and extend their condolences, even though most of them thought I was as guilty as they were. She'd been a second mother to me growing up, and really, if I was being honest, she'd been more of a mother than my own had been.

I sat up straighter in my seat when Jack turned left onto Queen Mary. The only road it intersected in that direction was Heresy—the street where my family home was located. I wasn't ready to go back there yet.

"Relax," Jack said. "I just need to stop by my place for a few minutes."

"I'm fine." My heart rate slowed back to a normal pace and my muscles relaxed against the seat as Jack turned right instead of left onto Heresy, so we were headed in the direction of his house.

Jack was one of the citizens of Bloody Mary who didn't actually have to work for a living if he didn't want to. Saying he was filthy rich would be an understatement. He came from a long line of tobacco farmers, and Jack had bucked tradition when he'd chosen to go into law enforcement instead of the family business. But his parents had supported him anyway, which was unusual in this neck of the woods—where family tradition and what was passed from one generation to the next was more important than making something of yourself on your own.

Jack's house was the one place I'd always felt the most comfortable. It was a two-story log cabin that looked as if it had sprouted up from the forest of trees surrounding it. It was masculine, but not domineering. Grey stone chimneys jutted from each end, and a covered porch wrapped around the entire house. There weren't many windows in the front, but I knew the entire backside of the house was nothing but floor to ceiling windows so the full view of the trees dropping away to the water could be seen. It was almost exactly the same view from my house.

"You want something to eat?" he asked as he pulled the cruiser into the driveway.

"I could eat a cookie or two if you've got some. I've missed your cookies."

Something a lot of people didn't know about Jack was that he could cook like an angel. He probably figured it was best to keep that secret under wraps, considering he already had women throwing themselves at his feet on a daily basis. I often thought it was unfair that Jack had been blessed with so many talents.

"I might have a few left in the cookie jar." He grabbed the large manila envelope that held an assortment of information about the crime scene and tucked it under his arm as he unlocked the front door.

Warmth and the smell of that morning's coffee greeted me, and I felt my bones ease inside my skin.

"I need to check in with Colburn, and then I want to do a written report and get all my thoughts down on paper while they're fresh," Jack said, flipping on lights as we headed back to the kitchen. "I'll need to talk to the mayor. The whole town is going to be skittish after what happened last December."

The inside of the house was done in rich wood tones and stone. The rooms were open and airy on the bottom floor, so one connected to the next in a big square. The kitchen and living area were at the back of the house, and I dropped down onto the oversized leather couch that flanked the fireplace and faced the back windows.

"Did you run me being back as coroner by the mayor and council?" I asked. "They might not be all that excited to have me back on the job. Especially considering death seems to follow me around. I wasn't in town a minute before another body fell into my lap."

"It just adds to your mysterious persona. Do you want some coffee?"

"Yeah, I could use a cup or ten."

Somewhere between the scent of freshly brewed coffee and the hypnotic sway of the trees outside, my eyes managed to close and stay that way. When I woke up, it was still daylight and a dark blue throw covered me. I was also lying full out on the couch and my shoes were off. The good news was I'd slept like the dead. There'd been no dreams or memories, only the peaceful dark of sleep. I had Jack to thank for that. I felt safe with him.

My stomach growled as the scent of something spicy filled the air. I shrugged off the blanket and put my feet on the floor, running a hand absently through my disheveled hair. My eyes were clear and most of the fog had left my brain.

"Just stay where you are," Jack said. "I'll bring a tray in. When's the last time you ate?"

"Does coffee count as one of the food groups?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"I bought a bag of chips and a candy bar when I stopped at a gas station on my way back yesterday."

"I keep thinking you'll outgrow your adolescent eating habits at some point," Jack said, bringing in a tray and setting it across my lap.

I settled back against the couch and stared at the giant bowl of spaghetti in front of me. I knew he'd made the sauce himself, and my mouth was watering so bad I was afraid I'd start drooling.

"Not that I don't appreciate the meal, but I don't need to be coddled," I said, savoring the first bite. It had been so long since I'd had a good meal that my stomach protested. But it settled the more I ate, and suddenly I was ravenous. "I'm not fragile."

"I never said you were," he said, digging into his own bowl. "But when you come home with dark circles under your eyes big enough to get lost in and your clothes don't fit because you've lost too much weight, then it's obvious someone needs to step in. Lucky for you it's me."

"If I had more energy we'd have a fight right now."

"I'll look forward to it once you get your strength back."

He polished off his food, and I was surprised to see my own fork scrape the bottom of my bowl. I shooed his hand away when he tried to take my dishes and carried them to the kitchen myself. I couldn't cook worth a damn, but I knew how to load a dishwasher.

"Did you find out anything while I was asleep?" I asked.

Jack poured us both fresh cups of coffee and I joined him at the large butcher-block table that sat snugly in a nook and had benches on each side. Papers and photographs were scattered across the top, and I could tell he'd been busy while I'd been out.

"Yes, in the two hours you allowed your eyes to close, I gathered enough information to bring a suspect in for questioning and all but close the case."

"I'm sensing sarcasm in that statement."

"I always said you were smarter than the average mortician."

"You're a laugh a minute." I smiled, but it faded as he stood there looking at me, his eyes serious as they stared into mine.

I braced myself for the panic to hit as Jack brought his hand up and slid it down the back of my hair, just like he'd done a thousand times before. But something was different this time. There was no fear of being touched or wondering how I'd get away—no walls closing in on me. But my stomach clenched and places low in my body overheated. My pulse thudded and my chest tightened as I held my breath, waiting for—something.

Energy crackled between us, and I froze where I stood, unsure of what to do or how to react. I knew how my body was reacting, but that was a completely different animal from what was going on in my brain. Before I could make the decision to take step back or move closer, Jack made it for me and went around to the other side of the table to slide onto the bench. The crackle dissipated as if it had never been, and I wondered if I was simply going crazy. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility. There was certainly enough of it in my family tree.

"Officer Cheek came by and picked up the fingerprints I took of the vic. He called about a half hour ago and said we've got a match from the ones he got at Reverend Oglesby's place. Daniel Oglesby is our victim." Jack took a drink of coffee and pulled out the list he'd been making so I could see. "Lewis and Martinez are going through Oglesby's background, looking for known acquaintances and conducting interviews. It'll keep them busy for a while."

I breathed out slowly and then took the bench across from Jack.

"I also checked in with Colburn. They've combed a mile radius from the crime scene, and so far they've found those beer cans and used condoms Colburn mentioned, but they also found some cigarette butts not too far from the body and a red bandana. It might or might not belong to our perps, but we'll be able to sew them up with DNA if we can find them."

"Busy morning," I said. "It can't be much after noon."

"It's almost three. You were really tired."

I winced and ran my fingers through my disheveled hair. "I need to get back to the body soon. What else did they find?"

"Damn, woman. Was what I told you not enough?"

I rolled my eyes and finished my coffee.

"They spotted tire marks that led to the road on the opposite side of the park. I need to go check it out. Colburn says he found at least four sets of footprints, possibly more, but the dried leaves and brush make it difficult to tell, and the ground is dry right now."

"I don't understand this. Bloody Mary doesn't have mafia ties. And this isn't the work of kids. You're telling me that we've got a group of killers in our town who go about their normal lives, and then all of a sudden they decide they'll torture and kill a preacher and dump him in the woods?"

"That's partially true." Jack dug through his papers until he came up with a copy of the wax impression I'd taken of the brand on Reverend Oglesby's hip. "But it's not the mafia. This is a hate crime, pure and simple."

My mind wasn't computing what Jack was showing me. The symbol of the shield, sword and crowd wasn't reminiscent of Richard the Lionheart after all. I looked closer at what Jack was showing me that I'd missed the first time. The cross guard of the sword, just below the hilt, was bent slightly in opposite directions. Similar to a swastika.

Jack placed an exact replica from an Internet article he'd printed beside the copy we'd taken from Oglesby's body.

"Aryan Nation," I said. "Shit."

"Oh, yeah. It's hard to think of things like this because society has evolved so much, but Virginia is still south of the Mason-Dixon line and this town is generational, as is most of the whole damned county. I'd heard whisperings of the Klan and other groups when I was a kid, but I didn't pay much attention because nothing ever came of it to my knowledge."

He pressed his finger and thumb against his eyes and turned away to look out the window.

"So what do we do?"

"The problem is that something like this isn't going to be confined to Bloody Mary, or even King George County for that matter. I did a little research while you were asleep. The state of Virginia has one of the largest and most active chapters in the entire nation. Reverend Oglesby's body was found in King George Proper, not Bloody Mary, but the road where they parked their vehicle and carried his body through the woods was in Bloody Mary. There's no telling how many people are involved in this."

"Where do we even start?"

"In the few articles I found about membership, you have a better chance of being accepted into the organization if you have a family member sponsor you. So I'm going to be looking at the oldest families first, and then narrow it down by those who have sons and grandsons still living in the area. I'll need to reach out to the sheriffs in the other counties and see if we can find any like crimes."

I was listening with one ear to Jack while reading the printouts he'd made of all the information he could find in such a short period of time.

"Jack, according to everything I've read, these people think they're sanctioned by the church. It's part of their religion to wipe out the unclean."

"Yeah, I saw that," he said, eyes hardening.

"So the question is, why was Reverend Oglesby a target? He doesn't represent the kind of victim they'd normally look for. White male. Man of the cloth. A leader in the church."

"That's a question we'll need to find out the answer to. I think we need to pay another visit to Reverend Thomas and Lorna Dewberry. They know something."

# Chapter Eight

The church was deserted when we pulled back in the lot, but Johnny Duggan was hunched over the flowerbeds, trimming the hedges in a pair of overalls that had grass stains from ankles to armpits. Johnny had been the unfortunate soul who'd found Fiona Murphy's body last winter by the side of the road. He'd aged what looked like a hundred years since then.

He turned toward us when we pulled into the church lot and tossed his hedge trimmers onto one of the bags of mulch he had laid out in a straight line. He held up a hand in greeting and waited for us to come over.

"Morning, Sheriff," Johnny said. "Doc Graves. Good to have you home."

My eyes stung a little because he sounded like he meant it, and I all could do was nod back. Johnny had been a contemporary of my grandparents, but he'd watched my dad grow up from infancy, and he'd been devastated when my parents had died. He'd been one of the only people to seek me out and tell me to my face he didn't think my parents had been guilty of the charges the FBI were laying at their feet. Too bad he'd been wrong about that. I'd found all the proof I needed hidden away in an underground cellar at their cabin. But Johnny had never judged me for my father's sins, and I knew when the latest info about my parents' activities broke in the news that he still wouldn't blame me.

"Morning, Johnny," Jack said. "Nice looking flowers you've got there."

"Got 'em from the nursery over in Fredricksburg. They have their own greenhouses, and they don't use chemicals. Ms. Dewberry thinks it's important for the church to be anti-chemical."

I coughed and turned my head so I wouldn't burst into laughter at the look on Johnny's face at the mention of Lorna Dewberry. It was obvious he didn't hold her opinions in high regard.

"We're here to see the Reverend and Ms. Dewberry," Jack said. "Are they in the rectory or inside the church?"

"I heard you was already here this morning," he said, scratching the silver whiskers on his chin. "Ms. Dewberry was fit to be tied that her morning schedule was off, but the Reverend calmed her down right enough. Sad about what happened to Reverend Oglesby. He was a good man."

"Did you know him?" I asked.

"Bout as well as anyone, I reckon. And by that I mean not well. He was a quiet fellow. Did his duty here at the church, and I've seen him a couple times coming and going from the hospital. He always had a polite hello to say and always asked about my family."

"Thank you, Johnny," Jack said. "I guess we'll go disrupt Ms. Dewberry's schedule a little more."

"Gonna have a hard time doing that," Johnny said. "She drove the Reverend down to North Carolina to speak with Reverend Oglesby's father and bring him back here for the services. You only missed them by half an hour. They said they'd be back late tonight or early in the mornin'. Someone from Richmond is supposed to come in and fill Reverend Oglesby's position temporarily until someone new can be found. He'll be here in the morning."

Jack sighed and I could feel the frustration coming off him in waves, but he hid it well from Johnny.

"Thanks again, Johnny. We'll be seeing you around."

Johnny reached out and put his hand on Jack's arm to stop him. "I heard some of what was done to that boy," he said. "Whispers get out, no matter how quiet you try to keep it."

"Don't I know it," Jack said.

Johnny's eyes were dead serious and steady on Jack's. "We like to think we've progressed, and that we're all accepting of change with the times. But people lie to themselves every day. No one really likes change. And things aren't all that different from when I was a boy. You be careful, son. Very careful. I'm tired of standing over gravesites of people I've known since they were in diapers."

"I don't suppose you'd know where I should get started?" Jack asked.

"I wouldn't know a thing like that," Johnny said, dropping his hand and bending down to pick up his shears. "I keep my head down and do my work. Take care of my family. Just like my father and grandfather did before me. But you might talk to the sheriff over in Westmoreland County. Seems I remember hearing a similar story a few months back when I was there getting a trailer full of mulch. "

Jack and I said our goodbyes to Johnny and got back in the cruiser. I couldn't control the shivers that racked my body, and I huddled tighter in my coat.

"Do you think he's part of it?" I asked as we headed back into town.

"No, but he's given us as much of a warning that we're on the right track as he can without bringing danger to his own family. I'm going to drop you off at the funeral home. I need to do some checking and put out some feelers. Will you be okay?"

"I'm fine, Jack. I've got Reverend Oglesby to keep me company and organs to weigh." I didn't bother telling him I'd be fine as long as I didn't go to sleep. But I had a feeling he already knew more than I wanted him to.

"I'll be back by dinner," he said. "I've never had a campout on the third floor of the funeral home before. I'll bring the stuff for S'mores and a couple of sleeping bags. Campouts are always more fun with company."

I breathed out a sigh of relief I didn't know I'd been holding. Never forget to breathe, J.J.

***

Other than being beaten to hell, Daniel Oglesby had been a very healthy thirty-six year old man. I lost track of the hours that went by as I studied every inch of the victim. There hadn't been any food left in the stomach or small intestines, so I'd been able to firm up the time of death around the 48-52 hour mark, which would put TOD anywhere from 11pm Tuesday night to 3am Wednesday morning. Which also told me his body had been kept somewhere fairly cool and protected because he hadn't decomposed as much as he should have for being dead that long.

I'd also found high traces of Diprivan in the tox screen, which explained how the killers had managed to get to the Reverend without him putting up a fight. His body had been too damaged, so I hadn't found any puncture wounds on the surface of the skin during the external examination, but I'd found the needle mark in the muscle after I'd taken x-rays. It was the fastest way to bring him down, and by the amount I found in his system, it would have brought him down in a matter of seconds.

I finished up with the body and made him as presentable as possible so he could be claimed for burial, and then I pushed him back into the refrigeration unit. My throat was dry as dust and a slight throb was pulsing just behind my eyes. When I looked up at the clock I saw it was already past seven. I wondered briefly where Jack was or if he'd tried to call, but my cell phone didn't get service down in the basement. If he'd needed to reach me he would've had to call on the landline.

I assured myself he'd just gotten caught up in the investigation and that it didn't matter if he was here or not. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And there was a couch in my office just off the kitchen. I could sit there and stare at the wall as well as anywhere.

With that decided, coffee was my first priority, so I headed up to the kitchen and rolled around a couple of different possibilities in my brain from the information Jack had given me. It was a four-hour drive to North Carolina, and Reverend Thomas had said Reverend Oglesby left right after services on Sunday to make it down to his father's house before it got too late. Oglesby would have packed a bag for that long of a trip. He'd have made a stop by his house to grab his things, maybe had a bite to eat before setting out. Or he could've tossed a suitcase in his trunk before he'd left for church that morning. I'd have to remember to ask Jack if they'd located the car yet.

The fresh scent of coffee filled the air, and I waited impatiently with an oversized mug as I tried to remember where I'd packed my aspirin. The sound of the buzzer startled me, and I stood unsure for a second as I stared at the door off the kitchen. Only close friends or the dead used the side door. It was probably Jack, but there was a part of me that remembered what could happen if it turned out to be an enemy instead of a friend. My mind went blank for a minute, and I couldn't remember where I'd left my gun.

"Coat pocket," I said to myself, heading to the coat rack in the corner and fumbling with the material until I felt the heavy weight of the gun knock against my hand.

The buzzer sounded again impatiently, and I chambered a bullet as I went to unbolt the door. Frustration and anger at myself made my hands unsteady as I went at the latches.

"Get it together, Graves. You're acting like an idiot. It's probably nothing." But it could be something. That's what I had to remember.

I got the door open and didn't bother to hide the gun in my hand as I greeted the person on the other side.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Vaughn asked. "I would have left the rats on the third floor if I'd known this is how you'd thank me."

My breath shuddered out in relief, and I ignored the sweat that had beaded at my temple.

I unchambered the round and flicked on the safety before stepping back to let him in. "Jack said they were mice. Little mice."

"Hmm, well, who am I to challenge the word of the sheriff? It's good to see you, Jaye," he said, a grin sliding across his always affable face.

He was dressed in his normal work clothes—meaning he wore tailored black slacks, a charcoal grey dress shirt that probably cost more than my Suburban, a black tie with silver swirls that was undoubtedly Italian, and a long coat of black cashmere. His hair was as black as mine, and his eyes were a lovely deep blue framed by lashes I'd always been envious of. He evened it out with a goatee that was precisely shaped and perfectly groomed.

Vaughn was the clotheshorse among us, and he'd told me frequently over the years that just because I didn't care about clothes didn't mean I needed to look like a rag picker all the time. I'd tried not to take offense. I'd worn nothing but scrubs for most of the last eight years, so I tended to forget what real clothes felt and looked like. He owned an antique store/vitamin supercenter over in King George Proper, and despite the odd combination, he did very well for himself. It didn't hurt that he came from a family almost as prosperous as Jack's.

"I was worried about you," he said. "Wanted to come up to the cabin and check on you myself, but Jack thought it'd be best to give you some space for a while. Though to tell you the truth, if you'd waited another week he would have dragged you back himself."

He reached out to give me a hug, but I ducked out of the way awkwardly and put the kitchen island between us. He masked the hurt with another smile, but I could still see it in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I blurted out. "I just can't—I don't like people to touch me anymore. I get sick."

Understanding and pity darkened his eyes and that was almost as hard to see as the hurt. "It's okay, babe. Jack warned me. I just thought I should try, just in case you were immune with me or something."

He tossed the handkerchief he carried in his pocket down in front of me, and I realized I was crying. I couldn't do that now. I was afraid if I started I might never stop. I still had the gun in my hand, and I laughed a little as I put it inside the drawer of the island. It was either laugh or start crying again. I scrubbed my hands over my face and looked at Vaughn again. He'd rolled up his shirt sleeves and loosened his tie, and he'd made himself comfortable on one of the barstools while I'd been getting myself back together.

"I'm glad you came by," I said, clearing my throat. "I know it doesn't seem like it, but really, I am. I missed you."

"That's good enough for me, honey. I really missed you too. It wasn't the same without you here telling Dickie he's being a dumbass."

"What's going on there?" I asked. I remembered I was desperate for coffee and went over to finish the pot I'd been making before I'd been interrupted.

"Dickie filed for divorce from Candy."

"No!" I turned to look at him to see if he was serious. "I didn't think he'd have the guts. Dickie likes his money."

Dickie had married Candy a couple of years after high school because she'd told him she was pregnant. He realized his mistake pretty much after their first month as husband and wife, so he went out and found himself a mistress to even things out. They'd all co-existed in denial for the last six years.

Vaughn smiled and the corners of his blue eyes twinkled. "I think he's going to be okay. He hired a private investigator first and found out Candy had been juggling a lot of balls, some of them not yellow and fuzzy, during her Sunday morning tennis lessons."

"Oh, that's perfect," I said, snorting out a laugh. "So they cheated on each other and now things are amicable all of a sudden?"

"As amicable as possible. They're going to split everything down the middle except the bank. His grandfather's will stipulates it can't go to anyone other than whomever the heir appoints. Candy hasn't been the problem at all, but Vanessa is giving him fits."

Vanessa was Dickie's mistress. She'd given him an ultimatum that she wanted him to file for divorce because she was ready to have children before her ovaries dried up. When Dickie decided Candy would skin him in a divorce, he'd told Vanessa he couldn't do it and she'd walked out.

"Good for her," I said, bringing the coffee over and taking the stool across from him. "I always thought things came too easily for Dickie. He'll appreciate her more if he has to win her back."

"Well, you know Dickie," Vaughn said. "He'll make a mess of it first."

"So did Jack invite you over for S'mores? We're going to camp out on the third floor and pretend it's a good place for me to live temporarily."

"No, actually." He seemed to have to collect himself for a minute and stared down into his empty mug. "I needed to come by and see you. There's something important I wanted to talk to you about. I'd kill for another cup of coffee," he said. "Maybe with some of that Irish whiskey you keep under the counter. This is harder than I thought it'd be."

I nodded and grabbed the bottle from under the counter, giving each of our cups a shot.

"Are you in trouble, Vaughn?"

"No, not me, but maybe someone else." He went pale and I noticed his skin was a little clammy.

I took a deep breath and felt the sweat break out on my own skin as I reached out to take his hand. A rolling sickness washed through me at the contact, but I pushed it away and gave his hand a little squeeze of comfort.

"What's wrong? Are you sick? Did something happen?"

"That's what I need to find out. I've heard gossip about the body you found this morning. Hell, you can't help but hear the gossip, even in the next town. I didn't pay much attention to the details as the store was crowded and I had two employees out sick. Everyone was mostly talking about you being back anyway. Your hair's longer," he said with a sad smile.

"We found a body," I confirmed. "You know I can't tell you much about it."

"I just need to know—" He took a quick drink and then met my eyes. "They're saying the victim is Daniel Oglesby. Is it true? Just tell me that much."

My hand tightened on his and I shook my head. "Yeah, it's him. We just confirmed for sure a few hours ago. I didn't know you knew him."

Vaughn pulled his hand away and wrapped it back around his cup, bringing it to his lips as if to hide. "We were close for a few months. Things didn't work out between us."

"Oh," I said, the light beginning to dawn. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"God, Vaughn. I'm so sorry."

Friendship warred with my personal needs, but I forced myself to get up and go to him. To put my arms around him and hold him close, even as my skin turned clammy and blackness hovered just on the edges of my consciousness. He dropped his head on my shoulder, and I felt the shudder run through him. And it was his pain that drove my own back. As many times as I'd had to deal with the grieving over the years, it was so much harder when the person hurting was someone you cared about.

"I had to make sure it was him," he said.

"Of course you did."

He lifted his head and his eyes were wet with unshed tears. There was despair there—grief and love—but there was also an anger that took me by surprise. Vaughn wasn't one to lose control of his temper. Not ever. I let him go and went back to my stool, and I watched as he got up and began to prowl around the kitchen like some sort of caged animal.

"I think I knew it was him," he finally said. "From the moment I got the news. Daniel was the one who wanted to break things off, you know."

I stayed silent and just listened. He needed to get it all out.

"We cared about each other deeply, but he was afraid of what would happen if anyone found out. He wasn't ashamed of what he was, but he was always aware of his position and the possible fallout. The church has come a long way in recent years, but he was still worried he'd lose his position. That those who needed him wouldn't come to him because of what he was. It broke my heart to see him torn in two directions like that, but I didn't blame him for making the decision he did. I loved him."

Vaughn finally met my eyes. "I never told him that. It would have made it harder on both of us. I loved him, so when he said he was choosing the church over me I tried to understand. Tried to let it go." He laughed to himself a little. "Ended up getting roaring drunk for the first time since we graduated high school. You remember that night?"

I smiled and said, "I remember you threw up in my car after two rum and cokes."

"I never did get the hang of drinking."

"It takes practice, I'm told."

We stood there in silence for a few minutes. Him reflecting on a time of his life I hadn't been a part of, while I tried to come to grips with what this news meant. It was suddenly crystal clear why Reverend Oglesby had been the victim of a hate crime. Things had improved in this part of the world over the last few years. Tolerance was slow but evolving. But like Jack said, we were still south of the Mason Dixon lines, and change was a little harder to swallow here and a lot slower to take place. I had a tendency to agree with the deceased. No matter how accepting the church was, a homosexual priest wouldn't have fared well in this part of the country if he'd been made public. But it was obvious at least someone knew his secret.

"You're going to have to talk to Jack," I said. "He needs to know everything you can tell him."

"I figured as much," he said with a half smile. "That's why I'm here. I didn't think he'd stay away from you for long."

I rolled my eyes. "I don't need a damned babysitter. I'm perfectly fine on my own. I managed to function for thirty years by myself without anyone hovering over me."

"Oh, well, okay then. I don't know why I've been so worried these last months. You're skin and bones and I could sleep in the bags under your eyes."

"I'm kind of getting tired of people telling me that."

"I'm just saying it wouldn't hurt for you to get a good night's sleep or eat a cheeseburger for God's sake. And stop fighting Jack. You know you'll feel better with him close by for a little while. The boy's got it bad." Vaughn arched an eyebrow and my mouth dropped open.

"You've lost your mind," I said, nervous all of a sudden. I'd been doing pretty well putting off the feelings that had begun to stir between us before my accident. I was a champion at ignoring things I didn't want to see or feel. I had plenty of practice from a lifetime of self-preservation growing up in the Graves household.

"Give the guy a break. It's painful for the rest of us to watch. He was a bear to be around the whole time you were gone. You wouldn't even recognize your house."

"What are you talking about?"

"You haven't been home yet?"

"Nothing good ever happened in that house that I can remember. And I don't see any reason to keep it unless I want to use the little cove by the water to smuggle in stolen goods and drugs like my parents did. Though I'm pretty sure the FBI is still monitoring the area, so it probably wouldn't be smart on my part to start the family business back up again."

"You should at least see it before you decide what to do with it. He needed something to keep himself busy while you were gone, and it's been a slow winter. You got a new roof and all the rotted wood was replaced. He hired a crew to repaint the outside and clear away some of the dead brush. Your central heat and air should be in good shape, and he had the floors refinished and the walls painted on the inside."

To cover the blood stains. We both knew the reason why that project was necessary.

"He's been working on your kitchen lately. And he's pretty damned territorial over the thing if you ask me. Something about pressed tin ceilings and industrial grade appliances."

I felt my temper start to rise at the news. I'd all but had the thing sold and out of my hair. I'd been okay with never setting eyes on it again—not even to get my belongings from the inside.

"If the house is so great why didn't Jack mention it when I told him I was going to sell it earlier?" I steamed.

"I don't know," Vaughn shrugged. "Maybe it has something to do with being stupid in love with you."

"That's ridiculous. Especially since Jack has loved a majority of the women in the state of Virginia."

"Are you really that blind? Never mind—" he said, raising his hands in surrender. "I can see that you are when it comes to him. Let me impart some wisdom on you, my friend. When a man is friends, especially best friends, with a woman, it's because he has an ulterior motive. I don't care what they say."

"Jack isn't my only guy friend. How do you explain that?"

Vaughn propped his elbows on the table and held up one finger. "Easy. Take the four of us and analyze, young Jedi. Dickie is in love with himself, and he's a snob, so he isn't going to be thinking of the male/female dynamic when choosing his friends. Not to mention, he's kind of a pain in the ass at times so he's lucky we all put up with him." He held up a second finger. "My reason is obvious. If you were a dude, those two dates we had in high school wouldn't have been quite so awkward."

"Maybe for you," I said.

"Yes, well." He held up a third finger. "Eddie was the wild card. He's the quiet one, but he's a nurturer by nature. He might have held a torch for you when we were younger, but he's a smart guy and knew you and Jack had something special, so he went and found a perfectly nice wife who he'd never stray from."

"This is ridiculous." I felt the heat in my cheeks and was sure my face was red with embarrassment.

"Now let's take Jack," he said. "Jack's got something special. We've all seen it. And I've wished more than once he was my type instead of yours, but that would just make things awkward because he's definitely batting for your team. He hasn't been nearly as outgoing as he'd like you to believe. I'm not saying the man's been a monk all these years, but his reputation has been overblown a little. He was just waiting for you to come around and notice the spark. Me and Dickey and Eddie have had a bet going for years. Do me a favor and hold out a couple of months longer. I could use the extra money. Though maybe I should tell Dickie to fork over the cash now before he has to give it to Candy in the divorce." Vaughn shrugged and looked at me apologetically. "Dickie's the cynical one. He thinks you'll turn Jack down because you're a scaredy cat. His words, not mine."

"Wh—what?" I asked, completely dazed. I felt like a truck had just run me over and left me flattened in the middle of the street. "Maybe I really am dead," I said. "It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Good grief, Jaye. You know the man loves you. It's no secret anymore. Not since before you left. We could all see the change between you."

"Of course I know he loves me. All of you love me. What's not to love? And I love you guys back, even though you're a pain in the ass."

I had the sudden urge to be doing anything else but having this particular conversation. I jerked open the refrigerator and stared into the empty space. There wasn't even a bottle of ketchup inside. I slammed it closed and stood with my back to Vaughn.

"J.J.," he said with a sigh. "You're running scared. Let me tell you from experience that love should never be ignored or neglected. It's too rare and precious." His voice choked up and I lay my head against the refrigerator door at the emotion in his voice. It was hard to listen to.

"You know what I came from," I said. "How the hell do I know what love really is? And why would I subject anyone to what happens after? Why am I alive, Vaughn? Everyone in my family is dead. Do you realize that in the past six generations of my family, not one of my relatives has lived past the age of fifty? That honor belonged to my parents. Everyone before them died much younger. Not to mention I have a gene pool that would make Satan run away screaming."

I focused on the breathing as I felt the clawing blackness of shame, bitterness and debilitating fear creep around inside of me. It would rip me open and devour me whole if I let it, but I'd gotten better at controlling those emotions and pushing them back. I couldn't lose control yet. I'd end up on huddled on the floor like all the times before.

"I should've died," I said, my voice steady for once. "I know that just as sure as I know I'm standing here. And I accepted it when Jeremy Mooney's hands were wrapped around my throat. You know what I was thinking the whole time I was dying, Vaughn? Do you?"

Vaughn had gotten very quiet, and I turned around to face him.

"I thought, Thank God. Someone besides me has finally decided that nothing good has ever come from my family. I didn't particularly want to die, but I understood there was a certain price to be paid for everyone who'd come before me."

"Bullshit, Jaye."

I stopped in my tracks because Vaughn never cursed. He never got angry. Except tonight apparently.

"Yes, you've got a hell of a gene pool. Your parents were felons. Your grandparents were assholes. And no one with the last name of Graves, as far as I know, understood the meaning of compassion or how to love and protect the people closest to them. They were the bad seeds. Not you. You got all the good that they should've had."

"I can't talk about this now," I said, wiping at my eyes. God, I hated crying. I never cried. It was a useless reaction to things that were out of my control.

"And that's okay. Just know that any of us will be here if you need us. And we'll listen. I'm going to give you one piece of advice," he said. There was no sign of the teasing man I'd known most of my life. Only a face filled with sorrow and honesty. "If I had to do it all over again I would have fought harder for Daniel. I wouldn't have let him walk away without letting him know how I really felt. My pride got hung up in it. He might have made a different decision if I'd told him. We might have come to a compromise, or he might have still walked away. But I'll never know because I let him walk without fighting for him. And now he's dead. He might still be alive if I hadn't been such a coward."

My own problems disappeared and guilt bombarded me as I remembered that I should've been comforting him instead of the other way around. His lover had just died and I was standing here feeling sorry for myself. Then I realized what he was saying. It was easy to feel guilt when you survived. I knew that well enough.

I marched over to him and got in his face, deciding anger was a better emotion that the others that wanted to take control.

"Or you could be just as dead as he is. Don't you blame yourself for this. You had nothing to do with what those monsters did to him. And I'm scared for you. It could've been you I stumbled across this morning."

The corner of his mouth quirked up slightly. "Everybody knows who and what I am, Jaye. They've known for years, and they still patronize my business, and kids are still allowed to trick-or-treat at my house. I'm eccentric and my family is rooted here. You've got no reason to be scared for me."

I raked my hand through my hair at his stubbornness. "You can't know that for sure. They could be biding their time. Promise me you'll be careful."

The door buzzer sounded again just before I heard the key turn in the lock. I took a step toward the drawer where I'd stashed my gun before I remembered Jack had keys to everything. Vaughn squeezed my shoulder gently and moved back to his seat when I tensed under his grip.

Now that Jack was here, I pretty much wanted to be anywhere else. Vaughn's words rang in my ears, and suddenly it was easy to see things I'd been missing all these years. I needed to focus on the dead. Not the living. The dead were much easier to deal with.

# Chapter Nine

"Hey, man," Jack said, slapping Vaughn on the shoulder before setting the various plastic bags he had down on the counter. "I guess you heard about the S'mores. It's damned hard to keep a secret in this town."

"Ain't that the truth," Vaughn said.

Jack plunked a six-pack of beer on the table in front of us and then systematically put away all the groceries he'd picked up on the way, more at home in a kitchen than I could ever hope to be.

"You both look like you could use one of these. Jaye has her guilty face on. I must have missed a hell of a conversation."

Vaughn laughed and I felt my hackles rise. "I don't have a guilty face," I protested.

"Sweetheart, you're the worst liar I've ever met," Jack said. "It's why you owe me eleven-thousand dollars in lost poker money."

"I can't possible owe you that much."

"And seventy-seven cents," he said with a wink.

I felt the blush heat my face and cursed Vaughn for his need to make me see things clearly.

Vaughn only laughed harder and reached for the beer. "I could use one of these." He twisted off the top and then went to get a pilsner glass from the cabinet. Jack and I would just drink out of the bottle like heathens.

"Did you eat?" Jack asked me, pulling out sandwich fixings from the bag he'd brought in and making himself at home. I was contemplating whether or not I should lie when he said, "I'll take your silence as a no."

"I've been a little busy." I knew I sounded like a petulant child, and I kicked lightly at the island before taking a sip of beer. "Why are you always trying to feed me? I'm not hungry. And if either one of you mentions again how my clothes don't fit right I'm going to knock you in the teeth."

Vaughn studied his fingernails and Jack hmmed and went about the business of finishing the sandwiches. By the time he set the plates down in front of us and added an open bag of chips, my mouth was watering. So maybe I was a little hungry after all. Jack took his place at the empty barstool and we all dug in.

I could feel the unease coming from Vaughn over what he had to do. The grief of Daniel Oglesby's death was still raw and new, and I knew if I could feel the tension then Jack could too.

