Point Blank

JEREMY ARTHUR WILLAMETTE BELOVED SON

PRIVATE U.S. ARMY KOREA

May 18, 1935 September 10, 1953

No one said a word, but each felt the death of the young man so many years before, each felt he was one of their own.

Agent Connie Ashley, who’d removed the pillow from around her middle, said, “It looks real fresh.”

Savich looked down at the loose snow-dusted black dirt with an obscene bouquet of wilted red roses lying squarely on top and felt a moment of sadness. He’d wanted to save Pinky, but that wasn’t going to happen now. He picked up the roses, tied with a big gaudy gold bow. Another couple of degrees and the roses would freeze. He handed them to Agent Don Grassi. “Find out where Moses Grace bought these roses. He could have picked them up from another grave, but check with the florists nearby.”

Agent Dane Carver said, never looking away from the loose black dirt, “Do you think Moses Grace and Claudia can still see us?”

Savich nodded slowly, scanning every tree in the area. “There are too many places to hide around here. It’s two hundred acres—full of trees, memorials, buildings, monuments.” He said to Agent Ollie Hamish, his second in command, “Ollie, call Mr. Maitland, tell him I’d like to saturate this place. Tell him to ring Fort Myer, get soldiers here to help.”

“Do you think Pinky’s under there?” Dane had asked the obvious, brought it out in the open. Every agent standing there knew Pinky Womack was under that black dirt, but no one wanted to be slapped in the head with the gruesome reality they knew was waiting for them. No one answered. They all stood silently.

Savich realized they were waiting for him to direct them, but the thing was, he couldn’t get his mind off that old monster threatening Sherlock. He met her eyes over the grave.

“I’m so very, very sorry about this, Dillon. Poor Pinky.” Sherlock suddenly leaned down. “Would you look at this? It’s a ball of chewed-up gum.”

Savich remembered the small red bowl filled with chewed-up balls of gum on the counter at Hooter’s Motel—all that gum hadn’t been there because Raymond Dykes liked to keep his jaw moving. Moses Grace had deliberately left it there, just as he’d left the gum here. Savich said, “He left it for us, to taunt us, some private joke perhaps. It probably won’t matter, but let’s do the works on it, run it for DNA.”

Savich watched Dane slip the gum into a Ziploc bag. Two of his agents led a crew of cemetery workmen forward.

They found Pinky Womack’s body in the coffin with his eyes wide open, a bit of shock his only recognizable expression. He was lying on top of the uniformed skeleton of eighteen-year-old Jeremy Willamette.

It looked from the bloodstains like Pinky had been stabbed in the chest, probably the heart, so his death had been fast, at least Savich prayed it had. He didn’t see any signs of torture, but it would take Dr. Ransom’s autopsy to be sure of that.

Savich called Ms. Lilly at the Bonhomie Club right away to tell her. After she had absorbed the news, she said to him, “Poor Pinky. He wasn’t bad, you know, Dillon? He could even make Fuzz the bartender laugh once in a while. Not often, mind. I’ll tell his brother Cluny myself, don’t you worry about that. Oh, Dillon, I hate this, I really do.”

As he slipped his cell phone back into his coat pocket, Savich knew it would take him a long time to get Pinky’s face out of his mind. He wondered where his wife had slipped off to. He heard the sharp crack of a rifle, heard yells, saw agents running, guns drawn. He found Sherlock, once again surrounded by agents, kneeling over a fallen agent, her palms pressing hard into her shoulder. Savich shouted her name. She looked up at him, her eyes dilated, her face white as his shirt. “Connie wasn’t standing two feet from me, Dillon.”

She was all right. Thank God she was all right.

But Agent Connie Ashley wasn’t. He was relieved she was conscious. When he came down on his knees beside her, she whispered, “Don’t freak out on me, Dillon, I’ll survive.” Blood oozed between Sherlock’

s fingers despite her pressure. He gently shoved Sherlock away and pressed his wadded-up handkerchief against Connie’s shoulder and put his weight on it. “Yes,” he said, “you’ll be fine. I’ll freak out until the ambulance arrives.”

Sherlock said, “I think the shot must have been fired from over there—the northeast, right through those trees, maybe from the second floor of one of those apartments.”

Savich had her go over the exact position of both her and Agent Ashley at the moment the shot was fired. He nodded. He put the angle a bit higher, but said, “Close enough. That’s quite a distance. Okay, let’s see if we can’t find them.” He gave out assignments and yelled as the agents dispersed, “Everyone be careful!”

He knelt down again beside Connie Ashley. “We’ll get him, Connie, don’t you worry about that.”

Sirens sounded in the distance. The snow began to fall more heavily. Savich watched his wife wipe Connie’s blood off her hands on the fresh-fallen snow. Tourists were gathering closer now. He knew the media would be there in force at any moment. He hoped the ambulance would get there first.

He watched his wife as she held Connie’s hand until they arrived.

CHAPTER 7

MAESTRO, VIRGINIASATURDAY AFTERNOON

RAFE CHUGGED DOWN half a glass of iced tea, swiped his hand over his mouth, and said to his father, “Madonna told me about this woman Rosalind Franklin who did a lot of the work on DNA and they gave her research away and she didn’t even get recognized or win a Nobel Prize.”

“Hmm.”

“She died when she was a little bit older than Mom when she left. Isn’t that something, Dad?”

“Yeah, Rafe, it sure is. You wonder what she would have done if she’d lived longer.”

“That’s what Madonna said. She said Rosalind Franklin was the one who actually took the first blurry picture of what the double helix molecule looks like.”

Dix wondered why he’d never heard of Rosalind Franklin, but didn’t say anything. He set a bowl of chicken noodle soup on the table in front of his son, then set another on a tray and took it to the living room. Madonna was propped up with three cushion pillows, Brewster on her chest, his face on his front paws. His eyes fluttered closed as she stroked his head. Dix would swear her eyes were brighter than an hour before.

He moved Brewster to the coffee table, set the tray on her lap, pulled up a chair, and sat beside the sofa. “This is Campbell’s best. I hope you like it, my boys sure do. How many miles do you run a week?

”

“Not more than fifteen miles a week, you don’t want to blow your knees out and—” She slapped her spoon on the tray. “I’m a runner and my name is Madonna. Just great. Swell. Hey, maybe I’m even rich since it looks like I own a Beemer, you think?”

“Could be. I try not to run more than fifteen miles a week either.”

She ate some soup, set her spoon down. “Sheriff, is there anything of interest around here? You know, tourist interest? I guess I’m the outdoorsy type. Is there something I could have come to see?”

“Beautiful scenery, which means you could have come to hike, or camp out, or maybe you came to go antiquing in some of the towns around here. If you do drive one of those SAV Beemers it’s got lots of room to lug stuff around in it. The only thing is, this snowstorm has been forecast for a while now. I can’t see you wanting to hike in a blinding snowstorm.”

“No, I suppose not. So that’s not why I was here.” She finished her soup, sighed, and set down her spoon again. Dix put the tray on the coffee table and patted his knee. Brewster jumped up on his lap and nuzzled against his hand. Madonna turned to look out the wide window across the front of the living room. “I don’t think it’s going to snow anymore.”

“Don’t bet the Beemer on it. I was just outside and the clouds to the east are nearly black, really fat, and rolling this way. I think it might actually be pretty bad later on tonight. You warm enough?”

“Yes, I’m fine. How long have you been sheriff here in Maestro?”

“Nearly eleven years now. I was elected when I was twenty-six.”

An eyebrow went up. “Oh? And how did that miracle come about?”

He laughed. “Actually, I married the mayor’s daughter when I was twenty-two and newly assigned to the Twenty-seventh Precinct in Manhattan. After five years in New York, we decided to move back here. Christie’s father, Chapman Holcombe, or Chappy as he’s called by everyone, offered the best inducement by backing me as sheriff. He owns half of Maestro, along with fistfuls of other business interests in Virginia, so winning wasn’t that hard.”

“So you call your father-in-law Chappy?”

He looked down at his low-heeled black boots for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure. The boys call him Grandpa Chappy.”

Sounded like there was something going on there, something beneath the surface the sheriff didn’t want to talk about. Maybe something to do with his wife, Christie?

“Chappy has a brother he calls Twister, the only person who does.”

She laughed. “Twister, that’s a good one. However did he get that name?”

“Seems he was feet first in the birth canal. The doctor had to grab his feet together, turn him around, and then pull him out. Hard going, nearly killed his mother before they got him out of her. She was the one who gave him the nickname. Only his brother and mother ever call him that. She lived with Twister until last year when she died in her sleep at the age of ninety-six. Chappy still calls him that. He hates it.”

“Do you ever regret coming here?”

