"You think it could be animal blood?" she asked.

"Since you went down there to investigate reports of possible occult rituals, it may be more likely than not." Bishop paused, then went on. "We've had a number of these reports across the Southeast in the last year or so. You remember that much?"

She did. "But nine times out of ten, there's no real evidence of occult activity. Or at least nothing dangerous."

"Nothing satanic," he agreed. "Which is always the idea feeding local hysteria, that devil worshippers are conducting robed rituals out in the woods that involve orgies and sacrificing infants."

"Yeah, when in reality it's almost always either pranks or just somebody jumping to conclusions when they find something on the weird side while out taking their daily constitutional."

"Exactly. But once the gossip gets going, such incidents are blown out of all proportion, and fear can stir up real trouble. Sometimes deadly trouble."

"So I came down here to investigate possible occult activity?" Riley was still struggling to remember and still trying to reconcile the clothing and underwear she'd brought along with what sounded like a perfectly ordinary investigation-for her, at any rate.

She was the go-to girl of the SCU when it came to the occult.

"The possible beginnings of occult activity," Bishop said. "A friend and former colleague of yours got in touch. He didn't want us down there openly and, in fact, lacked the authority to ask us to get involved, but he had a very bad feeling that whatever's going on in Castle and on Opal Island is both serious and more than the local sheriff can handle."

"So I'm here unofficially."

"Very unofficially. And on the strength of Gordon Skinner's request and your confidence that his instincts were trustworthy."

"Yeah, Gordon has a rep for hunches that pay off. I always figured him for a latent precog. And he's not a man to jump at shadows." Riley frowned to herself. "I guess he got in his twenty and retired just like he planned. To Opal Island?"

"So you said."

"Okay. Well, Gordon's definitely somebody I can trust. If I'm here because of him, it's a cinch I've spent time with him over the last three weeks. He can fill me in."

"I hope so. Because you aren't there undercover, Riley. You haven't hidden the fact that you're an FBI agent. As far as the locals are concerned-including the sheriff, since you checked in with him when you arrived-you're on Opal Island on vacation. Taking some accumulated leave time after a particularly tough case."

"Oh," Riley said. "I wonder if that was smart of me. Being here openly, I mean."

"Unfortunately, I have no idea. But it's clearly too late to second-guess that decision."

"Yeah. So I picked the island for a vacation spot because my old army buddy Gordon retired here."

"It gave you a legitimate reason to be there."

Riley sighed. "And that's all you know?" His silence spoke volumes, and she hastily added, "Right, right, my fault. Should have reported in. And I'm sure when I remember why I didn't report in, there'll be a good reason."

"I hope so."

"Sorry, Bishop."

"Just be careful, will you, please? I know you can take care of yourself, but we both know investigations that turn up genuine black-occult practices or some other variation of evil go south more often than not. Usually in a hurry."

"Yeah. The last one involved a serial killer, didn't it?"

"Don't remind me."

She wasn't all that happy to have reminded herself, because that memory, at least, was quickly all too clear. She had come within a hair of being that particular killer's final victim.

"I don't like any of this, Riley, for the record," Bishop said.

"I know."

"Remember-you report some degree of success by Friday, or I pull the plug."

"Got it. Don't worry. I've got Gordon to watch my back, if necessary, while I figure out what's going on."

"Be careful," he repeated.

"I will." She cradled the receiver and stood there for a minute or so, frowning. Her headache was finally easing off, but although the pounding was somewhat muffled now, so were her senses.

She refilled her coffee cup, then rummaged in the pantry for the high-calorie PowerBars she tended to buy by the case. It was normal for her to carry at least two of them in her purse or back pockets at all times; if she didn't eat something about every hour or two, she simply couldn't function at peak efficiency.

Psychic efficiency.

Several of the other SCU members envied her the high metabolism that enabled her to eat anything she wanted-and rather astonishing quantities of it, at that-without gaining an ounce. But they also understood the downside. It was not always possible for Riley to eat enough or often enough during the course of a busy investigation to continually provide fuel for her abilities, and at least once it had nearly cost a life.

Hers.

She ate a PowerBar with her coffee and placed two more in the shoulder bag she had found. She checked the contents of the purse, just on the off chance that something unusual might trigger her memories, but everything looked normal.

She tended to travel light, so there wasn't much. Keys to her rental car and this house. A small pocket phone/address book. Tube of lip balm; she wasn't a lipstick kind of girl. Mirrored compact with pressed powder that was barely used, because she wasn't a makeup kind of girl either-unless the situation called for it. Billfold with cash, credit cards in their protective case, and her driver's license; her FBI I.D. folder and badge would be in her nightstand, or should be, since she was technically off duty.

She went and checked, and it was.

Returning to the main living area, Riley turned on the TV to CNN to check the date and find out if she'd missed anything crucial in the way of world news.

July 14. And the last clear, solid memory she could claim was somewhere around June 20, at Quantico. Paperwork at the desk, nothing unusual. Feeling a little drained, which was normal for her following the conclusion of a tough investigation.

And then…nothing but flashes. Whispers in her mind, snatches of conversation that made no sense. Faces and places she thought she knew but couldn't put names to. Feelings that were oddly unsettled and even chaotic for a woman who tended to take a reasonable, rational approach to life…

Riley shook that off and frowned at the TV. Okay, so she wasn't doing so hot. How went the world?

One earthquake, two political scandals, a celebrity divorce, and half a dozen violent crimes later, she muted the set and returned to the kitchen for more coffee.

Same old, same old.

"I can't just hide in this house until it all comes back to me," she muttered to herself. For one thing, there was no guarantee it would; short-term memory loss linked to some kind of trauma wasn't all that uncommon, but in a psychic it could also be a symptom of bigger problems.

Bishop hadn't needed to remind her of that.

For another thing, nothing here was sparking her memory. And she needed information, fast. Needed to have some idea of what was going on here. So the most imperative order of business was, clearly, contacting Gordon.

She took the time first to bag the clothing she'd been wearing and managed to find what she needed to construct a decent package for shipment back to Quantico. And she did another search through the house, this time looking intently for anything unusual.

Aside from the sexy underwear, there was nothing she considered unusual. Which meant that she found nothing to either answer any of her questions or raise more.

By the time she was finished with the more thorough search, she'd also eaten another PowerBar and her headache was all but gone. But when she attempted to tap into her extra senses, she got nothing. No deeper, more intense connection to her surroundings that was her spider sense.