Jack crumpled up his napkin and tossed it onto his empty plate. "So are you going to tell me what's wrong?" he asked, looking at Vaughn.

Vaughn let out a deep breath and then told him without stopping about his relationship with Daniel, almost robotic in tone. Sometimes that was the easiest way. Just to get it out as precisely as possible while blocking off your emotions. Once the dam broke, it was sometimes hard to plug up again.

Jack laid his hand on Vaughn's shoulder and squeezed. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know the two of you were close."

"We kept it quiet," Vaughn said. "We had to."

"Oglesby did a good job of staying out of the public eye all together," Jack said. "I'd only seen him around town a couple of times myself. And I make it a point to try and know most everyone in Bloody Mary at least well enough to say hello in passing."

Vaughn laughed a little and grabbed another beer. "I guess that says something about your church-going habits, considering the man had been there every Sunday for the past four months."

"I go about as often as you. I've been busy."

"That's the excuse I like to use too," Vaughn said. They both turned to look at me.

"I don't need an excuse," I said, grabbing a second beer for myself. "I just don't like to go because I can nap at home without having to put on a dress."

"Daniel actually felt the same way about the church, believe it or not," Vaughn said. "He wanted to make some changes that would bring in the younger crowds. I guess attendance is down and so is the money from the offerings, considering most of the congregation lives on Social Security. But Reverend Thomas stonewalled him every time he had a new idea. And Lorna never liked him anyway, so she wasn't exactly an ally."

"Why didn't Lorna like him?" Jack asked.

A flush of red heated Vaughn's cheeks and he picked at the paper label on the bottle. "I think she knew. About Daniel, I mean. About us. He and I went to dinner one night in Richmond. We were feeling comfortable together. It was a good night," he said reminiscently. "Daniel didn't see her as we left the restaurant, but I did. And I could tell by the look in her eyes that she knew we were together. I mean, like a couple."

Jack and I shared a look. That would certainly explain why Lorna had been so nervous when we'd been questioning her and the Reverend that morning.

"The Reverend and Lorna never made Daniel feel like he belonged here. They saw a young guy with new ideas and a radical way of thinking and decided to ignore him before he'd been here a month. So Daniel took as many of the hospital and home visits as he could so he wouldn't have to work inside the church office with the two of them. He spent a lot of time over at the youth center in King George too. Those kids really loved him."

"Did anyone else besides Lorna know that Daniel was gay?" Jack asked.

Vaughn blew out a breath and his brow furrowed in concentration. "I'd say no, but if Lorna knew then everyone could know. Daniel was very careful to keep his private life private. I never stayed at his house overnight. We never met for dinner around here. And he wasn't seeing anyone else before or after me."

"When was the last time you saw him?" Jack asked.

Vaughn sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Saturday night. He stopped by here on his way home and we talked for a while."

"Did he seem okay to you? Was anything bothering him?"

"Ha," Vaughn said tiredly. "You mean other than what to do about me? He was a little flustered, I guess. He said a car had almost hit him while he was out running early that morning. He sometimes had a hard time seeing if he wasn't wearing his glasses."

"Did he say who it was?" Jack asked.

"No, and I didn't ask. It was just conversation to fill the time, you know? He just said a big white Cadillac ran him off the road."

"You know I won't stop until I find the people responsible," Jack said.

"I know. But that doesn't bring him back." Vaughn stood and tossed his empty bottles in the trash before shrugging on his coat. "I need to get going. I've got to open the store tomorrow. Thanks for the sandwich and the beer."

We sat in silence after Vaughn left, and I could feel the awkwardness between us creeping in. I tried hard not to think of the things Vaughn had told me, and I tried even harder not to remember what that initial spark between Jack and I had felt like. It was getting harder and harder to ignore.

"You know I've got to put Vaughn on the short list of suspects," Jack said. "I don't think he was a part of this, but I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't follow up."

"Sometimes our jobs suck."

"There ya go," he nodded. "Tell me about our victim."

"You've got a thirty-six year old male who's 6'5" and weighs 230 pounds. He's in good shape. I found evidence of knee replacement surgery from several years ago, and Vaughn confirmed he was a runner, so that explains that. But he was taken down with a hypodermic needle filled with Diprivan. It would have rendered him unconscious in seconds, and he wouldn't have been able to fight back. By the time he regained consciousness—somewhere between six and eight hours later considering the dosage—he would have been well restrained and too groggy to put up much of a struggle."

Jack took out his notebook and started writing.

"The needle mark was on the right upper shoulder and slanted outward," I said. "The trajectory makes the attacker right-handed. There was also considerable bruising to the muscle, so he jammed the needle in quick and hard."

"I went to his house earlier," Jack said. "No signs of a struggle or forced entry. Nothing out of place. He lived simply and frugally. The bed was made. Old coffee sat in the pot. There were two cups in the drain pan, both of them already washed. We found a few stray fingerprints, but I don't think they're going to belong to our suspects. Only sign of struggle was less than a thimbleful of blood in the dirt behind the house."

"So what did you see that's not on the surface?" I asked.

"I want to take another look at it anyway. Want to come along?"

"It beats the hell out of staying here." I grabbed my coat and buttoned it up tight over my sweater and jeans. Jack didn't say anything when I got my Beretta out of the drawer and slipped it in my pocket, but I knew he'd noticed. The man noticed every damned thing.

"I was wondering how long it'd take you before you changed your mind about staying here," he said, putting his hand on my lower back to lead me out the door. I knew what he was doing. Little touches here and there to get me used to him. Like I was a stray dog or something. I hated to admit that it was working. The sickness didn't come like it had with Vaughn, but I had something other than nausea to worry about now. I walked quickly to the passenger side of his cruiser and got in.

"I could live here if I really wanted to," I said. "But the more I think about it, living in the funeral home doesn't really fit my new image."

"What new image?"

"My bad girl image." I buckled my seatbelt and could practically feel Jack roll his eyes. "I've decided since everyone's already made up their mind about me that I should live up to their expectations. Maybe I'll dye my hair crazy colors and wear black lipstick."

"Yes, I'm sure that will scandalize the whole town."

"Well, I could come up with something. It might draw in some business."

"So your goal is to shock people into keeling over with a heart attack? That doesn't sound like a good business model to me."

"Shut up," I said, lips twitching.

"Why don't you sell the cabin? The cash would give you some breathing room while you decided what to do."

I'd already thought of that, but that was before I'd found one of my parents' hidey-holes and the boxes of papers and records the FBI never discovered when they'd raided the property after my parents' death. There was no way in hell I was going to sell a property that had a million dollars hidden somewhere on the premises. The only problem was I couldn't find it. The clues had been vague at best.

"I've thought about it," was all I said in response. "I think I might stay at the B&B for a couple of days. The heater isn't working right at the funeral home," I lied. "I'll never get to sleep if I'm freezing to death."

"You'll also never get to sleep with the rats and that clingy scent of death that is soaked into the walls. Living at a funeral home is creepy. At least you've come to your senses. I wasn't looking forward to it."

"I thought you said the exterminator took care of the rats?"

"You know they never get them all. I say we let the rats have the third floor all to themselves. And since you're in such a sensible mood, I'm sure you'll be much more agreeable when I suggest you stay with me instead of paying for a room at the B&B. You know Wanda will snoop through your things while you're gone. She has a duty to report the goings-on of the people she boards when she gets her hair rolled every Thursday at Betty's Beauty Parlor."

"Jack—" I said, shaking my head.

"Don't argue, Jaye. I'm way more stubborn than you are. You'll have practically the whole second floor to yourself. And before you say it, I don't care that everyone in town will be talking. They're talking anyway. I say let them."

I hadn't thought about gossip in that area. Me living with Jack, even on a temporary basis, would have tongues wagging. But he was right. They could talk if they wanted. Nothing I could do would stop them.

"Geez, Jack. I guess you feel pretty strongly about the whole thing. I guess I should just say thanks and be grateful."

"You're a perverse creature, Doctor Graves. I don't know why I like you."

"I can think of a million reasons. One is because I never told your mother when you got that tattoo. And another is because I never told Mandy Howe that you broke your date with her to watch game seven of the World Series with me."

"It was a good game," he said soberly. "And if you think you're going to blackmail me by telling my mom about that tattoo then you can think again. I'm not scared of her."

"Sure you're not. And the tattoo is in such an interesting place," I said, fluttering my lashes.

His hands tightened on the wheel as we wound our way through the mostly empty streets into King George Proper. "If you get me in trouble, just know I'm bringing you down with me. You'll have to admit to my mom that you've seen me naked if you squeal about the tattoo. She's probably going to have a lot of questions about that if I know her."

Oh, boy, had I seen Jack naked. It wasn't something I was likely to forget. I'd officially lost this round since anything else I said would only get me deeper into trouble. The sexual tension in the car notched up to where I had to reach over and shut off the heater for the first time in as long as I could remember. I ignored Jack's chuckle of triumph and tried to think about anything besides tattoos and nakedness.

Reverend Oglesby had lived in one of the older areas of King George Proper. It was a mish-mashed area where quarter-million dollar homes were interspersed with doublewides or run down frame houses. There was a good bit of privacy to be had, as the lots were large and there was good tree coverage. The roads were difficult to maneuver, especially now that it was dark, and we almost missed the turn into Oglesby's place.

Jack's headlights flashed on a small neat square of a house with white siding and blue shutters. The porch was miniscule, and the only thing that made it at all interesting was the yellow crime scene tape across the door. The driveway was loose gravel and there wasn't a garage or portico to park a car under.

"It's quiet out here," I said as we got out of the car. "No neighbors peeping over fences."

"Yeah. The killers would have come in broad daylight, since they had to catch him before he left for his trip. We knocked on doors all along this road, but no one remembers seeing an unusual car at that time of day. Most people weren't at home for various reasons, but everyone had nice things to say about Reverend Oglesby. They talked about how he'd help out neighbors by doing yard work or running errands if someone was struggling. He'd run this road and loop around the three miles every morning at six o'clock, seven days a week. One of the ladies down the street said you could set your clock by him."

We walked up to the porch and Jack opened the deadbolt that had been placed on the door to keep the curious out. The house smelled musty from emptiness as we stepped inside, and Jack flipped on the lights. A fine sheen of black powder from the fingerprint dust coated everything, but underneath was the smell of lemons and clean. It was a small space—a postage stamp sized living room and a kitchen with worn laminate floors and yellow-flecked Formica countertops. A short hallway led to two tiny bedrooms and a bathroom. The furnishings were spare, and a few bills sat on the little table in the entryway, addressed, stamped and ready to be mailed.

"No signs of a struggle," I said. "Not even a little one."

"Yeah, which leads me to believe that only one person was here to administer the drug. There just aren't enough fingerprints belonging to other people. We got a hit off of one set from his cleaning lady. She'd spent some time in jail a few years ago, but she said the Reverend wanted to give her a chance to make an honest wage. I believed her, but we'll run a deeper check on her just to cross our t's. No women are going to be involved in this. This is a good ole' boys club. Women are as much of a minority to them as anyone."

"I can't see him opening the door and inviting in a group of men without some hesitation," I said.

"No, but I could see him opening the door for one man. Especially if it was someone familiar. By all accounts, Oglesby was devoted to the church and his job of helping people. He wouldn't have thought twice about getting a late start or his trip being ruined."

Jack walked around the small space of the kitchen, painting the scene as I stood there quietly and let him think. It always amazed me that he wanted the slower pace of this job, because he was just so damned good at it.

"Oglesby was a friendly guy. He'd want to put his guest at ease." Jack gestured to the two white coffee mugs. "The killer would want to get it done quickly though. The others were waiting on him, and there was always the chance a neighbor could come by. And the longer the perp waited, the more likely Oglesby would feel something was off. You can feel that kind of buzz in the air. So when Oglesby turned away to grab a couple of mugs and pour the coffee, he was given a quick injection to the back shoulder. He's down before he can feel the sting."

"There's no way Oglesby could be moved by one man," I said.

"No, that's when the others showed up." Jack walked to the back of the house and I followed. "They would have pulled the truck back here," he said. "The treads match the ones we found at the dump site. They were gloved and they came up the hall to the kitchen to grab the body and take him out back. We found soil in the carpet in the hallway. They didn't leave everything as tidy as they thought. I've got that blood sample taken from the ground. I'll send it off to the lab in Richmond to see if it matches Oglesby. If it doesn't, it could belong to one of our killers."

I nodded as I followed him out the back door and down the three wooden stairs that led to an unfenced pack yard with patchy grass and plenty of shade trees. Jack turned on his flashlight and the beam settled on the ground not ten feet from the door. The tire tracks weren't deep—just an impression surrounded by dozens of footprints in the dry dirt—but they were visible.

Jack stood with his hand on his hip with his jacket pushed back over his weapon so it didn't get in the way. He shook his head and said, "All they'd have to do is throw a tarp over him until they reached the place they tortured and killed him. A three-man job. Two in the cab of the pickup and then the one who delivered the injection drove his own car. The whole thing wouldn't take fifteen or twenty minutes from start to finish."

"Something else about the drug they used on him," I said. "Diprivan is only used during surgery by anesthesiologists. It can't be acquired over the counter, and I've never heard of it being sold black market. There's no demand for it."

"So I'm looking for a doctor?" Jack asked.

"I'd say it's a good possibility one of the killers has access to a hospital."

"That'll be fun," he said. "Doctors are usually assholes. No offense."

"Can't argue with the truth."

"We'll hit the hospitals tomorrow. I can't fit much more into one day. Let's pack it in for the night."

We headed around the side of the house and Jack relocked the front door with the deadbolt and made sure the crime scene tape was secure.

"You left all the stuff for S'mores at the funeral home," I said once we were back in the car. "Don't think you're getting out of that one, my friend. I demand S'mores."

"I guess it's a good thing I dropped those specific ingredients off at my place before I came out to drag you away from the rats."

I buckled my seatbelt and adjusted the heater as Jack did a u-turn on the graveled drive and headed towards his place. "Pretty damned sure of yourself," I said.

"What can I say, babe? When you're good, you're good."

# Chapter Ten

The next morning, I had a sugar hangover that would've done any teenaged boy proud. My teeth felt gritty, and little men were dancing across my skull. I couldn't narrow down the reason for the headache—there were many possibilities. One of which could have been the wine I'd used to chase down the S'mores.

I'd taken the upstairs guest bedroom that looked out over the trees and all the way down to the water line. Mostly because I thought it would be nice have something to look at as I waited for night to pass. I messed up the covers a little so Jack wouldn't worry, but I'd sat most of the night in the overstuffed chair next to the windows. I'd dozed off and on like normal, but real sleep was a thing of the past. It didn't help that I could hear Jack tossing and turning in the room next to mine.

As soon as the sky started to lighten, I headed into the shower and tried to do some damage control with makeup so the dark circles under my eyes wouldn't be so prominent and people would stop commenting on them. My face was pale and my cheeks gaunt, and if I stared too hard I could still see the bruises the exact size of fingerprints around my neck. I stood back and looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. I was too thin. I traced the outline of my ribs, almost as if it were someone else's body instead of mine.

I put the thought out of my mind and hopped in the shower under the hot spray, hoping when I got out and stared at myself again I'd look a little more like a human instead of a day old corpse.

When I padded out of the bathroom wrapped in a thick white towel, the duffle bag I'd left in the back of the Suburban was sitting on the bed.

"Oh, shit." I'd completely forgotten about the boxes I'd brought home with me. They weren't safe for public consumption, much less Jack's law-abiding eyes. I needed to get to them fast and get rid of them like I'd planned before I'd gotten distracted by murder and S'mores.

I dressed hurriedly in jeans and a soft, button-down grey shirt the same color as my eyes. Thick socks and my worn boots came next. I shoved all my belongings in the closet to tidy up, ran my fingers through my hair, and called myself presentable enough. The smell of coffee greeted me as I opened the bedroom door, and I headed to the kitchen to get that first rush of artificial energy.

"You're up early," Jack said, cracking eggs into a hot pan on the stove. He turned and gave me a once over from head to toe while I went to the cabinet to get the coffee mug I always used. It was an oversized black mug with a white chalk outline of a body and yellow crime scene tape.

"I don't know if up is the correct term," I said. My voice was always at its worst first thing in the morning, and it was hard to live with such an in your face reminder of something I'd just as soon forget.

I shuffled to the coffee pot and poured the hot, black liquid all the way to the rim. I didn't blow on it or let it cool. I just drank it down and waited for the life to come back into my body.

Jack brought plates to the table and we both sat cozily in the little nook, our knees touching companionably. My stomach growled loudly at the sight of eggs, sausage and toast. My arteries might hate me later, but the rest of me was grateful he'd decided to forgo his usual oatmeal. He never even put sugar on it. I shivered at the thought and took another drink.

"Have you thought about going to talk to someone?" Jack asked, blindsiding me while my mouth was full.

"About what?" I evaded.

The look he gave me was patient, but also a bit frustrated. I just kept shoving food into my mouth and hoping I could escape soon. I needed to get to those boxes. Then I remembered I didn't have my car with me, and I was at Jack's mercy for the time being.

"You're not sleeping well at night," he pushed on. "Don't you think you need to see a doctor? Or talk to a counselor about what happened to you?"

"Sleeping pills won't make the nightmares go away, Jack, and I don't need some quack to tell me I need to open up about my feelings. I know perfectly well what my feelings are. I have more goddamned feelings than I know what to do with."

Jack got up and brought the coffee pot over to refill my cup, and he just left it on the table between us as he sat back down. "Do you want to talk about Brody?"

"No." My voice cracked as I spoke, and I had to stop and clear my throat. To remind myself to breathe and take it slowly. "I don't need to talk about Brody. I just need time to settle back into the way things are around here, without everyone reminding me all the damned time that people are dead because of me."

"Who's told you that?"

"They don't have to say it to my face, I see it in their eyes. It doesn't matter," I said, shaking my head.

"It does matter." Jack reached out and grabbed my hand before I could get up from the table and escape back upstairs. "You won't believe anyone until you're ready, but I'll say it anyway. What Jeremy Mooney did was no more your fault than it was anyone else's. And you're not the reason Brody is dead. Fate catches up with all of us sooner or later. He was here at this time and this place for a reason. None of that was in your control." His grip loosened and his thumb rubbed gently across the inside of my wrist. "But you feel guilty because you lived. And you feel guilty because you didn't love him as much as you felt you should have. And he died anyway."

I pulled my hand away and stood up, my breath coming faster as I tried to get control of the emotions festering inside of me. There was guilt, yes. But there was a whole lot of anger. And it was best I kept it leashed for all our sakes.

"I need to grab my stuff," I said, heading toward the stairs. "I need to go into the funeral home today. When you talk to Reverend Thomas again, let him know the body is ready for release."

I didn't have to turn around and look at Jack to feel his disappointment.

***

"I guess this is my welcome home gift," I said, twenty minutes later as Jack and I stood next to my Suburban. "So much for no one blaming me."

"Quite honestly, I don't think this has anything to do with what happened before. This is because of what's happening right now."

All four tires were slashed and a few very creative slurs for the female anatomy were spray-painted in lime green along the sides and across the hood. Fortunately, they hadn't bothered to break the windows or tried to steal the boxes that were becoming more and more burdensome with every passing second. There were five of them in all, no bigger than a foot deep and wide, and I'd sealed the contents with so much packing tape it would take a machete to hack through it all.

"I don't suppose I could get you to help me take those boxes down to the lab?"

Jack raised his brow in curiosity because I was a fanatic about keeping it uncluttered down there. It was a sterile space with nothing but tools of the trade. It was also the safest place I knew to keep incriminating documents. No ordinary thief could break past those locks.

"You know," Jack said. "Someday it might be nice if you told me what the hell was going on. How am I supposed to help you if you're always keeping me in the dark?"

"The dark isn't so bad," I told him. "The dark can keep you safe."

"Fine," he nodded. "Let's move boxes."

Jack's anger was always slow to build, but once it reached a certain point, an explosion was inevitable. The tension had only grown between us since our earlier conversation, and I was wishing I could start the morning with a do-over. What I was really wishing was that I could stay in bed and pull the covers over my head for the next few hours.

Jack's movements were controlled and his mouth pressed into a tight line as we transferred the contents of the Suburban down to the basement. I stayed silent and watched him stew, knowing I was the reason for most of his frustration. I just waited him out patiently and watched as he kicked the back tire of the Suburban.

"This is my fault," he finally said. "You don't need to deal with something like this so soon after coming back. The killers knew we'd start looking for them as soon as we found out what the symbol branded into Reverend Oglesby was. Cocky bastards. And it doesn't get much plainer than this that you can't trust anyone."

"No more than I ever did," I said, touching my finger to the paint. "It's still tacky."

"I'll call the tow truck and have them take it in. I want you to keep the doors locked today. Stay inside until I come back for you, and make people use the buzzer."

"I—"

"Don't argue with me, Jaye. I'm not in the mood."

My own anger was perilously close to the surface. I wasn't going to argue, but I wouldn't promise either. I had responsibilities to the dead man inside the house, and at some point I needed some personal time as well. I hadn't expected to jump back into the fray quite so soon, and my nerves were begging to frazzle.

"I'll have a patrolman do a drive-by every half hour. This group lives by their own rules, and we don't know how many are involved or who. I've got an appointment to talk to the sheriff over in Westmoreland this morning, but I should be back by noon unless I run into complications."

"I don't mean to discredit your deductive reasoning," I said between clenched teeth, "But this incident very well might have been done by someone who just doesn't want me to come back home. I'm not the only one who blames me for what happened in December. It's easier to point the finger in my direction than anyone else. It's in the blood, you know."

"If anyone wants you out of this town, they're going to have to go through me first," Jack said. "And we all have bad blood somewhere in the line. It all comes down to choices—right and wrong—and you'll never convince me otherwise."

Jack squeezed my shoulder once and then took out his cell phone to call George Murphy for a tow truck while I let myself in the side door. Jack had already checked the inside to make sure nothing had been tampered with, but I kept my gun close by just in case.

I put on another pot of coffee and jumped as Jack came in.

"George will be here in twenty. I've got to take off."

"Okay then," I said to the door after it closed behind him. "Still pissed."

I bolted the door and then went to check my messages. There was one from Floyd Parker at the Gazette, wanting an interview about Reverend Oglesby's death. Fat chance of that happening, asshole. And there were three other similar messages from reporters in King George Proper, Nottingham and Newcastle. They were all vultures, and I'd as soon as shoot any reporter rather than give them the time of day. Reporters had not been kind to me in the past. Especially Floyd.

And then blessings upon all blessings, there was a lone message from Deborah Perry, the daughter of Mrs. Perry. The same Mrs. Perry who'd been on Reverend Oglesby's list of patients on his hospital rounds and had passed away the day before. I almost wept with gratitude when I heard she wanted Graves Funeral Home to take care of the body. She'd heard I was back in town just in time to make the decision. The only problem was I didn't have a vehicle to retrieve the body from the hospital.

I called Deborah back and told her we'd retrieve the body sometime that afternoon, and that she could come in at the same time and handle all the paperwork. Mrs. Perry's death was going to save me for a few weeks, as morbid as that sounded. She was also going to pay for the damage done to my Suburban.

I heard the tow truck in the driveway, the scrape of the bed being lowered and the rattle of chains. George Murphy stood at the switch, his white t-shirt and jeans already stained with fresh grease. His dark hair was pulled back into a tail at the nape of his neck and his icy blue eyes were covered with Ray-Bans. He worked with a graceful competence despite his size. And his temperament. George was a bastard by most people's standards, but he was a damned good mechanic. Not to mention he owned the only shop in Bloody Mary, so public relations weren't really a worry for him.

I gnawed at my lip in indecision. Jack would be back by noon, and I'd be perfectly safe in a public business in the middle of the day. I grabbed my purse and keys and locked up the delivery door, ignoring his order. Part of it was just stubbornness because he'd used his Lord of the Manor voice to issue the order. The second part was because if I didn't go with George and wait on one of his men to do the work, I'd be lucky to see the Suburban sometime in the next week.

"Morning, George," I said, slipping on my sunglasses. "Can I catch a ride with you?"

In all honesty, George Murphy scared the hell out of me. He was a big man with a quick temper and fast fists. He'd been a murder suspect when his wife had turned up dead, but it didn't look like his attitude had improved any with the declaration of his innocence.

"No room," he said tersely and hit the lever so the Suburban was lifted to the back of the truck.

I looked at the empty passenger seat and decided I'd have to play hardball. George could sense weakness a mile away, and I had a body to pick up that afternoon. I needed my vehicle.

"I'll just ride along up front then," I said, opening the truck door before he could say anything else. "And don't worry. I'm sure I can find plenty of things to keep me occupied while someone is working on the Suburban. Jack said he'd be by before noon, so it'd be best if it was finished by then."

I didn't mind using the threat of Jack when necessary. Jack was the one person George could be intimidated by. George didn't say anything to acknowledge I'd actually spoken, but he didn't physically remove me from his truck and toss me across the lawn either, so I figured I was in good shape.

It wasn't a long drive to Murphy's Auto Shop, and I thought it best not to mention that George ran two stop signs and almost sideswiped Mrs. Meador on the two-mile trip. Most of the people out and about got out of the way as soon as they saw the tow truck, and I unclenched my fingers from the door handle when I saw George's satisfied smirk. Nope. I'd been right about my initial observation. His wife's death hadn't softened him one bit.

As soon as he backed the tow truck into the driveway of his shop, I had my door open and feet on solid ground before the engine turned off.

"Mornin', Doc Graves. Heard you was back." Wormy Mueller spat a stream of tobacco juice and wiped the grease off his hands with a dirty bandana. Wormy didn't weigh a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, and his age was somewhere between thirty-five and sixty-five. If he had a name other than Wormy, I'd never heard it.

"Back and making an impression, it seems," I said, pointing to the creative vocabulary on the side of the Suburban.

Wormy wheezed out a laugh and spat another stream of tobacco juice. "So it seems. We'll get you fixed up. Got some stuff that'll take the paint right off. Though you might consider keepin' it how it is. Thataways everyone'll know when you're comin'."

"I'll consider it."

A white Cadillac pulled into the far bay, and I froze as I remembered what Vaughn had told us about Reverend Oglesby being run off the road. Wormy went down to greet the middle-aged guy who got out of it, but I didn't recognize him. A tan passenger van pulled in next to the Cadillac and I lost sight of it.

I rubbed at my arms with unease and tried to maneuver around to get a license plate number from the Cadillac, but the car was already in the bay with another car pulled in behind it, blocking most of the car from my view. It would have looked suspicious for me to go down and start checking things out. Kenny Laubach saw me staring as he made his way to the rack of tools along the wall, and I quickly turned my gaze.

I needed to find out who owned that white Cadillac. Not that there weren't a million white Cadillac's out there to begin with, and the chance of that being the same one was probably slim, but I needed to know. I was going to have to ask George, no way around it.

I turned my attention back to my Suburban and watched as George worked the levers and chains with expertise. His muscles strained across his shoulders and arms, and when he lifted his arms to release the lock on the pulley, I saw the tiny mark on his tricep. My hand felt for the Beretta in my pocket and I took a step back before I remembered we were in public.

It wasn't a large tattoo, but it was a symbol I'd recently become familiar with—a shield and sword design topped by a crown. It matched the brand I'd found on Reverend Oglesby perfectly.

"It's slow this morning," George said, making me jump. It was the first words he'd said to me since we'd left the funeral home. "I'll get started on the tires now. Wormy can deal with the other later. It'll be $1200 total. Cash or credit."

The spit had dried up in my mouth and the familiar taste of fear rose like bile in the back of my throat. I was tired of the fear. Tired of looking over my shoulder every time I went outdoors. But I couldn't seem to help it. And obviously there was that need for fear if men like George Murphy were involved in what we thought they were.

I took my hand from the pocket that held my gun and wiped my sweaty palm on my coat. I needed to stay calm and play it cool. Jack would be here soon. At least he would once I texted him and told him about the tattoo on George's arm and the white Cadillac.

I think more than a minute went by with us staring at each other in silence, and it wasn't until I felt the calm start to take control again that I realized what he'd said. "Twelve-hundred dollars?" My voice chose that moment to crack and fade, and I coughed to try and hide it.

"Four new tires and the paint removal. That's labor intensive."

"What about four used tires?" I asked.

"I'd have to go over to the dealership in Richmond. They have pre-owned. I could probably have them by Monday. Tuesday if they aren't backed up. Still run you eight-fifty though."

I could put the tires on my emergency credit card. Barely. But I'd been using it to live off of while I'd been recovering, and my limit would be maxed out if I did. But Mrs. Perry's interment would help alleviate that some.

"Fine. New tires it is."

I waited until George had the Suburban in the bay and then went in the tiny office that also doubled as a waiting room. There was a black and white TV in the corner and wood paneling on the walls. It smelled of grease, sweat and old cigarette smoke. There was a coffee pot plugged in with what looked like a fresh brew, but I couldn't bring myself to try it.

I texted Jack with a bunch of capital letters and exclamation points, telling him about George and the Cadillac, but I didn't hear back from him immediately, so I figured he'd found something helpful and couldn't get away. I cracked my knuckles anxiously and watched George through the grimy window as he replaced my tires.

The auto shop filled up over the next hour, but no one joined me in the little office, and when I walked outside to stretch my legs, I noticed the Cadillac was no longer there. I saw Wormy Mueller looking at me this time, his gaze a little concerned, and I realized I'd been staring at the empty bay where the car had been for longer than was probably normal. I gave him a non-crazy kind of smile and headed back into the office to finish waiting.

Several of the townsmen came and went, sitting outside to talk to the mechanics who weren't busy. The women who brought their cars by usually walked a block up to the Towne Square to do some shopping while they waited. But there were enough people around that I felt a semblance of safety when George came in an hour later. He wrote out a ticket silently and I gave him my credit card, looking around once more to see a trio of customers outside the station and five of George's mechanics working on different vehicles.

"I didn't know you had a tattoo," I said, watching his face carefully. "I've never seen it before. What is it?" I pointed to the little symbol under his sleeve, but George ignored me and swiped the card.

He attached the receipt to a clipboard and slapped it down on the counter for me to sign. I grabbed the pen and went to scrawl my name when George grasped my wrist. The nausea hit me first as my stomach roiled at his touch, and then the blackness started to creep in towards the outer corners of my eyes.

"Don't touch—" I barely got out before sweat popped out on my skin.

He tightened his grasp and I might as well have had Jeremy Mooney's fingers around my throat again. I couldn't get the air in, no matter how hard I tried.

"You ask a lot of questions that don't need to be answered, J.J. Graves." His voice was barely a whisper, but I heard him plain enough. I started to struggle, trying to pull my arm away, but George was too strong. "Look where it's gotten you. You can't look anyone in the eye, and you flinch every time someone gets close to you. You think people don't notice that sort of thing? The smell of your fear is so strong I can almost taste it."

"Take your hand off me." I had to think about each word as it came out of my tormented throat, but still my voice trembled and broke under the strain.

He didn't do as I said. "You and your sheriff are going to end up dead if you keep poking your nose into things best left unbothered."

I realized he was telling me something important, and if I kept my mind focused on the case, the blackness would recede. My lungs relaxed and I took in a big gulp of air. My skin was cold beneath George's fingers, but I was still standing on my own two feet.

"Who? Give me a name, George," I said, much calmer than I felt.

"You know who." His grip tightened more and he shook me a little. I'd have bruises. "They won't care who you are. And you'll never see it coming. They have eyes and ears everywhere. And if you try to leave, they'll taunt you and use you until they lose interest. They will not give up if you stir up this hornet's nest."

I opened my mouth to ask something else, but George released me so I stumbled back a few steps. I fought the urge to rub at my wrist.

"I'll tell Wormy you're ready for him," he said. "I don't want to see you in my shop again. You're nothing but bad news and trouble."

"Who was the man in the white Cadillac?" I asked.

George stared at me like I was the Devil himself, and his face shut down so there was nothing but emptiness in those pale, pale eyes.

"I've never seen him before."

George walked back into the bay area toward Wormy, and I flexed my hand, trying to get the circulation going again from where George had cut it off. I huddled into one of the orange plastic chairs against the wall and took comfort from the weight of the gun in my pocket.

I don't know how much time passed, but I watched Wormy make the spray-paint on the Suburban disappear like magic, and I watched George get into his pickup truck and head south towards Newcastle. He gave me one last, long stare as he drove by, and I knew then that death hadn't forsaken me when I'd lived this past winter. It was still out to get me, and I'd just looked it in the face.

# Chapter Eleven

It was eleven-thirty by the time Wormy finished with the Suburban and handed me the keys. I'd decided to keep my mouth shut about questioning the other mechanics about the man in the white Cadillac and let Jack deal with it. George had scared me, and I didn't want word getting back to him.

I still hadn't heard from Jack by the time I backed out of the auto shop on $1200 worth of new tires, so I assumed something in Westmoreland caught his attention. I drove aimlessly around town, wondering how a place could never change or why the people who lived there never seemed to want it to. The businesses and houses were the same. So were the people for that matter. The family names written on the gravestones in the cemetery were the same names as those who occupied most of the town now.

Mr. Hardesty stopped sweeping his front walkway long enough to wave to me as I drove by his pharmacy, but Mrs. Conroy next door gave me a stony stare and crossed herself before she hurried back inside her quilting store.

I don't know why I turned onto Queen Mary instead of heading back to the funeral home, but I found myself headed in that direction almost as if I didn't have control over my actions. I saw Reverend Thomas's old car at the church and knew he and Lorna must be back from seeing Mr. Oglesby, but I didn't want to have anything to do with either of them in my present state of mind.

I let the Suburban idle at the crossroads of Queen Mary and Heresy. I wanted to see the house. Wanted to remember it for what it was. A miserable pile of rotting wood with blood stained walls, and the ghosts of parents who I'd once thought loved me. They'd never been overly affectionate, and they'd believed in letting me live my life and learn my lesson if I made a wrong choice, but I'd always thought that initial kernel of love that every parent should have for a child was in there somewhere. But the kind of people who were capable of doing the things my parents had couldn't have possibly loved me. Not really.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and found my courage, and I was just about to turn left onto Heresy when my cell phone rang. I saw Jack's name in the display and answered, more than a little relieved that I didn't have to make that turn after all.

"How was the Sheriff in Westmoreland County?" I asked.

"Dead," Jack answered. "Head to my office, and I'll fill you in."

"10-4. I can be there in ten."

"Yeah, I know," he said. "Thanks for staying inside the funeral home like I asked. It was nice not to have to worry about your safety while I was gone."