“As in leaving New York? Sometimes. I loved the Mets games at Shea Stadium, always saw myself taking my boys to the games. I took Rob once to the Garden when the Knicks played the Boston Celtics, but he was only two. He threw up all over the guy sitting next to me.

“For the most part, though, I think this is a great place for the boys to grow up. We’ve got only a smattering of drugs, no gang stuff to speak of. Teenage boys drinking and joyriding and keeping the kids away from Lovers Lane are usually the biggest teen problems we’ve got. Fact is, we don’t get a whole lot of crime out here in the boonies, but there’s enough to keep our department busy and me on my toes. With Stanislaus here, we get a fair number of out-of-town visitors.”

“What’s Stanislaus?”

“Stanislaus School of Music, a university with about four hundred music students in attendance, nearly year around. It’s known as the Juilliard of the South. If you drive anywhere near the campus, you can hear singing and musical instruments blending together, so beautiful you think you’ve died and gone to heaven. The director of Stanislaus is Twister—real name, Dr. Gordon Holcombe, Chappy’s younger brother.”

“Hmm. Two Holcombes and they appear to run lots of things around here. Stanislaus—something makes me think I recognize the name.”

“It’s pretty famous. Maybe you read about it before you came here.”

She shrugged, reached her hand out to Brewster, who was lying on Dix’s legs on his back with his paws in the air, and scratched his belly. “You’ve got what? Twenty deputies?”

He looked at her closely as he nodded.

“How many women?”

“Nine.”

“Not bad, Sheriff.”

“You’re on the pale side again. Your head hurting?”

“Not enough for another pill.”

“Fair enough. I know it’s hard, but try not to worry. Dr. Crocker said your memory should right itself soon enough, and in the meantime, our deputies are showing your photo around everywhere. It makes sense you were staying somewhere around here, and chances are you had to buy gas. We’ll know pretty soon who you are. Or maybe I’ll know by tomorrow morning, if your fingerprints are in IAFIS.”

She sighed. “I can’t stop wondering what I was doing here. Maybe it was to hike, camp out, and I ran into the wrong people at some campsite.”

“We’re checking all the campsites out as well. But again, there’s the weather, not at all conducive to anything outdoors, except for snowmobiling or cross-country skiing. Do you ski?”

She paused for a moment, frowned down at her hands. “I don’t know. Maybe. But you know, I doubt that’s it.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure, really, but I feel like there are lots of people in my life, that the last thing I’d ever do is go off somewhere alone.” She shrugged, smiled at him. “I guess I could be wrong though.”

“Probably not. Why don’t you rest, nap a bit. Dream about dinner—I’ve got really good stew left over from last night.”

“Lots of catsup?”

“You and my boys,” he said, and laughed.

MADONNA FELL ASLEEP at nine o’clock Saturday night in Rob’s bedroom, wearing a pair of his pajamas. They looked brand-new, which Rob told her was true because neither he nor his brother wore pajamas, for the simple reason that their father didn’t, even in the dead of winter. The pain pills put her into a deep sleep where dreams came in hard and fast. She was standing in a dark place, so dark she couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face. Wherever she was, she couldn’t get out, though oddly, it didn’t seem to bother her. She stood cocooned in blackness, waiting for a man who was going to give her a million dollars. Why in the dark? she wondered, but again, it didn’t seem to matter. She waited patiently, wondering idly if the sheriff wore boxers or jockeys, an interesting question, but then the image was gone, and she was still standing in the middle of nowhere, wondering where the man was. She couldn’t see her watch so she didn’t know what time it was. She heard something and felt her heart speed up because he was finally here, the man with her money, a million bucks in gold bars, and it was all hers, she’d earned it, worked her tail off. She wondered how she was going to carry the gold bars, but she knew she’d manage it. She had a plan, didn’t she?

Otherwise why was she so happy and excited in the middle of a black pit?

She heard something again. Was it footsteps? The man carrying all those gold bars? But she realized in that instant that it wasn’t a man’s footsteps, it sounded indistinct, too hollow for that. She jerked awake, shot straight up in bed, and looked toward the window. All she saw was a veil of white snow falling thick and straight down. She looked closely at it.

The house was cool, but not uncomfortably so. She was wearing a pair of Rafer’s socks, his donation to her, nice thick wool socks, so she didn’t feel the cold of the oak planks beneath her feet as she walked to the window and looked out, thinking about the dream. She heard a scratching sound coming from below the window. She tried to look down but couldn’t get a good angle. Curious, she opened the window and leaned out. Straight below her window she saw two men hunkering down over something, both of them swathed in heavy coats over jeans tucked into big army boots. Ski caps covered their heads, heavy gloves on their hands. They were nearly white with snow. She must have made a noise because one of them suddenly looked up to see her leaning out.

He said something, then moved so fast she barely managed to jerk back into the bedroom before a bullet splintered wood not six inches from her head.

Another two, then three rounds came through the window. It was a silenced pistol, the muffled sound quite distinctive.

She looked around for her gun, but didn’t see it. Where was her gun? She always had her gun nearby. Another bullet shattered what was left of the window. She ran to the bedroom door, flung it open, and yelled, “Sheriff!”

He was out of his bedroom at the end of the hall in seconds, his Beretta in his right hand, his left hand jerking up the zipper in his jeans.

“What is it? You all right?”

“Two men, on the ground outside my window with a ladder. I heard them and when I looked down, one of them fired four, five rounds up at me.”

Dix was past her in a moment, racing to the open window. He kept out of the line of fire, eased himself to the corner of the window, looked down. The men weren’t there now, no one was there, but there were lots of footprints in the snow, and a ladder lay on its side.

As he pulled the window down carefully in the shattered frame, yanked the curtains closed, he said, “I want you to stay right behind me, Madonna. Rob, Rafe, both of you, get back in your room and lock the door. Now!”

They obeyed him instantly.

Dix raced to his bedroom, picked up his cell from its charger, and called his night dispatcher. “Curtis, two men are at my house, fired at Madonna. Round up everybody you can find and get them out here, fast. These guys are dangerous. Tell everyone to be real careful.”

Dix hooked his cell on his belt, yanked on the rest of his clothes. While he was pulling on his boots, she told him what she could. He nodded. “Good. The first car will be here within four minutes. I want you to stay right here, don’t even think of leaving this room, you got that?”

“But I—Give me a gun, Sheriff, I know how to use one.”

CHAPTER 8

“FORGET ABOUT IT, Madonna. Just do as I say and get down over there behind the dresser.”

She knew way deep that crouching beside a dresser for protection wasn’t something she would do or anyone would ask her to do, but her head was pounding, and images of her dreams, of the man coming toward her in the blackness, were still scoring through her. She fell to her knees and pressed her palms against her head.

Downstairs, Dix lifted the edge of the living room curtain and looked outside. It looked like an Impressionistic postcard out there, pure white snow cascading down, blurring what was real, softening everything, but still menacing because it was hiding the men who didn’t want to be seen. He saw nothing moving, but knew it would be foolhardy to venture outside and let one of those clowns pick him off. Dix knew the boys would do exactly what he’d told them to, but he didn’t know about her, about Madonna. One minute later he heard sirens, then saw lights flashing through the snow. He was in his coat and gloves by the time five cop cars pulled up along his street almost at the same time and overflowed his driveway.

“Everyone stay down!” he shouted, and then slowly, his Beretta sweeping the area, he walked out onto the front porch. He heard Brewster yapping hysterically and knew he’d pee, no way around it. Penny shouted, “Sheriff, any idea where they are?”

He shook his head, then quickly told the deputies what had happened. “You’re looking for two men. Listen to me now. They’re armed and they’ve already shot to kill, so be very careful. We can follow their footprints in the snow until they reach the woods. If we lose them in the trees, we’ll split up. I’m hoping we’ll find them before they get out of the woods. Let’s hurry before the tracks fill in with snow.”

His deputies fanned out around the footprints where the ladder lay. They headed straight for the woods, still easily visible, but not for long in the snowfall.

“They were running at a good clip, Sheriff,” Penny said. She and Dix waved all the deputies forward at a dead run into the woods.

They met up with B.B. and Claus, already in the trees, and the four of them followed what was left of the men’s tracks. Instead of snow tracks, they soon saw small clumps of snow that had fallen off the men’s boots, and lots of broken and partially naked tree branches the men had run into in their hurry to escape. It took time, with their four flashlights trained, as the obvious signs of passage faded away. The trail passed through to the western edge of the woods, then back in for about twenty more feet, then out again. “Listen,” Dix said.

They heard an engine fire up, and broke into a run. They cleared a stand of oak trees to see a dark truck fishtailing its way onto Wolf Trap Road, one road over from Dix’s house. Snow and gravel fantailed, spraying a huge arc. They were too far away, the snow too thick, to make out the license plate.

