Those short skirts make it worse, the way she twitches her ass when she walks.

Disgusting.

And just look at her – flirting with him. Tossing her hair and batting her eyes.

Whore.

You whore, I thought you were different!

Just another twenty-dollar whore. And not even worth that.

Not even that.

Matt Dunbar came from a long line of lawmen that stretched all the way back to a Texas Ranger⁷ who'd roamed the West in 1840, and it was a heritage he was proud of. He was also proud of the way he looked in his crisp sheriff's uniform. He worked out religiously in his basement exercise room six days a week to make damned sure no excess flab hung out over his belt.

No way was he going to become the familiar caricature of a fat, indolent Southern sheriff. He'd even gone to some effort to lose his accent, though the results were, he had to admit, less than what he'd been aiming for.

A lover had once told him he had a drawl that stretched out lazy like a cat in the sun.

It was a simile he liked.

So maybe he drawled a bit when he told Becky Smith that next time she ought not to park right smack in front of the fire hydrant even if she did plan to just run in and out of the drugstore.

As a stern official warning, it lacked something.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sheriff." She smiled widely at him and pushed glossy brown hair back over her shoulder in a gesture that was a little flirtatious. "But I was only gone a couple of minutes, I promise. I'll move it right now."

He started to tell her she didn't have to move all that fast, but then he saw Ben Ryan's Jeep pull in behind his cruiser, so he touched his hat courteously to Becky and walked back to meet his boyhood friend, occasional poker buddy, and sometimes pain in the ass.

Today Ben looked like the last.

"Matt, when did you talk to Cassie Neill?" Ben asked as he got out of the Jeep.

The sheriff leaned back against the Jeep's front fender and crossed his arms over his chest. "She came into the office the end of last week. Thursday, I think. You mean she went running to you with that wild story?"

"Are you so sure it's wild?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Ben – "

"Look, I was doubtful too. But did you bother to check her out? Because I did."

"And?"

"And the LAPD detective I talked to says there are half a dozen multiple killers behind bars today because of Cassie Neill. And that's just in his jurisdiction."

Matt narrowed his eyes. "Then how come I never heard of her?"

Ben shook his head. "There's been very little press, and nothing national. The way she wanted it, apparently – which I count as a point in her favor. The cop told me his superiors were delighted that she insisted the department take the credit and keep her out of it. Naturally they weren't too eager to admit that they'd used the human version of a crystal ball to track down bad guys."

Matt grunted, and gazed absently at the peaceful scene of downtown Ryan's Bluff on a mild Tuesday afternoon. "I just don't buy that psychic bullshit, Ben. Last time I checked, neither did you."

"I'm still not sure. But I think we'd better pay attention to what the lady says."

"Just in case?"

"Just in case."

After a moment Matt shrugged. "Okay. You tell me what I'm supposed to do about the lady's so-called warning. She says somebody's going to die. That somebody is a woman – only she doesn't know who. All she knows is that the woman is possibly dark-haired, possibly between twenty and thirty-five, medium height and build – possibly. Which narrows down the possible victim to, oh, a quarter of the area's female population, give or take a few hundred. And our helpful psychic knows even less about the aspiring murderer. Don't even have a possible on him except that he's male. Eliminating you and me, and every man over sixty just on logical grounds, that leaves me with – what? – a few hundred conceivable suspects inside the town limits? What the hell do I do with that, Ben?"

"I don't know. But there must be something we can do."

"What? Panic a town by announcing one of our ladies is being stalked and doesn't know it?"

"No, of course not."

Matt sighed. "My gut says to have somebody watch Cassie Neill, and watch her close. Maybe there's a good reason she's so sure there's going to be a murder."

Ben stared at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious. If she weighs a hundred pounds, I'd be surprised."

"What, killers have to have muscles? You know better, Ben."

"I just meant she's too… fragile to have that in her."

The sheriff cocked an eyebrow. "Fragile?"

"Don't even start with me." Ben could feel heat rise in his face, as aware of his uncharacteristic credulity as his friend was but unwilling to examine it at the moment.

Matt hid a grin. "Okay, okay. It's just I've never heard you use that word before."

"Never mind my words. What are we going to do about this, Matt?"

"Wait. Nothing else we can do. If your fragile psychic comes up with something useful, great. If not – I guess we twiddle our thumbs and wait for a body to turn up."

FEBRUARY 18, 1999

"He's done it."

Ben pushed himself up onto an elbow and turned on the lamp beside his bed. The clock told him it was five-thirty. In the morning.

Christ, it was still dark.

He wedged the phone between ear and shoulder. "Who's done what? And do you know what time it is?"

"He's killed her," Cassie Neill said softly. Starkly.

Ben woke up.

He shoved the covers aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." She drew a breath. "It happened hours ago. There was nothing anyone could do, so – so I waited to call you. As long as I could."

Ben wondered what it was like to be awake and alone through the long, dark hours of the night – and aware of horrors. The professional part of him pushed that aside to say, "You should have called me right away. Evidence – "

"Won't be changed by the passing of a few hours. Not what little he left behind." Cassie sounded impossibly weary. "But you're right, I should have called immediately. I'm sorry."

Ben drew a breath. "Do you know where?"

"Yes, I think so. There's an old abandoned barn on the north end of town, about five miles out."

"I know it. Used to be a stockyard there."

"She's… he left her in the woods behind that barn. He didn't kill her there, but it's where he left her. I think… I think she'll be easy to find. He didn't bury the body or try to hide it in any way. In fact… he posed her somehow."

"Posed her?"

"Sat her up with her back against a tree. He was very careful to get the look just right. It must mean something." Cassie's voice faded on the last words, and she sighed. "I don't know what. I'm sorry. I'm tired."

Ben hesitated, then said, "I'll go take a look."

"Before you call the sheriff?" There was wry understanding in her tone.

Ben was unwilling to admit that he didn't want to look like an even more gullible fool if this turned out to be a false alarm. So he merely said, "I'll probably want to talk to you later."

"I'll be here." Cassie hung up quietly.

Dawn was just lightening the sky when Ben parked his Jeep at the old Pittman stockyard. He turned on the flashlight he'd brought along in order to pick his way around the barn and through a ragged gap in what was left of the fence to the woods in back of the place.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

He didn't go very far into the woods before halting and directing the flashlight in a slow arc ahead. These were hardwood trees, bare of leaves in February, the undergrowth scant, so he could see quite well.