"Technically, you didn't ask," I said, looking in my rearview mirror to see Jack's cruiser behind me. His sunglasses covered his eyes, but his mouth was set in an angry line. "You ordered. You know I don't do well with orders."

"I've noticed." He hung up and then did a three-point turn in the middle of the road to head back to the police station.

I sighed and followed him. I'd been back in Bloody Mary for a little over twenty-four hours, but it was starting to feel like I'd never left.

I followed Jack all the way back through town and parked in front of the block of municipal buildings that sat dead center in the county square. The courthouse was in the middle—a gothic stone structure carved with what was supposed to be the goddesses of justice and mercy at each cornerstone, but they looked more like the gargoyle versions of Ren and Stimpy due to a rather untalented sculptor and a shortfall in the budget.

The police station flanked the left side of the courthouse and the fire station flanked the right. Jack pulled into the parking spot reserved for the sheriff and I took the spot next to him that was reserved for the county commissioner. I wasn't really sure what the county commissioner did, but I was almost a hundred percent sure he didn't work on weekends.

We didn't speak as we entered the station. There was a buzz of activity—the ringing of phones and the hum of voices. All noise stopped, and a dozen faces started in curiosity as soon as we walked in.

"I need Colburn, Lewis and Martinez in my office," Jack said, walking straight back to his square box of an office.

It was glassed on three sides, but he had the blinds closed so no one could see in. It hadn't changed much since the last time I'd seen it. Same threadbare carpet, and a dented desk with a computer that had seen better days. It was piled high with files and an empty coffee mug. There was a door behind his desk that led to a little room he used if he needed a bed to crash in for the night. Jack's office gave Spartan a whole new meaning.

Jack had a couple of boards set up in the corner and I took the chair that looked the least rickety and sat down. I was starting to get antsy with the silent treatment.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said. "But I needed to go in with George so I could get the Suburban back for a pickup this afternoon. Mrs. Perry's daughter called, and I need the business." Jack stayed stonily silent and I rolled my eyes. "You should be glad I did go. I wouldn't have seen that tattoo otherwise. Or the white Cadillac. Though it would've been better if I could've gotten the license plate," I murmured. "And I was in public. They're not going to do anything in the middle of town in broad daylight. I'm assuming you got all my texts?"

No answer.

"Haven't you grown out of the silent treatment yet? It's very juvenile. And it doesn't work on me."

I kicked my legs against the bottom of his desk, making an obnoxious racket, until he finally turned to look at me with murder in his eye. That's the thing about two people who knew each other so well. We knew the exact thing to do that would drive each other crazy.

"I saw Reverend Thomas and Lorna were back from their trip. You have time to talk to them yet?" I stopped kicking my legs against the desk and saw the anger drain inch by inch from his shoulders.

"That's where I was when I saw you drive by," he finally said. "I talked to Lorna again. Turns out she did know about Oglesby and Vaughn. I got an earful about how if I was a good friend I'd try to make Vaughn un-gay, but other than that, she didn't have much to add to the investigation. She did, however, tell me the list of things that made her good wife material. I appreciate organization in a woman."

I saw the devil gleam in Jack's eyes before he turned back to his board, and I sat back and tapped my fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. He was still irritated with me, and now I was irritated because I didn't like the thought of anyone as Jack's wife.

There was a quick knock at the door, and Jack called out a quick, "Enter." Colburn, Lewis and Martinez walked in. "Close the door and take a seat," Jack said, taking command. He glanced at each of us, and it was then I could tell that the anger ran deeper than whatever I'd done. Something had happened in Westmoreland County and it wasn't good.

"I've chosen each of you to form this task force," Jack said. "The main reason, with the exception of Doctor Graves, is that you're not home grown. I can't trust anyone whose family is local. Not even from the damned state. I know each of your backgrounds, and I promise I know you better than you do by this point. I can't trust the cops outside this room or the people in this county. This case is going to get messy, and it's going to be dangerous. We're going to be looking at other cops. Everyone's a suspect. I need to know now if anyone has a problem with that."

Silence was the only answer and Jack gave a sharp nod. The others found seats and Jack turned back to the empty boards and began placing crime scene photos in rows with magnets, each one labeled with a date and location.

"What we've got is six similar crimes over the course of the last thirty years. I've still got feelers out, but I'm expecting I might have a few more to add here when it's all said and done. None of these took place in the same county, and only our vic and one other was branded with the Aryan symbol, which is the most likely reason the deaths were never linked before. There are variations to the torture, but when you look at them as a whole, they're the same."

"I did the background like you asked," Colburn said. "Virginia has one of the largest chapters of the Aryan Nation in the whole United States. They've been cited for a few riots and protests, but nothing else blips on the radar. They've got a fucking website with propaganda and how to join, but the general membership list is private. We need a warrant to access, and I've already contacted Judge Wilbourn. But it's just weird that they'd come out like this and make a statement so boldly. Something's off here."

"Agreed," Jack said.

Colburn slouched back in the chair and crossed his boots. "Doctor Gregory Vance came in voluntarily for questioning. He's waiting for you in interview once we're done here."

"Who's Doctor Vance?" I asked.

"The current president for the Aryan Nations, Virginia Chapter."

"He's a doctor? A medical doctor?" I asked Colburn.

"Yep. Got a private practice down in Gloucester. General practitioner."

"That's certainly convenient," I said, looking at Jack with my brows raised.

"I thought so too," Jack said. "Everything is falling into place nice and tidy. Vance is fifth generation Virginian. His parents and grandparents are dead, but there's some history there. He's also got two sons. Ages thirty-six and thirty-eight. One followed in dad's footsteps and is a cardiologist over at Augusta General. The other owns a couple of car dealerships. One in Richmond and one in Fairfax. They're both worth taking a closer look at."

Jack sat on the corner of his desk and crossed his arms as he studied the board. "I spent the morning with the asshole sheriff over in Westmoreland. We've got a like crime from his county," Jack said, pointing to the first crime scene photo. "Almost a year ago. Julie Lawrence was an African American attorney who was taken from the courthouse parking lot. Surveillance cameras were conveniently broken during the kidnapping. Twenty-nine years old with a husband and two-year old daughter. Husband reported her missing when she didn't show for dinner that evening. They found her body three days later when it was dropped in the same parking lot they'd taken her from. She'd been raped and tortured extensively, many of the methods matching our current victim, including the lashes with a sharp piece of metal attached to the implement."

"There were no suspects?" I asked. Jack tossed me the copy of the file and there were exactly two sheets of paper inside.

"Not much of any police work done at all. A Sheriff Cole was in charge of the investigation. Questioned the husband extensively and the family of the man she'd been in the middle of prosecuting. And then all of a sudden two weeks after the murder Cole gets a wild hair up his ass and decides he and his entire family need to move to Utah. So he resigns and away they go."

"That's handy," Colburn said.

"You want me to track down the Sheriff?" Martinez asked.

"Already made a pass at it and did a run on Sheriff Cole," Jack said. "Looks like he and his wife were killed in a house fire a couple of months after the move. It was ruled homicide. Whole damned house was covered in gasoline. Went up like a match. No suspects. No witnesses."

"Jesus," Lewis said. "What did the new sheriff have to say? I assume he took over the investigation."

"Yes," Jack said between gritted teeth. "Good old Sheriff Anderson, who was the deputy sheriff under Cole. It's in his cold case files. He said there wasn't a trail by the time he took office, and there hasn't been anything since, so he's chalked it up to being a random act of violence. Incompetent asshole."

"I want to follow up on the case Julie Lawrence was working. The accused was a small-time meth dealer named Ronnie Campbell. The DA was trying to get him to roll on bigger fish, but Julie Lawrence goes missing and then all of a sudden there are enough holes in the case you can pour water through it. Campbell goes free and was killed when his meth trailer was blown all to hell during the cooking process."

"It's unstable," Colburn said. "And with all the wooded areas in these parts, I know there are more labs popping up than the DEA can keep track of."

"Yeah," Jack agreed. "But they found parts of Ronnie Campbell for fifteen blocks. Police shut the case down pretty quick, saying it was an act of stupidity instead of a homicide, but from everything I read out of Julie Lawrence's files, she said Campbell wasn't smart enough to be anything but a deliveryman. And a low level one at that. He wouldn't have been cooking anything in that trailer. So we need to look closer. See if we can find a connection between Julie Lawrence and Daniel Oglesby. I put out a few feelers to some other counties and got these other hits. I've got all the notes, all the suspects. It's a shitload of paperwork to follow up on. It's your lucky day, Lewis."

Jack dumped a stack of papers as thick as two phone books into Lewis's lap. Parker Lewis wasn't my idea of a normal cop. He was originally from Chicago and still slick with the city image. He was thin and bony, a couple of inches taller than me, and his hair was dark blond and gelled within an inch of its life. He had bright green eyes and compensated for his weak chin with a goatee. He and Martinez had been partnered up for a couple of years and worked the streets, such as they were, but Jack wouldn't have put him out there if Lewis couldn't handle himself.

Lewis sighed and looked at the thick stack of paperwork. "Thanks, boss. I guess I didn't need that date tonight."

"Not like you'd score there anyway," Martinez piped in. "She's way out of your league, bro. Never would've made it past second base with that one."

"It's a first date, you moron," Lewis said, cuffing Martinez on the side of the head good-naturedly.

Martinez was in his mid-twenties and still had enough shine on him to tell me he hadn't been on the job too long. He was a couple of inches shy of six feet and stocky with it. His skin was the color of a caramel latte, his hair and eyes were black, and his smile was cocky. "My point exactly. You've got to give 'em something to come back for. Right, boss?"

Jack looked at Lewis and reached out to take the stack of papers back. "On second thought, I think you're a lot more suited to the follow-ups," he said, dropping the stack in Martinez's lap.

Lewis and Colburn burst into laughter, and I felt my lips twitch as well. "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful," Martinez said.

"It's a struggle every damned day," Jack said with a straight face. "Now, if we can get back to the murder that's interrupting our playtime maybe we can all go home sometime today." He turned to Lewis. "Information has come to me that George Murphy might be able to shed some light on this investigation. Track him down and bring him in for questioning. Let's make it informal for now. Doctor Graves saw him headed towards Newcastle in the tow truck, so he'll be back to the garage before the end of the work day more than likely."

Lewis winced. "I'm not sure if I'd rather have the grunt work you stuck Martinez with or convince George he needs to cooperate with the police. I heard he caught a wild boar once, punched his hand through its chest, and pulled the beating heart right out of that sucker. Maybe I should wear the Kevlar." He and Martinez both stood and headed toward the door.

"I'll make sure to visit you in the hospital," Martinez said. "It's never a chore to talk with the pretty nurses."

"Remember this is Code Red," Jack said before they could open the door. "I don't want any leaks. Keep those files locked up and give any new information directly to me or Colburn."

"You got it, boss," Martinez said and shut the door behind them.

"They make me feel old," Colburn said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't have a lot of new information for you, Jack. The tire tracks disappeared about half a mile from where the body was left, heading southeast, so they could've gone to King George or Nottingham, or another county entirely. It's a large tread tire, so we're looking for a truck or oversized SUV."

"Not a Cadillac?" Jack and I both asked at the same time.

"Definitely not. I've got the measurements. Now all I've got to do is narrow it down to brand. I've got a bad feeling about this one."

"You're not the only one," Jack said.

"I've been doing door-to-doors near the drop site and also around Reverend Oglesby's neighborhood. Word spreads when a body is found that way. Especially here. There are some that are clueless when I start questioning them, but there are others who've heard the rumors. And they're scared. You can see it in their eyes, even as they deny that they know anything."

"Then those are the ones I want you to talk to again." Jack looked at his watch. "We've got nothing after this long, and it's not going to get any easier to keep dragging it out. I'm going into interview. Let me know if someone clicks for you."

Colburn unfolded his long body from the chair and gave us both a salute before he headed out.

"How do you feel about sitting in on the interview with me?"

"It makes me feel a little sick to my stomach, actually. Is there one of those two-way mirrors like on TV? And will we be recorded? I've never liked the sound of my voice on a recording. Though maybe it's better now that I've got the husky thing going."

"We'll listen to the tape later," he said, holding out his hand and pulling me from the chair. Our bodies bumped briefly. Just an innocent touch that should have been over before it began. The feelings that rioted inside my body weren't foreign. I'd felt attraction before. Lust. Desire. Need. All of those things that made up basic body chemistry when two people clicked. But those feelings I'd had before were like distant shadows.

I put my hand against his arm to catch my balance and push away, but I was frozen there in his arms. My blood pumped faster and my heart slammed against my chest as his hand rested lightly on my waist. I somehow found the courage to look up. Just to see if I was imagining the whole thing.

The heat in his eyes had turned them almost black, and my fingers clenched against his shirt at the sight of all that restrained power. I don't know what it was he saw in my face, but it made him loosen the grip I had on his shirt and kiss my fingers softly before separating our bodies.

"Wait—Jack—"

"All in good time, Jaye." He squeezed my hand once and then let go. "Let's go hear what the good doctor has to say."

# Chapter Twelve

There was only one interview room in the King George County police station, and sometimes it doubled as storage if things were extra slow. They only boasted five jail cells, so the lack of interview space wasn't terribly surprising. Most of the problems in this county could be solved without putting someone behind bars. It was an advantage of living in a place where you knew almost everyone.

I followed Jack down the hallway, the grey tile and mint green walls assaulting my eyes with every step. A uniform stood at attention outside a metal door, and he gave Jack a silent nod.

"Any trouble?" Jack asked.

"No, sir. He's declined representation for the moment, and he asked for a glass of water. I gave him a bottle out of the fridge."

Jack nodded and opened the door. He gestured for me to enter first, and I realized why as soon as I got my first glimpse of Doctor Gregory Vance. A woman was just another kind of minority to a man like him, and he barely gave me a glance before he turned his attention back to Jack.

Doctor Vance was the president of one of the largest hate groups in the entire country, so to say I was surprised at his appearance would have been an understatement of epic proportions. He could've been anybody's grandfather. He wasn't a large man, and his face was comfortably lined with age. His bald head was fringed with a half circle of silver hair that started just above the ears, and he wore round gold-framed glasses. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled to the elbow and an expensive watch gleamed at his wrist. The only sign of nerves I could see was the way he rolled his water bottle back and forth in his hands.

"Doctor Vance," Jack said, taking the seat across from him. "Thanks for coming in to see us today. I'm hoping to clear up a few things."

I took the seat next to Jack, and was already fidgeting to get out. There was something about the room that made me uneasy. Which I guess was its intention. But being enclosed in a 9x9 square room with painted concrete block walls wasn't helping my anxiety. The table was metal and bolted to the floor, and the wooden chair I sat in had a short leg, so if I shifted in my seat it wobbled. The two-way mirror was non-existent. Just walls that kept closing in.

"It's important to maintain a good relationship with the police," Doctor Vance said. His voice was higher than I'd expected it to be.

"That's good," Jack said, tossing the thick file he'd brought in on the table. "Then we'll get right to it."

Jack took out the little cassette recorder and placed it between them on the table. I knew Jack had been trying to get the council to increase the technology budget so they could go digital, but so far his requests had fallen on deaf ears.

"Interview with Doctor Gregory Vance," Jack said after he'd hit the record button. "You've been read your rights and have declined representation at this time, correct?"

"Yes, that's right," Vance said.

"This is Doctor Graves," Jack said. "She's the coroner for King George County. She'll sit in on the interview with your permission."

"Sure, sure. Whatever you need," he said, his cordial smile turning to a smirk. Dead doctors weren't considered real doctors in most circles, and I'd gotten used to the condescension from colleagues over the past couple of years.

"State for the record your occupation," Jack said.

"I've been a general practitioner in Gloucester going on twenty years now."

"Do you have hospital access?"

If Vance was surprised by the question he didn't show it. "Yes, I make morning rounds twice a week, sometimes more if I've got a patient that's critical."

Jack nudged my foot under the table and I realized it was my turn. We'd discussed our strategy briefly on the short walk to the interview room.

"Do you know the drug Diprivan?" I asked.

"Of course." He turned back to Jack, trying to take control away from me. I leaned forward and got his attention again, and the corners of his mouth tightened in either anger or annoyance, I couldn't be sure. I'd been known to bring out both emotions in the opposite sex.

"Did you sign for a ten milliliter vial two Mondays ago after your morning rounds?"

Vance's brows rose, but his face was as pleasant and passive as ever. "Obviously I did if you have the record of it, Ms. Graves. Let's not play games." I decided to ignore the slight he gave me by not using my title. "It's common enough during surgeries. But I'm not a surgeon, and I'm not an anesthesiologist, so I don't often have use of it, if that's what you're asking. But that particular morning, one of the anesthesiologists was running late. He'd met a woman the night before and ended up at her place. Unfortunately, he was an hour and a half away and he had a nine o'clock surgery. He asked me to sign for the drugs, so I did. It's not a usual practice, but hardly illegal."

"The doctor's name?" Jack asked.

"Robert Goss. He's a good doctor. Young and a little impulsive if his sexual habits are anything to go by, but we all know how it feels to be reeled in by a woman's sexuality. It is, after all, why they were created. You can't fault the man for falling to temptation. Women were born of sin."

I rolled my eyes and pinched Jack's leg under the table to get a move on. I suddenly felt very sorry for Mrs. Vance.

"Where were you the afternoon of Sunday, March 27th, between the hours of noon and six PM?" Jack asked.

"Well," Vance said, his furrowed brow crinkling further. "Where I am every Sunday afternoon. Church services end around twelve-thirty or so. And then I took my wife, kids and grandkids to lunch. We headed back to the house around three where we watched the Knicks beat the 76ers. A fairly standard Sunday in our household."

"What about Friday morning between the hours of midnight and four AM?"

"Asleep, of course. I have rounds early Friday mornings. I have to be at the hospital by six AM. My wife can verify if need be."

"I'll make sure to contact her," Jack said, catching Vance off guard with the promise.

I could tell by looking at the good doctor that he felt completely in control of this interview. He was pleasant, but he was also very intelligent and he knew how to show patience and restraint. He'd have to know how as the leader of a group of men as volatile as those belonging to the Aryan Nation.

"How do the people of Gloucester feel about their doctor being involved in one of the most prominent hate groups in America?" Jack asked.

Vance leaned forward and linked his fingers. He was enjoying himself, being the center of attention. "Most don't know." One side of his mouth quirked in an amused smile.

I could see it now. The disdain for those who didn't see things the same way he did. For those he considered inferior. Myself included. His eyes changed—hardening—to give us a glimpse at the man beneath the surface.

"And the ones who do know?"

"Most of them are like you. They don't understand our purpose. They pass judgment without knowing what we do because that's what the government or the media has told them." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs comfortably. "And then there are those who do know. And believe."

He twisted the cap off his water and took a long, slow drink, watching us over the top while his throat worked to swallow.

"And what about your sons?" Jack asked. "Do they believe? Did you start training them young? So that hate festered as they grew to adulthood?"

Vance set his water down on the table very carefully. Very controlled. "My sons are good men. They have children. They have careers."

I noticed he didn't say wives.

"And are they members of your club? Do they spend their free time torturing and beating grown men to death? Raping women?"

"As I'm sure you know, our membership roster is private. My name is available through our website because I'm the liaison between people like you and our members, but the citizens of this state who've decided to follow the true path and dedicate themselves to purifying this country have a right to their privacy."

Jack took the crime scene photo of Reverend Oglesby out of his folder and set it in front of Doctor Vance. "Look at it," Jack said when Vance continued to stare straight ahead. "Do you recognize the work here? Is this your idea of purification?"

Vance looked down at the photo of the mutilated body of Daniel Oglesby, but there was no reaction to the horror that had been captured. "There are all kids of purification, Sheriff, but this is not our way. Our creed is that violence of this nature is unnecessary to our cause."

"But there is violence?"

"I'm sure you know better than most that a group of testosterone driven men can't always be controlled with the voice of reason. But we strive to be rational and use logic to get our point across."

"I'm sure Reverend Oglesby would disagree that his torture and death were rational or justified. It's a hate crime. And it's still murder, no matter what spin you put on it."

"It's not my hate crime," Vance said with a smile. "I've already given you my alibi for the nights in question. I'm intrigued by your case. It's not often a man of the cloth is punished in a way like this. But it makes you wonder what it was he did to deserve such a punishment."

"Do you believe anyone deserves a punishment like this?" I couldn't help but ask.

His eyes met mine and I felt a chill work its way down my spine. "I believe God allows punishments like this for those who do deserve it."

Vance's gaze bored into mine, but the pleasant look on his face was at odds with those dead eyes when he started quoting scripture. "The fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and all liars shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire. Revelations is a powerful book of the Bible. Wouldn't you say so, Ms. Graves?"

My palms were dry and cold and my mouth was like cotton. He'd spoken those words with power and condemnation, but I couldn't let him see he'd affected me.

"I'm familiar enough with the Bible, Mr. Vance."

Anger leapt into his eyes at my slight, and it took everything I could muster to hold still in my chair and not move away from him. I couldn't let him see my fear. He might have an alibi, but he knew more than he was saying. I'd seen that evil glimpse into his soul, and I knew that Vaughn might not be as safe as he thought he was.

"You forgot to mention the part about murderers," I said. "They belong in the fiery lake as well. Unless there's a special place in hell for people like that?"

Vance leaned toward me, and I froze as I forgot how to breathe again.

"Do you know George Murphy?" Jack asked, drawing his attention away from me.

Vance gathered his composure and relaxed back in his chair. "I can't say I recognize the name. Is he a suspect?"

"I just thought you might have some familiarity with those in your following."

"Like I said, Sheriff, if he was a member I wouldn't divulge his name. And just because I'm in a position of power doesn't mean I know everyone in the organization. It's a large group. Did you know our numbers have grown larger than all the police in the state combined?"

I felt Jack go rigid beside me as Vance stared him down and the threat became clear, but Jack wasn't one to be intimidated. There was a reason Jack was a damned good poker player, but him in a temper was never a good thing, so I reached under the table and put my hand on his knee, hoping he wouldn't give Vance the satisfaction of a response. Jack's muscles relaxed beneath my hand, and he took another photograph out of the folder and put it face up in front of the doctor.

"What can you tell me about this?" Jack asked.

The photo was a close up of the brand that had been burned into Reverend Oglesby's hip—of the flesh that had been charred black around the edge with the symbol of hatred. Jack took out another photo and laid it beside the first. I recognized the body of Julie Lawrence, the victim from Westmoreland County. She had a similar brand, but hers had been on the inner thigh. I could tell by looking at her photo that they'd given it to her pre-mortem, and I clenched my fists in my lap to keep from launching myself across the table at the smug little bastard in front of me.

Doctor Vance adjusted his glasses and leaned over the photographs, studying them intently. "Why should I be able to tell you anything about this symbol?" he asked, looking up.

"Doesn't it look familiar? Like the symbol of the organization you represent?" Jack said.

"There are similarities, certainly," Dr. Vance said. "But this is not our symbol." He bent down and pulled up his trouser leg, pushing down his sock so his ankle was exposed. No bigger than the size of a thumbprint was the exact same tattoo I'd seen on George Murphy.

"This is our symbol, Sheriff Lawson. What you have there is the same except for the crown. Our crown only has three points. The one on your victims has five."

"And that makes a difference?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. A significant difference. That's not our symbol. Now," he said, fixing his pants leg and pushing back his chair. "I've given you all the time I can spare for the day."

There was a knock at the door, and we all turned to face Detective Lewis as he stepped inside. His face was grim as he leaned down and whispered in Jack's ear, but I couldn't hear what was being said. I watched Doctor Vance instead and saw the smile curl at the corner of his lips.

Detective Lewis left, and Jack stood up, gathering the photographs in front of Vance and slipping them back in the folder.

He hit the stop button on the recorder. "We appreciate your cooperation, Doctor Vance. We'll talk again soon." He motioned to me and opened the door before he turned back and added, "Don't plan any trips out of the state."

I followed Jack at a fast clip down the hallway to where Detective Lewis was waiting. "What's happened?" I asked, all but running to keep up with Jack's longer strides.

"I found George Murphy," Lewis said.

"Did you bring him in for questioning?" I asked.

"I'm going to leave that to you, Doc Graves. I found him down in Newcastle in his pickup truck. Had a bullet in the side of his head. I don't think he's going to do us much good in interview."

# Chapter Thirteen

By the time Jack and I arrived, the area had already been cordoned off and the crime scene team had finished documenting the scene surrounding the truck. But they'd left the inside intact for me.

I recognized George Murphy's truck immediately. To think I'd ridden in it only a few short hours before gave me the creeps. Especially now that the inside was decorated with George's blood.

A scene like this was going to get messier the more I waded in, so I pulled my kit and a pair of coveralls out of the back of the Suburban. I snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves and watched Jack out of the corner of my eye, tossing his leather jacket into the trunk so it wouldn't get ruined, and donning his own coveralls. I slung my camera around my neck and headed to the truck.

"Made a hell of a mess," Jack said. "I didn't realize George had that many brains."

I snorted out a laugh, but quickly turned it into a cough when heads turned our way. We circled the truck, and I took a dozen or so pictures of the blood spatter.

"Looks like a bullet up close and personal to the left temple," I said. "No chance of missing when you're that close. Anyone been inside the truck yet?

"I had them save it just for you."

"Must be my lucky day. Let's open it up."

Jack did the honors of opening the driver's side door. The side of George's body that faced us looked exactly the way I remembered him from earlier. Same white t-shirt and stained jeans. The only thing different was the tiny round hole in his temple.

"It's pretty handy how the gun ended up still in his hand after he fired the shot," Jack said. "Looks like a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver."

"Yeah, crazy how that works. Especially since he was right handed." I remembered George writing the ticket out for the Suburban repair. Definitely right handed. I took a photograph of the entry wound and swabbed a sample of the powder residue left around the wound.

"The killer held it right up to the skin. See the tattooing of the powder around the entry hole?"

Jack moved in closer so he could take a look. "Whoever did it didn't bother to try very hard to cover it up. "

"He's still in primary flaccidity." George's muscles had relaxed completely, making his jaw hang open and his eyelids droop closed. His hand was so limp I was amazed they'd managed to get his fingers wrapped around the gun.

I pulled it out of his hand, and Jack held up an evidence bag so I could drop the gun inside. "I don't see powder marks on his hand. At least not enough that would indicate he's the shooter." I took measurements of the entrance wound and called out numbers to Jack. "You know, something's been bothering me ever since I asked George about that tattoo."

"Christ, Jaye. You actually talked to him about it?" Jack put the gun away in an evidence box, and then put his hands on his hips as he paced back and forth beside the truck. He stopped and glared at me. "Do you have a death wish?"

I narrowed my eyes and turned to face him. "Like I said before, I was in a public place. And no one else was listening. Now do you want me to tell you what he said, or are you going to bitch some more?"

"It's a good thing I love you," he said, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

Panic swarmed through my body like angry bees, and I looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "Cut it out, Jack. You're just trying to stir up trouble."

"You do that perfectly fine on your own. I was just stating a fact. One which obviously makes you nervous. That's okay. I figure if I keep saying it, you'll eventually believe me."

"Can we please get back to the dead body?"

"By all means," he said, waving a hand towards me. "What bothered you during this brief period of bad judgment where you felt it was a good idea to question George about his tattoo?"

The growl erupted before I could control it, and I had to close my eyes and count to ten before I could speak.

"George kept saying, They," I said. "That if we kept digging, they'd come for us. That if someone tried to leave the organization, they'd taunt you. As if he knew from experience. But the way he kept saying they made me think he wasn't a part of it any longer."

"Well, he's certainly not now," Jack said, rubbing his hand over the short length of his hair in what I knew to be a gesture of frustration. "What we have to figure out is who saw you and George talking. Someone knew what was happening, and they acted quickly."

"The man in the white Cadillac?" I asked.

"Maybe. Or maybe someone else at the auto shop. Maybe George had a partner."

I went around the other side of the truck and took a deep breath before opening the door. This side of George looked nothing like the man I'd seen this morning. The entry hole of a bullet wound was nice and neat, but it had to come out somewhere. And a .38 wasn't the kind of gun to leave a pretty exit wound. The whole right side of his face was gone.

I blanked my mind to the carnage and smell, and started gathering brain matter and tissue from the seats and windows. I felt Jack's hand squeeze my shoulder for comfort just before I climbed inside and got a better look. It was a godawful job.

"George left the garage about ten o'clock," I said. "And he's still warm, so he had time to make a stop or two before they caught up to him."

I reached back and Jack handed me the thermometer from my bag without me having to ask for it. I ran George's temp just to make sure, and then I pulled back his eyelid and studied the surface of the eyeball. "Eyes are just starting to cloud over. The killer cut it close. Lewis could've witnessed the whole thing if he'd been a few minutes sooner. Between the flaccidity of the body, his temp, and the eyes, I'd say George has been dead just over an hour."

"No chance of self-termination?" Jack asked.

"No. It's definitely homicide." I got out of the truck and sucked in a huge breath of fresh air.

"I guess it's my turn," he said. "This is the one part of the job I didn't miss when I moved from the city back to Bloody Mary." He started his search in the glove box. "Insurance papers and a hundred bucks in cash." He bagged it all and then ran his hands under the passenger seat. He then crawled inside and did the same beneath the driver's side. Jack pulled out another gun, and I held out the evidence bag for him this time. There was no way to go about the process of collecting evidence neatly.

"Another .38," Jack said. "This one will be registered to George." He moved back out of the truck and popped the lever to lower the passenger seat so he could reach into the back. "A .22 rifle back here and a tool box. Nothing out of the ordinary around this area. We'll impound it and do a more thorough search, but on the surface it looks pretty clean. I'll head over with the team and start the search through his house."

We were both covered in things I didn't care to think about. Even with the coveralls, I'd be hitting the showers the first chance I got. I called out to the officers who had drawn the short straw to pack up the body. "Let's get him loaded up and back to the funeral home."

Jack and I stepped back a few feet and let them go about the messy task.

"You going to tell his parents?" I asked.

George's parents and grandparents both still lived in Bloody Mary, and if Jack didn't get over there soon, they'd hear the news of their son's death from someone else.

Jack winced and said, "Yeah, I'll swing by there first. I'll bet you twenty someone has already spilled the news."

"That's a sucker's bet. And I'm no sucker."

"I'm so proud." He slapped me on the back and then headed to his cruiser. "I'll be by later for the autopsy results," he said, snapping off his gloves and stripping out of his coveralls. He tossed everything in a yellow plastic hazardous waste bag and locked it back in the trunk.

"It's going to be a few hours," I called out. "I still have to pick up Mrs. Perry." I discarded my own coveralls and gloves. "She's been on ice at the hospital morgue a while. It's going to be hell rubbing out the rigor."

"10-4, Kemo Sabe. See you tonight."

***

I put in a call to Vaughn after I'd deposited George Murphy in my refrigeration unit, and it went directly to voicemail. I left a quick message telling him to get back in touch, and then went to deal with Mrs. Perry at the morgue.

By the time I made it back to the funeral home, Mrs. Perry was tucked comfortably next to Reverend Oglesby, and her daughter was drinking hot tea in my office. Mrs. Perry had been ninety-six years old at the time of her death, so her daughter wasn't exactly a spring chicken, but she'd made the decisions for her mother's interment with an efficient decisiveness I had to admire. We were done with the paperwork within half an hour, and I was left alone with my bodies, a full pot of coffee, and a hefty check for services. I tried calling Vaughn one more time, but it went to voicemail again, so I sent him a text.

Call me ASAP.

It was going on five o'clock by the time I started preparing Mrs. Perry's body. It was cold down in the lab, and I shivered as I donned a white surgical gown and blue gloves. I pulled her out of the refrigeration unit and got her transferred over to the special table I used for embalming with no problems. Mrs. Perry had shrunken with age, and she looked almost childlike under the white sheet I'd placed over her, but when I pulled it back there was nothing but the frail remains of a ninety-six year old woman—sagging skin and liver spots included.

I spritzed the body with disinfectant and wiped her down. The quiet hum of the ventilator was starting to get to me, so I went and turned on the radio. I figured the dead had an eternity to listen to Bach or harp song, so I cranked Soundgarden and went back to my work.

There are a lot of steps that go into preparing a body so it can be seen by friends and family. Death causes all sorts of abnormalities to occur—especially with the eyelids and joints and mouth. Most people don't know that I have to staple a person's gums together to keep the mouth closed. They probably don't want to know. I did quick work with the staple gun and stuffed Mrs. Perry's mouth with cotton before stepping back to check my work.

I'd gotten much faster at embalming over the last two years. Even being gone the last few months hadn't taken away the skill. I mixed the embalming chemicals together, and the smell that made Jack heave filled the air. I'd have to take a shower—another shower—before I met with him again. It was a smell that clung to everything like thick syrup. It's the reason I always used lemon soap. The acid cut through the layers.

I sliced open the skin above Mrs. Perry's clavicle and again at the neck and hunted for the carotid artery so I could tie it off and start the embalming process. It was messy work, preparing the dead for burial, but everything went smoothly and the body drained and filled as it was supposed to, the proper fluids filling the wells built into each side of the table.

Embalming someone isn't a terribly long process, so I let the machine run its course, and then I sewed her back up and slathered her in lotion so her skin wouldn't be dry when it was time to put on makeup. I rolled her back into the refrigeration unit and pulled out George Murphy.

I changed my gown and gloves, and then went over to refresh my coffee cup. The stacks of boxes I'd brought in from the Suburban taunted me from the corner of the room. I needed to burn them. But part of me knew I couldn't do that until I'd been through every scrap of paper and evidence in those boxes. I had a right to know exactly who my parents had been. And I had a right to give myself some kind of closure, even if it was finding out things I didn't particularly want to know.

I cut off George's clothes and went through all his pockets, documenting the contents as I went. It was all very routine, but then I came to his front right pocket and I froze as I pulled out a gold wedding band. My job required me to compartmentalize the things I saw in my job—to put away the atrocities and the carnage and focus only on the job. But something inside me broke as I held that small ring of precious metal in the palm of my hand.

George had kept that symbol with him always, even after his wife had left him for someone else and died as she'd made her escape. It was a heartbreaking reminder of the frailty of human life, and that the person laying in front of me had been real—with real thoughts and emotions—and at the end, real suffering.

I carefully placed the gold band in a small plastic baggie and put it with the rest of his things to give to his family, and then I turned back to the body to start the examination.

I got him cleaned up and started my external examination, documenting everything I came across, including the tattoo on his tricep. Three-point crown. Not five. I finished and ran him through x-rays, not expecting to find anything, but not expecting is what always led to surprises.

"What the hell?"