“It’s a Tacoma,” Penny said. “Tommy’s got one. I’ve washed that sucker more times than I can count. It

’s black, or really dark blue.”

Dix spoke quickly on his cell, then stuffed it back in his jeans pocket. “Emory will be here in a minute with a cruiser. We’re going after that damned truck. B.B., you head back to the house and post a few of us there. You have enough cruisers to set up a perimeter. These guys are playing for keeps. Hey, keep my boys safe.”

In under three minutes, Dix, Penny, Claus, and Emory were piled into Emory’s squad car, Dix driving. Penny was leaning out the passenger-side window, trying to make out the truck’s tire tracks.

“Straight down Wolf Trap Road, Sheriff,” she yelled. “These tracks are a giveaway.”

They skidded and slid from one side of the road to the other because they were moving so fast, but Dix managed for the most part to keep them on the pavement. They came up to Lone Tree Road.

“Left, Sheriff!”

He spun into the turn, nearly into a ditch. Dix, cursing a blue streak, managed to get the cruiser heading down the road again.

Dix heard Claus say over and over in the backseat, “We’re gonna get ’em and skin ’em and fry their livers—”

“Good images, Claus,” Dix called out. “Too bad it’s not that kind of hunt. Penny, are you freezing out there?”

“I’m okay, Sheriff. Not good—we’re nearing the highway. You know that Doppler Lane on-ramp to Seventy East. If they get on that, we can put in a call to the Highway Patrol.”

“Nah, we’ll get them,” Dix said, and sped up. “Hey, that may be them ahead of us.” Dix pressed his foot on the accelerator. His deputies’ cruisers were well built with new winter tires and lots of power under the hood, but he knew he was pushing the envelope at the speed he was going in the middle of a snowstorm. He doubted the men in the truck were doing as well. He looked over at Penny, who grinned at him as she tugged her wool cap down to her eyes, her face nearly covered with ice. “Hallelujah, I see the truck, not more than fifty yards ahead! We’re going to get them, Sheriff!”

Claus stuck his head out the back window. “I can’t see the license plate yet, but the truck does look like Tommy’s Tacoma. For sure it’s black.”

The truck skidded around the eastbound on-ramp and leaped forward when it hit Highway 70 East, its rear end swerving violently to the right, then sliding nearly off the road. Finally the driver managed to straighten.

There would be few cars on the highway in this storm at one in the morning, a good thing, Dix thought, as he fought to keep the cruiser in the middle of the on-ramp, through the curve, and onto the interstate. “

Emory, Penny was right. Call the Highway Patrol in, maybe they can cut these guys off ahead. Stumptree exit’s four miles up.”

Dix knew his speed was crazy in these conditions, but he didn’t care. He wanted these men badly. They’

d attacked his home, put his boys in harm’s way, tried to kill Madonna, for God’s sake. Who was she?

What had she done, or seen? He should never have brought her to his house, to his boys. But how could he have known two killers would come after her?

He was doing eighty, but he couldn’t see the truck. He supposed they might have cut their lights. “Penny, can you see the truck?”

“It’s in and out.”

“Emory, pass Penny your Remington so she can try to shoot their tires when I get us close enough. I want these morons alive.” The Remington bolt-action was Emory’s pride and joy, but he didn’t argue since Penny could outshoot anyone in the department.

In that instant, a bullet slammed into the corner of the windshield, spiderwebbing the glass.

“Son of a bitch!” Emory yelled.

“Penny, pull back in!” Dix shouted as he slowed and swerved.

“Give me the rifle already, Emory. It’s time for some payback!”

“Dammit, Penny, be careful.”

She laughed, and checked that she had five live rounds. Penny was a lioness, Dix thought, no fear at all, and he sped up to get closer. He saw the truck, speeding as well, keeping the distance between them about constant. Penny fired once, twice, all five rounds, quick and controlled, into the dense falling snow. Dix could barely make out the truck, but in that moment he saw a flash of light, low, near the back left tire.

He yelled to Penny, “I think you hit something, maybe a rear light.”

“Yeah, I think so, too,” Penny said as she jammed five more rounds Emory handed her into the Remington. “Hey, Emory, nice gun. This barrel is heavier than my mother-in-law.”

Claus yelled, “There’s a guy leaning out the passenger window. Watch out, Penny!” Penny had already pulled back in. They heard six rapid rounds, and the sound of two bullets pinging against their right fender and the front grill. Penny hung herself out the window again, fired another five rounds quickly. “We’ve got to get closer, Sheriff. I can’t see well enough to hit a tire.”

He was doing eighty in a near blizzard, and pressed the accelerator to ninety. He heard Claus shouting to Penny and firing his Glock out the driver’s-side rear window to give her cover or at least to distract the guys in the truck.

Penny fired again after Emory fed her more rounds, slowly this time so she wouldn’t drop them with her cold hands.

There was a ferocious roar. The flash he’d seen earlier flared up like a night beacon, a huge circle of blinding white reflected blue in the thick, spearing snow. Dix heard Penny cry out, saw Emory jerk her back in. A bullet had hit her just as the truck blew. The world froze, shrank to a pinpoint in the next second as he watched flames whip up through the thick swirling snow, orange as the prisoner overalls in the Loudoun County lockup, rip twenty, thirty feet into the sky, red and orange, thick black plumes of smoke rising all around them.

Dix was already pressing on the brake when the truck exploded in a deafening roar that sounded like the thunder of drums. They drove right through the fireball with debris flying at them. A slice of black metal scraped along the top of the cruiser, without breaking through the roof. A foot lower and it could have killed all of them.

Dix kept pressing the brake, trying to hold it steady until the cruiser slid into a slow skid. Dix prayed as he lifted his foot off the brake and steered into the skid, and slowly, finally, straightened the cruiser again.

“Sheriff! Ohmigod!”

Dix thought his heart would stop. A flaming tire was rolling toward them at a manic speed. Dix spun the wheel to the right and the tire crashed into their rear end, slammed them forward, then sharply to the left.

“Everyone, hang on!”

They ripped through the guardrail still moving fast and plowed into a field filled with snow. Small bits of ash rained down around them.

The cruiser came to a stop ten feet from the guardrail on fairly level ground, luckily well away from the thick stand of oak trees on the side of the road. A snowbank a good four feet deep stopped them dead. Penny was slumped in the front seat, Claus’s arms holding her back from the windshield. Her head was bleeding.

Dix felt a moment of dizziness, shook it off. He pulled off Penny’s wool cap and pressed it hard against the wound at the side of her head. “Let’s get her to the road. The cruiser’s done. Claus, call nine-one-one.”

They pulled Penny carefully from the front seat and Emory carried her back to the highway as tenderly as he carried his baby daughter.

They saw sparks flying from a live wire that suddenly leaped toward them, coiling and uncoiling wildly. The wire suddenly snapped at Claus, nearly got his leg before he jumped back. They watched the wire finally settle into the snow, sparks still leaping out of the end of it. Dix said, “Everyone okay?”

“Just shook up a bit, Sheriff,” Emory said as he leaned over Penny, checking her pupils. “But Penny, her head’s still bleeding and she’s unconscious. I don’t like how she looks at all.”

Claus cocked his head. “I hear sirens. We’ll have help real soon.” He looked at the flaming truck. “

Nope, it sure don’t look good for the bad guys.”

CHAPTER 9

MADONNA WATCHED THE sheriff hug his boys against him. They had been terrified for him, but they were boys and they were trying as hard as they could not to show it. They were silent, but they clutched their father so hard he must have had trouble breathing. She knew they weren’t talking because they were afraid if they did, they’d cry. As for her, she felt helpless, useless as a eunuch on his wedding night, and hated it.

Dix spoke quietly to his sons, telling them he was very proud of them, and he thanked them for watching over Madonna, which made her smile for a moment.

Finally, Rob pulled away. He stared up at his father. “There’s blood on your face.”

“It’s not mine, don’t worry.”

“You scared the shit out of us!” Rob drew back his fist and slammed it against his father’s arm.

“Don’t cuss,” Dix said automatically. He rubbed his arm, grinned down at his boy. “Not bad. You’re going to lay me flat in a couple of years. You guys give Madonna any grief?”

“Nah,” Rafer said, taking a bit longer than his older brother to pull himself together. “She made cocoa and we told her the story about old man Steeter’s house, how he used to steal little kids and hold them prisoner. She said she couldn’t tell us any stories because she doesn’t remember any.”

Dix raised his eyebrows. “That story would certainly make her feel better tonight, made her wish she’d made up a story for you.”

