He dropped the mug. Coffee splashed on his pants. He glanced down where it lay in pieces, and the word GRANDPA stared up at him. It saddened him because in that instant, he knew he’d never see his grandchildren again.

He looked at her and shook his head, suddenly tired. “I know why you’re here,” he said.

“Do you?” She stepped onto the deck.

He took an involuntary step back when he spotted the pistol in her hand. A .22 revolver. Something resembling doubt drifted through the back of his mind. If she was a ghost, why did she need a gun? Why was there mud on her shoes?

He looked into her eyes. “I told them not to do it. I didn’t want any part of it.”

“Liar.” Keeping the weapon poised at his chest, she stepped closer. “It was you.”

“Things got out of hand,” he said. “We didn’t mean to—”

“You’re guilty,” she said. “Just like the others.”

“Please, don’t kill me.” He heard pleading in his voice and it shamed him. “I have children.”

“You’re a child killer.” She shuffled left, motioned toward the steps with the revolver. “Walk.”

Heart pounding, he obeyed. Upon reaching the base of the stairs, he hesitated, thought about running to the front of the house and calling for help. But she jabbed the weapon toward the deck closer to the creek. “There,” she said. “Go.”

He started toward the deck, wondering what she had in mind, wondering if it would be painful, if she would murder him the way she had the others.…

Upon reaching the deck, he turned to her. He noticed the length of rope in her left hand and a hot streak of panic ran through his body. “What are you going to do?”

She raised the pistol slightly. The revolver cracked. Agony zinged in his knee. His leg buckled. Crying out, he hit the ground hard. Dizzy with shock and pain, he clutched his knee, glanced down, saw blood between his fingers. “But you’re … you can’t…”

The pain took his breath. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t tell her she was a ghost and ghosts didn’t need guns.

Another shot snapped through the air. Pain exploded in his other knee. He screamed and then flopped around in the mud like a hooked fish. “Don’t,” he panted. “Dear God, please don’t.”

He tried to scream for help, but the sound that squeezed through his lips was the howl of a wounded dog. He lay on his side, wheezing, and looked up at her. “You’re not a ghost,” he croaked.

Rope in hand, she started toward him, a smile curving her mouth.

*   *   *

When you spend the entirety of your professional life in law enforcement, there are certain things you come to know. I’ve handled my share of firearms over the years, both handguns and rifles, and I know firsthand that without practice, good marksmanship is tough to come by—even by police officers. Half the cops I know couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, especially in a high-adrenaline or shoot-from-the-hip type of scenario.

I also know that the targeting of the genitalia in the commission of a crime speaks to some kind of symbolism. I’ve seen it done in gangland murders in which some thug wants to make a point. But I’ve also seen it in revenge crimes involving sexual assault. The question in the forefront of my mind is this: Did Michaels’s killer target his genitalia, or was he simply a bad shot?

I enter the reception area to find half a dozen pails of different shapes and sizes on the floor between the reception area and the coffee station. My first-shift dispatcher, Lois Monroe, is in the hall with her headset clamped over her ears, a mop in hand. A steady drip from the ceiling plunks into an old paint can, keeping perfect time with a funky Linkin Park number on the radio.

“Be careful where you walk, Chief.” Propping the mop against the wall, she strides to the reception desk and plucks messages from my slot. “I ran out of buckets an hour ago.”

I look at the menagerie of containers set out to catch the deluge and I try not to laugh, because it’s a hell of a lot more likely that I’ll get a rash of excuses from the town council as opposed to a new roof.

“Call everyone and tell them there’s a briefing in half an hour,” I tell her.

She arches a brow. “Productive day so far?”

“If my tail were the prize, I’d have hit the jackpot.” I glance toward the hall, where a puddle is taking form on the tile floor. “I have a Tupperware container in my office,” I tell her.

“I’ll take it.”

“Make sure the computer equipment and phone systems don’t get wet.”

“Got it covered, Chief.” She grins. “Literally.”

Ten minutes later, my computer is booted and I’ve got the technician from the crime lab on the phone. “The coroner says Dale Michaels sustained a through-and-through gunshot wound,” I tell him. “Did you guys find a slug at the scene?”

“Metal detector found one that had penetrated the soil,” he tells me.

“Caliber?”

“Twenty-two.”

“Intact?”

“Enough for us to analyze striations, which we’re working on now. If we’ve got matching striations in the database, we’ll know by tomorrow.”

“Anything else?”

“We found a long hair on the victim’s clothing that doesn’t belong to the victim.”

I think of Belinda Harrington. “The daughter found the body. It could be hers.”

“Interestingly, this hair was naturally blond, but dyed brown.”

“That’s a switch.” And it rules out Harrington as the donor, since her hair is red. “You get enough root for DNA?”

“Working on it. Again, it’s going to be a few days. We’re a little jammed up here.”

“Keep me posted.”

“You know it.”

After thanking the technician, I end the call. I grab a yellow legal pad from my drawer and take a few minutes to write down everything I know about the cases, which isn’t much—at least in terms of concrete information. I have no viable suspects. No motive. No murder weapon. In terms of physical evidence, I have two Amish peg dolls, that link Dale Michaels’s murder to the murder of Julia Rutledge—and may or may not tie both murders to a thirty-five-year-old unsolved cold case. I have the notes, which tie the Rutledge case to Norm Johnston. I also have the data from Dale Michaels’s iPhone—the list of incoming and outgoing calls he made before his murder. And the text to Blue Branson. But how does it all tie together?

I go to a second page and write down what I remember from my conversation with a dying Julia Rutledge: When I asked, “Who did this to you?” she replied with: “We didn’t mean to.” I pressed and she responded with: “Kill her.” When I asked who, she said, “Ghost.”

I’m staring down at my notes, trying to decide how to put all of it into meaningful order when Lois peeks her head in. “Everyone’s here, Chief.”

“Thanks.” Gathering the three files and my legal pad, I start toward the meeting room to find that my small department has already converged at the rectangular table, including my third-shift dispatcher, Mona, who should be home sleeping. My chest swells a little when I notice everyone’s in uniform. T.J. and Skid are embroiled in a conversation. Glock is thumbing something into his phone. Pickles is nursing a mug of coffee, a legal pad and pen in front of him.

I take my place behind the half podium at the head of the table. “I want to give everyone a quick briefing on what we’ve got so far on the Michaels and Rutledge murders,” I begin. “Doc Coblentz just completed the Michaels autopsy. Cause of death was strangulation from hanging. In addition to being hanged, the victim sustained two gunshot wounds. One to the abdomen. The other to the genital area, which was a through and through.”

“Ouch,” Skid interjects.

That earns him a few nods from the other men in the room.

“The lab retrieved a slug. We’re looking at a .22 caliber. They’re working on matching striations now.” I look around the room. “At this point, no one knows if the gunshot wound to the genitals was on purpose or by chance. I think you know that if it’s the former, we could be looking at the work of a gang or revenge for a sex crime.