I saw what looked like crumpled paper in his trachea, so I grabbed my forceps and adjusted the light. I opened his mouth carefully and tilted back his head and I could barely see the corner of what I'd seen on the x-rays. I used the forceps and gently reached in to pull it out.

I took it to the counter and opened it up. It was a photograph, slightly faded and a little worse for wear, but I recognized Murphy's Auto Shop. There was a smattering of people standing in front of the bays—some were mechanics—but it was mostly local men. The auto shop had always been a gathering place, and I didn't see anything incriminating or suspect in the photo. It looked like any other day at that particular spot. Nothing in Bloody Mary really changed. I had the proof in my hand.

I grabbed an evidence bag and logged and dated the information on the outside before placing the photo inside. It wasn't until then that I noticed Frank Greenbaum and Jesse Fife in the photo. It didn't explain anything really. It just meant the photo was eight to ten years old, since Frank and Jesse had both passed on—both of natural causes—some time back. I'd been away at college when Frank had died, but I'd been back home for the Christmas holidays when Jesse had gone, so I'd had to help my parents with his interment. I looked closely at all the others in the photograph, but didn't see anyone else who made me think there was anything out of the ordinary happening.

The rest of George's body didn't give me any more clues to his murder, and the autopsy didn't take nearly as long as normal since most of his brain was missing. His tox screen came back negative, and there were no abnormalities internally that I could find. Gunshot to the head was official COD, and there was no amount of putty in the world that would make George presentable for an open coffin. It was a little sad to think George would probably be going into the plot next to the one we'd dug for his wife only a few months before.

I put George away and then went to use the shower in the bathroom attached to my office. I scrubbed and washed my hair twice, and I didn't get any whiffs of embalming fluid when I got out and dried off. I grabbed the extra pair of clean clothes I kept inside the office closet, and yanked on jeans and a long-sleeved black Henley. I set my boots out on the side porch to air out, and grabbed my tennis shoes instead.

I tried calling Jack to let him know about the photograph, but it went directly to voicemail. I had no idea where he was, but I wasn't going to sit around and wait for him to come to me. I needed to get out. Seeing those boxes in the lab had ideas forming in my head, and I knew if I stayed at the funeral home, I'd be ripping into them to read what was on the inside. I'd already seen some of it. I just wasn't sure it was the right time to look at the rest. Maybe I was just a coward.

I checked my phone for the twentieth time in ten minutes and saw I had no messages, either from Vaughn or from Jack, so I grabbed the photograph and my bag and headed for the Suburban. I knew exactly what I had to do and where I was going. It was past time I faced my demons. Maybe once I did I could finally find peace.

# Chapter Fourteen

The darkness was coming later and later in the day as spring neared, and today of all days, I was thankful for it. The clouds had grown gray and angry while I'd been cooped up with George and Mrs. Perry, and they roiled dangerously even as thunder rumbled in the distance.

My fingers tightened on the wheel at the crossroads of Queen Mary and Heresy, but I pushed ahead and turned left on the rutted path. The inside of the Suburban seemed to be getting smaller and smaller the closer I got, so I rolled down the windows for some fresh air. The smell of the water from the Potomac was strong, especially with a storm rolling in, and the wind had picked up so the trees arced towards the ground and my hair whipped around my face.

I hadn't realized I'd arrived until I saw the line of trees at the dead end just past the turn into my driveway. I stopped there in the middle of the road and stared at the house in disbelief. Jack had been busy while I'd been away.

The old Victorian had been built in the early part of the twentieth century, and when I'd left Bloody Mary four months ago it had looked its age. But now, everything looked right. At least on the surface. The roof had been repaired, the rotted wood had been replaced and repainted a bright white, and the sagging porch had been rebuilt and painted a dark navy to match the new shutters. There were no broken windows. And I knew the inside would be fixed as well.

But beneath it all, it was still the same old house.

I stumbled from the Suburban and walked up the graveled drive. Someone had cleared out the weeds and overgrown brush, but I hardly noticed. I'd left my coat in the car, and the wind was vicious as it cut through my shirt to the skin. But I just wrapped my arms around myself and stared.

I'd grown up in the house. A house that had held nothing but lies and deceit. A house that had already been drenched in blood before my own brush with death a few months before. And I knew no matter how many coats of paint now covered those walls, the blood would always be there. I thought of Brody—of the man I'd wanted to love. But I'd been incapable of forcing the emotion. I thought of my parents who'd made me that way.

The first drops of rain started to fall at the same time I heard the tires of another car approaching. A car door slammed and footsteps crunched across the gravel, but I didn't turn around. I knew it was Jack, but I couldn't take my eyes off the house. And I couldn't bear to face him when I told him what needed to be said. The footsteps stilled behind me, as if he were unsure how to proceed.

"You were right, you know," I said. "I didn't love him—Brody, I mean. It makes his death somehow worse, doesn't it?"

"Jaye—"

"No, let me get this out. I need to tell you why I don't think I'm capable of loving. Why you're wasting your time." I licked my lips, but my mouth was completely dry, so it didn't help. "What I feel for you is stronger than what I've ever felt for anyone, but I need you to try and understand why you may not find what you're looking for with me."

The rain was coming faster and my shivers more violent, and Jack moved closer so he could hear me over the howling wind.

"Then tell me," he said, his voice gentle despite the turbulence I felt inside my own body.

"My parents—" I gulped in a deep breath. "I didn't tell you everything about my parents. You know the basics. You know the FBI accused them of smuggling stolen goods and worse things into the country. They used the dock in the little cove behind the house. I had no idea the magnitude of their business when I was growing up. Even when I was an adult."

"I found some things while I was up at the cabin. Documents. The FBI never found the bolt hole they'd built behind the house. It's built like a storm shelter into the ground about a hundred feet back, but it's covered with leaves and brush. Dad showed me where it was." I stopped feeling the cold the longer I spoke. "It was like a game, he'd said. A family secret. Just in case I ever needed to hide."

I felt a jacket come around my shoulders and knew Jack had given me his, but he didn't say anything. He just waited for me to get it all out.

"There are so many papers. Documents recording body after body that they used to hide smuggled goods. Most of them were military, shipped back from overseas for a proper burial. My parents had a government contract, so bodies in the state of Virginia automatically went to them for preparation before interment at Arlington Memorial. It made it more convenient for cover. Then they'd pretend to bury them and ship them off to another location for the buyer. Jesus, Jack. What do I do? How do I tell all those families their loved ones aren't really buried where they're supposed to be?"

"Christ," Jack said. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry." His arms came around me and I buried my face against his chest. He was always so warm. So steady.

"That's not even the worst of it." My voice was starting to fade, and I'd stopped noticing the tears running down my face. They only mixed with the rain. But my anger grew even as I thought of what else I had to tell him.

"They were traitors. Did you know that?" I looked him in the eye as the words rushed out, and he smoothed the wet strands of hair back from my face. But I didn't want gentleness. I needed my anger.

"Those documents were records of each body that came through. American soldiers and spies that could have died by the same people my parents worked for. It's like a nightmare." My words spilled out faster and faster. "Their list of sins doesn't even end there. There was a body in the bunker at the cabin. Gunshot wound to the head. A couple of years old by the looks of it, but not as badly decayed as it should have been because the bunker is climate controlled. So now I can add murder to the list, because who else could have put him there?"

My fists pounded against his chest, but he didn't try to stop the violence erupting from the deepest part of me. He just held me close, his broad hand rubbing up and down my back.

I had to tell him the last of it. The part that would make him understand why things wouldn't work between us. Why he couldn't possibly love me.

"I wasn't theirs, Jack." The sob that broke out of me sounded more animalistic than human, and I saw the shock on his face before I tried to pull away. To hide. But he didn't let me go no matter how I fought against him.

"Get the rest out," he said. "You'll feel better for it."

"I wasn't theirs," I yelled. "Isn't that enough? Do you know what it feels like to know your parents smuggled you into the country like diamonds or guns?"

I crumpled against him, and he picked me up where we were and sat down on the ground, rocking me back and forth like a child. We were both soaked to the skin, and the storm didn't show any signs of letting up, but his arms were solid and sure around me.

"She'd been pregnant," I said. "My mother. Pretty far along when something happened on a trip she and my dad took overseas. It was supposed to be vacation, but who the hell knows what they were really doing. She somehow got shot and lost the baby. They were there for weeks while she recovered, and part of the shipment of goods they were overseeing were the bodies of an American colonel and his French wife, along with several other unfortunate soldiers. And inside their bodies was more than half a billion dollars in heroin. The Colonel and his wife had a week old baby girl, and no one knew what to do with her. So my parents just took me, and told everyone I'd been born during their vacation in Italy. I always thought I'd been born in Italy."

My teeth chattered as I choked out those last words, and I knew the symptoms well enough to know I was in shock. But damned if I knew what to do about it. I looked up into Jack's eyes and saw the rage he was trying hard to contain for my sake. I looked away so I wouldn't have to see the pity I was sure would follow.

"Look at me, Jaye," he said, placing his hands on each side of my face and forcing me to look up. "You think you can't love or be loved because you came from that? Fuck them. You should be jumping for joy that you don't share their blood. Their sins aren't yours. And dammit, I'm not going to stand by and let you tell me I'd be better off loving someone else because you have this clusterfuck of a shit storm about to explode around you. Do you think I can't, or won't, stand with you? If I'd go to hell and back again for you, then I sure as hell can take whatever Bloody Mary or even the goddamned FBI has to throw at us."

My breath was coming faster and faster, and my vision clouded, either because of the tears or the rain, I couldn't be sure.

"Jack—"

"I'm not finished, dammit." His thumb brushed at the tears that couldn't seem to stop falling, and despite the anger I saw in him, his hold on me was gentle. "I'm sorry about Brody. I'm sorry to the depths of my soul that you had to go through that. That you had to watch him die. But you can't blame yourself because you didn't love him. It's not because you weren't able to love him. You have the capacity to love more than anyone I know. It's because you weren't meant to love him. That love belongs to me, Jaye. It always has. And you've always had mine."

Something broke free inside of me as his lips took mine in a kiss that was years—decades—overdue. There wasn't the gentleness of a first kiss, nor the awkward maneuvering and adjustments that had to be made until you became used to each other. It was just—right. There was no other way to describe it.

His fingers tangled in my hair and brought me closer, so our bodies were fused together in every way but the most vital. I cursed the clothes that separated us, and relished the heat that suffused my body as his teeth nipped at my bottom lip.

Someone moaned—probably me—and my arms and legs tightened around him as he coaxed my mouth open and his tongue stroked erotically against mine. His kisses trailed across my cheek and down my neck, where his tongue and teeth did something that had fireworks blasting behind my eyelids. My body felt so hot that it amazed me steam wasn't sizzling from my skin as soon as the rain touched flesh.

"God, Jaye," he whispered. "So long. I've waited so long for you."

I'd stopped thinking the moment his mouth touched mine. My past and my parents no longer seemed as important. The bodies that waited for me at the funeral home could all go to the devil. Only Jack mattered. He's the only one who'd ever mattered.

"Jack," I moaned.

His hands caressed my shoulders and slid sinuously down, following the dip in my waist and then flaring out as he reached my hips. His fingers tightened and he pulled me closer, so I could feel every inch of his hardness. He pressed my hips against him, and my eyes rolled back in my head just before my lids fluttered closed.

Everything was happening too fast. My brain couldn't quite catch up with my body, and part of me still thought this was all an illusion. Maybe I'd finally gone over the edge.

His head dropped to my shoulder, and his rapid breaths heated the side of my neck. "We've got to stop," he finally said. The cold was starting to seep in, so I snuggled closer to draw his warmth. "Christ, Jaye. Don't move or I'll end up embarrassing myself."

For some reason that made me giggle, and I buried my face against his neck as exhaustion and euphoria took control. The tears hadn't completely run their course, but I wiped viciously at my eyes, determined to force them to subside. I wasn't a crier. There was no need to start now.

"Jesus, Jack. What are we doing? This is insanity."

"Feels pretty sane to me," he said, unwinding my arms and legs from around him. He lifted me enough so he could stand and then helped me to my feet. My knees were wobbly and I knew I probably looked like hell, but Jack had already seen me at my worst, though this time was probably running a close second.

He all but carried me to his cruiser and helped me into the seat. The shivers had come back with a vengeance, and there was no hope of warming up when every inch of me was soaking wet. I watched, my brain foggy, as Jack gathered my stuff from the Suburban, pocketed my keys and then tossed my things in the back seat. His lips were blue by the time he got in and started the car.

"I can tell you exactly what we're going to do, Doctor Graves." He did a u-turn in the middle of the road and headed back down the lane. "We're going home. And we're going to get warm and eat soup and talk about murder."

My whole body relaxed against the seat, and I'd just realized I'd been scared to death he was going to ravish me as soon as we walked through the door.

"And maybe while we're doing all that, you can work on getting used to me kissing you."

# Chapter Fifteen

I shoved the photograph I'd found in George's throat at Jack the moment we walked inside, much to his surprise. I escaped upstairs, where I tried to get my composure back under the hot spray of the shower. I pulled on a pair of old sweats—mostly because my subconscious was trying to tell me to wear something as sexless as possible—and I headed back down to face Jack, having practiced what I was going to say while I was in the shower.

Those thoughts seeped out my ears the moment I smelled food. It took two cups of coffee and a large bowl of soup before I started to feel human again, and somewhere along the way I caught my second wind.

"So—" I said. "You said something about murder. We should probably talk about that. And then we should go to bed."

Jack grinned at me, and I felt the heat rush to my face.

"Separately, I mean. Because it's been a long day, and I'm kind of tired." The temperature rose and my old sweats weren't doing the job of being sexless if the look he was giving me was anything to go by. "Is it hot in here to you?" I wished Jack would show some mercy and just shoot me between the eyes, but luck wasn't on my side so I continued on. "And I'm supposed to meet with Reverend Thomas and Mr. Oglesby tomorrow after church services to talk about the Reverend's interment. Should be a packed house. And then there's Mrs. Perry's hair and makeup to schedule."

"You want some more coffee?" he asked.

"No, why?"

"I just figured your throat might be dry. I'm not sure I've heard you talk that long since you've been back. It's nice to know I make you nervous."

"Don't be ridiculous," I sputtered. "You don't make me nervous. Can we please talk about dead people now? Did you see anything in the photo I gave you?"

"Nothing on the surface, other than the fact it was taken several years ago."

"I noticed that too."

"It obviously has some meaning or it wouldn't have been shoved down his throat."

"I was thinking about that," I said. "And I don't think it was shoved down his throat. I think he tried to swallow it himself."

Jack's brows rose with interest. "Explain."

"There was no damage to the inside of the mouth. There would have been scrapes along the inside of the cheek or even a chipped tooth if someone had tried to force him to swallow it. And it was far enough down in the trachea that he had some success at swallowing it before they killed him."

"Huh," Jack said. "That changes things some."

"Did you find anything else out today?" I asked.

"I've called in some help from Agent Carver in the Richmond FBI office. He's going to drive over in the morning. We're going to have to form some type of task force between local law enforcement and the federal guys."

He gathered up our dishes and rinsed them off in the sink before he put them in the dishwasher. "Let's head to my office, and I'll show you what I've got."

I went ahead of him to the office at front of the house. The room was dark and masculine. Books lined the walls on either side of a gray stone fireplace, and his desk took up almost all the space on the adjacent wall. A thick rug lay in the middle of the floor, and two overstuffed chairs flanked each side of the fireplace. A well-used leather couch sat against the opposite wall, and there was an ancient throw Jack's mom had knitted in hues of green tossed carelessly over the back. It was a comfortable space, and it was obvious it was where he spent most of his time.

White boards were set up in front of the windows, identical to the ones he had up in his office, and he had the curtains pulled tight so no one could see in or out. It was hard to miss the garish evidence of what we were dealing with when it was so starkly presented. Jack handed me a fresh cup of coffee when he came in.

"I've got Doctor Vance under surveillance," he said. "There are two other departments working with me who don't have assholes in charge, so I'm using their resources for surveillance purposes. I don't think we're going to pin this on Vance though."

"But you think he's guilty?"

"I think he knows what's going on, at least part of it, but his hands are clean. He's made sure of it. But I'm not sure he's trained his sons to be so careful. William and Gregory Jr—I've got them both under surveillance. One of them reads like an altar boy. Comes off squeaky clean. The other doesn't have a record of violence, but he's got a hell of a temper, according to a few people who've worked with him in the past." Jack rubbed at the back of his neck. "One of the Vances is involved somehow. Maybe all of them. But I don't have the evidence to pin a murder on anyone."

"Let me guess. The younger Doctor Vance is the one with the temper."

"Bingo," Jack said.

"How are we supposed to find everyone involved in this?"

"We've got a warrant for the membership list. I'll serve it in the morning and have one of the tech guys pull it from online. If someone paid the membership dues and was ever entered into the system, then it'll show up in the list."

Jack grabbed a folder from his desk and went to the extra white board set up next to the murder board. "And to answer your question. We're not supposed to find everyone. That's for the federal guys to deal with. We have to focus on Daniel Oglesby and George. It all comes back to them. Have a seat, buttercup. We're going to be here for a while."

I curled up in one of the oversized chairs in front of the fireplace and watched Jack construct the puzzle pieces by sticking them to the board in a loose timeline. Daniel Oglesby's photograph went up first—not the crime scene photo, but one identical to the picture hanging in the church.

"He was taken Sunday afternoon," Jack said, writing in approximate dates and times. "By one initial assailant who had access to a drug only available to doctors. Who has access?"

"In Bloody Mary or in the county?" I asked.

"In the county. Anyone you can think of."

"I'd have access. Doc Randall would be the only other one here in Bloody Mary. But he's old as dirt. I can't see him stabbing anyone in the back with a hypodermic needle. He can barely see two feet in front of him."

"Who else?"

"King George Proper has several doctors who work at a clinic there in town, and all of them would have access to Augusta General. Nottingham and Newcastle are small like we are, so just a few. We've already established that Doctor Vance had access. I feel like you're testing me. You have that look on your face that says you know all of this already."

"Sometimes it's better to hear it all out loud in case it knocks something loose. Augusta General is our place," he said. "Twenty milliliters of Diprivan are unaccounted for. The nurse who mans the cage where they keep all the drugs has no explanation, and we can't find a tie in to the Diprivan Doctor Vance signed for a week ago. Everything in their records shows every doctor logged in like they were supposed to. Even Doc Randall on the afternoon before Daniel Oglesby went missing. But the hospital can't pin the theft on any one of them."

"You're shitting me," I said.

"I got the chance to talk to Doc Randall this afternoon while you were digging into George."

"I bet that was an interesting conversation."

"In all honesty, I'd have rather watched you put George back together instead of dealing with what I did today. You're right. Doc Randall can't see two feet in front of him, and he's as old as dirt. He started to cry as soon as he saw me at the door. Easiest confession I've ever gotten out of a suspect before."

"He confessed to injecting Reverend Oglesby with the drug?" I asked incredulously.

I didn't have feelings for Doc Randall one way or the other. He'd kept his opinions to himself about my parents as far as I knew, and I'd only gone to him a couple of times as a patient when I was a child. But I still didn't believe he'd be capable of doing something like that. He was just so—old. And small. And his glasses were thicker than Coke bottles.

"He confessed to getting an envelope full of money in his mailbox last Thursday. He said his practice has dwindled down to nothing. Most everyone is driving over to King George to the clinic there or waiting for you to open a private practice here."

"What? Really?" I asked, intrigued.

"Focus," Jack said. "He said his social security isn't enough to pay for his malpractice insurance and still live on, and he keeps hoping he'll die of old age soon so he can get some rest."

Jack rubbed his forehead and put up Doc Randall's photo on the timeline before Reverend Oglesby, and the date he stole the medicine.

"Christ," I said.

"Just shoot me if I ever get to that point. The man's been working for sixty years and has nothing to show for it."

"Who left the money in his mailbox?"

"He doesn't know. There was a note that said what they wanted and how much to get, and they said if he delivered the product on time that the other half of the payment would be sent. I took it all into evidence, and maybe we'll get a couple of prints, but they've been careful so far. It was a quarter of a million dollars."

I whistled between my teeth. "That's a hell of a price to pay to make sure a gay preacher is taught a lesson."

Jack looked at me and nodded. "That was pretty much my thought. Which means something else is going on here that we're not seeing."

He filled out the rest of the timeline, his block handwriting square and neat below each photo. Doctor Vance went on the board next, and underneath him went two more pictures. The first I didn't recognize, but something flickered in my mind about the second.

"Hey, I know that guy," I said.

"Oh, yeah?"

"I don't know him, know him. But I recognize him from somewhere."

"That's the younger Doctor Vance. He's a cardiologist."

"That would explain the temper," I said. "Cardiologists all have a God complex."

"Have you spoken to him before?"

"I don't think so, but I must have seen him at the hospital before." I stared harder at the photograph, trying to place where I'd seen his face, but I was drawing a blank.

"Greg Vance Jr. is alibied by his wife for the night in question, but William here doesn't have anyone to vouch for him. He says he was home alone and asleep. We're not pressing for now because they have a few political connections, and the younger Doctor Vance is already crying harassment."

"Where was George going when he left this morning?" I asked. "Does anyone know?"

"Yeah. He logged it in at the garage before he left. The form he filled out said there'd been a request for a tow—a 1994 grey Taurus—and it gave the address at the location we found his body. But I didn't find any calls that matched the request on the garage phone, and we didn't find a grey Taurus anywhere in the vicinity. We've yet to recover George's cell. I'm thinking the killers probably took it with them. I've got a trace on it, but they'll have ditched it. Probably in the river. Unfortunately, they're not stupid killers."

He continued writing and put up more photos.

"Whoa, why are you putting Lorna up there?" I asked when her face went up next to the others Jack had questioned. "They don't let women into the Aryan Nation."

"No, but she knew about Vaughn and Oglesby. As far as I can tell that was a well kept secret. Especially in a town like this. I didn't have a clue, and I'm usually one of the first to hear the gossip. I'm mostly just keeping a visual record of everyone we've talked to and what they know. And Lorna's been awfully damned nervous every time I try to talk to her, so something is up with that."

"That's hormones. Trust me."

"An expert, are you?"

"At watching other women throw themselves at you? Yes, I am."

He looked over his shoulder and gave me that smile that had brought legions of women to their knees. Only this time I felt that low pull in my gut, and I knew I was now a member of that exclusive club.

"Trust me. You'll be glad I had the practice," he said, winking.

"Jesus, Jack." Heat rushed to my face, and I cursed my pale complexion.

"Relax, J.J. You'll know when I'm ready to make my move." Jack went on like he hadn't just upended my world. "Lorna goes on the board anyway. Along with Vaughn. I need to talk to him again, but he isn't answering my calls. Tell me who was at the auto shop when you were there this morning. Obviously someone saw you talking with George."

"Wormy Mueller was there like usual. Mr. Martin was putting up a new sign in the window of the grocery store, and he came over and talked a while. Jimmy Hayes and Kenny Laubach were both working in the bays, but they stopped to talk with Mayor Glass and Rufus Swain when they brought their cars by. George worked on my car in the bay on the end, and we didn't even speak much until he wrote up the ticket. That doesn't mean a hundred other people didn't walk by during the time I was there, and a good number of them I didn't know. The station is right there on the corner of the square, and you know he's the best mechanic in the county. People from all over take their cars there."

Jack grunted and put up another photograph. "I did some research on the five-point crown Doctor Vance pointed out on Oglesby's body. It's a symbol used by a group called Blood Brothers. There wasn't a lot I could find, and Carver, my FBI contact, said they had little to nothing about the group in their files, though he did know of them. They're supposedly a different hate organization all together, but there have been a few loose ties between them and the Aryan Nation."

"They're supposedly more violent, but there are no arrests. Nothing more than suspicion at this point. A fairly young organization is what Carver told me. Only a few years old. They don't have any associated names, but their victims are tortured before death. They leave a letter behind with their crest and the reason that person had been punished. And then you don't hear anything from them again until the next time. Very cut and dried. Carver said almost professional in their presentation."

"Do they brand the victim?"

"No," Jack said.

"Interesting."

"My thoughts exactly. Somebody didn't do their homework when they killed Reverend Oglesby. Either that or they wanted to add their own flair."

I wasn't quite grasping what Jack was saying, but I could tell he'd come to some conclusion in that sharp brain of his.

"What am I missing?"

"I don't think Daniel Oglesby has anything to do with this. Not really. He might have seen or overheard something, which is why I need to talk to Vaughn again, but he wasn't the intended victim. I think George was the one they wanted right from the beginning. So that's where we're going to focus. There's something there. And now with the photo you found in George, I need to know everything there is to know about that garage."

His frustration was starting to show, and it was easy to see the exhaustion and the weariness in his shoulders.

"You're doing what you can, Jack. It'll come together. It's early yet."

"We're going on day three. You and I both know the chances of catching whoever did this decrease every day."

He went over to his desk where his crime scene bag sat, and dug out a pair of gloves, pulling them on with practiced ease. He slid the photograph I'd found inside George out onto his desk, touching it as little as possible.

"Let's see if we can clean this up a little," he said.

I watched in fascination as he booted up the sleek little laptop on his desk and then fed the photograph into a scanner. I could tell you about every organ in the body, but I couldn't work my way around any kind of technology. I loathed technology. And it didn't like me much either. I leaned over so I could see what he was doing better, and the photograph showed up on the screen. Jack hit a few buttons and the creases disappeared and the colors became sharper and more in focus.

"You're pretty handy," I said as he printed out a new copy and resealed the original in the evidence bag.

"It's nice of you to finally notice." He took the new photo and attached it to the board under George's face."

"Who inherits the auto shop now that George is dead?" I asked. I stood next to Jack and tried to see something that wasn't there in the picture of the garage.

"The will is sealed at the moment until your ruling of homicide can be formally filed, and I've already got a warrant started so we can look at it before it goes into probate."

"Who's that standing behind Jesse Fife and Carlton Fisk?" The face was a little fuzzy, but it was still familiar.

Jack grabbed a magnifying glass and held it over the spot I'd pointed to. "Well, well. If I'm not mistaken, that looks like Mayor Glass. Before he was mayor of course. I can add him to my list of people to talk to tomorrow. You and me, babe. It looks like we'll both be looking for new jobs if things keep heading in this direction. The mayor is not going to be happy to see me."

"I've always thought it would be nice to live on the beach. It's always warm."

"We'll have to go some time. It's been a while since I've seen you in a bikini."

"Hmm," I said for lack of anything better.

"There still hasn't been any sign of Oglesby's car. There are a lot of places to hide something that size in this area. I'm also no closer to finding the place where they tortured him."

A thought occurred to me and I said, "You found a red bandana near Oglesby's body, right?"

"Yeah, and three cigarette butts. They've been sent to the lab in Richmond for testing."

"The mechanics at the garage all carry bandanas in their pockets. I saw Wormy wiping the oil off of his hands on one just this morning."

He nodded. "I'll give the lab a call in the morning and see if they can tell me if there's anything on the bandana that can be found in an auto shop." He looked at the clock on the fireplace mantel and shook his head. "I mean this morning. It's already past midnight. We need to get some sleep."

I dropped back onto the sofa and had to fight to keep my eyes open. I was due for a quick twenty minutes of sleep before I faced another long night of staring out the window, but I didn't want Jack to know about my sleep problems so I just mumbled out an agreement.

I pulled the throw from the back of the couch and lay down, burrowing into the soft leather beneath me and the warmth of the blanket on top of me. It smelled of Jack, and I nestled deeper into the cushions, letting my eyelids flutter closed.

They popped open again the moment Jack put his arms around me. I jerked against him as he lifted me in his arms and headed to the stairs.

"I can walk it," I murmured against his neck.

"Indulge me. I don't get to see you still very often. You've sure gotten jumpy, Doctor Graves."

Arguing took too much effort, so I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. The door to my room was open—the lights off—and he pulled back the covers and laid me gently on the soft sheets.

"G'night, Jack," I said, curling around my pillow. And when I felt him get into bed beside me and pull close, I drifted off to sleep. And for the first time in months, I didn't worry about the darkness chasing me.

# Chapter Sixteen

Watery light filtered through the trees and into the room, and when my eyes opened, the first thing I noticed was Jack, big and solid in the bed next to me, his arms holding me close much like they had the night before. His eyes were open and staring at me intently, and it was then I realized I'd slept through the entire night. Without night terrors or cold sweats. Without memories.

It was one of those lazy Sunday mornings where the storm from the night before had turned into a soft spring shower. We didn't speak for a long time. There didn't seem to be a need for words. My brain was clear and my body rested for the first time in as long as I could remember, so when he pulled me closer and his lips touched mine, it was with complete clarity that I made my decision.

This was the kiss. The first kiss we'd missed out on the day before in front of my house. All I could think was—soft. His lips were so soft against mine. So right. And it seemed I'd waited so long, even though I hadn't known what could really be between us until recently.

My fingers clutched at his shoulders, and I pressed closer as he deepened the kiss and his tongue rubbed against mine. And then thoughts of soft went out the window. Because there wasn't anything soft about Jack.

"The sweats are supposed to be sexless," I panted, my mind half gone with lust.

"It didn't work," he said, biting my lower lip. "All I've been able to think about is if you're wearing underwear beneath them. Then all I could think about was getting you out of them so I could find out."

"I'll remember that for next time."

"Just so you know," he said, rolling me to my back. "I'm making my move now." He kissed his way down the side of my neck, his tongue doing something magical that made my eyes cross.

"God, I hope so."

He laughed and then his hands found their way under my sweatshirt, and my hands tugged at the t-shirt he wore. The laughter stopped. My brain and my body were like two separate entities. Part of me was mortified that Jack was about to see every part of me. That he was about to be as close to me as anyone ever had been, and I wasn't perfect for him. The other part wanted him with a fierceness that was almost terrifying, and it was screaming at me, asking me why I'd waited so long to claim what was mine.

I pulled his shirt over his head, and goggled at the sight of him. His chest was hard, the muscles defined and taut as I touched him. My fingers traced the scars from the bullets he'd taken a couple of years before, and I was thankful that our pasts had both led us to this present. He worked at the button of his jeans, and it made me feel better to see his hands tremble ever so slightly. I trailed my fingers down his chest until they rested just above his waistband.

"You're not helping," he gritted out between his teeth as his stomach muscles jumped beneath my fingers.

And then he got them unbuttoned and my fingers wandered lower until I held the hard heat of him in my hands, touching him so intimately it almost made me dizzy with the years of love and longing we'd wasted.

Somewhere along the way my shirt got tossed across the room, and he stripped off my sweatpants. And then we were both skin to skin, our breaths coming faster and faster and our hearts thumping in perfect accord in our chests.

I'd remember this moment for the rest of my life—the rain pelting the window and the almost watercolor effect of the room cast in hazy morning light. The way Jack pulled the thick down comforter over us, so we were cocooned in our own little world. The way his body touched mine and turned it molten with a need I'd never experienced.

His mouth was a work of art, trailing down to my breasts and taking a turgid nipple into his mouth, suckling gently until my body was rising and falling against him, searching for completion.

"God, Jack. Please."

His hands dipped between my legs and colors exploded behind my eyelids. And then he shifted and my legs wrapped around his waist, and I felt him, hot and hard, against me—waiting.

"Look at me, Jaye," he said, his voice strained.

My eyes fluttered open and I fell into the blackness of his eyes—so intense—so full of emotion that the right words would never be enough.

"I love you," he said.

It was so simple. So right.

His hands grasped mine, and I clung tight as he slid into me, inch by inch, until we were closer than any two people could ever be. Tears came to my eyes and my breath hitched at the feeling of him so full inside of me.

And then he began to move and my hips came up to meet him automatically. We moved together as if we'd been doing it for years, and I broke my hold against his hands to grasp at his back, searching for an anchor in the storm.

"Please—please," I chanted over and over again, my nails digging into his shoulders.

He rocked high into me, hitting a place inside of me that had me shrieking in ecstasy. And then something powerful exploded, and I screamed out his name, even as he grasped my hips and surged against me faster—faster—until he stiffened in my arms and called my name in return.

We collapsed against each other, and this time I welcomed the darkness as I drifted off into sleep.

***

The rain had stopped by the time I resurfaced, and the sun was a little brighter as it shone through the windows. I hadn't found the courage to meet Jack's eyes again after what we'd just done, and part of me was wondering when we'd get to do it again. Our legs were tangled together, and I couldn't stop touching him, as if I needed to reassure myself that this was real. He hadn't stopped touching me either.

"So—" I said. "This is different for us."

His hand slipped down and squeezed my ass, and I snickered against his neck. "Different is good."

I was feeling very relaxed and a little lazy. "We should probably get up at some point. Duty calls."

"Yep." His fingers started to work their magic again, and it wasn't difficult to notice that Jack woke up from his naps very happy. "How long do you think it's going to be before you can look me in the eye again?"

"I was thinking a week or two," I said. "Maybe closer to Thanksgiving."

"That's what I figured," Jack said with a long sigh. "Well, there's only one thing to do."

I was afraid to ask, but I couldn't seem to help myself. "What's that?"

He rolled me to my back and was inside me before I could blink. And there we were, face to face. His cheeks were stubbled, and his eyes were dark and satisfied.

"We'll just have to practice until you get used to waking up beside me every morning."

"Sneaky," I moaned, even as my eyes rolled back in my head.

And then we stopped talking altogether.

# Chapter Seventeen

"That was Vaughn," Jack said when his cell rang an hour later. "He got a big shipment in yesterday afternoon, so he didn't get our messages until it was too late to call. He's still at the store, but he said I could talk to him there. Do you want to come along?"

We'd showered and gotten dressed, and I was surprised to see it was only a few minutes past eight when we made it down to the kitchen for coffee and breakfast. Jack was an early riser. In more ways than one.

"As long as I'm back by noon. I've got a busy day ahead of me."

Jack nodded, and my mouth watered a little when he strapped on his weapon and clipped his badge to his belt. He grabbed his leather jacket and my coat, and I grabbed our to-go cups of coffee and slung my medical bag over my shoulder.

"I want to make another stop by Reverend Oglesby's house while we're over in King George. I think we might have been asking his neighbors the wrong questions."

I tried not to think about the people staring at us as we made our way through Bloody Mary and towards King George Proper, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that people were talking about me staying with Jack. And now they had reason for speculation.

I'd rolled my eyes when I'd looked in the mirror after my shower. I looked rested and happy, and there was a glow about me that hadn't been there in months. I might as well have a letter A tattooed on my forehead.

"How long before you have the blood results back from the lab?" I asked, searching through my bag for some Chapstick. Mostly it was a good excuse to keep my head down.