Rob said, “Madonna wants to see the house, see if there are any secret passageways.”

Dix said to her, “Old Mr. Steeter died some ten years ago, left his big old Victorian house to a nephew who never came to claim it, lots of legalities preventing anyone from buying it and fixing it up. The kids around here make a big deal out of it.”

Madonna said, “It would be fun to explore if you swear no kid-ghosts would come out after us. You want a cup of cocoa, Sheriff?”

“That’d be great.” Dix stripped off his coat and gloves, excused himself to wash the blood off his face in the downstairs bathroom. When he came into the kitchen, he sprawled down in one of the kitchen chairs, Rob and Rafe closed in beside him.

“You’re going to tell us all about it, Dad?”

“Did you get those guys who shot at Madonna? Where’d the blood come from?”

“It was pretty hairy, Rafe. We had a car chase on the interstate. Penny must have hit their gas tank because their truck blew up. The bad guys didn’t make it. That was Deputy Penny’s blood on my face. She took a head wound, she’s in the hospital, resting comfortably. She’s going to be all right. The fire department is bringing in the remains of the truck.”

He’d given the boys enough to satisfy their blood lust, Madonna thought, but not enough to make it too real for them. But still, even those bare facts were terrifying.

“Did those guys get burned up?” Rafe asked.

“Yes, Rafe, they did.” Blown up and burned up, Dix thought, can’t get more gone than that. Rob said, “Did Penny have to get stitches in her head?”

“Yeah, about ten, all set real pretty by Dr. Oliphant.” Dix shook his head at Rafe, who looked disappointed, then yawned real big.

Dix said, “It’s going to be light in a couple of hours. Let’s see if we can’t get some sleep, okay?”

“Rob and I could stay up all night and not be tired, Dad.”

Somewhere inside Madonna there was laughter and it bubbled out. “Since I’m old, a little sleep sounds good to me.” She let herself be herded upstairs by the sheriff along with his two boys. She thought about lying on her back in Rob’s bed again, staring into the darkness, terrified of who she was and who she might turn out to be. She hoped that in the morning he’d tell her everything that had happened, not just the bare bones of it, that he’d know, most important, who the men were and why they tried to kill her. She hadn’t been about to ask him in front of the boys.

DIX WOKE UP at ten o’clock Sunday morning, felt a spurt of panic, and drew a deep breath. It was over, and they were all right. He found Rafe and Rob both still asleep together in Rafe’s bed in the boneless way of teenagers, and he smiled. He checked on Madonna in Rob’s room and saw that the bed was not only empty, it was nicely made. The bed hadn’t been made that nicely since Christie—No, he wasn’t going to think about her. Even with the broken window frame, the room wasn’t cold since she’d kept the curtains drawn tightly over the window.

When he walked into the kitchen twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, she was pulling biscuits out of the oven.

“Hi, I heard you coming. Coffee’s fresh, on the counter.”

“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he said, eyeing the biscuits.

“It’s Sunday morning, the only day of the week your arteries are immune to cholesterol. You like scrambled eggs and bacon?”

“I’ll make breakfast. Come on, sit down and—”

“Sheriff,” she said patiently, “I feel fine. I’m bored. Let me do something for my keep, all right?”

She fed him a decadent breakfast, butter and strawberry jam dripping off hot biscuits, and he thought this was exactly what a Sunday morning breakfast should be. He had to admit her biscuits were as good as his blueberry muffins.

Dix took the last bite of his third biscuit, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said, “You remember anything more today?”

She shook her head, drank down more coffee.

“I know you’re scared, Madonna. I know it’s tough being in limbo like this, looking at a stranger’s face in the mirror, but I’ll be hearing from IAFIS real soon now and we’ll know who you are. If your real name doesn’t jog your memory, it’ll at least give you an anchor. As a matter of fact, let me check with Cloris right now.” He leaned over and picked up the phone on the counter.

“Hey, Cloris, I need some—”

She heard a woman’s excited voice on the other end of the line talking right over him. She saw him grin, sit back, and listen. Finally, he was able to grab the conversation. “Thanks for all that, Cloris. Yes, what you said, that’s close to what happened. I’ll stop by the hospital to see Penny later. I’ll bet her husband, Tommy, was ready to tear down the hospital he was so scared. That’s great news, though. Okay, Cloris, now it’s my turn.”

He asked her about IAFIS, frowned at her answer. “Okay, but let me know the minute you hear, all right? I’ll be in later.”

He hung up the phone. “I’m sorry. But there’s no word yet from IAFIS. Still, it is Sunday morning, to be fair about it. Those Rob’s jeans?”

She was standing at the sink, washing dishes, listening to him tell her he still didn’t know who she was. And then, what did he say? She whipped around and gave him a blinding grin. “Rob kindly loaned them to me. You forget how skinny boys’ butts are. They’re pretty tight.”

He smiled, stared into his coffee mug.

“Did you ID the men? Tell me what happened.”

He shook his head. “No, we didn’t. The truck was a fireball, but we were able to identify it. It was reported stolen from a dealership in Richmond yesterday. The men had no ID on them, and they were badly burned. Identifying them will take longer.”

“It might not be possible,” she said.

“That’s true. How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “It seems logical, particularly if you don’t have much to work with. A Beretta is too big for me. I don’t like to use them.”

His eyebrow shot up, but he remained silent. She gave a start at what she’d said and began twisting a dishcloth, frowning.

He threw Brewster a small piece of bacon. “What gun do you prefer?”

“A SIG. It has a little kick, but it’s really well made and accurate.”

He nodded. She didn’t seem to find anything odd about describing her gun. Who was she?

“I’m sorry I endangered your boys.”

He said mildly, “You were protecting my boys, keeping them safe and distracted. I really appreciate that.

”

“I know I should have been out there with you, not hiding behind a dresser. You’re very kind, Sheriff. In my experience, not a lot of sheriffs are like you.”

“You know a lot of sheriffs?”

“Well, there was this guy in North Carolina who—” She broke off, shook her head. “All I know is I wanted to smack him. Isn’t that strange? I saw a glimpse of his face—all smirky, filled with attitude—but now it’s gone.”

“What were you doing in North Carolina?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea.”

He rose and walked to her, laid his hand on her shoulder. “Try not to be scared, Madonna. It won’t be long now until you know who you are. As for the rest of it, we’ll find out who those guys were, then we’ll figure all this out, don’t worry.”

Dix left for the sheriff’s office before the boys were up and didn’t return until the middle of the afternoon. When he walked in the door, he sloughed off his coat and gloves as he walked into the living room. “It’s finally stopped snowing. Maybe this’ll be it. The sun even came out on the way home.”

Both Rafe and Rob were on him again. He hugged them and waited for them to break away, which they did soon enough, to hurtle more questions at him.

“We heard about that live wire that could have fried Claus’s leg.”

“What about that huge burning tire that was coming right at you?”

“And those guys who tried to shoot Madonna—nothing left but burned-up skeletons!”

“So someone’s been telling you all about it, huh? I’m hearing some bits of exaggeration there. I told you the important stuff last night. You guys got your homework done?”

“Ah, Dad,” Rob said. “It’s Sunday. We’re going sledding on Breaker’s Hill again.”

Rafe said, “Don’t you remember, Dad? We finished with Othello Friday night. Madonna beat the wadding out of us at Scrabble. We learned a new word—lichen.”

Dix opened his mouth to answer when he heard a car drive up. Now what? He looked at her and called out, “Your name’s not Madonna. It’s Ruth.”

“What? What did you say? My name’s Ruth? Ruth what? Who am I?”

There was a knock on the front door. Normally Dix would let the boys answer, but the previous night was still too fresh in his mind. He picked up a barking Brewster and strode to the front entry. “Warnecki,

” he shouted over his shoulder. “Your last name’s Warnecki.”

Dix held up his arm. “Just a moment, boys, stay back, okay?” They responded instantly to the tone of voice but Brewster strained to get away from him. “Calm down, Brewster, calm down.”

Dix opened the front door to see a big man in a black leather jacket, black slacks, white shirt, black boots, and black leather gloves, standing with a woman beside him, also in black.

“Sheriff Noble?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“I’m Dillon Savich, and this is my wife, Lacey Sherlock. We understand you have a woman staying with you who’s having trouble remembering who she is. We’d like to see her.”

“You related to her?”

