“If you don’t have a problem coming out to the scene at this hour, that’s fine with me. You have something to contribute, and it would be good experience for you,” he said, to my relief.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I promised. I raced back inside to change as soon as I hung up, suddenly deeply grateful to my drug-addicted intruder for choosing tonight to break into my house.

So, what are the chances that it’s the symbol man again? The question dominated my rattling thoughts. The towering pines that crowded the road created an ominous illusion of a dark tunnel as I sped down the deserted highway. Just because a body was found with similar injuries doesn’t mean it’s the same killer, I reminded myself. And I wasn’t sure if I’d be relieved or disappointed if it turned out to be something else. Obviously I didn’t want more people to die, but at the same time I’d been burning with curiosity about the Symbol Man and his victims for nearly three years, and the desire to know was nearly smothering.

The creaky Ford Taurus shimmied annoyingly as I crested a low hill. I could see the lights of Beaulac in front of me, the moonlight reflecting off Lake Pearl beyond the city. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but I wasn’t in the frame of mind to appreciate the view. Perhaps it was merely coincidence that he would start up again now. Just sheer happenstance that the three-year break would coincide so perfectly with the alignment of the two spheres. Anything is possible, I tried to convince myself, but the feeling in the pit of my gut wasn’t buying it.

St. Long Parish was mostly rural but still within reasonable driving distance to New Orleans—which was why I liked living there so much. A small, quiet parish with the city of Beaulac as its hub, it boasted only a few murders a year and not much other crime except for the usual mix of drug abuse and burglaries. And those rare murders were most often the result of disagreements that had been fueled by alcohol and testosterone.

Lake Pearl had been formed centuries earlier from a convergence of several bayous, and the city of Beaulac had sprung up on its shore, developing a comfortable industry catering to sportsmen and weekend vacationers. Though Beaulac was a city only by the strictest definition, for a few years it had gained unfortunate notoriety because of a serial killer who’d become known as the Symbol Man.

I smacked the dashboard of the Taurus in a futile effort to stop one of the more annoying rattles. Even if this victim bore the same symbol, I had to accept the chance that the killer could be a copycat. I grimaced and whacked the dashboard again, muttering something rude as the radio knob flew off and bounced under the seat.

Even if it’s a copycat, it would still have to be someone who knows the details about the symbol. Pictures or specific descriptions had never been officially released, but I knew that information had a way of leaking out. It only took one officer to talk about it after hours in a bar to make it common knowledge. But Captain Turnham would rain hot death on anyone who spread confidential information about this case. He was an absolute stickler for protocols, which made me even more appreciative of his approval to come to the crime scene.

I made the turn onto the gravel road that led to the water-treatment plant. Surrounding the plant was a wooden fence emblazoned with a large red sign that proclaimed: City of Beaulac Wastewater Reclamation Facilities. A white metal building housed the main offices of the facility, and behind that were a number of large vatlike structures that I assumed had something to do with the actual treatment of the water. I gave a low whistle when I saw how many police vehicles were already there. Parked just outside the wooden fence were five marked units, a half dozen unmarked cars, plus a crime-scene van for good measure. I searched for a spot close by, then finally gave up and parked out on the road. I needed the exercise anyway.

I climbed out of my car, shoving my keys into the pocket of my jeans and tucking my Beaulac PD T-shirt in. I grabbed my notebook, made sure I had a pen that worked, then took a deep breath to quell my sudden nervousness. I’d been working my ass off for so long to get to this point that it felt almost surreal to actually be here, on my first homicide investigation. And then to have it be a possible Symbol Man case … Doubly surreal.

I adjusted the badge holder around my neck as I walked up to the scene. I’d harbored a burning curiosity about the Symbol Man murders ever since I was a street cop on the scene of one of his body dumps. I’d seen the body only from a distance, but even from a dozen feet away I could see the faint scattering of light in my othersight and feel the resonance that would be noticed only by someone who was attuned to the arcane. It had shocked and baffled me, and I’d been left with an uncomfortable certainty that the murders had something to do with the demon realm. What little I’d been able to sense of the arcane resonance felt familiar, and I’d waited with morbid eagerness for another body to turn up, determined to make any excuse necessary to get close enough to feel that resonance again.

And then it stopped. No more bodies were found, and in the last three years I’d even begun to doubt what I’d seen and felt from that victim. I’d been promoted to detective a year after the last murder, assigned to Property Crimes, and now—finally—I was a Homicide detective. I could hardly believe that, in just a few minutes, I might have some answers.

What I would—or could—do with those answers was another matter entirely.

The officer by the crime-scene tape gave me a sour look as he thrust a clipboard at me. I didn’t recognize him, which meant that he’d probably been hired within the last two years—after I became a detective.

“Is it really the same symbol?” I asked as I took the clipboard from him and signed the crime-scene entry log.

“Beats me,” he said, a scowl drawing his mouth down. “I didn’t get a chance to look at the body too close. The suits don’t want us road cops looking around the scene.” I could see he was deeply affronted that he’d been prevented from contaminating a major crime scene. Poor baby.

I kept a neutral smile fixed on my face. Yeah, I was a “suit,” but I’d paid my dues as a patrol cop for five years before becoming a detective. “Bummer,” I said simply as I handed the clipboard back and ducked under the tape. No point in trying to educate him about preservation of evidence at a crime scene. He didn’t seem the sort to be willing to hear what I had to say.

It was easy enough to figure out where the body was. Halogen lamps had been set up to illuminate an area between two enormous vats. White metal staircases led up the sides of each vat, but positioned almost directly between the stairs lay a small lump surrounded by stained concrete. As I skirted the area I could see an outflung arm, dark-blond hair, and a body covered with what I thought might be some sort of net or sheer patterned fabric. I wanted to go check out the body so badly it hurt, to see if there were arcane traces, but I held myself back with a discipline born of a decade of summoning demons. This was not my scene, and I was here only because of my captain’s benevolence. I wasn’t about to risk getting kicked off before I had the chance to soak in as much experience as possible.

I did stretch out mentally to try to see and feel with my othersight, but I was almost fifty feet away from the body and I sure as shit wasn’t sensitive enough to feel anything from that far away, even if the arcane residue had been fresh and strong.

A petite crime-scene tech wearing dark-blue fatigue pants and a PD T-shirt came around the curve of the tank on the left, a sour look on her face as she wound up a long measuring tape.