"I need to give them a call. They were going to put a rush on it for me because of the nature of the crime. It's been two days, so they might have something for me already."

The lab in Richmond that Jack used did good and fast work. Depending on the nature of what was needed, it was fairly common to get blood DNA finished in a couple of days, especially since we were just looking to see if the blood we found at the back of Reverend Oglesby's house was a match for the victim.

Vaughn's antique store was in an old Victorian that had been restored about a decade ago, and he'd bought it for a song when the owners had gone bankrupt and had to foreclose. It was three full stories, complete with a widow's walk, and painted a pale yellow. The porch spindles were olive green and the decorative trim was a dark rose. The house took up half the block, and there was a very tasteful sign in bronze and cherry wood that sat on the small patch of grass between the street and the sidewalk. It read Raines' Antiques and Vitamin Shoppe in slanted script.

"I hate coming here," I said as Jack pulled into the small back parking lot. "I always see something I want."

"Maybe it could be a wedding present," Jack said.

"For who?"

"For us, dummy."

I felt the blood drain from my face, and I stuck my head between my knees.

"Too soon?" Jack asked. "I know we've just met and all."

I was incapable of speech, so I didn't bother to respond to the sarcasm.

"You could be right," he said. "We'll take it slow and live together for a while first."

Jack was out of the car before I could get my thoughts together, and I narrowed my eyes as he left me alone and headed to the door.

"Wait just a minute," I said, though he couldn't hear me since I was still sitting in the car like a dummy. I pushed open the door, and then jerked against the seatbelt when I tried to get out without taking it off first. I released myself and then tripped over the curb as I got out. "I said wait a minute."

Jack turned and raised his brows in question, but I could see the humor he was trying to contain. I wasn't laughing. This was my life, dammit.

"What was that, J.J.? I couldn't hear you."

"Wait just a damned minute," I said for the third time. "You can't just go around dropping bombs like that. I haven't agreed to anything. Just because I slept with you doesn't mean you get to be in charge of my life."

I saw the anger flash in his eyes for a brief second before he put it away.

"You can't tell me after this morning that what we had between us wasn't a commitment."

"Since when are you so pro-commitment? What happened to sowing your wild oats?"

"They've been sowed. I have a lovely patchwork quilt to show for it." He moved in closer, and I could see the storm raging behind the black of his eyes. I wasn't sure if he was holding back because he was afraid I couldn't handle it or if he just hadn't reached the breaking point yet. "Sometimes you just know," he said softly. "There's no one else for me."

I tried to swallow, but it felt like something was caught in my throat. Possibly my heart. "I don't know how I feel about marriage," I said. "I can't imagine I'd be any good at it."

"Marriage is a natural progression when two people love each other. Though you have yet to say the words to my face. You're not ready to get married? That's fine. But there's no reason you can't move in with me while you're warming up your cold feet. I've waited a long time for you. And I'm tired of being patient. It's my turn to get what I want for once."

"How the hell was I supposed to know you were waiting for me?" I asked, the exasperation in my voice obvious.

"You have eyes. Look back over the years and think about it a minute. And I've got my pride. I believe things happen in their own time, and this is the time. Now stop being so stubborn." He kissed me hard once, and then opened the door and went into the store.

I followed behind him, not sure what I should say next, but knowing I had a right to be irritated. The old floors creaked beneath our footsteps, and the inside had that musty smell that came with items of a certain age.

"I'm back in the storeroom," Vaughn called out. "Meet me in the office. I've got some fresh coffee made."

I passed a beautiful porcelain vase that was so thin and finely crafted I could see my hand through the opposite side. But I walked past it without checking the discrete price tag I knew Vaughn had placed on the underside because all I could think of was receiving it as a wedding gift. My palms went sweaty, and I wiped them on my jeans. I needed coffee.

Jack handed me a mug as soon as I walked into Vaughn's office, and I scowled at him for being a damned mind reader on top of everything else. Did he have to be so perfect all the time?

"Jesus," Vaughn said as he came through the door. "It must've been amazing sex if you're already fighting. Dickie owes me fifty dollars."

"Always glad to help lighten Dickie's pockets," Jack said, taking a seat in one of the Queen Anne chairs against the wall.

I decided the best course of action was to sit down and drink my coffee instead of knocking their heads together like I wanted, so I took the chair on the opposite side and decided to ignore them both.

"Have you found out anything new?" Vaughn asked, sitting on the loveseat that faced us. He was dressed in old jeans and a black t-shirt, and there were smudges of dust here and there that came with the territory when moving old pieces of furniture around a storeroom. Hardly anyone ever got to see Vaughn dressed any way but perfection.

"Nothing new. I just wanted to follow up with a couple of questions," Jack said. "Tell me about any habits Daniel had. His routine."

Vaughn smiled. "Daniel was definitely one for his routines. He woke up at six every morning, seven days a week, and started the day with a three-mile jog. It didn't matter if it was raining, sleeting, hailing or snowing. And that road that looped around his house could be treacherous if the weather turned bad. But he had to have his run, or he said he couldn't function the rest of the day."

"What about his knee?" I asked.

"He tore a ligament a few years ago, but surgery and rehab fixed him up enough that he could start running again. It would sometimes give him trouble at the end of the day, but he'd ice it down and be back running the next morning."

"What'd he do after his run?" Jack asked.

"He'd go back and shower and get dressed for the day. He usually went straight to the hospital from the house instead of going to the church. He liked being with the people more than he liked being behind a desk."

Vaughn tapped his finger against his knee, and it was the only sign I could see that he was upset. I knew this was hard on him.

"On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays he visited the nursing home after his hospital rounds, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays he spent time at the youth rec center. He'd stop back by his house and grab some lunch and then he'd head to the church to work in his office in the afternoon. You could practically set your watch by the man. That's probably what killed him."

I could tell by the look on Jack's face that he agreed. "Did Daniel ever have any run-ins with George Murphy?" Jack asked.

"Not that I know of. George wasn't one for regular church attendance, and I know for a fact Daniel took his car over to The Happy Mechanic just down the road."

"Do you have a .38?"

The tension in the room skyrocketed as Vaughn understood where Jack was going with his line of questioning. I hadn't been prepared either, and I'd picked the wrong moment to take a drink, because I started choking as soon as the words left Jack's mouth. Vaughn pounded me on the back, and Jack just sighed and shook his head.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," I said. "It just went down the wrong hole."

"If I had a nickel—" Vaughn said, making Jack and I both snort out a surprised laugh, breaking the tension a little.

Vaughn sighed, looking a little sad, and stood up. "Yeah, I've got a .38. It's upstairs."

"I'm going to have to take it with me," Jack said.

"I figured as much. Let's get this done. I'm not in much of a mood for unpacking crates of furniture. It seems like a good time to open that bottle of whiskey you got me for Christmas last year and have a Murder She Wrote marathon."

Jack squeezed the back of my neck before I could make a smartass comment, and we followed Vaughn up three flights of stairs to his living quarters. The top floor was bigger than most people's houses, and Vaughn led us in through the spacious living room, down a narrow hall, and into the smallest bedroom where he kept his office. Everything was neat and organized, and I wondered if I surrounded myself with people who had that quality because I lacked it myself.

"I keep all my guns in the safe," he said, moving several books off the third shelf of the built-in bookcases against the wall. "I've got a .38 and a .22 in here. And I've got a rifle in the top of my closet."

"Sometimes it terrifies me how much of this county is armed," Jack said. "Half the people in my jurisdiction have conceal to carry permits."

"I overheard Hilda Martin at the grocery store telling someone she got hers to prepare for the zombie invasion," Vaughn said. "I'm almost positive she wasn't kidding."

A metal door appeared and Vaughn typed in a quick code before I heard the soft snick of a lock opening. I knew as soon as I saw the inside that we were going to have a problem.

"I don't understand," Vaughn said as we all looked inside the empty box. "I had this open not a week ago and everything was here."

"Anything else missing besides the guns?" Jack asked.

"A couple thousand in cash. That's it."

Jack sighed. "I'm going to send someone over to take fingerprints, and I'll need you to fill out a statement. Anyone else have the combination to the safe."

"Just—Daniel," Vaughn said, obviously shaken. "But he wouldn't have taken anything without telling me."

Jack didn't have to say what he was thinking aloud. I'd been thinking the same thing. Whoever had killed Daniel Oglesby had tortured the information out of him.

"You need to get in touch with your attorney," Jack said. "If the gun we found with George's body comes back with your name on it, we're going to have a problem on our hands."

Vaughn blew out a breath, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Good thing I can count on you to find the killers before it comes to that."

# Chapter Eighteen

Jack and I rode in silence to Reverend Oglesby's house. A case like this one could really get to you, not only because it affected people you cared about, but because we'd reached that point where it didn't seem like the good guys were going to win after all. I watched as the Reverend's house passed us by, and I turned to Jack.

"Where are we going?"

"This is the direction he ran every morning," Jack said, slowing the cruiser as the road turned into one lane. The curves were treacherous at high speeds, and it was the type of road that flooded easily. "The worse the road gets, the less traffic and neighbors there are. No one out here owns a white Cadillac. We did a thorough check. But according to Vaughn, there was one out here at six in the morning when Daniel Oglesby went running Saturday, so the person in the car was either visiting someone and just leaving or they were up to no good."

"A secluded area like this," I said, "It's prime space for kids looking to party, but I can't see any of them driving daddy's Cadillac out here for that. And we would've gotten reports of more traffic in the area."

"Yeah," Jack agreed.

We drove past three different houses that showed no sign of anyone being home. Most people were still at church, and wouldn't be home for a couple of hours yet.

Jack turned off the road into a rutted driveway overgrown with weeds, and I saw a neat little box of a house, almost identical to Reverend Oglesby's. Only this one was painted the color of watermelon and trimmed in vibrant green. Hanging baskets of clashing flowers hung from the tiny porch, and there was an old, rust red pickup truck in the driveway that looked like it wouldn't make it down the block, much less start.

"Sweet mother of God," I said. "My eyes."

"Martinez got to interview the lady who lives here," Jack said. "He said the inside was worse, but she was sharp as a tack and entertaining as hell. Martinez asked her about the afternoon Oglesby went missing—she wasn't able to tell us anything because she was at her daughter's for lunch, but Martinez didn't know to ask her about the Saturday morning before he went missing."

I got out of the cruiser and followed Jack up to the porch. He rang the bell, and I stifled a laugh as I heard a woman yell, "Fuck off," from inside.

"It's the police, ma'am," Jack said, his lips twitching. "I need to speak with you for a minute."

"Hold your damned horses," she said. "Can't an old lady watch her shows in private? It's Sunday morning for Christ's sake."

I saw a shadow pass over the peephole, and then what sounded like a dozen industrial grade deadbolts being unlocked. The door creaked open and I looked down into the face of what had to be the oldest human being I'd ever seen in my entire life. She barely came up to my waist, and her thick white hair was piled on top of her head to give her a few extra inches in height. I'd never seen a person with as many wrinkles as she had, and all I could think was that I'd have to use a hell of a lot of putty and plumping agent when she finally passed on.

"I'm Sheriff Lawson," Jack said, showing her his badge. "And this is Doctor Graves. She's the coroner for King George County."

"I know who she is," the woman said. "Runs the funeral home. Are you here looking for business, girlie? I'm not dead yet."

"No, ma'am. I'm here in an official capacity to assist Sheriff Lawson."

She gave us both a shrewd look. "Looks like you've been assisting him in unofficial capacities as well. I miss sex," she said with a sigh. "It's one of the many things that sucks about getting old."

I felt the heat rush to my face, but Jack was as calm as ever. "Can we come in, Mrs.—"

"It's Miss," she said. "Miss Pilcher. I never got married. Men are a pain in the ass, and the ones of my generation more so. I figured I'd rather be single than have to ask a man's permission to wipe my ass."

She stood back and opened the door wider, and I followed Jack inside. I had to imagine that living to the century mark would give you plenty of time to amass a collection of useless things and keepsakes, but I hadn't been expecting wall-to-wall cuckoo clocks. They ticked in a frantic rhythm, each trying to outdo the other, and I hoped to God we made it out before the hour struck. Where there weren't clocks, there were photos. Hundreds of them.

And then I remembered what Jack had said about Miss Pilcher having a daughter. I must have had a confused look on my face because she turned and pointed out a photograph to me.

"You're wondering about my daughter," she said, smiling. Her false teeth were large and blindingly white. "She was an accident of course. Birth control in my day wasn't as reliable as it is now. I'm pretty sure her father was a travelling salesman. Or maybe one of the Rockefellers. I could never be sure. I was an outcast, being unwed and pregnant, but I'd rather be an outcast than a hypocrite."

Jack nudged me as we followed her down the hall, and I peeped into a little sitting room with a giant screen TV and Playstation 3. My eyes got wider as I saw what we'd been interrupting on Miss Pilcher's Sunday morning. Miss Pilcher had exotic taste in porn. I could only be thankful she had it muted. I looked over at Jack and he waggled his eyebrows at me, and I shook my head no at the unspoken question. I wasn't ready to add dirty movies into our repertoire just yet.

She led us into a tiny kitchen with bright yellow countertops and clean white appliances. The cabinets were painted lime green and there were parrots painted into a jungle of leaves on the wall by her kitchen table.

"I've got fresh coffee if you'd like some," she said. "I can't drink it because it makes my teeth fall out, but I'm so damned cold all the time I just carry a cup around to warm my hands. Getting old sucks."

Jack and I both declined the coffee and sat in the tiny wooden chairs at the table. Miss Pilcher had to boost herself into hers.

"I knew your parents," she said, looking at me. "Not well, of course. I went to buy a plot and a burial plan about twenty years back. Thought I'd have to use it by now, but I'm still here, so it turns out I made a good investment. Inflation and all that. They were assholes, if you don't mind me saying. Are you an asshole too?"

I blinked slowly and felt my lips twitch. "No, ma'am."

"Well, you don't look like one, but you never know. Sometimes assholes can be deceiving. I'll let you do my funeral then. I'm sure it'll be any time now. Are you going to ask me questions, Sheriff, or are you just going to sit there and think about how you're going to get into Doctor Graves' pants?"

"I can do both, Miss Pilcher," Jack said with a smile.

"I like you," she said, cackling. "I'm assuming this is about that poor Reverend Oglesby. I talked to the police about him Friday. I told the officer I was off visiting my daughter, so I didn't see the Reverend that day. It's terrible that something like that can happen so close to home. I knew as soon as he moved here he'd have a hard road ahead of him. Being gay in these parts is difficult enough, but being a preacher on top of it would never have ended well."

"You knew Reverend Oglesby was gay?" I asked.

"Oh, yes. I have a keen eye and I'm very observant. I also like to sit at my front window and watch the neighbors with my binoculars. Sometimes I get tired of watching porn. They don't make the storylines as good as they used to."

"Hmmm," I said.

"And sometimes I'd see that man that has the antique shop visiting," she said. "He was real sneaky about it, but I'm sneakier. I've got long-range binoculars."

"I want to ask you about the morning before Reverend Oglesby went missing," Jack said, getting things back on track before she told us more than we wanted to hear about Vaughn. "Did he make his usual run that morning?"

"Sure did. Like clockwork that boy was. And he wasn't hard to look at either. If he hadn't been seeing that nice antiques man, I would've made a play for him myself. Gay men make the best lovers, you know. They're very in tune with the body."

Jack nudged me under the table when I snickered.

"Did you see any cars go by that morning?" he asked.

"Oh, sure. Bucky Dew had the early shift at the gas station and he left a few minutes after five-thirty that morning. He lives in the yellow house on my left. There was an old hatchback that had broken down sometime the night before, and it was pulled off to the side of the road. Olive green and ugly as homemade sin. Someone stopped to get some things out of it before the tow truck came to cart it away."

My eyebrows went up, and Jack sat forward. "Do you remember what the car looked like when it stopped next to the hatchback?"

"Sure, boy. I'm not senile. It was a white Cadillac. One man inside, but I didn't know him. It just looked like they were transferring their belongings from one car to the other."

"Was this around the same time Reverend Oglesby was making his run?"

"Now that you mention it," she said, pursing her lips in thought. "Daniel jogged by and the white car left, and I stopped watching because I saw Joanie Neddler next door sneaking back home, wearing the same clothes she'd left in the night before. Mr. Neddler's been away on business all week, so I knew she'd been up to no good. Also, her dress was on backwards, which is never a good sign."

"What time did the tow truck come?" I asked.

"Let's see," she said, closing her eyes as she thought back. "I'd already watched The Price is Right. Idiots, all of them, that morning. And I'd finished the crossword puzzle in the paper. So I'd say around ten o'clock. Maybe ten-thirty."

"Did you recognize the tow truck?"

"Oh, sure. It said Murphy's Auto Shop right across the side. It's where I take my truck to be serviced. The owner's an asshole, but he's a damned good mechanic."

***

Thirty minutes later we were back on the road and headed home to Bloody Mary.

"You know," I said. "I want to be just like Miss Pilcher when I grow up."

"I'm pretty sure you're already there, babe. I knew she reminded me of someone. Though I don't know what your current movie viewing habits are."

"My tastes don't lean to Sunday morning orgies, if that's what you're wondering. And unfortunately, religious guilt stays with you no matter how far you stray from the church, so I can't see it happening any time in our future either."

"Damn," Jack said. "I was hoping."

"Where are we headed now?"

Jack turned off the Towne Square, and he made a slow pass-by of Murphy's Auto Shop. The building was locked up tight, but that wasn't saying much. Every business in Bloody Mary was locked up tight on Sunday.

"Something was going on there," Jack said, idling in front of the shop. "Something that doesn't have anything to do with what we originally thought was a hate crime. It's a distraction, and it's working. They're trying to make me split my attention, when what I need to be doing is digging into that auto shop. We've got two cars abandoned by the side of the road, and George goes to collect both of them. The first time, there's the white Cadillac that's somehow connected. The second time, George ends up with a bullet in his brain. Add in the tattoo on George's arm and Reverend Oglesby's sexual orientation, and we have two crimes that are too coincidental to be anything other than connected. Let's go pay another visit to Doc Randall."

Jack had just put the car in gear when his phone rang. He put it in park again and answered, "Sheriff Lawson."

I let Jack's conversation drone on in the background. There was something important I was missing. Something that nudged the edges of my memory, but I couldn't quite get a grasp on it. I looked at the auto shop again and tried to replay the scene from the time I'd arrived. I needed to look at the picture I'd found inside George. Maybe that would shake something loose.

"That was Agent Carver," Jack said once he hung up. "He's halfway here. I'm supposed to meet him in an hour and bring him up to speed. I'll make sure to take him with me when I go pay a visit to the mayor. Maybe he won't threaten to fire me in front of a fed."

"It doesn't bother you?" I asked. "Having to turn over everything to him?"

"Not really," he said. "Ben's a good guy. He'll let me take the lead on Oglesby and George, but I know he's about to have a mess on his hands and a shitload of paperwork. And it's going to be a nightmare trying to make charges stick. He'll shut them down for a little while, but they'll resurface again."

"The law sucks."

"Yeah, sometimes it does. But we'll keep plugging away at it, and maybe someday it'll make a difference."

That was one of the things I loved most about Jack. Deep down he believed in right and wrong, and that good would always triumph over evil. He'd been in the trenches, first in the military and then during his time on the SWAT team, and nothing he'd seen or experienced had clouded his views. Maybe that's why I'd had such a hard time believing he could really love me. I'd always lived by shades of grey. And maybe I thought he'd eventually get tired of trying to make me the good guy.

Jack drove through a Burger King and ordered us a couple of burgers and something to drink other than coffee. I was feeling a little twitchy, and I realized I'd been living on caffeine since coming back to Bloody Mary. I was feeling full and ready for a nap by the time we parked in front of Doc Randall's house.

I noticed his lawn was looking a little scruffy and most of the plants in his flowerbeds had long since died. A black Volvo sat in the driveway, and I heard the TV blaring from the front porch.

"Doc Randall," Jack called out as he banged on the door, pitching his voice louder to compete with the television. "It's Sheriff Lawson and Doctor Graves."

We stood there for a few minutes and waited, but no one came to the door.

"I don't have a good feeling about this," I said, stepping into the flowerbed so I could look through a window. I peeked into the kitchen and saw an uneaten bowl of soggy cereal and a newspaper on the kitchen table. A half pot of coffee was on the kitchen counter, but there was no sign of Doc Randall.

I described the scene to Jack and we walked back to his cruiser to grab some gloves. Jack looked up as a car passed by, and he waved to Leroy Gherkin. Church had let out, and in a few minutes the street would be busy with traffic as people made their way home to Sunday pot roast. I tossed my coat in the backseat because the temperature was warming up, and also because if we stumbled across a crime scene I wouldn't have to worry about dragging the coat through blood. I stuck my Beretta in my pants at the small of my back.

"Let's do this quick," Jack said as we both put on gloves. "We'll check it out from the back door."

Jack's hand was on his weapon as we made our way behind the house. The backyard wasn't in any better shape than the front, and it was soggy from the rain.

"Ah, hell," Jack said. "The grass is tamped down back here. Got a few partial footprints. No blood that I can see though."

We stepped wide around them, and Jack boosted me up and onto the cement stoop before he jumped across. The storm door was cracked and Jack grabbed the handle to open it wider. When he brought his hand away to knock, I noticed the small smear of blood.

"Jack," I said, catching his arm. He opened the palm of his hand and there it was—a brownish-red stain against the blue of his glove.

"Shit," he said, pulling his weapon from the holster. "Stay back."

"Like hell," I said, my little Beretta already in my hand. "I'm with you."

Jack glared at me so the molten chocolate of his eyes darkened to black, and his mouth pinched in a straight line. I could tell he was fighting for control of his temper, and I could tell he was going through the entire argument we'd have in his head before he ever spoke a word. Jack was good about thinking first before he ever opened his mouth. I still needed work in that area.

He must have come to the conclusion that I wasn't going to budge because he said, "Fine. But stay behind me, and for God's sake don't shoot me."

I listened to him mumble something under his breath about unreasonable women, but I blanked it out as his hand turned the doorknob and it opened easily. He pushed it open and we didn't have to go very far to see we were too late. Death had happened here, and with it came a smell that couldn't be attributed to anything else.

We stepped carefully around small dots of blood and into a living room crowded with comfortable furniture worn with age. It had the look of a house that had gone too long without a woman's touch. A thin layer of dust coated dozens of picture frames and knick-knacks, and old newspapers cluttered the coffee table. The house was cut up into several rooms, so it was impossible to stand in one place and see anywhere else.

Jack locked the back door behind us, and I followed behind him as we made a quick circuit of the first floor and then took the stairs to look in the three bedrooms on the second floor. There was no sign of Doc Randall.

Jack holstered his weapon, and I put the safety back on and stuck it back in my pants. We'd seen all we needed to see in the tiny office off the main living room.

"It's like they lined him up for a firing squad," I said, looking at the white wall smeared with blood. "At least two of the bullets exited the body and are embedded in the wall. There'll be flesh embedded with it. Of course, it's going to be hard to match it with anything considering we don't have a body."

Doc Randall's office was Spartan. A wooden desk was shoved against the wall, but there wasn't a computer or any papers on the surface. There was a lone bookshelf filled with worn paperbacks and a metal file cabinet.

Doc Randall had been shot standing against the wall. At least I assumed it was Doc Randall. It was easy to see from the blood pattern how the body would have staggered back as the bullets tore through flesh. I could see it clearly in my mind. A frail man slammed back by the shock of the metal ripping into his chest, and then sliding down to the floor in a heap, leaving a smear of blood behind that looked like one of those modern paintings people paid too much money for.

"They hit something vital," I said, taking a swab of the blood and sealing it in a bag. "There's too much blood, and you can see the arterial spray there against the adjacent wall and on the carpet."

"You think he's dead?"

"If he didn't have immediate medical attention, then yeah. Even if he'd had immediate attention, his chances wouldn't have been good."

"What do you want to bet the murder weapon was a .22? Vaughn had two guns in that safe."

I sighed. "No bet. I don't like the game they're playing."

"There wasn't any sign of breaking and entering at the front door or the back," Jack said.

"He let them in," I said, nodding.

"Fuck," he said. "They're cleaning up the loose ends. And if they're using Vaughn's weapons then he's just another tool to them."

He pulled out his phone, and I knew without asking he was calling Vaughn. Jack swore again when it went to voicemail, and he left Vaughn a message that was short and to the point about his safety.

"They cornered him in here," I said. "There were at least a couple of people waiting at the back of the house if the footprints are anything to go by, so they had him trapped inside."

Jack closed his eyes and I knew he was doing what he was best at—seeing the scene as it had been—trying to dig his way inside the killer's mind.

"We'll see if anyone heard the shots when we do a door to door, but the timing of this is perfect. Hardly anyone in this neighborhood is home on a Sunday morning."

I followed Jack back to the front of the house and into the kitchen, and faced the evidence of Doc Randall's last morning alive.

"Yeah, that makes more sense," Jack said, taking in the half-eaten cereal and newspaper.

"You want to fill me in?" I asked as he continued to carry on a conversation with himself. "I can't read your mind as well as you read mind."

"That's always good to know. They sent one person to do the job. Could be the same person who did George, but it could've just as easily have been someone different. Different styles will throw us off even further, right? This guy shot an old man three times point blank in the chest. He was grandstanding, maybe toying with the Doc a little. No head shot since there's no brain matter anywhere, but it was still overkill. Whoever they sent was still someone expendable just in case he was seen. It's dicey putting three bullet holes into someone during daylight hours in a residential neighborhood, but they knew the area. They knew everyone would be at church. He wouldn't have parked in the driveway, but it would've been somewhere close by."

Jack looked out the front window to take in the view. "The bank parking lot would be the closest, and there's that area in back that's hidden by the dumpster. It's what? A five-minute walk?"

"If that," I said.

"So he knocks on the door, interrupting Doc Randall at his breakfast, but he's welcomed inside. The killer has orders to get the job done quickly. He's on a deadline. But what does he do after he kills Doc Randall? That's what bothers me."

"What do you mean?"

"He doesn't leave the body and walk away. He calls for help and they take the body with them. Why?"

"Maybe Doc Randall knew something. Maybe he was still alive enough to tell them something. But he was bleeding pretty badly, so he wouldn't have lasted long. The blood trail leads all the way to the back door."

"Or maybe the guy was sent to question Doc Randall first and things got out of hand. Maybe he called in the others because he didn't know what else to do. Maybe it was his first kill and he panicked."

We followed the blood trail down the hallway and back into the living room where we came in.

"The blood trail stops here," Jack said. "They wrapped him up in something to get him out of the house. Probably trash bags from the kitchen. We'll check the alley for tire treads and see if they match Oglesby's crime scene."

"There's one problem with all that," I said. "The killer would be covered in blood if he moved the body here before they wrapped it. There'd be no way around it. How's he supposed to get back to his car? Surely someone passing by on the street would notice."

"This whole thing stinks of an amateur. No planning involved on his part once he got here. He left a mess behind, and maybe he left some fingerprints as well. If it were me I'd hand the keys of my car over to someone else. I'd wrap myself in the same plastic they put the body in and catch a ride with whoever came to bail me out. Still, though, there's going to be blood in that car."

"The blood has clotted and started to separate," I said, "So the crime scene is only a few hours old."

"That would normally be helpful information. But we're lacking a body."

"It might be for the best," I said. "I'm out of room in my freezer."

Jack shook his head at me in disbelief, but I just shrugged. I spoke the truth, and finding Doc Randall's body meant we'd have to figure out some other way to keep him on ice, and it wouldn't be pleasant for anyone involved.

"I've got to call this in," Jack said. "And then I have to go ask the mayor for his alibi. The fun never ends."

"Since there's no body, I'm guessing I'll just be in the way here," I said, unlocking the door and heading out into the fresh air. Jack followed behind me. "I'll walk back to the funeral home. I'm supposed to meet Reverend Thomas and Mr. Oglesby about Daniel's interment. Let me know if you need anything else from me."

"Let me have a patrol car take you," Jack said.

I peeled off my gloves and stuck them in my pocket. "It's only a couple of blocks. I'll be fine."

"I'll check in with you once I get a break." He kissed me once, and I stood there a little dazed before I shook myself out of it and walked back around to the front of the house.

I waved to Colburn as he pulled in behind Jack's cruiser, and thought about the best place to hide Doc Randall's body. The river would be an obvious choice. But they'd wait until dark to dump him. So it was being held somewhere. Probably the same place they'd tortured Daniel Oglesby. Unfortunately, the choices were unlimited at this point.

# Chapter Nineteen

"This is more difficult than I thought it would be," Reverend Thomas said half an hour later.

David Oglesby—Daniel's father—had given permission for the church to handle all the minutia of burying his son, since he could never be sure what his mind was going to be from one day to the next because of the Alzheimer's. So Reverend Thomas and Lorna had come in directly after Sunday services to get things settled. I'd already told them I'd do the service at cost, and that seemed to be satisfactory to the Reverend, even though Lorna's mouth pinched in a disapproving line at my apparent lack of charity.

"Daniel had become like a son to me," the Reverend continued, his voice papery thin. "It's a comfort to know he's in a better place now, but that doesn't make our earthly wants go away. It's selfish to want him here when I know he's in heaven."

Lorna scowled, but she kept her mouth shut in respect of the Reverend. I wondered then if he knew Daniel Oglesby was gay.

Reverend Thomas cleared his throat and picked a piece of lint off his black trousers. "I think I might need a moment to myself. Lorna can make the final decisions on the casket and flowers. Thank you for taking care of this, J.J. I'll see you tomorrow evening at the viewing."

I watched with sympathy as Reverend Thomas hoisted his creaky bones out of the little chair in front of my desk. He shuffled out of my office, and I heard the front door of the funeral home click softly behind him.

Unfortunately, I was left all alone with Lorna. She still wore her church clothes—a dark navy dress that would have been in style forty years ago, with an eyelet lace collar and matching Mary Jane heels that were a tasteful one-inch in height. Her stockings didn't have runs in them, and her mousy hair was pulled back severely from her face and fastened in a tight bun at the base of her neck so it looked like she had a bagel attached to the back of her head.

I knew I'd be meeting clients today, so I'd at least thought to put on something besides my old jeans and a ratty t-shirt. I felt fairly presentable in gray slacks and a dark red silk shirt, but women who wore pants were no better than prostitutes by Lorna's way of thinking. I'd also gotten a little blood on the sleeve of my shirt at Doc Randall's house, and her gaze kept straying to the darkened stain, but I hadn't had time to change to protect her delicate sensibilities. I'd even bothered with makeup, though that might have had more to do with the fact that sex tended to make a person stupid, and I wanted to look nice for Jack. Just in case he decided this morning wasn't a fluke and wanted to do it again.

I pushed the pamphlets across the desk to Lorna, but she just stared at me, her hands pressed together primly in her lap.

"These are the casket selections in your budget," I said. "I have most of them in stock. I've already spoken with Mrs. Grainger at the florist, and she said to tell you she has a lovely selection of white roses and greenery she thought you'd find acceptable."

Lorna nodded stiffly and looked briefly at the pamphlet. "Mrs. Grainger has excellent taste, so of course, I'll go with her recommendation. These caskets are all overpriced," she said. "But I've come to expect that you'd try to swindle good Christian folk in their greatest time of need. I suppose if I have no other choice, we'll take the mahogany."

She shoved the pamphlet back at me and stared at my neck until I felt heat washing over my skin. I fought the urge to close my collar tighter, but that would only tell her I felt guilty I'd been caught with beard burn on my neck.

"Is there a problem?" I asked instead.

"Other than the fact you've brought another good man down in the gutter with you?" Her pale blue eyes spat fire at me and I was taken aback by the vehemence I saw there. "You should be ashamed of yourself."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, raising a brow. I was surprisingly calm considering the insult, but maybe something of what Jack had said yesterday was starting to get through. I didn't share my parents' blood. I wasn't guilty of their sins. Sure, I was guilty of plenty of my own, but my burden had eased some since I'd stopped lumping the sins of my family on top of mine.

"You killed that nice writer with your whorish ways, and now you'll do the same with Jack."

"Technically, I didn't kill the writer with my whorish ways. Jeremy Mooney shot him, in case you've forgotten. Now as far as Jack goes, we haven't killed each other with sex yet, but we're giving it our best shot."

Lorna sputtered and her eyes bulged out. I think I offended her, and I knew what I'd said was petty, but I was tired of taking cheap shots and being the "nice guy" just because I felt like I had to make up for the rest of my family.

"He'll see you for what you are eventually," she spat, "And God will forgive him for straying and provide him with the right woman."

"But God won't forgive me?" I asked, wondering the same thing myself. "That's not very Christian of you, Lorna. Jealousy is an unattractive trait. You should probably ask your own forgiveness and mend your wicked ways."

Lorna squeaked once, and two spots of furious color dotted her cheeks before she tucked her handbag beneath her arm and stormed out of my office. I wish I could've said I felt better after our exchange, but I didn't. Maybe revenge wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

***

I'm not sure how long I sat behind my desk, doing mindless paperwork, and making the necessary calls for Reverend Oglesby's funeral on Tuesday morning. Mrs. Perry's funeral was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon, and both were supposed to have their viewings on Monday night at the same time. When it rained it poured.

In all honesty, I was dreading it. The funeral home would be packed, and I would be on display as much as the bodies—though Reverend Oglesby would be having a closed casket. Murder had a tendency to bring in a combination of true mourners, the curious, and the morbid, and considering how the Reverend was killed, there would be plenty of all three in attendance.

I had a crew digging the graves over at the cemetery, and I knew it would be awful, muddy work because of the rain we'd had. And according to the weatherman, there'd be more rain overnight. I wondered briefly if I should go ahead and have them dig George's grave while they were there to save a little money, but his body hadn't been released for burial yet, so I held off.

I made a final call to Martha Phelps—owner of Martha's Diner—and occasional caterer for Graves' Funeral Homes. I needed to make sure we were set to feed the masses when they showed up the following night. Mourners were always hungry. I made another call to the florist, and then I went downstairs to make sure the bodies were as good as they were going to get before we placed them in their coffins.

The families would want to say goodbye, and the most important thing I could do for them was make sure their family member looked as close to their live self as possible. I'd made the mistake once of parting a woman's hair on the opposite side from how she normally wore it, and by the reaction the family had you'd have thought I'd chopped off the tip of her nose.

Getting the bodies maneuvered into the caskets would be the hard part. Reverend Oglesby was a big man, and I tried to think of the best way to bribe Jack into helping me. I needed to get a couple of more interns from the college as soon as possible. It was hell trying to get everything accomplished and make sure the bodies still looked good with only one person doing all the work.