“She works with us—”

“Dillon! Oh God, is it really you, Dillon? I remember you! Sherlock? Oh, thank God—you guys look wonderful. I’m Ruth Warnecki, and I remember! I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

Savich quickly stepped forward into the entry hall as Ruth leaped at him and he caught her in his arms. She was laughing, kissing his cheek, letting him hold her close, her feet off the ground. She reared back in his arms, tears in her eyes. “It was so horrible. I didn’t remember who I was and all these strange things just popped out of my mouth. This is Sheriff Dixon Noble, and he’s been taking care of me. And Rob and Rafe, who’ve been taking care of me, too. The sheriff just heard from IAFIS, just this minute told me my name is Ruth Warnecki, and then I saw you both and everything came back again. It was real scary, Dillon. Sherlock, you look so beautiful all in black. You guys match so well. I am so glad to see both of you.” And she kissed Savich’s ear and his left eyebrow and held him like she’d never willingly let him go. Dix and the boys stood back, Dix still holding a straining Brewster, who, oddly, wasn’t barking wildly anymore, just seemed anxious to join all the hugging.

The big man, Dillon Savich, let Ruth down, but still held her against him as he turned to say, “Forgive us, Sheriff, but we were very worried when we heard Ruth hadn’t checked in.”

“Checked in with whom?” Dix asked.

Ruth said, “Oh, Luther Hitchcock called you, right, Dillon? He’s a major-league worrier, for which I am profoundly grateful, this time,” Ruth said, grinning like a loon at all of them impartially. “He couldn’t come with me because he had that gallbladder attack and—” She broke off, her face suddenly slack and pale.

“What, Ruth? What happened?”

“Dillon, someone’s trying to kill me and it must be because of the treasure in Winkel’s Cave.”

“Winkel’s Cave?” Dix asked. “What treasure? Who are you, Ruth?”

Sherlock smiled at the tough-as-nails-looking man holding a little white ball of fluff under his right arm who was trying hard to jump at them, a teenage boy on either side of him, standing real close. “We’re all FBI, Sheriff.”

Ruth stuck out her hand. “Special Agent Ruth Warnecki, Sheriff Noble. A pleasure to meet you.”

Dix took her hand, Brewster licked it. She shook his hand up and down, she was that excited. He said, “

So that’s why you shoot a SIG.”

“I also have a Glock seventeen.”

“You’re really an FBI agent, Madonna?” Rafe asked. “I mean, Ms. Warnecki, er, Special Agent Warnecki? A real FBI agent like they have on TV? Boy, it must have burned your butt when Dad told you to hide behind the dresser.”

She laughed. “Not really, at least at the time. I’m sure he wouldn’t ask me to do that now, he’s not like that idiot sheriff in North Carolina. Come on, you guys, call me Ruth.” Brewster started barking frantically. Ruth plucked him from Dix’s arms and hugged him. “It’s so good to be me again,” she said, “

as in back in my own brain. Much better than being Madonna.”

Brewster licked her face, barking wildly between licks as he peed on Rob’s sweatshirt.

CHAPTER 10

RUTH SAT BETWEEN Savich and Sherlock. She didn’t want to let go of their hands.

“Tell us what you can,” Savich said, “we’ll help you fill in all the blanks, don’t worry.”

“The last thing I remember clearly is crawling through that low arch in the cave wall and into that chamber. Then everything starts to get confused and, well—black. I remember the feel of that blackness; it was exactly like in the dream I had last night—so maybe the dream reflects what happened to me.”

“Then tell us about the dream,” Sherlock said as she lightly squeezed Ruth’s hand.

“You’d think it would have gone all blurry by now, but it hasn’t. It’s still as clear to me as when I was in the middle of it. Okay, in the dream I was standing in this dark pit of a place, alone, I couldn’t even see my own hand, but I wasn’t scared about that. I was waiting for a man to bring me a million dollars in gold bars. I know now I was dreaming about the treasure I was looking for in Winkel’s Cave. I heard him coming but then I realized it wasn’t his footsteps I was hearing, and I jerked awake. I’d heard those two guys outside my window. That was all the dream was, nothing more than that.”

Dix was shaking his head. “I still can’t believe there’s a treasure hidden in Winkel’s Cave. I’ve never heard anything like that.” He looked up to see Rob and Rafe standing in the living room doorway, all bundled up and ready to take off for Breaker’s Hill, their eyes focused on Ruth. Rob said, “You know about a treasure in Winkel’s Cave, Ruth? Is it pirate’s gold? Doubloons?”

She smiled at both boys, shook her head. “Nope, it’s better—a stolen gold shipment intended for General Lee in Richmond.”

“Wow,” Rafe said, taking three steps into the living room. “A treasure, here, nearly right where we live and we didn’t know anything about it.”

“But why Winkel’s Cave?” Rob wanted to know. He took a matching three steps into the living room. Ruth said, “Did you guys know that the main ingredient in black gunpowder is potassium nitrate? That comes from niter, or saltpeter, which is formed in cave deposits. During the Civil War, they mined a whole bunch of caves in western Virginia for niter. I’m betting that’s how the soldiers who stole the gold knew about Winkel’s Cave. Maybe they even did some mining there, found the cavern, and decided it was the perfect hiding place. That’s where they hid the gold bars.”

“A million dollars in gold?” Rob asked, moving to stand beside his brother. “How much gold is that?”

“It must have been a great deal since they went to all that trouble.”

Both boys were nearly on top of Ruth now, their sledding forgotten. Brewster hopped onto the back of the sofa and barked at them until Rob picked him up. Ruth said, “Hey, guys, I’ll keep you posted, I promise.”

Dix broke in. “Okay, we need to talk to Ruth now, so off with you. Be careful. I don’t want any more stitches.”

The boys dragged out of the living room. “I wondered if they’d leave without a fight,” Dix said, watching them go. “You really got their juices going, Ruth.”

When they heard the front door open and close, Savich said, “Okay, Ruth, back up. Tell us all about this treasure map, where you found it.”

“Okay. Last month I bought a collection of really old books at an estate sale in Manassas. The books were all over a hundred years old, on every conceivable subject, as you might expect in an old home library. In a skinny little songbook with all the popular songs of the day, I found a map of a cave that clearly had to be Winkel’s Cave. It showed what was labeled as gold bars hidden there by rebel soldiers who were supposed to escort it from the rail hub of Manassas Junction to General Lee in Richmond, like I told the boys. On July twenty-first, 1861, there was mass confusion when McDowell attacked at Bull Run—or Manassas, as it’s called here in the South—and the soldiers must have taken advantage of the confusion and stolen the gold bars, brought them here to store temporarily.

“When the dust settled, there were reports of over a hundred pounds of gold missing from Harpers Ferry. Many believed Union soldiers had captured it. The rebel soldiers who secreted the gold bars in a niche in the cave drew the map so they could come back for the gold after the war, but I guess none of them survived since the map was still in that book. I had the feeling it could have been the only one made, left for safekeeping in that little songbook, maybe when one of the soldiers left the battlefield to visit his family. Obviously he didn’t tell any of his family what he’d done, or about the map. Anyway it looked legitimate, the right age, at least the paper looked old enough, and the handwriting was appropriate for the time.”

Dix said, “There could have been more maps. That would be too much trust among thieves.”

Ruth shrugged. “Maybe. Anyway, it was sure worth a try.”

“But since it looks like others were ahead of you in that cave,” Savich said, “the gold is probably long gone.”

“You’re right, Dillon. And my map is gone. If they didn’t have it before, they’ve got it now.”

Savich said, “We’ll go back to the cave tomorrow. We’re going to find out what happened to you.”

Ruth clutched at his hand. “The thought of going back there scares me, way down to some primal part of me. You know, like there are saber-toothed tigers prowling outside and I’m huddled next to a fire, but it’

s not enough to protect me.”

Sherlock shivered, despite herself. “I wish I didn’t understand, Ruth, but I’ve felt the same way about a place—that maze I was in—but never mind that.”

Ruth settled Brewster back in her lap, caressed his soft ears, and stared at the brisk fire in the fireplace. Dix leaned forward. “You okay, Ruth?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, I just spaced out for a moment. Everything that’s happened since Friday—it’s a little overwhelming.” She dashed tears out of her eyes, then took on a defiant look. “I’m going to shut up about that now. I’m a hard-ass, I’m going to begin acting like it.”

“You can howl at the moon if you want to.” Dix laughed. “What you’ve been through, Ruth, it’s enough to make my macho socks shake off my feet.”

“The important thing is that we’re all here and we’ll get to the bottom of this,” Sherlock said. She gathered Ruth in her arms and hugged her tight as Brewster pushed his nose between them. “You are a hard-ass, and don’t forget it. Now, I want you to tell me caving isn’t that hard. Neither Dillon nor I have ever been off the beaten tourist track in a public cave.”

Ruth pulled herself together. “You have to be real careful. I didn’t find many really tough spots to navigate in Winkel’s Cave, even in the unmapped parts, and that’s probably why the soldiers used the cave to stash their gold bars. The thing is, you’re never supposed to cave alone, so I guess I’m an idiot. I was so excited about this, I told myself I didn’t need to have Luther with me.”