I went back upstairs and into my office, and I thought about stretching out on the blue couch against the wall to rest my eyes, but I shrugged off the idea. First of all, it was a really uncomfortable couch, and I made a mental note to buy a new one with the money I made from selling my house. Secondly, the thought of going to sleep without Jack beside me wasn't all that appealing.

I decided to make a fresh pot of coffee instead when I heard the key turn in the kitchen door and the muted sound of men's voices. My gun was in the center drawer of my desk, only a few feet away, but the sound of Jack's voice stopped me from running to get it.

I let out a breath and wandered into the kitchen. My eyes immediately went to Jack, hungry for the sight of him. He quite literally took my breath away. It was crazy to think that something so beautiful and good could be mine, but he was, and the thought didn't terrify me as much as it had even a day ago. He wanted me. And he loved me. No strings attached. Except marriage, but I still wasn't thinking about that.

He'd stripped away his jacket with the warming temperatures, and I noticed he'd changed clothes some time after our visit to Doc Randall's. Things must have gotten messy. He wore jeans and a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his weapon secure at his side. My gaze wandered over him, and when I finally met his eyes they were so filled with lust and need that it made my breath catch. It was then I remembered we weren't alone, and I was very probably making a fool out of myself.

"I just came in to start a fresh pot of coffee," I said.

I broke eye contact so I didn't give into temptation and jump Jack's bones. He sent every hormone I had into overdrive. I hadn't thought about sex this much since—no, best not to go there. Even with Brody it hadn't been this intense. This important. I'd known the difference real love could make from the first moment Jack had touched me, and it was a disservice to Jack in the here and now and Brody's memory to pretend otherwise.

I ducked my head and hurried over to the counter where the coffeemaker sat, keeping my back to the room until I got my emotions under control. I found comfort in the simple task of measuring coffee grounds.

"I could drink a cup," Jack said. "How about you, Carver?"

"I'd rather have a beer myself, but I guess coffee will do."

I turned at the mention of Agent Carver. We'd spoken on the phone once when he'd helped us gather information on Jeremy Mooney, just before he tried to kill me. But I'd never actually met Carver in person. I knew he was a close friend of Jack's, and that they'd served together in the military. My knowledge ended there.

Carver wasn't a big man, skimming just under six feet, and he wasn't as broad as Jack through the shoulders. He was leaner, with a runner's body, but he held himself with an awareness that was inherent in all cops, and he carried his weapon comfortably at his side. His black slacks and white dress shirt were travel worn, but his shoes were shined to a blinding polish. His sandy blond hair was short and his eyes were a misty green that missed nothing.

"So you're Doctor Graves," he said with a smile, holding out his hand for me to shake. "Ben Carver. I've heard a lot about you." He cut his eyes to Jack and wiggled his eyebrows.

"Call me J.J.," I said, taking his hand. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"Yeah, well, I would have come down to meet you sooner if I'd known you were beautiful. Jack told me what he and his friends did to you in third grade," he said, shaking his head sadly. "I'd be happy to help you find a decent man. You don't want to get stuck with this loser," pointing to Jack. "I can finally understand why he keeps himself secluded in this Godforsaken place. Wasting his talent, if you ask me. Not that he ever asks, mind you, but I like to give my opinion when I think it's needed."

I smiled because I couldn't help myself, but I looked at Jack and arched a brow. "Have you secluded yourself because of me, Jack? I had no idea."

He winked and gave me a smile I knew was just for me. "I'm right where I want to be." He reached up to get mugs down from the cabinet and brought them over to me.

"Jack always did have all the luck," Carver sighed, looking forlorn. "I don't suppose you have a sister? Twins would be even better."

I laughed. "I'm an only child, thank God. But the women in this town are always looking for eligible bachelors. I'd be happy to throw you to the wolves."

"Thanks anyway. But I wouldn't want to piss off my wife. She knows how to shoot."

Jack and I both laughed at his deadpan delivery, and I poured coffee into the mugs.

"So how'd it go with the mayor?" I asked Jack. "Do you still have a job?"

"For now," he answered. "But only because the mayor is conveniently out of town."

I warmed my hands around the mug and looked at Jack in surprise. "How long has he been gone?"

"Almost a week," Carver said, taking up the conversation. "He's at a fundraising convention in Atlanta. We've already confirmed with TSA and the hotel."

"They have conventions for fundraising?" I asked.

"That was my reaction too, but Mr. Civilized here tells me it's common among politicians to seek help around campaign time. On the taxpayers' dime, of course."

"Of course." My eyes caught Jack's again, and then dropped to his mouth. It had been hours since he'd kissed me. I was pretty sure Carver was still speaking, but it sounded like water rushing past my ears. And then I remembered I needed to breathe.

"I guess that's my cue to go," Carver said, finishing his coffee in one long gulp. "I need to read through all the information from the crime scenes, and get settled at the bed and breakfast."

"I told you you're welcome to stay with me," Jack said. He didn't take his eyes off me as he made the offer.

I watched Carver look between me and Jack and roll his eyes. "Yeah, that's going to happen. I'll catch you crazy kids later."

"Five o'clock," Jack said. "I'll introduce you to the others and we'll have a briefing."

Carver nodded and let himself out the kitchen door. And Jack and I were all alone. Nerves gathered in the pit of my stomach, and tingles skittered across my skin until every part of me was aware of our complete solitude. I reached for his cup to take it to the sink, just so I could keep my hands busy, but he touched my wrist and I froze.

His mouth quirked in a half smile, displaying his dimple, and every rational thought in my head evaporated. He scooted his chair back from the table and brought me slowly to my feet. The temperature rose twenty degrees, and I suddenly knew what it felt like to become prey. Jack didn't let go of my wrist, and I looked behind me to see if I had room to maneuver.

"Nowhere to run," he whispered, pulling me closer. His arms came around me in a loose circle and he nuzzled at my cheek. "It's been three hours since I've kissed you."

My throat was as dry as dust, and I licked my lips. This time was different. We weren't waking up to romantic morning light, caught in each other and the soft touches that new lovers shared. This was primal. Carnal. Energy crackled in the air between us, and the need to mate was so strong my fingers clenched in his shirt before I made myself relax them.

"It seems like forever," I breathed out, the words barely forming.

Jack nipped at my jaw with his teeth and I moaned, trembling in his arms as my body came to attention.

"Forever," he agreed. "It's been almost eight hours since I've been inside you."

"Much too long," I moaned, tilting my head back so he had better access to my neck.

The room spun around me and my eyes fluttered closed to fight the dizziness, but it didn't help. Jack did this to me—made my knees weak and my body liquid—so time spun around us. It was only the two of us at the center of the universe. And then his mouth took mine in a scorching kiss that nothing to do with patience or seduction and everything to do with ravenous need.

My back hit the wall and I heard something crash, but I was too far gone to care or notice what we'd broken. Our tongues twined and my legs wrapped around his waist—searching, searching—for the hard heat of him to press against the one spot that would make me scream.

"Jesus," he panted, his hand finding my breast—squeezing, tweaking—until the throbbing between my thighs became almost unbearable.

"Windows," he gasped.

I didn't care that we were in the kitchen in a public building, where anyone could walk in. I found the energy to open my eyes, and found myself staring into Jack's—molten black and glazed with desire.

"Don't care," I panted. "Now."

I worked frantically at the button of his jeans, ignoring the fact that he still wore his shirt and weapon. He kissed me again and carried me a few steps, trying to make it to the privacy of my office, but my hand found its way inside his jeans and any sensible thoughts he had vanished.

"Or here's good," he said.

"Hurry, hurry," I begged.

He flicked the clasp of my trousers and they fell to my knees, and I gasped as he tore away my underwear. We were both in motion now, trying to relieve the aching pressure that kept building inside of us. I kicked off a shoe and freed a leg from my pants, and then Jack's hands grasped my ass and hitched me up. My legs wrapped around his waist and then he was finally inside me, and we both let out a satisfied moan at the feel of our flesh joining.

My heart thudded inside my chest and my head knocked against the wall as he moved into me, over and over again. Sweat dampened our skin and our bodies were so hot I was surprised they didn't burst into flame. My fingernails dug into his shoulders as he rocked higher and higher, and my legs turned into a vise as I felt the first trembling shocks rocket through my body.

My hips bucked wildly and I cried out as the rest of the world spun away. Jack stiffened and shuddered against me, and we held on to each other—survivors of a passionate storm—our hearts pounding as one.

I didn't know how much time passed. My vision cleared, and I wondered if I'd had a stroke because everything was sideways. I lifted my head as high as much as my strength would allow and realized we were lying down.

"How'd we end up on the floor?" I croaked out. I dropped my head back to his shoulder and decided I could probably fall asleep on top of him if he'd just be still.

"I think I fell down," he said. "I have blank spots in my memory. And my legs might be broken."

"Thank you for being a gentleman and not landing on top of me."

"My mother brought me up right."

I giggled against his chest and rose up so I could see his face. His eyes were heavy-lidded and his smile satisfied, and I couldn't help but take his face between my hands and kiss him softly.

"It's nice to see you smile," he said. "I want you to be happy."

I hugged him close and realized I was happy. In this moment I was as happy as I'd ever been. "You make me happy," I said. "Thanks for being persistent."

He swatted me on the backside and lifted me up, and a small tremor went through me as our bodies separated. I crawled on my hands and knees, without a shred of dignity whatsoever, and gathered my scattered clothes. At least I was still wearing my shirt.

"You owe me new underwear, Sheriff," I said, holding up the tattered white lace and giving him a wide-eyed stare. "Police brutality."

He grinned and hitched his jeans up. "Make sure you go in and file a report. The men don't have enough to do."

I snickered as I put my clothes back on. My muscles were starting to protest, and I stretched a little, gleeful when Jack's eyes got that look again that meant good things were coming.

"You're very inventive," I said. "I'm going to be expecting something new and exciting from here on out."

"Or maybe just regular sex would be okay too," Jack said, helping me stand. "I'm not sure we've gotten to the point in our relationship where things have gotten old. I don't usually break out the trapezes until the fourth or fifth time."

I caught my balance on the kitchen island and Jack started laughing.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"You look thoroughly—" his eyes skimmed over me from head to toe— "debauched, Doctor Graves."

"Humility is a virtue, Sheriff Lawson."

"So is chastity, but I don't think you want to go there."

"Good point." I glanced at the clock and winced at the time. "We need to get back if you're going to be there in time for the briefing."

"So much for afterglow," Jack said.

"I'll afterglow the hell out of you later if you'll feed me. I worked up an appetite."

"You drive a hard bargain, Doctor Graves."

I should've seen it coming by the competitive gleam Jack got in his eyes. Before I knew what was happening, he'd tossed me over his shoulder and we were out at the car. I banged my head against his back as the traffic on Catherine of Aragon came to a grinding halt and people stared. It's not like they didn't have enough to talk about where I was concerned.

# Chapter Twenty

An hour later, Jack and I were freshly showered and back in his office. Colburn showed up a few minutes later, and then Lewis and Martinez dragged in shortly after that. None of them looked like they'd had any sleep. Agent Carver came in behind them, a computer bag slung over his shoulder.

"I've got the will," Carver said first thing. "I know you've been waiting on it. You would've had to go through too much red tape."

Jack nodded and said, "It's why I let you be my friend. Sometimes you come in handy."

"My wife says the same thing," Carver said. "I'm not sure the will is going to tell you anything you want to hear though."

Carver handed a thick envelope over to Jack, and Jack slipped his finger under the envelope flap to open it and pull out the folded papers inside. I waited as he read through it quickly.

"He never got the will changed after his wife's death. All property or belongings are left to her. They had no children, so in the event that something happened to both of them, everything would go to his parents. Garage included. It was paid for, free and clear, so they could sell it for a nice profit. But other than that, there was nothing worth killing him over."

"What did you find about his finances?" Carver asked.

"Solid," Jack answered. "Nothing that suggests questionable activity. He got a hefty deposit in his account last month, but it was Fiona's life insurance policy kicking in. All I know is that he made a hell of a lot more as a mechanic than anyone in this room."

"So what do we know?" I asked.

"We know that there's something going on with that garage," Jack said. "We know George was, or is, involved with the Aryan Nation. We know George is dead."

"That's kind of depressing when you put it that way," Martinez piped in.

"I checked on the warrant for the membership list," Colburn said. "We've hit a roadblock there."

Colburn always reminded me a little of an old west gunslinger. His movements were always a little slow and lazy, but he had sharp eyes, and he could move fast when he needed to.

Jack sighed and said, "I figured we would. Nothing can ever be easy."

"What's the problem?" I asked. "The judge already signed off on the warrant."

"The ACLU has gotten involved, and they've convinced a different judge to block the warrant. They're claiming that if the member names are released than the police will be on a witch hunt for a group of non-violent men."

"Well, Daniel Oglesby didn't torture himself," I said.

"You're preaching to the choir, sister. We'll get it overturned," Colburn said. "But it's going to put us behind schedule."

"What did you find out about the branding iron?" Jack asked Lewis.

Lewis flipped through his own stack of paper. "I've got two different Internet orders for the design in question, but neither of them were delivered to the state of Virginia. One went to Texas and the other to Kentucky. But the thing they both have in common is that they were paid for through a bogus bank account under the name of a man who's been dead for ten years."

"What's the name?" I asked, excitement running through my veins.

"Frank Greenbaum," he said. "Ring a bell?"

"You could say that," Jack said. He passed around the photo I'd found inside George. "He's standing right there on the end. He's got his arm thrown around George's shoulders. Was there any other activity out of that account?"

"Nope. Two transactions. Then it was shut down."

Jack looked at the photo again and said, "I want you to do a search for bank accounts under the name of Jesse Fife. He's the only other one in this photo besides George and Frank that are dead. See if you can find that money trail."

"You got it, boss," Lewis said.

Jack went over to the white board and picked up his marker. "Doc Randall was given an up front payment of a quarter of a million dollars to steal that drug from the hospital. And another payment in the same amount was supposed to be delivered after. Maybe that's why he opened the door to his killer. He was expecting that payment. Though he probably wasn't expecting it in person. Both Doctor Vances have access to Augusta General, just like Doc Randall. What do you want to bet they know each other?"

Jack drew connecting lines on his white board between Doc Randall and both of the Vances.

"You keep going back to the Vances," I said. "But they have alibis for the night we found Daniel Oglesby."

"Except for William Vance, who apparently sleeps alone," Jack said. "We did check out their alibis for yesterday when George was killed and again this morning when we found the blood at Doc Randall's. Everyone is accounted for."

"My gut is just screaming that there's something off about the Vances," he said. "I know at least one of them is involved. I saw the look Gregory Vance gave us when Lewis came in to tell me about George. He knew exactly what had happened. But what better alibi than to volunteer to come in and answer any questions while one of his membership was being murdered?"

Now that he put it that way, I could see his point.

"It would take someone of some strength to force that gun in George's hand and pull the trigger," Carver chimed in. "Just like it would take a man of some strength to lift Daniel Oglesby's body and chain him to that tree. Two different methods, but our profiler agrees that the same person could have been involved in both. She also agrees with you about Hank Randall's death."

It had been a while since I'd heard anyone call Doc Randall by his first name, so I had to think about whom Carver was talking about.

"Go on," Jack said, giving Carver the floor.

"Our profiler thinks whoever killed Hank Randall was a novice, like you said. There was no thought or planning involved other than what time of day would be best to get away with murder. The killer was probably nervous and jittery. And maybe Doc Randall used that against him, trying to talk him down or give him misinformation to prolong his life."

"We found prints that didn't belong to Doc Randall at the scene," Jack confirmed. "But we don't have anyone to match them to at this point."

"It's just another mistake out of many," Carver agreed. "I know your men haven't found a murder weapon or a body, but the profiler thinks it'll be a match for the one taken from Vaughn Raines' safe. They're trying to cloud your judgment and throw as many scenarios at you as possible. But they're starting to make mistakes. We'll get them eventually."

"But before how many others are killed?" Martinez asked.

"Then we'd better step up our game," Jack said. "What we've got is three murders—Oglesby, George and Doc Randall—and three styles of killing. Three different CODs."

"Three Vances," I added.

Jack looked at me and nodded. "Except Doctor Gregory Vance was being questioned by us during George's murder. Let's take a closer look at his sons."

"We talked to the boys you've got doing surveillance on them," Lewis said. "We'll take our shift on surveillance in the next couple of hours. We're stretched thin, boss. There's not enough manpower to go with the hours in the day."

"We don't have a choice," Jack said. "Put in for personal time off after this is over."

Lewis shrugged it off and said, "The deputies who're on duty now said it's been pretty straight-forward, but we did a thorough background on both of them and did follow-ups like you asked."

Martinez took the ball and read from his file. "Doctor William Vance. Cardiologist. Followed daddy's footsteps into the medical field. His nurses say he has a god complex, but they tell me that's pretty normal. He's got a vicious temper, but he doesn't have any knuckle raps that I can find. He's only been married and divorced once. The wife was more than happy to tell us everything she could. I think she's still a little bitter."

"That's the understatement of the year," Lewis said. "If she could've served us his balls on a platter, she would have. Believe me, she was thrilled at the thought of him going to prison. He left her for a nineteen-year old Barbie lookalike who also happened to be the babysitter to the two Vance children. The wife skinned William in the divorce and things got pretty messy. William never did marry the babysitter. The relationship only lasted about six months from what we can gather, and he's a serial dater now, sticking with the young, blond and built types."

"What about his car?" I asked.

"A Corvette. Red. No white Cadillac to be found."

"What about the other Vance?" I asked.

"Gregory Jr. Everyone calls him Greg," Lewis said. "He's done well for himself. Married his college sweetheart. Three kids ranging from eleven to sixteen in age. He belongs to the Lions Club, the Knights of Columbus, the Rotary Club and the Chamber of Commerce. He's a deacon at the Methodist church in Richmond and he owns two very successful car dealerships."

"Dealership," I said, more to myself than anyone else. I tried to remember why that should be important.

"What's that?" Carver asked.

I got up to go look at the photograph I'd found inside George once more. There was something about that morning. And then I had it. Or at least part of it.

"The dealership," I said again. "George told me he deals directly with a dealership in Richmond. What if he and Vance were connected that way?"

"It'll be easy enough to find out," Jack said. "I've got all the files and appointment books for the garage. What I don't have is any record of the car George was sent to pick up out past Daniel Oglesby's house—the green hatchback Miss Pilcher told us about. Something funny is going on with those cars and the garage."

"Carver, can you use that fancy computer of yours to do a search for me?"

"I can try. Sometimes she can be temperamental."

"Your computer is female?" I asked.

"All the best things are, sugar," he said, winking.

I looked at Jack and rolled my eyes, and then we had one of those shared moments that couples do. Where the look turns into something more meaningful and deeper. I broke eye contact first, and I realized my heart had started pounding in my chest. I felt like an idiot. I wasn't a teenager anymore, but damned if I could control what was happening to me.

"What do you need?" Carver asked Jack.

I got up and restlessly paced the floor, trying to get my thoughts in order. I was having a harder time doing that lately.

"We're missing some piece of important information. I want to know everything there is to know about all three Vances. We've done as deep of a search as we're legally able to do without a warrant. I know you can go deeper and do it faster. I want to know about ex-wives, ex-girlfriends, the friends of their children, disgruntled clients. Anything and everything."

"She can do all that and more," Carver agreed, patting his computer. "It'll take about twelve hours though."

"Then everyone go get some food and some sleep. We'll meet back in the morning."

Jack stood and stared at his boards a long time after everyone left. I didn't want to interrupt him, and if I hadn't been watching him so closely I never would have seen the change in his expression.

"You've figured out something," I said.

"Maybe. Just maybe," he said, rubbing his eyes. "Ronnie Campbell." Jack dug through one of his many file folders.

I knew I'd heard the name mentioned before. "Who's that again?"

"He was the man Julie Lawrence was prosecuting before she was killed. I've seen that name before. I need to go talk to Gregory Vance Jr." Jack checked his watch. It was just past seven o'clock and my stomach growled loudly. "We've got time. You want to come with me?"

"Yeah, I'll go." I grabbed a lighter jacket and transferred my gun from my heavy coat into my jacket pocket.

"We'll grab something to eat on the way back."

I thought about what I wanted to say, and how I wanted to say it. And I eventually decided to just get it out.

"I'll live with you," I said. "Move in with you, I mean. Like a couple."

He stopped in his tracks, his hand on the doorknob and his keys in hand. He turned to look at me, and the vulnerability I saw in his eyes was almost my undoing. He was always so strong. Such a stable part of my life. But I'd hurt him when I'd left, and I'd hurt him even more by not letting him know that I recognized the power and importance of what we had between us. I hadn't told him I loved him, at least not in that way, but now wasn't the time. I wanted to make it special the first time I told him. I wanted to do something for him for a change.

His hand dropped off the doorknob and he held it out to me, making me come to him this time.

"I guess I should've offered to feed you sooner," he said. "Do you mean it? No more looks of panic at the thought of letting me love you? No more ducking your head when we're driving through town so you don't have to look at the people talking about us?"

My lips twitched. "I didn't think you'd know what I was doing."

"You're a private person, Jaye. With personal demons. I can respect your space and your need for that privacy. I have that same need, which is why I think we won't kill each other when we take the next steps in our relationship."

"It's just happened really fast. I'm still getting used to it."

"It's happened over a lifetime, and it won't be as big of a deal as you think it will. We've loved each other forever, whether you're ready to say it or not." He pressed his finger against my lips before I could get the words out to try and explain. "You don't have to say it if you're not ready. I don't need to hear them. I know you love me."

I stepped into his embrace, my eyes wet with emotion, and a love for him so strong I wasn't sure how I'd ever be able to hold it all inside. He deserved to know my feelings. The time and place didn't matter—there didn't need to be candlelight and romance.

I took his face in my hands and tilted his head down so we saw eye to eye. "I do love you, Jack. You've been the only person in my life I've ever said that to. And you'll be the only person from here on I'll ever say it to."

I saw the emotion flood his eyes before he pulled me back into his arms. "I lied," he whispered. "I needed to hear you say it." He kissed me once, lingering and tasting, telling me without words everything he was feeling. "But you have lousy timing, because all I want to do now is make love to you."

"Our last bout should hold you until we're done talking with Greg Vance." He held the door open for me and we went out to the cruiser. I paused with my hand wrapped around the door handle and said, "Hey, Jack."

He looked across the top of the cruiser at me, a question in his eyes.

"I'd like to sleep in your bed tonight."

He smiled and said, "Our bed."

"Our bed," I repeated. I knew no matter where I was, that I'd sleep well with Jack beside me.

# Chapter Twenty-One

Greg Vance Jr. lived in an area called the Upper Fan in the West End section of Richmond. It was named that because it was shaped like a fan (go figure), and anyone who was anyone knew that if you lived in Richmond, then that was the place to be.

Unfortunately, Greg Vance wasn't at home when we came by to pay him a visit. His wife—a very nice woman in her mid-thirties who hadn't looked like she'd given birth to three children—answered the door. She told us Greg had been called to close the dealership because his manager had gone home sick. She very proudly told us he was the only dealership in the state that was open on Sundays.

"She was very—nice," I said as we headed toward the dealership. "She came to the door in an apron and smelled like gingerbread. What's up with that? It's not 1950."

"You and I are the cynical ones. Sometimes people really are just—nice," he said. "But I bet she called him as soon as we drove away. He'll be expecting us now."

We pulled into the dealership parking lot right at eight o'clock, and it looked like everything was being shut down for the evening.

"Geez, the whole thing must take up an entire block," I said. "I've never seen so many cars."

"It would certainly explain the hefty amount of money in his checking account."

Jack parked the cruiser right in front of the glass double doors that led into the dealership. I'd just opened the door to get out when a man came out to meet us. He didn't look anything like his father. In fact, he looked like a perfect match for his wife. He smiled showing off expensive dental work, and he held out his hand, first to Jack, and then me, as we got closer.

"You must be Sheriff Lawson," Greg Vance said. "My wife called and told me you were looking to talk to me."

"This is Doctor Graves," Jack said. "She's the coroner for King George County."

"Good to meet you," Greg said. He pulled out a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth. "I'm trying to quit smoking. Some days are easier than others. Come on in to my office and we can get comfortable. Would you like any coffee? I've already got a pot made."

"I would," I said, before Jack could decline for the both of us.

"Well, come on in and get out of the damp. I think it's supposed to rain again."

He turned around and headed back inside and I raised my eyebrows at Jack. Greg Vance was not what I'd expected. He was about Jack's size, and it was obvious he kept himself in good shape by the look of his bulging arms and flat stomach. He looked like the All-American male, down to the blond hair and blue eyes. He wore charcoal slacks and a light blue polo that had the dealership logo over the heart.

We went across the showroom, and I eyed a sexy silver sports car that made me think disloyal thoughts towards the Suburban. Greg's office was in the far back corner, and it had been professionally decorated in shades of blue and black to match the rest of the dealership. Jack and I sat in the two chairs across from his desk, and I waited as he poured my coffee.

"How do you like it?" he asked.

"Just black, please." He handed it to me and I told him thank you before he went around to the other side of the desk.

"What can I do for you folks? You look like a lady who'd know how to handle a sports car. I've got one out on the floor that drives like a dream. A six-speed convertible that hugs every curve in the road."

"Will it hold a dead body?" I asked.

He looked a little nonplussed by the comment, but he rallied quickly. "Only if you folded it in half. There's not much trunk space."

"We'd just like to ask you a few questions regarding our investigation into the deaths of Daniel Oglesby and George Murphy. I'm sure your father spoke to you already."

Greg rubbed his hand across his jaw and sighed. "Yeah, I should probably apologize for him. My father and I don't always see eye to eye about everything, but he's not a killer. He's very—stringent about his beliefs. I think it's the generation. He's always right and refuses to see that anyone else might be right instead, or that the world has evolved."

"Families can be difficult when your beliefs are different," I said. "What about your brother?"

"Will?" Greg asked. "He's always kind of been the chosen one because of his profession, but he and Dad don't talk much. They rub each other the wrong way, and Dad disapproved of his divorce. They had a big fight about it when Will said he was leaving Cynthia. Mostly Will stays to himself and keeps focused on work."

I could see the worry in Greg's eyes, as if there was something else going on with his brother that he didn't want to mention, but I didn't press it.

"I'd like you to look at a couple of photographs for me," Jack said. "They're not going to be pretty, just to warn you."

I watched as Greg mentally prepared himself, and Jack handed him the first photograph of Julie Lawrence—the one of how she'd been found in the parking lot. Greg winced as he looked at her, and his hand shook a little as he put the photo down on his desk.

"Just look at her face," Jack said. "Try not to think about the rest of it."

"Jesus," Greg said. "How could anyone not think about the rest of it? Look at her."

"Do you recognize her?" Jack pressed. "Her name is Julie Lawrence."

"No—I'm sorry—No. I've never seen her before." Greg pushed the photograph back and seemed to sigh in relief when Jack put it back in the folder.

"What about this one? Do you recognize him?"

I recognized the mug shot from Julie Lawrence's case file. Ronnie Campbell had been in too many pieces to bother with an identification photograph at the scene of his meth trailer blown to smithereens, so the mug shot was all we had.

Greg looked at this one more closely, taking it in his hands and holding it right in front of his face. "He kind of looks familiar, but I can't place it. Should I know him?"

"He worked in your auto shop about ten years ago, here at this dealership," Jack said. "His name is Ronnie Campbell."

I sat up straighter in my chair but didn't say anything. Another one of the pieces of the puzzle had slid nicely into place.

"I've had a lot of employees over the last ten years, Sheriff Lawson. He's familiar. I can tell you that much. But I can't really remember anything else. You'd do better to talk to my head mechanic. His name is Booth Wilkins, and he's been at this location since I opened the doors fifteen years ago. Is he who you suspect for these murders?"

"No, Ronnie Campbell died a few months ago," Jack said. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Vance."

"No problem. I'm sorry I couldn't be more help."

Jack and I walked quickly back to the cruiser since a light mist had started to fall.

"So what did you think of the younger Vance?" Jack asked, turning on the heater.

"I would've bought a car from him."

"Yeah," Jack sighed. "Me too." He looked at his watch. "Nine o'clock. Too late to talk to Booth Wilkins. Let's go back home. I've got a late night ahead of me."

# Chapter Twenty-Two

I woke up as soon as I felt Jack leave the bed. "What are you doing?" I asked, my voice husky with sleep.

"I can't turn off my mind," he whispered. "I need to work. Try to go back to sleep."

I laughed and lifted my head to look at the clock. It was barely after midnight. "Yeah, that's going to happen. I'll come down with you. And I'll even make the coffee."

Jack winced as he pulled on a pair of old sweatpants and a white t-shirt. "There's no need to make threats. I'll make the coffee. But you should probably put some clothes on so we don't get distracted on the stairs again."

The sheet was draped down to my waist, and he stopped what he was doing to skim over my body with that hot stare.

"Stairs are dangerous places," I said, stretching, just because I loved the idea that I could tempt him. I'd never been that kind of woman. But I was with him because he loved me.

"I'm going now," he said, though he didn't move from his spot. "And you're going to put on clothes. Though maybe not too many because you never know when I might become inspired." And then he ran out the door and downstairs.

I laughed and shuffled into the bathroom so I could wash my face and wake up a little. An odd thing to say, considering seventy-two hours before, I'd been able to do nothing but stay awake.

I borrowed Jack's old Giants jersey, and I pulled my hair back in a ponytail. The smell of coffee greeted me as I made my way down the stairs and into his office. He stood in front of his white boards that seemed to be growing more and more crowded. My coffee cup sat on the end table by the couch, so I grabbed it and took a seat.

"What's going on, Jack? You think of something else?"

"The Vances are bothering me. I called Carver and told him to start sending me everything he had specifically on William Vance. His alibi is the shakiest for the Daniel Oglesby's murder. He didn't have a wife or lover at home to confirm he'd been in bed all night. He was reported to be the doctor on call at the hospital during the time of George's murder, but it would be easy enough to slip out of the hospital if he wanted to. He spent another night alone in bed on Saturday night and slept late Sunday morning when Doc Randall was shot, so yeah—I'm awfully curious about William Vance."

I noticed then that Jack's laptop was open and different folders were popping up as they downloaded from Carver's computer at the B&B.

"Let's take out the possibility that Daniel Oglesby was killed because he was gay. That there was no hate crime involved. What are we left with?"

"He saw something he shouldn't have," I said automatically.

"Bingo." Jack paced in front of his board and took down everything that had to do with the Aryan Nation, and all those we thought could be possible members. "So Daniel Oglesby jogs like clockwork every morning and happens to see the white Cadillac transferring whatever it was they were transferring into the green hatchback Miss Pilcher told us about. What are our connections?"

He tacked up Julie Lawrence's crime scene photo and Ronnie Campbell's mug shot. "Julie is the only one killed exactly the same way, and Ronnie was connected through her. No one else has the brand. So what was in that car?"

"Meth or money," I said, my eyes widening as the pieces all fell into place. "Holy shit, George was running drugs?"

"It's the perfect setup. Whoever's cooking it puts the finished product in a broken down car. Someone picks up the product—in this case the white Cadillac—and then George comes along and collects the money and the car when he tows it back to his garage."

"But why is George dead?" I asked, confused.

"Because George wasn't important. He wasn't the one in charge, even though the garage was his. You said when you talked to him that morning that he kept saying they, as if he wasn't a part of it. But he also told you they'd use you until they lost interest. Once you're a member of the organization, it's hard to get out."

"George was a member of the Aryan Nation. He had the mark to prove it." I looked at the photograph I'd found in George's body. "The men in this photograph. Maybe that's what he was trying to tell us. Maybe they're all members."

"Or former members, which means they're in just as much danger as George was. No wonder Mayor Glass went out of town."

"So George joined up, but then decided it wasn't for him, so he tried to get out. But by then it was too late. I never thought about it before, but how did George get the start up money for that garage?"

"Excellent question, my dear Watson. Always follow the money." Jack tapped a few keys on his computer and what looked like a scanned document popped up. "Remind me to give Carver a raise," he said.

"You could probably just pay him in beer."

"You read people well, love. Here it is." He turned the screen so I could read.

"A small business loan was granted to George Murphy twelve years ago. He would have been what, twenty?" I asked. "No bank in their right mind would loan that much money to a twenty-year old."

"Keep reading," Jack said.

"Blah, blah, blah, a bunch of boring legal speak I don't understand," I said, reading down the page. "Signed on this day, March 11th, by United Trust bank president, Frank Greenbaum." And then I remembered Lewis telling us about the false bank account under Frank's name, and I looked once more at the photograph I'd found inside George. "Okay. That makes more sense now."

"At least we don't have to be worried about Dickie being involved," Jack said.

This was true. The last case Jack had been working on, Dickie had made a very convincing suspect. Dickie was the bank president at First National here in Bloody Mary, and United Trust was over in King George Proper.

"Who's president at United Trust now?" I asked.

"I can find out." He went to the bank website and the picture of a man I didn't recognize showed up in the top right corner. "Carl Fortenberry. I don't know him," Jack said. "You?"

"Nope, never seen him before."

"We'll check him out anyway just in case. I want to go back to Oglesby's body," Jack said. "The needle mark from the syringe they used to drug him. You said there was bruising around the entry point."

"Whoever gave him the shot wasn't gentle about it. But I can see how it could happen like that. You're trying to get it done quickly and your adrenaline is pumping. So your strength is more than you thought it was."

I pulled out the copy of the autopsy file I'd made for Jack and looked at the tissue photograph I'd made as well as the x-ray. "It was a big needle," I said. "You could see where it entered into the muscle on the x-ray. "I didn't even notice it on the external exam because all of the damage to the body, but the x-rays picked it up. Once I knew what I was looking for, I could see the bruised tissue under my scope."

"Stand up," Jack said. "I'm about Oglesby's height, right?"

"He had a half an inch on you."

"So close enough. Where was the needle mark?" He turned around so his back was to me.

"Right shoulder, almost where it meets the neck and about four inches down." I pressed down on the spot so he could feel the area. "Location indicates the person was right-handed."

"So pretend you're about to stab me with a needle in that exact spot."

"Ooh, I've always wanted to stab you with a needle. You sure know how to show a girl a good time, Jack."

"You weren't complaining two hours ago."

I rolled my eyes and lifted my arm above my head, preparing to strike the blow. When my fist came down, it impacted higher than the target I was shooting for. A couple of inches higher. And I could finally see what Jack was getting at.