“Yeah,” Dix said, nodding, “that about covers it. You were an idiot. I’m a rank amateur and you couldn’t pay me to go into an uncharted part of a cave by myself, even armed with million-watt searchlights.”

“Thank you, Professor Noble,” Ruth said. She turned to Sherlock. “I love it when a man agrees with me. In any case, I’ll guide you—even though I don’t have the map, I pretty much remember the route I took through the cave. It won’t be too bad, I promise. I’ve been in much tougher caves, like having to belly-crawl through cold water or rappelling down sheer walls and not knowing what’s waiting for you at the bottom—praying there will be a bottom—or shimmying through passages that are too small for a twelve-year-old.

“There aren’t even any real claustrophobic spots in Winkel’s Cave that make your skin crawl, at least that I saw. I didn’t see any bats or cave animals, and there are supposed to be Virginia big-eared bats in the caves around here. It will be chilly, fifty-four degrees is the average temperature, but we won’t have to wade through any streams. We won’t be down there long enough to worry about hypothermia. We’ll need plenty of light, that’s the most important thing.”

She paused. “I have to know what I ran into when I was in that cavern. I wish I could remember. Was there something I wasn’t supposed to see? Did someone pull me out of there? But if they wanted to help me, why did they hit me over the head and leave me lying unconscious in the sheriff’s woods? Fact is, I probably would have died if Brewster hadn’t found me. And then those two men tried to break into the house and shot at me. If they wanted me dead, why did they leave me alive in the first place?”

“Stop worrying so much, Ruth, we’ll find out,” Dix told her. “Hey, Madonna, we already found out what your name is.”

It was lovely to laugh a bit, to let the terror of Winkel’s Cave fade for a few moments at least. Ruth asked Savich, “How did you find me?”

Savich laughed. “Trust me, Ruth, lots of people know the sheriff found a woman in his woods. And everyone knows all about that high-speed chase on the interstate in the blizzard last night and how those two yahoos tried to kill the woman who was staying at the sheriff’s house.”

Sherlock added, “They even sent your picture out over the wires for identification.” She patted Ruth’s hand. “And now we’re staying here until we figure everything out.”

“But, Dillon, I’m the lead on the Tiller case.”

Savich said easily, “I’ll give Dane a call. He can handle it. Don’t worry.”

“But he’s getting married in two weeks.”

Sherlock said, “Then he’ll be motivated to get it cleaned up, now won’t he?”

Dix asked, “The Tiller case?”

Sherlock said, “A farmer in Maryland was tilling a new parcel of land he’d just bought and plowed up some human remains. We’re just getting our bearings on what happened.”

Dix said slowly, “I heard on the radio about you guys finding a kidnap victim dead and buried in a Korean War soldier’s grave at Arlington National Cemetery. What’s that all about?”

Sherlock and Savich exchanged glances. Savich shrugged. “Okay, maybe it’s time we told you about Moses Grace and Claudia, Ruth. You know how you left your cell phone with Connie? Well, she got a call from your snitch Rolly.”

He went on to tell Ruth and the sheriff about the fiasco at Hooter’s Motel, finding Pinky’s body in Arlington National Cemetery, Connie getting shot. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Ruth, but Moses Grace also intimated he’d murdered Rolly.

“We don’t know much about who Moses Grace or Claudia are. We found out he used Pinky’s cell phone to call me. The phone carrier confirmed the call was received through a cell tower in Arlington. We left the account open, in case he uses the phone to call me again. If he even turns it on again, we’ll be able to track him. Despite the drawl he talks in, and all the bad grammar, I think he’s pretty smart. He’s probably dumped Pinky’s phone already.”

“He really tried to shoot Sherlock?”

Savich said, “He wants both me and Sherlock. We left Sean at his grandmother’s before we drove here to Maestro.” He added to Dix, “We’ve been through something like this before.”

“I should have been there, Dillon. You should have called me.”

“Nah, we screwed up things well enough on our own.”

Ruth jumped to her feet and began to pace, Brewster straining in her arms. “I can’t believe you guys came out here looking for me with all this going on back in Washington.”

“Family is family, Ruth. Let it go. You’re right, Moses Grace is a very scary man, I’m quite sure of that from our short acquaintance. He’s targeted me for some reason we don’t know yet—maybe revenge—

so we’ve started a good deal of spade work into my past cases. He’s pretty old, I think, and he sounds sick—hacks a lot, really wet gravel in his voice.”

Sherlock picked it up. “Claudia is young, draws hearts over her i’s, that sort of thing. He calls her his sweetheart. Maybe she’s his daughter, granddaughter, we’re not sure, or maybe she’s a runaway teenager. Sit down, Ruth, you’re making me dizzy.”

Ruth sat, aware that Dix was looking at her. He was realizing he was going to have to adjust to this matter-of-fact cop talk coming out of Ruth’s mouth. Not at all like Madonna. He said, “We’re still trying to find Ruth’s Beemer. I’ll call in the license plate later, but at this point we know it’s been hidden somewhere, or taken out of the area.”

“Her SAV,” Sherlock said, grinning.

Savich turned to the sheriff, who’d been studying each of them for the past few minutes. “I can’t tell you how grateful we are that you found Ruth and kept her safe.”

Dix waved it away. He was studying Savich closely. “I think I recognize your name, Ruth. A couple of months ago you were written up in the Washington Post, weren’t you? You helped locate a math teacher before he was killed by some jealous old nutcase?”

“Good heavens, you remember that?” Ruth grinned. “That was Jimbo Marple. One of my boys saw this old guy take Jimbo right out of a shopping mall parking lot. He called me right away. Savich was so mad when one of the sharpshooters killed the old guy. You’ve got quite a memory.”

“A whole lot of people are involved in every case we’ve handled,” Savich said easily. “Ruth here is known for her snitches. She gathered them all when she was with the D.C. Police Department before she joined the FBI.”

Sherlock said, “And shoots like a champ, Dix. Tells either her SIG or her Glock what she wants to hit and the next instant, it’s dead center.”

“I hid behind a dresser while he was out on that high-speed chase.”

“Well,” Sherlock said easily, “now you’re back with us.”

“A hard-ass,” Ruth agreed, pleased.

Dix smiled a perfunctory smile that didn’t show at all in his stiff voice. “So is the FBI going to take over here?”

Sherlock gave him her sunny smile. “Oh no, Sheriff Noble, we’re simply here to help. After all, Ruth is one of ours. Dillon called our boss, told him what we were doing. Mr. Maitland wants this cleared up as well. He hates it when someone tries to kill one of his agents.”

Savich said clearly, looking Dixon Noble in the eye, “We have no intention of bigfooting you, Sheriff, banish the thought. We can help you with equipment, information, anything you need.”

Dix still didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. “Would you like more tea, Agent Savich?”

DIX PUNCHED OFF his cell phone. He was grinning when he walked back into the living room. “The boys got a better offer than Dad’s leftover stew for dinner. They’re having pizza at the Claussons’ house with a bunch of other kids, bless the Claussons and all their ancestors, so we don’t have to watch what we say. I twisted the truth a bit, told them you FBI big shots weren’t staying long this evening, which meant they wouldn’t be able to get much out of you. That and the ‘Garbage Dump’ pizzas turned the tide.”

After they’d eaten the sheriff’s stew for dinner, Sherlock watched Ruth, as natural as could be, fill the kettle at the sink and put it on the stove, and fetch tea bags from a big messy cupboard. “Hey, we’ve got some cheese and crackers for dessert. They’re closed with a rubber band so they shouldn’t be stale.”

Dix laughed. “Sorry I didn’t have more to offer you for dinner.”

“The stew was excellent,” Sherlock said. “You’re a good cook, Sheriff.”

“I learned,” he said shortly, and put tea bags into two cups. “Ruth, more coffee?”

He was watching her as she nodded. “Ruth—I like that. I suppose it sounds more like you than Madonna. It’s powerful, biblical.”

Ruth smiled at him. “Sorry to switch names on you in the middle of the stream, Sheriff. Where do you think Dillon and Sherlock should stay in Maestro?”

“At Bud Bailey’s B-and-B, right on High Street, half a block from my office. Oh, I forgot, Ruth. Tell me where you were staying. No one recognized your photo.”

“I hadn’t made a reservation anywhere. I thought after I got my treasure, I’d drive back home if it wasn’t too late.”

“Did you get gas anywhere?”

“Sure, in Hamilton.”

The sheriff frowned. “That’s a bit too far up the road for us to have canvassed. Where do you live?”

“In Alexandria.”