"I'm too tall," I said. "Whoever gave the injection to Daniel Oglesby was shorter than I am."

"How much shorter?"

"I'm a little over 5'7". So I'm thinking about 5'4" at the tallest."

"Who at the garage would fit that description?"

"Holy shit. Wormy Mueller."

"I got the lab results back on the bandana we found at Daniel Oglesby's crime scene."

"And?"

"It's a match for oil and several other things found in a garage. More importantly, it's an exact match for the kind of oil George uses in his garage."

"The only problem with that is Wormy might have delivered the initial injection, but he's too small to move the body. And he's too small to have been able to kill Oglesby by himself and chain him to that tree. He was also at the station when George was killed, so you don't have him for murder there."

"No, but a guy like Wormy isn't the muscle. He just follows instructions. And he could have called anyone from the garage to let them know when George left. We need to talk to Wormy."

"It's two o'clock in the morning."

"The garage opens at seven," Jack said. "We'll catch him then."

"You know the one problem I have with all of this?"

"Probably the same problem I have. Doc Randall. He doesn't fit. And we don't have a body or a murder weapon."

"You said follow the money," I reminded him. "Who has that kind of money to throw around?"

"All of the Vances. But I can't find anything odd in their accounts. No incoming or outgoing payments of large sums of money. Carver is looking into hidden accounts to see if the money could be coming from overseas. And both William and Greg are big enough to do what's needed. Except Greg's wife alibied him for the night in question. There's nothing more we can do tonight until we get a chance to talk to Wormy and we see what Carver was able to dig out."

"Nothing more we can do?" I said wide-eyed. "I've heard a man slows down in his thirties, but I never thought it would happen to you."

He arched a brow, the sensuous curve of his mouth quirking slightly. "Are you trying to seduce me, Doctor Graves?"

"Because that's been so hard up till now?"

"I'm glad to see you got your smart mouth back. I was starting to miss it."

I sighed, putting my hands on my hips. "I didn't realize you were going to be all philosophical tonight. Here I am trying to get some action, and you just stand there. I think your reputation was overblown for all those years. The Jack Lawson I used to know wouldn't have ever let me get dressed in the first place."

"I'm not being philosophical. I'm being nostalgic." The half-smile turned full blown, and I was taken aback by how gorgeous he was. I scooted back a step when he stepped forward, and his smile got even bigger.

"Worried now, are you? You've got to be able to put your money where your mouth is, sugar. That's why you're so lousy at poker."

"Hey, if I want to be ridiculed I can go stay with dozens of other people." I turned around and headed for the stairs, and I laughed when he caught me before I could even leave the room.

"I hope you had your Wheaties this morning," he said. "If you're going to call my sexual prowess into question then I've got a hell of a lot to prove in a short amount of time."

"Maybe we could start in an actual bed this time. I don't mean to complain, but my knees and back can only do walls and stairs twice in a day. We've already reached our limit."

Before I knew if, the Giants jersey was pushed above my breasts and we were rolling around on the floor of the office, both of us laughing.

"Don't worry," he said, biting the lobe of my ear and sending shivers down my spine. "I'll be on bottom this time. I care about your health and safety."

"Oh, well then," I panted. And then I moaned because he was sliding deep inside of me and all I could do was hold on for the ride.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

Jack's phone rang a few minutes before six, and I groaned and threw my arm over my eyes when he flipped on the light. We hadn't been asleep more than twenty minutes.

"Sheriff Lawson?" Jack said by way of answering the phone.

I was still struggling to adjust my eyes to the light when Jack hung up and threw off the covers.

"What's happened?" I asked, following the gesture. It took me about thirty seconds to realize that all my clothes were still in the other room. Jack hadn't been kidding about proving his point. My legs felt like Jello.

"That was dispatch. A 911 was just called in reporting a fire. George's shop is up in flames."

I ran into the other room and pulled on fresh jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. I pulled a sweater on over that because I knew it would still be cold until the sun came out.

"How bad is it?" I asked as I simultaneously tried to stick my feet in my boots and go down the stairs at the same time. Jack caught me before I tripped on the bottom stair.

"Pretty bad. They've at least kept the blaze contained so it doesn't damage the surrounding buildings, but it's a complete loss at this point. We'll talk to the fire chief once we get there."

***

"Chief Edwards," Jack said, holding out his hand to the fire chief.

Larry Edwards was a fit man with a graying crew cut in his late fifties. He'd been the fire chief for at least twenty years. I'm not sure I'd ever seen him in anything but his uniform of starched black pants and a white shirt with the fire department emblem sewn over the heart.

"Sheriff," he answered. "Doc Graves." He nodded to me, but turned his back to face the fire, effectively shutting me out of his conversation with Jack.

I could decisively put Chief Edwards in the camp of people who thought I was just as crooked as my parents. I rolled my eyes and went to stand on the other side of Jack so I could hear what was being said. Jack moved back a little to include me, and if it hadn't been completely unprofessional I would've given him a hug. Or at least a pat on the ass.

"The 911 came through at 5:42 AM," Edwards said. "My men were here with the trucks three minutes later. Easy enough trip since we're only a block away. It was already an inferno by the time we arrived. Went up like a tinderbox. All they could do was run the hoses on the surrounding buildings to keep it from spreading. Place like this is full of accelerants. There were a couple of small explosions, so we've set the perimeter back farther than normal."

"Arson?" Jack asked.

"That would be my guess, but I've called in the arson investigator. Place went up all at one time. Doesn't seem to be any starting point."

Edwards excused himself when one of his men called him over, and I was left alone with Jack.

"Why'd they do it? George is already dead."

"They're sending a message. This is what happens when you try to leave the group. This is what happens when you stop being useful. I need to put men on George's parents and grandparents, just in case they try to take the message further. Give me a minute to call it in."

I stared in awe at the blaze as Jack stepped off to the side to talk on the phone. There was something hypnotic in the way the flames seemed to dance from side to side—seductive one minute and quick and angry the next. Everyone around stood completely transfixed as the fire ate away at metal and wood. The walls shrieked an eerie sound that had the hair on my arm raising as they began to collapse.

I felt Jack beside me before he said anything. "Don't look now, but Floyd Parker is barreling his way over here. Try not to hit him."

I couldn't help but freeze at the thought of seeing Floyd Parker again. He'd been the one to stir up trouble after my parents had died. He'd been the one to first suggest that their drive off a cliff had been a rage induced double suicide. But his ability to report everything but the truth found new heights once the FBI started questioning me. He'd been the first to report about the smuggling they'd done using the funeral home.

The headline had read: Loved Ones Are Receptacles At Graves' Funeral Home? He'd even offered to let me use it as a tagline for our business cards. But Floyd had laced the facts with so much conjecture that I was surprised a mob hadn't formed outside the funeral home to burn it down the morning after his column had appeared on the first page of the paper. Of course, there'd been a lot of truth in his article as well, so I could see why people were angry.

I relaxed my jaw when I felt my teeth start to grind together, and I watched him with what I hoped was bored indifference as he came toward us. Floyd was a big man. He'd played football at Virginia Tech, and if I was being completely objective, I'd admit that he was attractive in an overgrown jock sort of way. But looks were skin deep. He had the personality of a troll.

My resentment of Floyd was also magnified by the fact that I'd been dumb enough to sleep with him while I'd been in med school. He'd kept that secret about as well as he kept any secret. Meaning not at all.

"Sheriff," Floyd called out. "I'd like to ask you some questions." I was annoyed to see Floyd was perfectly put together in pressed khakis and a pale blue dress shirt. He held the red notebook he habitually carried in his left hand as he prepared to scribble furiously with his right.

"We're not making statements to the press at this time, Floyd. The investigation is ongoing." Jack tried to maneuver the both of us around him, but Floyd blocked our escape.

"Which investigation are you not commenting on?" he asked. "Or maybe you'd like to comment on the fact that crime in Bloody Mary has tripled since you've been sheriff. Not good with an election year coming up."

Jack didn't acknowledge and tried to move around him again, and I could all but feel my hackles start to rise at the insult.

"How about you, J.J? Got anything to add?"

"You look like you're spreading a little around the middle. Maybe lay off the donuts."

Floyd's shark-like smile turned a little mean as he took a step closer. But I didn't back down. I'd looked into the eyes of a killer before. And Floyd would never be anything but a spoiled child in a man's body.

"You've been parking your car at the Sheriff's house since you've been back." He looked me up and down insultingly. "I guess all those bills got too hard to pay. Better watch out, Sheriff. She'll have a ring on your finger before you know what happened."

"I certainly hope so," Jack said. His tone of voice was pleasant enough, but Floyd backed up at the look on Jack's face. "I didn't realize you were reporting the society pages now. As you can see, we have a job to do here, so I'm going to have to ask you to move back behind the perimeter."

We walked away, Jack's hand on the small of my back, but I was still shaking from the encounter.

"I hate that man," I said.

"Yeah, but the good news is that you didn't pass out or try to run away when he mentioned marriage."

"I was just trying to present a united front."

Jack's teeth gleamed white as he smiled. "That's my girl. Look there," he said, gesturing about fifteen feet to my right.

I looked over and saw Wormy Mueller, hands fisted at his hips as he watched the blaze. His face was lined with anger, and his eyes were filled with—sadness. His thinning hair was uncombed, as if he'd just jumped out of bed and come running. I looked around and saw several people had the same look about them.

"We need to talk to him," Jack said.

"I don't know, Jack. Look at him. He looks devastated. We could be wrong about him."

Jack sighed. "That's the great thing about murder investigations. I guarantee you every person we've talked to so far has lied about something. It's the way of the world. Wormy won't be any different. My job is to figure out whose lies are relevant. And Wormy could be letting us see exactly what we he wants right now."

"You're always so full of cheer and sunshine."

"It's clearly why we belong together. And I'm sure I'll get over the smell of embalming fluid eventually."

"Touché," I said. "Let's go talk to Wormy. And then I've got to get home and get showered so I can go into the funeral home. It's a busy day."

"I like hearing you call it that."

"What?" I asked, confused.

"I like hearing you call my house home. It is, you know."

I gave his hand a quick squeeze and we made our way to Wormy. He saw us coming and turned his back on the fire to face us. His body shook in fine tremors, and I wasn't sure if it was anger, nerves or the cold that had him trembling.

"Sheriff. Doc Graves," he said in greeting, nodding to both of us. "What the hell is happening to this place? It used to be safe here."

"That's what I'm here to find out. Can I ask you a few questions?"

"Sure, sure." He relaxed his bunched fists and crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive stance.

"Looks like you got out of bed in a hurry," Jack said, easing Wormy into the conversation.

Wormy looked down at his clothes and shrugged. "Yeah. I heard the sirens from my apartment. Looked out the window and threw 'em on when I saw the trucks go by. The fire was already big enough to light up the sky."

Wormy lived in a little one-room efficiency apartment above the pharmacy. He'd never married, though I knew he'd had a few long-term relationships over the years.

"What time do you normally go into the garage?"

"About six-thirty. Eight on Saturdays. George's old man told me to go ahead and open up today since y'all cleared it. He said there was no need to piss off the customers just cause George had the bad sense to get his head blown off." Wormy shuddered once. "Those were his words, not mine."

"Well, we all know Mr. Murphy's not known for being warm and fuzzy," Jack said affably.

Wormy chuckled a little and held his arms tighter around his chest. "Ain't that the truth. George got it honest."

"Did you know Reverend Oglesby?" Jack asked, switching topics.

Wormy jerked his head to look at Jack, then me. "That preacher man that got killed? I never met him face-to-face. I'm not a church going man. But I saw him around town every now and then. Seemed to stay to himself from what I could tell."

"How long have you worked for George?"

Wormy scratched his morning beard. I noticed the dark stains of oil and grease around his fingernails that mechanics could never seem to be rid of. "Going on eight years now, I guess. Mr. Murphy was going to make me manager now that George is gone so we could keep the business running. I'm the best mechanic in these parts next to George."

"I know it," Jack said in agreement.

"But now I guess I'm out of a job." Wormy laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that twisted the knife a little deeper when things were going wrong. "It's kind of funny, isn't it? This was the first chance I've ever had at having something that was mostly my own and now it's gone. Just like that." He snapped his fingers in front of his face, and I winced in sympathy.

"Was George involved in something he shouldn't be?" Jack asked.

Wormy's shoulders tensed and then I watched as they slowly relaxed. "I don't know. He was a strange one. Pretty secretive about his personal life. Even more so after his wife died. Sometimes there were some inconsistencies with the invoices. Cars coming and going that didn't get documented. But I figured it was because things got busy or he was just doing some side business so he wouldn't have to report the income."

"You ever go with him when he got a call for a tow?"

"Nope," Wormy said. "That tow truck was George's baby. Didn't let anyone else drive it."

"How many cars were inside the bays before the fire started?"

Wormy blew out a breath and chewed on his bottom lip. "Well, I don't rightly know. Saturday was a little crazy after George got shot. We had a full house when the police came in and shut us down. Most of the people who could took their cars and went over to King George Proper to one of the mechanics there, but there were some cars that couldn't be driven. So maybe two or three? I'd check the invoices for you, but they're on fire right now."

I appreciated Wormy's attempt at humor, considering it looked like his whole livelihood was now in the toilet.

"Going back to Saturday for a minute," Jack said. "A white Cadillac came into the garage. Doctor Graves said you went down to help the man."

Wormy gave me an unreadable look and then turned back to Jack. "I don't remember his name. He's come in once or twice before, but he asked for Kenny. Sometimes we get regulars. I let Kenny know he was there and then went to work on a '98 Corolla. Didn't notice when he left."

Jack thanked Wormy and cut him loose, and I caught sight of Agent Carver as he made his way towards us.

"See? He was lying," Jack said.

"About which part?" I asked.

"That's the question, isn't it?" He rubbed the back of his neck then called out to Carver. "You look like hell."

"Probably because I was up all night trying to get the information you requested," Carver said. He held a cup of coffee in his hands and it was everything I could do not to punch him in the stomach and take it from him. Carver's hair was combed and he was freshly shaven, but the bags under his eyes spoke volumes. He wore clothes identical to the day before. "Is there any reason you have to get brainstorms in the middle of the night instead of the daytime?"

"Just wired that way I guess," Jack said.

Carver grunted and said, "I walked over to give myself a chance to wake up. You get to drive me back though. Speaking of, you don't look so hot yourself."

"We had an—enlightening night," Jack said.

"I don't want to hear about your sex life since mine is non-existent. I can't even remember sex it's been so long."

"Maybe you should try a little romance," Jack suggested.

"Maybe you'd like a knuckle sandwich." Carver rolled his eyes and looked at me. "Spoken like a man without children. I don't even remember the last time a kid wasn't laying between us in bed."

"Maybe you should get a bigger bed," I said.

"Nah, then my wife would probably want to have more kids, and I'd end up like the little old lady who lived in the shoe. I figure they'll eventually grow up and go to college. I've only got seventeen years and four months to wait before the last one is out of the house."

"There you go," Jack said. "Always look at the positive. Now if you can focus on murder for a few minutes, I'll catch you up to speed."

"I don't suppose we could do it over breakfast," Carver said. "My wife has me on a diet too. Also, we're going to need a place to spread out. I've got a lot of information to sift through, and you guys drew the lucky straws to help out."

I backed up a step. "I've got—um—dead people waiting for me back at the funeral parlor."

Jack grabbed my arm before I could escape. "I'm sure they're in no hurry to go into the ground. I know I wouldn't be."

I sighed and followed them both back to the cruiser. "Shotgun," I called out. There was no way I was sitting in the back of a police car. The image of that would've pleased way too many people.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

We dropped Carver off at the B&B since Wanda—the owner—served a full breakfast included in the price of the stay. We decided to meet back at Jack's in an hour since we still needed to speak to Booth Wilkins about Ronnie Campbell's employment at the car dealership, and Carver needed to gather his computer and files.

"Booth Wilkins has an interesting record," Jack said as we made our way back to Richmond.

"Oh yeah?"

"Couple of felony assault charges. One on a police officer sixteen years ago. He also has domestic abuse citations on record around the same time. Alcohol abuse was attributed to both and he was required to seek counseling. He's kept his nose clean since he started working for Greg Vance."

"Sounds like Vance was taking a chance hiring him with that kind of history."

"Some people can change. Others can't." Jack pulled into the car dealership and drove around the back where the auto shop was. It was a huge area with ten bays and a large parking area for those cars still waiting a turn.

Activity stopped as we parked and got out of the cruiser, and dozens of eyes turned in our direction before everyone went back to what they were doing. A lone man walked towards us and we met him halfway.

"Mr. Vance said you'd probably be stopping by. I'm Booth Wilkins," he said. His voice was soft, and I looked into the face of a man who'd had a hard life, and every line showed on his face. His brown eyes reminded me of a basset hound and he was about my height, going soft around the middle. He wore blue coveralls and a grease rag stuck out of his pocket.

"We won't keep you long," Jack said. "You look busy."

"It stays that way," he said. "Let's go into the office so my men don't hurt themselves trying to eavesdrop."

We followed him into an office reminiscent of the one I'd waited in at George's shop, only this one was twice the size. We all took seats in the plastic chairs, and Jack pulled his around so we formed a little circle.

"What can you tell me about Ronnie Campbell?" Jack asked.

"I looked up his file this morning after I talked to Mr. Vance. It's been ten years, so I needed to refresh my memory. Campbell only worked here about a year. He was an average mechanic, but he got here on time and was willing to work overtime and weekends. I ended up having to fire him because of drugs. I recognize the signs of someone who's on something."

"How'd he take it?"

Booth laughed and leaned back in his chair. "Pissed. You could really see that he was on something then. His eyes got crazy and he was sweating like crazy. I told him to get help and come back when he was clean. Mr. Vance gave me a second chance after my problems," Booth looked at Jack. "I assume you checked me out?"

"I did, but your past isn't my concern. Not if you're toeing the line now."

"That's how Mr. Vance felt too. So I figured I owed it to Campbell to try and do the same for him. But he never came back."

"He ever try dealing out of the garage?" Jack asked.

"No," Booth said adamantly. "And I would've known if he was. I pay attention to what goes on around here. This is my territory, and nothing gets past me."

***

Jack pulled into his driveway, and I saw Carver's shiny black Tahoe parked next to my Suburban. Carver was asleep in the front seat of the SUV, his head resting on the back of the seat. Jack hit the window with his fist and Carver jumped about a foot in the air, banging his head on the ceiling. I winced in sympathy and then got out of the way. I was used to the childish antics of men, and I knew it never paid to be caught in the middle.

"I was just resting my eyes," Carver said as he got out of the car. "You're lucky I didn't shoot you."

"You've got a little drool on your chin," Jack said.

"I can get this kind of grief at home," Carver said, his pout reminding me of a toddler. "How'd the interview with your mechanic go?"

"Informative," Jack said.

We went into Jack's office, and I hardly blushed at all at the thought of what we'd done on the rug only a few hours before. Carver didn't seem to notice my distress, and went directly to the white boards. Jack filled him in about the size of the perp who'd given Oglesby the drug and the lab results of the bandana.

"You can't tell me Wormy wouldn't know what was going on in George's shop," Jack said. "He was George's right hand, and he was there six days a week."

"Maybe he's just a loyal employee," Carver said, playing devil's advocate.

"Maybe, but George wasn't really the type of man to inspire loyalty," Jack said. "I've got Martinez and Lewis sticking to William Vance. They reported in earlier that he spent the night at the hospital on call, but they had no way of knowing if he stayed there the whole time. His car was in the lot, but there are a lot of ways in and out of the hospital, and he could've taken any number of means of transportation."

"So you've got an initial suspect that administered the drug to Daniel Oglesby who matches Wormy Mueller's physical description," Carver said. "We can also tie him to the bandana and the crime scene, though his attorney will shred that to pieces. We can't however, tie Wormy to the Aryan Nation. Not without seeing the membership roster."

"I looked for a tattoo while we spoke with him this morning, but I didn't see anything visible," Jack said. "Not that that means anything. It could've been anywhere. We've also got the connection between Greg Vance and Ronnie Campbell."

"What about the rest of the employees at Murphy's Auto?" Carver asked. "Have you finished backgrounds there?"

"Yeah. Most of them have been working there for years. George pays pretty well, and they're able to do side work if they want. None of them have inconsistencies in their bank accounts, though a few of the men have blips on their records. They're worth taking a closer look at, but like Lewis said, I don't have the manpower for the number of hours involved. It's going to take time."

"I can farm it out to some of my guys if you'd like," Carver offered. "I can do that since I'm in charge."

"I'll take you up on it, but I still need to go through them all myself. Something might click."

Carver sighed. "I'd do the same thing." He passed out thick folders to me and Jack. "This is everything I could find on the Vances. Relatives, lovers, ex-wives, girlfriends, family friends—you name it. You'll know the size of their underwear and their last prostate exam by the time we're finished. Let's see what we see."

I was an hour into reading through the file of Cynthia Vance, ex-wife to William, and my eyes were starting to glaze over with the tedium. There wasn't enough coffee in the world to make her any more interesting. Charities and being a cardiologist's wife. That's what Cynthia Vance had excelled in. She'd come from a wealthy Virginian family—at least on her mother's side—and she'd married William when she was twenty before giving birth to two offspring.

I skimmed across the pages, wondering how Jack stood the process of police work. It was mostly boring. At least with a body I had the chance of discovering the occasional abnormality. I looked up at him, and I could tell he was in the zone—just as alert as he'd been when we'd started.

"You need more coffee," he said without looking up.

"I need a lobotomy."

He grunted and went back to his file. I rolled my eyes and went back to mine as well, and I almost missed the name. It was at the bottom of the page, and I'd already flipped it over to go to the next when my brain caught up to what my eyes had seen.

"Whoa," I said, turning back. "There's an interesting connection."

"What's that?" Jack and Carver both asked, leaning over so they could read for themselves.

"Guess who is a poor relation of Cynthia Vance?" I asked. "First cousin on her father's side."

"Lorna Dewberry," Jack said. "Little pieces of the puzzle."

"Could be just a coincidence," I said. "But it'd be an awfully big one. Where does she live?"

"Her address is listed just across from the church. The old Pickering house if I remember right," Jack said. "Let's double check though."

I listened as he made a call and asked Reverend Thomas if Lorna still lived in the house listed in her file. Jack hung up and smiled.

"The Reverend said she does still own the old Pickering house, but she's been renting it out to a young couple. Lorna moved back to her parents' place when her mother died last year."

"Her parents' place?" I tried to place where it was in my head. "She grew up almost outside the county line, didn't she? Out past your parents' tobacco fields?" I asked Jack.

"Yeah, her father's fields connected to mine. Though the Dewberry's haven't worked the land in almost twenty years. It's not a working farm anymore. Just a house—and a big barn."

My eyes widened, but Carver was already on the ball. "I'm looking, I'm looking," Carver said, typing furiously on his keyboard. "Only car registered to her is a six-year-old Focus. No white Cadillac."

"Go deeper," Jack said.

"Patience, young Skywalker."

"It makes sense," I told Jack while Carver whistled under his breath. "She's the right size, and it would be more plausible for her to go visit Reverend Oglesby than it would for Wormy."

"Where'd she get the drug to inject him though?" Jack asked.

I chewed at my bottom lip and held up a finger. "She'd have to be in it with William Vance. They used to be related through marriage, so they knew each other, and William has access to Augusta General and the drug."

"You think they have a thing going on between them?"

"Romantically?" I asked, not able to imagine Lorna being passionate about anything but the church. "I don't know, but anything is possible I guess."

"Let's say she has the opportunity," Jack said. "We still don't have means or motive. Where did the money come from that was given to Doc Randall? Why would she help her cousin's ex-husband, who left her for another woman?"

I blew out a breath. It didn't make sense.

"Well that's something, anyway," Carver said. "I think we found a possible match on the car. A white Cadillac was registered to an Opal Fife. Hell of a name."

"Lorna's grandmother," Jack and I said simultaneously.

"She died more than ten years back," Jack continued.

"Makes sense. The car hasn't been registered since then."

Jack and I looked at each other, and I could tell we'd come to the same conclusion at the same time.

"Jesse Fife was Lorna's maternal grandfather," Jack said.

"Why is that name familiar?" Carver asked.

"Because he's standing in that photograph that George Murphy tried to swallow. I've got Lewis checking to see if he can find open bank accounts under his name."

"Gotcha," Carver said. We all pushed away from the table and hurried out to the car.

"You think she'll be there at this time of day?" I asked Jack.

The cruiser kicked up gravel and mud as we sped out of the driveway and made our way down Heresy Road. He barely slowed as he turned onto Queen Mary, and I jerked against the seatbelt as he straightened the wheel.

"Reverend Thomas said Mondays are her day off since the weekends are so busy with church activities. I guess we'll find out."

"I can't push a warrant through with what we have," Carver said. "It's all conjecture. We don't even have circumstantial evidence that her barn is where they killed Daniel Oglesby, or anything but suspicion that she's somehow involved. The tie-in to her grandfather and the white Cadillac might be enough if we find the right judge, but you'll have to get her to agree to let you look around the property on your own if I can't work a miracle here."

Carver got on the phone, and put a finger in his ear so he could hear the other end of the conversation.

"She could be innocent," I said.

"We'll find that out too," Jack said. He didn't have the sirens going. That would slow traffic down more than anything in this town because people couldn't help but stop to look, but he didn't exactly follow traffic laws as we weaved through the city limits.

"I want Martinez and Lewis to stick to William Vance like glue," Jack said, hitting speed dial on his phone. "I don't have enough goddamned men to cover everyone. I'm going to have to pull a deputy working the fire to stake out Wormy Mueller. And I'm going to put Colburn on the senior Doctor Vance to make sure he's under lock and key. If the Aryan Nation is involved, then you damn well better believe he knows what's going on."

"You think his spiel about the Blood Brothers was just to throw you off?" I asked.

"Everything he told us in that interview was meant to throw us off. That was the whole point of him volunteering to come in. He gave us just enough of several different threads to check out to keep us off the real trail."

"It all goes back to the Aryan Nation, like we originally thought," I said.

"Yeah, but they get their funding from somewhere. Why shouldn't they be running drugs to fill the coffers?" He looked in his rearview mirror at Carver just as he hung up the phone. "I need that membership roster. I need financials on the organization. How much closer are we on the warrant?"

Carver sighed. "I'll try again, but the judge working for the ACLU is being a hardass. I just got off the phone with the DA, and I convinced him to press for the warrant for Lorna's place."

"That's something at least," Jack said.

I'd never been out to the Dewberry farm. Jack and I had played in the surrounding fields as kids, but we'd never ventured far enough so the main house came into sight. The fields were overgrown with yellow grass and so tall it was like driving through a maze, but then the area opened up and Jack slowed the car so we could get a good look around.

"Creepy," Carver said. "Too many places to hide in all this grass."

The Fife-Dewberry homestead was a little two-story frame house with a wide wraparound porch. It was painted a dull yellow, almost so it blended in with the dead grass in the fields. A large barn sat about a hundred and fifty feet to the back right of the house, and the structure hadn't been kept up in good repair. Brownish red paint was peeling, and one of the doors from the hayloft hung by a single hinge.

Lorna's blue Focus was parked to the side of the house, but I saw her come to the screen door when we parked behind her. She waited for us to come up the creaky porch stairs before she held open the screen door to let us in.

"You've caught me on my way out, Sheriff," she said. "This is my errand day."

"We won't keep you long, Lorna. Just a couple of follow up questions. This is Agent Carver," Jack said, "With the FBI."

"Well, come in and sit." Her tone was brusque. "I've got things to do."

I could see a straight shot down a long hall to a back door that mirrored the front. Everything was painted stark white. No color on the walls anywhere. There were also no pictures or knickknacks sitting around.

She led us into a spotless kitchen with white laminate flooring and white counters and cabinets. All I could think was that it'd be really hard to get blood out of this house. Jack sat across from Lorna at her little kitchen table, and I chose to stand with my back against the counter next to Carver. She'd probably be more comfortable if I wasn't in her direct line of sight.

I realized it was the first time I'd seen Lorna with her hair down. It was straight as a board and fell halfway down her back, and I also realized I'd never seen her in makeup before. She looked—pretty.

"Tell me about William Vance," Jack said.

Lorna jerked just a little in her chair, and her forehead lined in agitation. "Fornicator," she spat.

"Can you expound on that any?"

"He was married to my cousin. They took vows, but both of them turned their backs on them."

"Cynthia cheated on William as well?" Jack asked.

"She might as well have." Lorna's posture was so straight I wouldn't have been surprised to find a steel beam in her spine. "Neglect is just as big a sin as adultery."

I wanted to say something at that point, along the lines of not remembering neglect being part of the Ten Commandments, but I held my tongue to move things along. The house was starting to creep me out, and I had a bad feeling forming in the pit of my stomach.

"William gave her the perfect marriage and environment to raise their children, and she forced him to look for attention elsewhere when she decided she enjoyed giving his money away to ridiculous charities instead of keeping him satisfied. William was justified in looking elsewhere, though he should have waited to quench his carnal cravings until after the vows had been dissolved."

"And did you ever—quench William's carnal cravings?" Jack asked.

My eyes got big, but I somehow managed to keep my laughter contained at the way Jack phrased the question.

Lorna's face turned so red I was afraid she was going to go into cardiac arrest, and I saw her knuckles go white as she pressed her fingers into her legs, probably hard enough to leave bruises.

"Of course not," she sputtered. "How dare you imply such a thing? If this is how you get your jollies then I'm going to report you to the mayor."

"Good friends with the mayor, are you?" Jack asked. He pulled a copy of the photo I'd found inside George's throat and placed it on the table in front of her. "What do all these men have in common, Lorna?"

She licked her lips once and looked at the photograph, but she didn't say anything.

"There's your grandfather," Jack pointed out companionably. "Right next to Frank Greenbaum. Did you know Frank gave George the loan to start up his auto shop? Jesse and Frank were good friends, weren't they? In fact, this whole group seems pretty tight."

She stayed silent, but I could see the beads of sweat on her upper lip. Jack left the picture in front of her and put the crime scene photo of Reverend Oglesby on top of it. She went pale.

"That's an abomination," she said, scooting back her chair. "I want you out of my house."

"It is an abomination," Jack said, nodding. "The group who did this—they don't have any regard for those they see as the minority. Whether it be skin color, religion, sexuality—or gender. They hate women. But you know that, don't you? How did your grandfather feel when he was presented with a granddaughter instead of a grandson? He couldn't pass on the legacy to you, could he? I bet he was angry."

"My grandfather loved me." Her voice quivered with the lack of conviction.

"He figured out a way to use you though, didn't he, Lorna? Right from the beginning. He trained you to act as a woman should. To be whatever they needed. These men find whoever's malleable enough to do what they ask. Until they're through using them. You should ask George Murphy how that turned out."

Lorna was completely still, her gaze directed down and slightly away from the sight of Reverend Oglesby.

"You know what someone did to Daniel Oglesby, Lorna?" Jack put his finger on the picture so her gaze was drawn to it again. "Someone went to his house. Someone he knew. Maybe even someone he thought was a friend. And that person injected him with a drug that rendered him unconscious. And then this group of men—the men who hate everyone who doesn't fit their ideal—they loaded up his body and took him somewhere secluded. And they beat him and tortured him until this is what was left of Daniel Oglesby."

Jack's voice never faltered as he played it back for her. "The person that gave him that first drug—they're guilty of murder. Did you know that? Just as much as the person who took the whip to his back or the knife to his genitalia."

"Do you have a point to make, Sheriff?" she asked, her eyes finally coming up to meet his. There was fear in her gaze, but also hatred—mostly hatred. "Like I said. I have things to do."

"Tell me again where you were the afternoon Reverend Oglesby went missing."

"I spend Sundays at the church. All day."

"You ever have a chance to drive your grandmother's Cadillac?"

If I hadn't been looking for it I never would have seen the change that came over her. She became more confident—almost defiant—right in front of our eyes.

"I haven't seen that car since Grandmother died," she said. "It's probably nothing more than scrap metal by now."

"I guess a good mechanic would know all about how to make that happen."

She scooted her chair back further and stood. "I don't like the tone you used today, Jack." She omitted his title this time. I guess she wouldn't be voting for him when it came election time again. "Now if that's all—"

"Actually, I do have one more request. Would you mind if we took a look at your barn?"

Her eyes snapped up. "I'm afraid I don't have time to spare today. I think it'd be best from here on out if you speak with my attorney."

We followed Lorna back to the front of the house and Jack's phone rang. "Excuse me a minute."

Lorna grabbed her purse, and followed us out to the porch just as Jack was hanging up the phone. He turned to look at Lorna and said, "Reverend Thomas must have called to tell you we were looking for you."

The statement caught her off guard just for a moment. "He called to tell me I needed to update my address with the city."

"It gave you plenty of time to call William and let him know we were coming. He's under surveillance you know. My men caught him trying to sneak out of the back window of his house and get away. Was he coming to help you, or do you think he would have let you take the fall all by yourself? Things don't look good for you, Lorna. They've made you out to be the scapegoat. It's your name attached to the car and the house here. Not theirs. What will we find in that barn?"

Things turned to chaos in that moment and a gunshot rang out—the sound deafening as it echoed under the small space of the porch. Fear gripped me like it never had before, not even when I'd watched my last lover die by the hands of a madman. I couldn't do this again. All I could think of was protecting Jack, and I flung my body towards him, knocking him back against the clapboard siding.

The blood rushed in my ears and black dots edged into my vision.

"Jesus, Jaye," Jack's voice finally came through. "Are you crazy? Look at me."

I couldn't listen to what he was saying. My hands ran over his body, checking for the wound I was sure I'd find, ready to staunch the blood and feel the life of him drain beneath my fingers.

"Where is it?" I begged. "Where is it!" Hysteria bubbled inside me, and Jack put his arms around me tight, holding me as close as he could until the only thing I could hear was his heartbeat, nice and steady.

"I'm okay," he soothed. "Everyone's okay. Look."

"You're okay," I said, more to reassure myself than asking a question. Tremors wracked my body, but I made myself look over at Lorna. Carver already had her in cuffs and she was weeping softly on her knees, her head bowed as if in prayer.

"I'm sorry," I said as I tried to push away and stand on my own. "I shouldn't have interfered. I'm sorry."

But Jack didn't let me go far, and he kept an arm around my waist. I was still struggling to catch my breath, and I realized that fear was dictating every choice and action in my life. And if I wanted to survive and be happy, I couldn't let the fear take over.

"I'm okay. I'm sorry," I said again.

"I'll let it go this once," he said. "But if you ever try to step in front of a bullet for me again I'm going to bend you over my knee. You took ten years off my life."

I realized then I wasn't the only one trembling. I squeezed him and dropped my head to his shoulder. "That's something we haven't tried yet," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "Sounds kinky."

His body shook with laughter, and this time when I pulled away he let me go.

"Why don't you come over here and hug me?" Carver asked. "I'm the one that knocked the gun out of her hand."

"My hero," I said, fluttering my lashes.

"Carver is also a terrible poker player," Jack said. "You guys have that in common. I knew he was waiting for Lorna to make a move, so I wasn't worried at all. She shot right through her handbag and into the porch."

"I'm glad someone is as bad at poker as me," I said.

"Maybe not quite so bad," Jack added, his smile giving me a glimpse of his dimple. "I told Lewis and Martinez to arrest William Vance and bring him in for questioning. And now with Lorna's little stunt here we don't have to wait for a warrant to search the premises."

"I'll stay here with her if you want to check it out," Carver said. He lifted her up under the arms so she was on her feet, and he started moving her towards the cruiser.

Jack and I watched until Carver had her settled. She was still weeping softly, and I felt the first stirring of pity nudge me.

"Let's go check out the barn," Jack said.

"Let me get my bag. Just in case." I didn't know exactly what just in case might encompass, but I was prepared for anything.

The walk to the barn was a trek, and by the time we got to the doors I couldn't see where Carver was waiting with the car. Jack handed me a pair of gloves and I put them on while he decided the best way to get through the padlock holding the doors closed.

"Hand me that scraper thing in your bag. The one that looks like a dentist's pick."

"Since when are you proficient in breaking and entering?" I dug in my bag and handed over the tool.

"You learn all kinds of interesting things in the military. Move back some. You're in my light."

I took a few steps back while Jack worked his magic. The temperature was starting to warm up and I was regretting the added layers I put on early that morning. I dropped my bag to the ground and took off my jacket, tying it around my waist. I slapped at a fly that lighted on my arm, and then another that buzzed around my face. There were several seeking me out. I looked around until I saw a swarm of them above us.

"Jack," I said.

"Almost got it." His concentration was complete. "There we go," he said. "It's been awhile. Never used to take me so long."

"Jack," I called again.

He followed my gaze up and we both stared at the blowflies going in and out of the broken hayloft door. Jack took his weapon out of the holster and flipped off the safety with his thumb. He gestured me to move behind him and this once I decided not to argue. I'd left my gun back at the house. It was the first time I'd been without it in months, and I hadn't even realized I was missing it as I'd left. I didn't like the feel of being helpless. I knew Jack would protect me with his life, but he shouldn't have to. What if he was the one who needed protection? Love and trust was a two-way street, and I hated that I felt like I'd dropped the ball.

"Jack—I'm"

"You didn't," he said in that uncanny way he had of knowing what I was going to say. I'd been about to apologize for letting him down when he pulled my little Beretta out of his pocket and handed it to me. "We left in a hurry this morning and you left it by the nightstand. There's no one I'd rather have watching my back."

I grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him down for a short kiss. "I love you," I said.

"I know. But it's nice to hear you say it first for a change."

Jack removed the padlock and stuck it in his jacket pocket, and then he pulled out the wooden slat that had been shoved through the handles to keep the doors closed. The wood was warped and swollen from the recent rain, and he had to jiggle it to get it loose. But once he got it out, the doors fell open with an ominous creak to display the dark cavern inside.

The smell assaulted me—death. It washed over my body in thick waves, and the flies seemed to thicken around us as if we were drenched in honey instead of decay. I'd smelled worse things, but not many.

"Jesus," Jack said, his face set in harsh lines as we stepped inside. We both breathed with shallow pants—the kind of breathing technique only people who'd been around the dead had perfected.

The inside of the barn had been gutted so the stalls were gone, and the rectangular discoloration on floors was the only reminder they'd existed. It was darker inside, but light streamed through the door behind us enough that we could see we'd found what we were looking for. Jack pulled his Maglite from his belt and turned it on. On second glance, the barn was in better shape than it looked on the outside. The windows had been boarded up, and the walls were patched so no one could see in or out.

The floors were wooden and covered in remnants of hay and dust, but some of the boards had been pulled up in certain areas so only the dark earth was visible beneath. It was easier to let blood flow into the ground than try to wash it off a solid surface.

Thick wooden beams were lined three on each side as supports and rafters were spaced evenly above, so the hayloft was reinforced. A hose was attached to the faucet on the wall, and the drip, drip, drip of water splashed against a metal bucket beneath it. Ropes and pulleys were attached at different intervals, and it was all too easy to imagine the atrocities that had taken place inside.

"Jesus," I whispered as chills broke out over my skin. I'd never seen anything like it. And I'd seen a lot of terrible things in my career.

"Everything's still here," Jack said.

He picked up the leather belt on the floor and held it up. Tied to the end was a rusted piece of scrap metal crusted with blood. They'd beaten Daniel Oglesby and Julie Lawrence with that tool as they'd hung from one of the rafters, probably praying for death to come soon.

A wooden ladder was propped against the wall, and it led up to the hole that had been crudely cut out to enter the hayloft. I swiped at the flies and headed towards the ladder, slinging my bag across my body as I went. Jack followed behind me and kept his gun in his hand. The ladder was rough against my gloves, and sharp slivers of wood pierced through the latex.

The smell grew stronger the higher I climbed, and it was hot as hell, so by the time I reached the top it was like going into a thick cloud of steaming death. The flies swarmed like mad and sweat coated my skin.

I pulled myself through the little hole and into the hayloft. It wasn't a big space—maybe twelve feet on each side. The floor was particleboard that had been nailed into the rafters below. Railroad ties were nailed into the wall, and old tools hung from them.

It was hard to miss the remains of Doc Randall. He'd just been a little old man who'd made a bad decision. And this is how he'd ended up, crumpled in a heap like garbage in the corner.

"It's him," I said as Jack's head popped through the hole behind me and he climbed up.

I took off my bag and dumped my jacket on the ground before stripping off the outer sweater I wore. Jack stripped off his flannel shirt so he was down to his shirtsleeves.

I dug around in my bag and came out with a couple of surgical masks. Jack declined the one I held out for him, but I went ahead and put mine on. There was nothing like having flies that had been feasting on a rotting corpse tickle at your nostrils and mouth.

I kneeled beside Doc Randall and had just started to examine the body when all hell broke loose. I heard a gunshot in the distance at the same time I felt the rafters shake below. The barn doors slammed shut, and Jack pointed his gun to the ceiling and stayed to the edges of the room as he tried to look out the broken hayloft door. A crack of gunfire sounded, and splinters of wood exploded around his face just as he dropped to the ground.

"Jack," I yelled, staying low as I crawled over to him.

"I'm not hit," he said. His temple bled profusely where a piece of wood had cut him, and I tried to staunch the bleeding, but he pushed my hand away. "There's no time. Let's get out of here."

"But Doc Randall—"

"He's dead, Jaye. We'll come back for him later. If we're alive."

I hurried down the steps as fast as I could go, stumbling into darkness, and Jack dropped down beside me almost before my feet had touched the ground.

"I can't see," I yelled, panic starting to close in on me.

"Look there. You can see the light coming from under the doors. Run. Now."

We ran for the barn doors, and Jack rammed his shoulder against them—once—twice—but they didn't budge.

"They've got the doors jammed," he said. My breath was heaving in and out of my lungs, but I couldn't hear anything from Jack. If I hadn't felt him brush against me, I wouldn't have known he was there at all.

Little whispers of sound surrounded us, and the noise grew in intensity until it became angry hisses. Smoke started to fill the barn from all directions and the heat became overwhelming.

"Back upstairs," Jack yelled over the flames.

I could only see his outline with the barn doors closed, and if we waited too much longer we'd never be able to find the ladder again. More splinters jabbed through my gloves and into my fingers as I crawled quickly back up to the hayloft, and Jack pushed at me from below.

The air was a little easier to breathe once we got to the loft, and we could see for the moment, but the black smoke billowed up from the ground and past the hayloft door, sneaking inside little by little.

"Strip off your clothes."

Jack had his shirt off and was down to his boxer briefs before I could get the command wrapped around my brain. He was already fashioning a rope out of his clothes and the jacket and sweater I'd left on the ground. He swiped at the blood running into his eyes with the back of his hand, but he stayed focused. I did as he asked until I was down to my bra and panties, unsure what I could do to help.

Jack pulled a knife and ran over to Doc Randall, efficiently slicing down the back of his blood soaked shirt and slacks.

I had no idea what was happening outside. The gunfire had stopped, and I didn't know if Carver was dead or alive—whether the good guys would be waiting for us outside or the bad guys. I tried to move closer to the hayloft doors, but the flames from below had started to lick their way up until they almost reached the hayloft door. We couldn't jump out the window without catching fire. There was no way down.

The floor grew hot beneath my bare skin, and Jack continued to work with the clothes rope. It was getting harder to see, and all I could do to help was hold the flashlight steady so he could see what he was doing. I knew Jack was trying, but I didn't see hope for our escape.

"Give me your gun," Jack said. He immediately went into a coughing fit, and we both huddled closer to the ground, breathing in as much air as possible.

I handed it over to him without question. He grabbed my hand and we crawled on hands and knees away from where the flames were starting to encroach on our space. Jack pulled my head close and said, "Hold on to my leg. Don't let go." He kissed me hard once, and I stopped him, my eyes blind with tears and smoke.

"I won't let go," I promised him. "In this life or the next." And then I held on to his leg, waiting for the flames and smoke to take us both.

I jerked against his body as I felt the recoil of my gun. He fired every round into the outside wall and then did the same thing with his own weapon. He dropped the guns and grabbed onto my hands, holding me tight as he started kicking against the weakened wall. I tried to help him, my bare feet hitting the wood, but the smoke was starting to get to me.

Bright light hit my eyes, and I thought, This is it. There's the white light at the end of the tunnel. But a great whoosh of air sucked at the smoke and I realized it was daylight. We both stuck our heads out of the makeshift hole and breathed in, coughing as our lungs seized.

I looked down, and that one brief moment of hope left me again when I saw we'd never survive a jump from that high.

"We don't have long," Jack said. "The fire will reach this side in a couple of minutes," Boards creaked and moaned all around us, and great crashes sounded from below. "If the building doesn't collapse first," he added.

He tied the makeshift rope to one of the thick iron railroad spikes sticking out from the wall and let the rope of clothes unfurl. It was too short. By a lot. But we had a better chance with it than without.

"I'll go first," Jack said. "I'll catch you. Trust me."

I looked at him and nodded. "With my life."

Jack launched himself out the hole we'd made in the wall and was at the end of the rope much too soon. The clothes strained against the nail they'd been secured to, and just when I could see Jack gather his resolve to drop the rest of the way to the ground, a police cruiser sped towards us and slammed to a stop beneath us. Carver got out to help, but Jack gauged the jump and let go, landing on top of his cruiser.

My hands were damp with sweat as I crawled through the hole, much less gracefully then Jack had managed to make it look. I knew it was stupid but all I could think was that I was going to die in my underwear while everyone watched. I almost laughed from the hysteria of it, but I started coughing instead.

Jack stayed on top of the cruiser, and then suddenly I was in his arms and I never wanted to let go. We held on to each other, our breaths heaving and blood and tears soaking our faces.

"I don't think I've ever told you this," I said. "But I'm really glad you were in the military."

"At least you'll never be able to say our life is boring." He kissed the top of my head and wiped at my tears with his thumb.

"I could maybe deal with a little boredom in my life."

"I'll make sure our honeymoon doesn't require anything more stressful than asking the beach waiters for drinks with umbrellas, or having slow, lazy sex in the surf."

I stared up at him. His face was black with soot, and blood covered one side of his face. "Sounds like heaven," I said.

"Good. Now let's go put these assholes away."

"Maybe I could get dressed first," I said, noticing the crowd of cops gathering around us. "I think Martinez is taking pictures."

# Chapter Twenty-Five

With the excitement of the FBI swarming over the county, it was easy to forget that four people were dead—six if you counted Julie Lawrence and Ronnie Campbell—maybe more we didn't know about. But Greg Vance—not William—was behind bars, which had been a surprise to all of us after the warrant had gone through and we'd gotten a copy of the membership roster of the Aryan Nation. Gregory Vance Sr. joined his son in a cell for conspiracy to murder.

Jack had been right. It had all come down to the money.

Greg Vance had been taking over the reins of the Aryan Nation for the past several years—about the same time the FBI started their file on the Blood Brothers. The crazy thing about people like Greg Vance is they never think they'll get caught. They're always smarter or above the law.

His car dealerships had been the perfect cover for drug running. He'd enveloped George's garage and six others all over the state into his rotation. The drugs would go into the cars at the auto shop at his Richmond dealership, and then the reformed Booth Wilkins would drive the car out to a remote location with the drugs. Someone would trade out the drugs for a fat wad of money, and then George would tow the car and the money back to the shop. The FBI and DEA were both having a field day with Greg Vance.

Reverend Oglesby's death hadn't been a result of his sexual orientation as they'd wanted us to believe. Daniel had simply seen something he shouldn't have. And they'd muddied the waters with his death by having Lorna let it slip that he was gay.

Julie Lawrence had died because Ronnie Campbell had decided to make a plea deal and had told Julie everything he knew about the operation. Greg Vance had eyes and ears everywhere, in a lot of powerful places, so he knew as soon as Ronnie opened his mouth to spill his guts. Julie and Ronnie had been casualties of war.

Doc Randall's death had been to clean up loose ends. Just like George's death. They'd both fulfilled their usefulness. Greg Vance still hadn't cracked under the pressure of interrogation, but all his cohorts were throwing him under the bus, trying to save themselves. Except for Lorna.

Lorna had been easily seduced by Greg. A small-town mouse of a woman, whose repressed sexuality made her hunger and hate at the same time. Her grandfather had filled her head with lies and self-loathing, and he'd made sure she knew she was always to stand for the organization if they needed her. He'd made it clear her only usefulness in life was to serve for the higher calling of the Aryan Nation.

Greg had told her everything she'd needed to hear, sweetening the pot with the affection she'd been denied as a child, so in the end she'd have done anything for him. He'd told her the "cleansing" the organization did was what God and the church wanted. She'd believed him. The DA is going to push for diminished capacity and a lighter sentence because of her upbringing, but she still won't see the light of day for a while.

Greg wasn't talking. Not yet, anyway. But like Jack said, the money didn't lie. The Aryan Nation had accounts worldwide, and the FBI had found the withdrawals used to lure Doc Randall, under a false account using Jesse Fife's name. The FBI was rounding up dozens of people involved in the mess, but Jack had gotten what he'd been after. George, Doc Randall and Daniel Oglesby had been ours. And we took care of our own.

Kenny Laubach and Booth Wilkins had easily rolled over on Greg Vance and a few others as participating in Oglesby's murder. But Kenny had also given up Lorna. She'd been the one to give Oglesby the drug. Her prints matched the ones we'd found at the scene, and she'd been the one who'd pulled the trigger on Doc Randall. We'd been right. She'd panicked after she'd shot him. He'd been her first.

Carver was sure the DNA from the cigarettes we'd found at the crime scene would belong to Greg. He hadn't quit smoking soon enough. Kenny had fessed up to owning the bandana and setting the barn on fire while we'd been trapped inside. One of Jack's officers had shot Kenny in the leg while he tried to escape back to his car, and it had been difficult for Kenny to plead innocence with the matches and lighter fluid he'd had in his hands as the bullet took him down.

As far as how I was dealing with the upheaval—I was taking it a day at a time. I'd buried Mrs. Perry, George, and Reverend Oglesby. The Virginia State Medical Examiner had allowed me to assist with Doc Randall's charred remains, and I'd had a moment of pride when he'd told me I did good work. It was really all I needed. No one else's opinions mattered. Except Jack's.

Also, I'd somehow gotten engaged. Life or death situations made for crazy decision-making. But I wasn't nearly as panicked about it as I should have been. We loved each other. It had just taken us a long time to get to that place, and now it was as if nothing had ever been any different. We'd just been waiting for the right time.

So two weeks later, when the initial frenzy died down and life was slowly getting back to normal, I came out of the funeral home to find Jack waiting for me in the driveway. I couldn't help but smile when I saw him. I felt happier than I ever had. More at peace with myself and the decisions I'd made in my life. I still had my parents' crimes to deal with and things to discover there, but I knew it would all be okay as long as Jack was beside me.

I got in the cruiser and fastened my seatbelt, cracking my knuckles in nervousness. "I think it's time."

"Now's not good for me," he said, putting the car in reverse and backing out. "This car technically belongs to the county, and it's against the law to engage in sexual acts in a car provided by the taxpayers. I'd have to arrest myself."

"Good grief. Don't you ever think about anything else?"

He was quiet for a minute and then said, "Nah, not really. All I can think about is getting you back on my desk. That moment pretty much defined my life."

"Which, speaking of," I said. "Also the taxpayers' money."

"Hmm." He drove down Queen Mary and stopped at the crossroads, his blinker flashing to turn right towards the house where we'd spend the rest of our lives. But I put my hand on his wrist and he let the car idle there for a minute.

"I'm ready to go back to the house," I said softly. "There are things I want to pack up and bring with me so I can start my life with you. I've come to realize that there are a few memories from there that aren't so bad. Those are the ones I want to bring to you. Thank you for loving me. I've never been given a greater gift than that."

I leaned in and our mouths touched. His thumb brushed across my cheek and wiped away a tear.

"I'll go with you," he said.

"No," I told him. "I can do it. I'm strong enough to face it now. And it's something I need to do on my own. Can you understand?"

"Yeah," he sighed. "Stubborn brat. But I don't have to like it. I'll drop you off, and then I'll bring the truck back once you're ready to start hauling things out."

I squeezed his hand in thanks and he turned the car left, heading down the rutted lane to the home I'd grown up in. The realtor was going to get a For Sale sign in the yard by the weekend, and then I'd be free.

Jack came to a stop, and I dug in my bag for my keys.

"I'll be back in an hour," he said. "And then you're going to give me something sinfully erotic." His voice dropped to a husky whisper and I felt myself giving in one last time to the temptation of his lips. He kissed me once. "Something outrageously decadent." He kissed me again. "It should probably involve chocolate syrup."

I nipped at his bottom lip and then opened the car door to get out. "I'll take you to Cracker Barrel tonight for dinner. Sounds like you're just hungry."

He barked out a laugh, and then I waved bye and turned to face my past. I walked up the cracked sidewalk to the front porch as I listened to Jack drive away. The porch steps were fixed, and they didn't make so much as a creak as I stepped up to the door. I took a deep breath and stuck the key in the lock. I could do this. I had to do this.

"Jack will be back in an hour," I said aloud. "No big deal."

I pushed open the door, and I expected the smell of blood and death to greet me as it had the last time I was here. But there was nothing but the faint smell of fresh paint and lemons. I walked in and shut the door behind me, looking up the stairs and into the kitchen before I looked at the spot I'd almost met my death.

A creak of the floorboards had me spinning towards the den, my heart pounding in my chest. I couldn't see anyone, but I knew I wasn't alone.

"So you've decided to move in with Jack, huh?" A voice called out. "I wondered how long it would take the two of you to stop dancing and get down to business. I always did like that boy."

I tripped over my feet and slammed back against the door. Mewling whimpers escaped from my throat as my sweaty hand fumbled for the doorknob. But then the familiarity of that voice caught up to my brain and my knees turned to jelly.

"What's wrong, Jaye? Aren't you going to say hello?"

"Dad?" I whispered, just before I crumpled to the ground.

DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDREL: A J.J. GRAVES MYSTERY ~ Coming Soon!

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Liliana Hart is the pseudonym for an author of more than fifteen books. She lives in Texas with her husband and cats, and loves to be contacted by readers.

Connect with me online:

http://twitter.com/Liliana_Hart

http://facebook.com/LilianaHart

My Website: <http://www.lilianahart.com>

If you enjoyed reading A Dirty Shame, I would appreciate it if you would help others enjoy this book, too.

Recommend it. Please help other readers find this book by recommending it to friends, readers' groups and discussion boards.

Review it. Please tell other readers why you liked this book by reviewing it at Goodreads or any other review venue. If you do write a review, please send me an email at lilianahartauthor@gmail.com so I can thank you with a personal email. Or visit me at http://www.lilianahart.com.

# LINKS TO MY OTHER BOOKS

The MacKenzie Series

Dane

Thomas

Riley

Cooper

A MacKenzie Christmas

MacKenzie Box Set (includes the 5 books listed above)

Cade

Shadows and Silk

Secrets and Satin

Sins and Scarlet Lace

The MacKenzie Security Series (includes the 3 books listed above)

The Collective Series

Kill Shot

The Rena Drake Series

Breath of Fire

The Addison Holmes Mystery Series

Whiskey Rebellion

Whiskey Sour

Whiskey For Breakfast

The JJ Graves Mystery Series

Dirty Little Secrets

A Dirty Shame

Dirty Rotten Scoundrel

Standalone Novels/Novellas

All About Eve

Paradise Disguised

Catch Me If You Can

Who's Riding Red?

Goldilocks and the Three Behrs

Strangers in the Night

Naughty or Nice

Here's an excerpt of SHADOWS AND SILK, book 8 in the MACKENZIE FAMILY series by Liliana Hart.

Available Now!

MacKenzies were nothing but trouble.

Brant had known that for almost fifteen years—ever since Cade MacKenzie had dragged him to his home in Montana for Thanksgiving one year and shoved him into the freezing cold pond behind their farmhouse. They'd been as close as brothers ever since, and he considered the MacKenzies to be his second family, especially since his sister, Bayleigh, was now married to Cade.

But sometimes families were a pain in the ass, and this was one of those times.

He weaved in and out of the late night Georgetown traffic—the Harley rumbling beneath him—as a cool mist fell and collected in fine droplets on his riding leathers. Every instinct he had was telling him to turn around and go the opposite direction.

Unfortunately, he didn't have much of a choice when it came to this latest summons. The call from Declan MacKenzie had come early that morning—there was to be a meeting between all team leaders involved in the investigation of the del Fuego drug cartel. All agencies had been working together for the past four years to put an end to the cartel's reign of terror, and since Brant was the special agent in charge for Homeland Security, he had no choice but to be at the meeting.

He slowed and turned onto M Street, cursing the inaccuracy of the weatherman as a loud crack of thunder rent the air and the soft mist turned into a downpour. Headlights glared off the wet streets and impatient drivers blared their horns as this latest inconvenience kept them from their social obligations. He veered around a florist van to pull into the underground parking garage across the street from O'Malley's Pub.

With his helmet stuck under his arm, he sprinted across the street and into the warmth and familiarity of the long time hangout used by a mixed bag of federal agents. The smell of beer and the polish they used to wipe down the seats of the bar stools and booths hung heavy in the air. The floors were scarred and the wood paneling on the walls darkened with age. Music thumped steadily from the speakers, but not so loud you couldn't hear the person next to you. O'Malley's was a place to talk shop, let off steam, or sweet talk pretty waitresses—though not necessarily in that order

Brant ran a hand through his hair, dripping water onto the mat on the floor, and wiped his feet.

"Agent Scott," Jimmy O'Malley said from behind the bar. "Haven't seen you in here in a while. What'll it be?"

O'Malley was a former FBI agent and had opened the pub after a bullet shattered his knee and he'd been taken out of the field. He always said he'd rather serve whiskey than start drinking it because he was bored out of his mind sitting behind a desk. Brant couldn't say he blamed him.

"The usual. And put it on Declan's tab," Brant said, causing O'Malley to laugh.

"I'll have Lily bring it to you. Your friends are upstairs." O'Malley jerked his thumb at the curved staircase that led up to the private room he sometimes rented out for parties or wakes, and Brant nodded his thanks and moved toward the back of the bar. He acknowledged a few of the familiar faces he passed on his way, and headed up the stairs.

"It's about damned time, Scott," Shane MacKenzie said, his concentration never wavering from the game of darts he was playing. "Devlin here already owes me fifty bucks. Can't play darts for shit."

Max Devlin was leading the DEA team assigned to the recent tourist murders that had been happening throughout Mexico as the cartels battled over their turf and with the Mexican government's crackdown on drug trafficking. He'd been Cade's boss once upon a time, and since Devlin was a former Marine sniper, Brant very seriously doubted it was him that couldn't play darts for shit. Devlin punched Shane in the arm and called him an inappropriate name and then quickly made a bullseye on his next turn.

Brant stripped off his leather jacket and tossed it across an empty chair, laying his helmet in the seat. The noise from below was muted and the bass from the music vibrated the floor, but the room was private for all intents and purposes.

Declan MacKenzie sat in one of the wooden whiskey barrel chairs, his posture relaxed and his eyes hooded halfway in sleep. Brant knew as well as any of the others in the room that Declan was never fully relaxed, and he could be up with a weapon in his hand before most people could blink.

He'd been crossing paths with Declan for years during different assignments, and he'd sat across from him at the dinner table for MacKenzie family dinners more times than he could count, but he still didn't know exactly what branch of the government Dec worked for. By the way he seemed to know every damned thing almost as soon as it happened, Brant was guessing CIA. The one thing he did know was that Declan was in charge of this op, whatever it was, and he was calling the shots.

Lily knocked on the door and came in with a tray filled with drinks. Dark haired and dark eyed, she gave Shane a smile that would have any red-blooded male's blood boiling, and went about passing out the drinks. She was efficient as she set them around the table, and Brant raised a brow as he saw her place a napkin and a beer in front of the fifth seat. As far as he knew, only the DEA, Homeland Security and the assigned Navy SEAL team had active operatives searching for the del Fuego labs. It had been an assignment met with little success over the last few years.

"Ooh, baby," Shane said, as Lily gave him one last smile and closed the door behind her so they'd have privacy. "I think I'm in love."

"That's what you said last night, dickhead," Devlin said.

"There's love and then there's love," Shane said, waggling his eyebrows. "I think Lily could be the one. And she was real delicate about the way she slipped her number in my pocket." He held up the piece of paper from his pocket for them to admire.

"Jesus, sometimes I can't believe I'm related to you," Declan said. "How old are you again? Fifteen?"

"Jealousy doesn't become you, brother. Just because you've got a sex life that rivals great-aunt Matilda doesn't mean I'm ready to follow in your footsteps."

"Am I wrong, or did I miss the part where this was a MacKenzie family brawl instead of a government op?" Brant asked.

"You've been in the middle of enough MacKenzie family brawls to recognize when it's serious," Declan said. "Or have you forgotten the broken nose? Maybe I need to refresh your memory."

Brant flipped him off and took the seat next to him. "I knew you did that on purpose, asshole. A slip of the elbow my ass."

"All's fair in football. Suck it up, Nancy."

"Maybe if Cagney and Lacey are done playing darts, we can get this show on the road." Brant took a long sip of beer and felt some of the tension drain out of his shoulders. It had been too long since he'd just taken an evening to relax. "I'd like to have an entire weekend off at some point in my career."

"I've never had one of those," Declan said. "I don't see why you should get one if I can't."

"I appreciate that, Dec. You're nothing but heart."

"That's not what the ladies tell him," Shane broke in with a laugh. "They tell him he's nothing but—"

"Enough, Shane," Declan growled. "Take a seat, and lets get this done. Our guest will be here before I'm done with the briefing."

An uneasy feeling slithered up Brant's spine, but he pushed it away. His intuition was infamous in the agency, and right now it was screaming red alerts at him. He trusted Declan. Hell, he trusted all the MacKenzies. But something was going on, and he was pretty sure he was going to hate whatever it was. He was an expert at reading people—at body language and the signs a person gives when they're in an uncomfortable situation. Declan wasn't giving away anything as usual, but he'd known Shane long enough to see the worry in his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. He hadn't stopped tapping his ring finger against his leg since Brant had walked into the room.

Declan tossed out sealed manila envelopes to everyone at the table. At Declan's nod, they each broke the seal and pulled out the papers.

"We've received new intelligence that the del Fuego cartel has in fact been taken over by Alexander Ramos and the whole operation moved to Mexico."

"Shit," Brant said, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. They all knew of Alexander Ramos. He was currently the leader for the Sinaloa drug cartel, which happened to be the most powerful and deadly cartel in Mexico. "He's expanding his territory."

"It looks that way," Declan said. "He's setting up the del Fuego cartel in southern Mexico, from the Yucatan to the border of Guatemala. He already controls almost all of the west, and I think we can agree that controlling that much territory isn't going to go well once the Mexican government finds out and they start cracking down. The rumors are already spreading. The streets will be overflowing with the blood of innocent people."

"But according to this information, we still don't have a location for the new labs," Devlin said, shuffling through the intel quickly. "How are we any better off than we were?"

"We don't have the exact coordinates," Shane said. "But we do have information we didn't have access to before, and the new labs have definitely been set up in Ramos' territory. My tech wizard was able to ferret out the information while my team was doing surveillance. In fact, I think Ramos took control over what was left of the del Fuego cartel just weeks after Carlos and Miguel del Fuego were killed. We were focusing all our attention on Colombia, but Ramos was keeping things on the down low until he had everything in place. I'm assuming it took time to rebuild the labs in a place no one would find them. The new rash of killings in the Yucatan area suggests the cartel is up and running for business now."

Miguel and Carlos del Fuego had been the heads of the del Fuego cartel up until their deaths a few years before. Carlos had killed his father in a struggle for power, and Cade MacKenzie had killed Carlos with a shot straight to the heart while protecting Brant's sister, Bayleigh. It had been sweet justice considering the del Fuego's had killed Cade's lover a few years before.

"How'd it come to your attention now?" Brant asked. He didn't bother to read through the papers in front of him. He was waiting for the axe to fall. He took another sip of beer and kept his gaze steady with Declan's.

"Intelligence picked up an unusual transmission through satellite. It seems Ramos is a little smarter than your average drug lord. He's got brains behind the muscle, and that makes him even more dangerous."

"Spit it out Dec," Brant said.

"The cartel has set up the underground communication system using Maya as their language of choice."

Brant was already shaking his head, knowing where Declan was going. His stomach twisted in knots, but Declan didn't let him get a refusal out before continuing his explanation.

"Ramos is a Mayan descendent and has managed to bribe enough native speakers to work for him. Unfortunately for us, there are only a handful of people outside of the natives who are knowledgeable in the language. They're a closed culture, and they wouldn't want our interference. And Ramos is probably paying them handsomely or threatening their families to gain their cooperation, so we can't try to work our way in through them. They're loyal to him."

"No way in hell," Brant said, shaking his head again. "You're out of your fucking mind." He saw Devlin pass Shane a twenty dollar bill out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored them.

"Told you," Shane said, taking the money and putting it in his wallet.

"You can't seriously be talking about bringing your sister into this mess," Brant said.

"She's been in this mess for years," Declan said. "She wants to help us destroy the cartel once and for all, and she has the resources we need to do it. She's an expert in the field. She speaks the language, and she can read the hieroglyphs. She'd be invaluable on a mission like this."

"No. Absolutely not. She's your sister for fuck's sake. Has she pissed you off so much lately that you feel the need to take her into cartel territory and leave her to a horrible death? She has no field training, and it'll endanger the entire team. Who's supposed to protect her?"

"From my understanding," Shane said, the perpetual grin he kept on his face in place as usual. "You did a fine job protecting her the last time. Surely you can manage it again. Besides, we drew straws before you got here and you lost."

Brant narrowed his eyes at Shane, wondering exactly what he knew about the time he'd spent with Darcy four years ago, and then he immediately dismissed the thought. If her brothers knew what had really happened between them, his body would've disappeared a long time ago.

He'd both cursed himself and congratulated himself on walking away from Darcy all those years ago. The further he'd driven from Surrender, Montana, the more he'd wanted to turn around and go back to her. She was his weakness. And in his line of work, there could be no weaknesses. Not unless you had a death wish.

A day hadn't gone by where he hadn't thought of her, and he'd kept track of her from a distance—making sure she was truly safe after her run-in with del Fuego's men. He'd done thorough background checks on the men she'd dated and he'd made sure doors had opened in her career. He had the power to do those things, and he used it without apology because he'd come to realize shortly after their one night together that no one was more important than she was, even if he couldn't be the man in her life.

Brant scooted back his chair and stood abruptly, planning to get his coat and walk out the door before the craziness of this conversation could go any further. The need to get away as soon as possible was getting stronger with every passing second. Being around Darcy again would be a mistake—he knew it as sure as he was standing there.

"We're going to take her into cartel territory," Declan said, the friend gone and the commander taking his place. "And she's going to do her job by deciphering whatever needs to be deciphered so we can find the location of the labs and keep hundreds, maybe thousands, of people from getting killed. She's an expert on the Maya. There's no one more perfect for the job. She's already familiar with the cartel, and she was the one who helped us realize how they've been communicating all these years."

Brant's hands fisted at his sides, and the lack of control brought his anger to the surface. Anger over the way he'd had to leave Darcy. Anger at himself for not being the kind of man who could ever have a normal life. And anger at Declan for pushing the matter when he knew damned good and well nothing good could come of it.

"This is a mistake," he rasped, his throat dry at the prospect of what his future held.

"Is there something you're not telling me about the real reason you don't want to do this?" Declan asked, narrowing his eyes and coming to his feet to look Brant eye to eye. "You clearly have a problem with Darcy. You haven't been to a family get-together since Cade and Bayleigh's wedding, and you left as soon as the ceremony was over even though you were the best man."

"I had food poisoning," Brant gritted out. "And I'm with all of you all the damned time. I'm surrounded by so many MacKenzies I can't piss without one of you handing me my dick. What the hell is your point with all this?"

"Nothing. You're just being more unreasonable about this than usual. Darcy's an intelligent woman, and you've known how to handle her since she was sixteen years old. She's always listened to you more than the rest of us. I'd think finally shutting down the del Fuego cartel would be your top priority."

"No one knows about priorities better than me," Brant said.

Declan nodded somberly. Not many people knew the details about Brant's first wife. Declan was one of them.

"Which is why Darcy is going in with you. She's the only team you need on this op. Shane and the rest of SEAL Team 6 will be your backup, and the DEA already has agents in deep cover down in the area. We trust her safety with you. I can count on one hand the number of people I'd say that about, and four of them are her relatives."

"Great," Brant said. The urge to put his fist right into Declan's face overcame him, and he could tell by his friend's raised brow that he was daring him to try. "Just great."

"What's the matter, Brant?" A silky voice called from the door—a siren's call that had his blood pumping and his cock hardening in an instant. "Afraid I'll be too much for you to handle?"

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