Sherlock said, “The men in the truck that blew up—have they done the autopsies yet?”

“We were lucky we could get the county ME to work on Sunday. Even though the men were burned real bad, he managed to pull up some partial prints, and some dental X-rays. They had to come from somewhere. We’re hoping there’ll be missing persons reports on them in the next couple of days. Unless they were brought in, and that would make them professionals. There wasn’t much time for that, so that may mean some sort of local group is behind this, whoever they are and whatever this is. In any case, I’

ve called in all my deputies, and now the FBI is involved. Any ideas you guys can come up with will be appreciated.”

It was grudging, Savich thought, but it was a start, and the sheriff almost meant it. “We’ll plan to head out to Winkel’s Cave with you as our first stop tomorrow morning.” He turned to Ruth. “You want us to bring anything?”

Dix said as he shook his head, “No, I can provide flashlights and head lamps and picks in case we need them. We have a stack of them in the department.”

Savich nodded, and continued to Ruth, “I don’t suppose you got permission from the Park Service to go into that cave on Friday, did you?”

“Good news. Winkel’s Cave is on private land. Mr. Weaver, the owner, and I have already made a deal. He even had a locked gate in there, but no key, so I kind of picked the lock. It’s what Indiana Jones would have done, isn’t it?”

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “At least we don’t have to worry about getting permission from the Park Service.”

Savich said, “I bet it wouldn’t have been a problem. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Maitland has a golf crony who’s a higher-up in the Park Service.” He shot a look at Ruth, thought of how close she’d come to death. “You’re not going to be out of my sight in that cave, Ruth.”

Ruth looked pleased about that. She said, “Oh yeah, Sheriff, Mr. Maitland has four boys.”

Dix crossed himself.

“Oh dear,” Ruth said, “I’ve got to cancel all my credit cards. I left my backpack and my wallet in my car.

”

CHAPTER 11

WINKEL’S CAVE

MONDAY MORNING

RUTH SAID, “OKAY, guys, we won’t have any stretches of nice electrical lights the Park Service provides for their caves, and there won’t be any well-marked paths. You’ve got backup flashlights in your belts, but right now we’ll only need our head lamps.”

The ceiling was high enough for a while so they could walk upright. With Ruth in the lead, they took several steps around the first corner, a couple of steps down some jagged rocks, and stopped for a moment in complete darkness, except for the light from their head lamps. The cave was eerily quiet, their breaths the only sounds they heard.

“Take a look at the cave formations here,” Ruth said, pointing to a sweep of spectacular draperies, and then panning her head lamp toward a towering stalagmite. “Don’t touch anything, and try not to bump into any of these formations. They’re really fragile. Stay close.”

Since they didn’t need lug soles in Winkel’s Cave, they wore hiking boots. Still, each of them slipped a couple of times, but not badly. “Coming up on the left is a nice drop-off, maybe ten feet down, so stay in my footpath. The map was real specific about this, so maybe one of them took a header here. See that slab of limestone that looks like a commode?” All their head lamps swung to the right. “It’s distinctive, so they drew it on the map. We’re headed in the right direction, I’m sure of it. Okay, all of us except maybe Sherlock will have to bend down some starting soon, and then we veer slightly to the left for another ten feet or so. Sherlock, your head should clear okay. It’s narrower, too, but don’t worry, it’ll widen out again.”

“It’s so dark,” Sherlock whispered. Her voice echoed back to her like a hollow reed. “It’s like we’re the only people in the world.”

“We are, in this world,” Dix said. “I’ve never particularly liked caves.”

“Thank goodness Winkel’s Cave isn’t at all hairy, at least where we’re going,” Ruth said. “Like I said, you’re not even going to get your feet wet. Mr. Weaver told me there’s a stream, but it’s in a lower passage, some twenty-five feet down. He said he’d heard it but never seen it. I, for one, wouldn’t want to get lost down there.” Her laugh echoed through the huge vault they were walking through. “If you want to freak out, I’ll show you a copy of American Caving Accidents—people have fallen into pits, got tangled up in ropes, died of hypothermia from crawling in muddy water, even drowned. Now that I’ve scared you, caving isn’t dangerous if you know what you’re doing. Scrapes or bruises or sprains, that’s usually the worst of it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Dix said, “you’ve shown how careful you are in unexplored sections of unfamiliar caves around here. I’d call that pretty dangerous.”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Ruth said. “Okay, we’ve got about twenty more feet to go before we crawl a bit to the right through a passageway that leads to pretty near where I think I ended up.”

Dix cursed.

Savich said sharply as he swung his head lamp around, “What is it?”

“Stumbled on one of Ruth’s loose rocks. It’s okay. I have a little trouble with all this darkness.”

“We’ve got an overhang coming up; lower your heads, guys.” The men nearly doubled over.

“Another ten feet or so and it’ll get bigger again and we’ll be able to stand up.” But after five more steps, Ruth stopped cold. “Hello, what’s this?”

They moved up to huddle around her, training their head lamps straight ahead. A huge pile of debris blocked the low passage, chunks of limestone and dolomite, dirt and rocks. Ruth said slowly, “This isn’t just a cave-in, it’s the result of a blast. Look at how far some of these rocks were thrown.”

Dix made his way to the heaping pile, tested it with his hands. He pulled out a couple of rocks, knelt down, and pressed against it with his shoulder. “It feels solid. I don’t think we’re going to get through here at all, not without some heavy equipment.” Still, he and Savich put muscle into it.

“You’re right, it’s solid,” Savich said.

For several moments, they could think of nothing to do but stare at the obstacle in their path. Dix said, “I guess someone’s pretty serious about keeping you out of here, Ruth. They must have blown it at night when no one was around.”

Dix looked back at them, and thought they all looked like rejects from a B movie, with gas masks attached to their belts, staring at the huge pile of rock in front of them. “You know,” Dix said, “maybe I’

ve got a better idea than bringing in bulldozers, not that that’s even possible. My father-in-law, Chappy Holcombe. He grew up here, used to tell me he knew the caves in this area, said he’s explored most of them. He may know another way through here, another way in other than the main entrance.”

“You’re right, no way to get any big equipment in here to dig through this mess,” Savich said. Sherlock said, “I say we go talk to Dix’s father-in-law. If he knows a back way into the cave, that would make things a lot easier.”

Ruth said, “Sounds like a good idea to me. Let’s go see him. Oh, and we’ve got to pick up more catsup. Rafe said we pigged it all down last night with the rest of the stew.”

“Rafe likes catsup on his scrambled eggs,” Dix said. “He had to do without this morning. Yeah, let’s go. I think we’d all feel better getting out of here for a while, anyway.”

“Let’s do it then,” Savich said, “before I get a permanent bend in my back.”

TARA

NEARLY AN HOUR later, on the opposite side of Maestro, Dix pulled his Range Rover through massive iron gates, impressively scrolled with the word Tara. They drove a quarter of a mile on a well-graveled road with stone fences running alongside, lined with oaks and maples, snow piled high on either side. They climbed steadily until Ruth saw what must have been the biggest house within fifty miles. It resembled a Southern plantation, a huge expanse of white with Doric columns lining the front.

“Some spread,” Ruth said. “How old is Tara?”

Dix turned into the circular driveway large enough to park twenty vehicles. “Chappy built it in the late fifties for his bride, Miss Angela Hastings Brinkman of the New Orleans Brinkmans. He had the architect copy the descriptions of Tara from Gone With the Wind.”

Sherlock asked, “It’s obvious he’s got money. How’d he make it all, Sheriff?”

As they walked up the wide set of six deep-set stairs, Dix answered, “He learned banking at his daddy’s knee, he told me when I first met him. He owns a privately held bank, Holcombe First Independent, with a dozen branches in the area. He and his wife, Angela, had two children, my wife, Christie, and a boy, Anthony. Tony and his wife, Cynthia, live here with Chappy. Angela died when Christie was ten, of what I don’t remember.”

Sherlock asked, “Is Chappy into any other kinds of businesses?”

Cops, Dix thought, they had to know everything. He grinned at her vivid face framed by a head of curly red hair.

“He’s done some real estate development in Virginia, Washington, D.C., and Maryland. Nothing big or splashy here in the sticks.”

Dix hit the bell and they waited about half a minute before one of the mammoth oak front doors swung inward.

“Hi, Chappy. Where’s Bertram?” Dix asked.

“Damned butler’s got a bug in his gut, was puking up all over himself, so I sent him to stay with his doctor sister in Belleville.

“And who are these people, Dix? Oh, are you the young lady Brewster found in Dix’s woods? You’re the talk of the town.” At Ruth’s nod, he put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “You and Dix hooking up like that—and that wild Saturday-night truck chase with Dix and his deputies hanging out the windows of the cruiser like Dirty Harry; it’s the only thing folks are talking about in town. I guess that makes you celebrities, Dix. How does it feel?”

“Chappy,” Dix said pleasantly, “let me introduce you to FBI Special Agent Ruth Warnecki.”

“Yeah, so I heard, Miss Warnecki. What a kick to meet a female FBI agent.”

Ruth stuck out her hand to the old man still standing in the doorway in front of her. “Yes, a kick is a good way to describe it.” She pumped his hand.

“Chappy Holcombe, at your service, ma’am. What do you think of my grandboys?”

“Well, I’m wearing Rob’s sweatshirt, jeans, and coat, and Rafe’s socks. I’d say that at this point in my life they’re pretty indispensable to me.”

Chappy showed lovely white teeth when he grinned at her. “You know, Agent, you have the look of my little sister, Lizzie. It was sad though. Died of leukemia when she was fifteen.” He looked at Savich and Sherlock. “And who are these folks?”

After the introductions, Chappy stepped back and waved them into an immense entrance hall covered in twelve-inch black-and-white marble squares that gleamed even in the dull winter light. Because he’d kept them all standing in the open doorway for five minutes, it was ten degrees colder in the house than it should have been. They watched him push the great door closed.

“Three FBI agents in my house all at once,” he said as he waved them into the living room, which was, surprisingly, very cozy. It was filled with family photographs, many of them going back to the turn of the twentieth century. “We get some of Dix’s deputies visiting from time to time, but this is a first.”

Dix said, “Where is everyone?”

“God knows where Cynthia is, probably at the new shopping mall over near Williard. Tony’s at the bank.”

“You’re retired, Mr. Holcombe?” Savich asked.

“Nah, I won’t hang it up until I start drooling on our big-gun bank clients. I can do most of my stuff here at home. Ah, here’s Mrs. Goss. Would you bring some scones and drinks, dear? Everyone sit and you can tell me what this is all about.”

CHAPTER 12

TARA

MONDAY AFTERNOON

“AND WHAT IS it you want to know about Winkel’s Cave, Dix?”

Dix said, “Christie told me you’ve explored every cave in the area, Chappy. She said Winkel’s Cave is your favorite, that you know every square inch of it. So I’m asking you to tell us whether there are any other entrances, other caves that communicate with Winkel’s besides the main entrance?”

Ruth sat forward in a lovely Louis XV chair, her scone cupped in a napkin so no crumbs would fall on the green satin chair cover. “It’s very important to us, sir,” she added. Chappy looked at each of them in turn and put his coffee cup down on the small table beside him, a very old and elegant antique, Sherlock noted, that shone with the high gloss of excellent care. He said, “

Maybe there are. There are dozens of small caves around here, and some larger ones, too, but I never found any I could get through to Winkel’s Cave. Of course, those limestone and dolomite caves are incredibly complex, and some of them might communicate with each other through channels you’d never know about, much less get through. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you want to know something like that. Why the devil do you want to get into Winkel’s Cave through a back door when there’s a perfectly good main entrance?”

Ruth realized in that instant that the arched opening she’d found probably hadn’t been known to any other human being in a hundred and fifty years. She heard Dix say in that calm, measured voice of his, “I’

d just as soon keep that close to my vest for the moment, Chappy, if you could bear with us.”

Chappy chewed on his lower lip a moment, absently picked up a scone, and eyed it as he said, “Well, why shouldn’t I help you? I could show you openings to some of the caves I know near there. It’s not like I have to nail down my takeover strategy for Citibank in the next ten minutes. Hey, don’t sputter your coffee on that pretty sofa, Dix—I was joking. But still, I don’t understand any of this. These caves, why do you want to get into them?”

Savich said, “We’re following up on what happened to Ruth down there, Mr. Holcombe. She got into one of those caves somehow, through Winkel’s Cave.”

“So there may be both a front and back door,” Ruth said.

“Maybe there’s one that passes through to Winkel’s Cave. I remember I stumbled across an opening into a large cave near there when I was a boy looking for arrowheads. Only thing was, it was a dead end, only the one cavern. But then again I don’t remember if I looked all that closely through there, and I haven’t been back in forty-odd years. The entrance I’m thinking about is over near Lone Tree Hill, in the steep side of a gully.” He paused, pulled on his earlobe. “I’ll have to show you, what with the snow covering everything.”

Dix shot a look at Savich, who shrugged and nodded.

Ten minutes later, the five of them climbed into Dix’s Range Rover pressed in between the caving equipment along with four lanterns from Chappy’s stash of camping gear.

“A lantern and a flashlight is all you need. I never liked those built-on headlights,” Chappy said to no one in particular.

“This is a sweet car,” Chappy continued, patting the dashboard. “Christie loved this car, said the Brits got it right with this one. I bought it for her for Christmas three years back. It’s the Westminster Edition, only three hundred of them imported that year. She liked this soft black leather, said she loved to get it up to ninety just to watch your face go red, Dix, and your fingers turn white clutching the chicken stick.”

Chappy saw the closed look on Dix’s face, the same look he’d worn for nearly a year now. At least it was better than the blank despair Dix had shown that first year.

Dix didn’t respond. They both looked out at the road in silence, and Ruth was left to wonder where Christie was. If she’d left, why hadn’t she taken her prized car?

After a couple of minutes, Dix said, as he wiped his gloved hand over the bit of fog on the windshield, “

You guys okay back there? Enough room?”

Savich laughed. “I’ve been trying to talk Sherlock onto my lap, but no go. Yes, there’s plenty of room for us and all the lanterns, too.”

Ruth said, “Hey, Dillon, when I get my driver’s license replaced, will you let me drive the Porsche?”

“You think I’d let someone drive my Porsche who didn’t even know who she was until yesterday?

Forget it, Ruth.”

Sherlock said, “Your amnesia has nothing to do with it, Ruth. He won’t let anyone drive that car.”

Chappy turned in the seat. “A Porsche?”

“Yes, sir, a 911 Classic. Red, nearly as old as I am.”

“You’re a big guy—you fit in that thing?”

“He fits great,” Sherlock said. “I have to beat the women off with a stick.”

“More often it’s the guys,” Savich said, “with their heads under the hood.”

Chappy had Dix turn right off Raintree Road onto a single-lane road that was covered in snow and badly rutted. Dix said, “No one’s ever plowed this road. The snow looks pretty deep but I think we can get through. The Rover has never let me down.”

It was slow going, the snow reaching nearly to the top of the Range Rover’s wheels at times, but they kept moving. They passed a couple of old wooden houses set in hollows of land a good ways back from the road, surrounded by trees, snow piled high around them and over the old cars parked in the driveways.

Dix said more to himself than to anyone else, “That’s Walt McGuffey’s place. It doesn’t look like he’s left the house in a while. I’d better call Emory, have him check to see if Guff is okay.” He pulled out his cell phone and called the station.

When he signed off, Ruth noticed how quiet it was out in the woods. The bright midday sun beat down, glistening off the white hills, sending drops of snowmelt falling in a rapid cadence from the naked oak branches.

The road dead-ended about fifty feet ahead. Dix said, “I don’t think we should go off-road in this snow.”

“Don’t try, we’re close enough,” Chappy said. “We’ve got us a little hike now. Ruth, you up for it?”

“Yes, sir,” Ruth said. “A little thump on the head wouldn’t stop me. I’m up for about anything.”

“Bring your shovel, Dix,” Chappy said.

The snow was so deep it was inside their boots within fifteen steps of the road. They heard a rustle in the trees to their left, and a rabbit appeared, stared at them, and hopped back into the woods, up to his neck in snow.

“I don’t think he’s one of the bad guys,” Dix said. “Look around you, it doesn’t get more beautiful than this.”

Chappy said, “Yeah, yeah, you’re a regular PR guy for Maestro, and here you are, a city boy.”

Dix rolled his eyes. “Not anymore, Chappy. I’ll tell you, when I visited my family in New York City last year, it seemed like I’d landed on a different planet.”

Ruth bent over to retie her boot laces. “How much farther, Mr. Holcombe?”

“Call me Chappy, Special Agent.”

Ruth laughed. “I guess you’d best call me Ruth.”

“I’ll try, Ruth. But you know, that sounds like you stepped out of the Old Testament or should be home, spinning cloth in front of a fire.” Chappy stopped a moment, scanned. “Over there, I think, another thirty or so yards,” he said, pointing. “You can see Lone Tree Hill—that single oak tree standing on top of that rise? It’s been standing sentinel up there longer than I’ve had feet on the ground. The snow’s really changed how everything looks—the snow and all the years.”

They trudged on toward that single oak tree. Nearly goose-stepping through the snow with the bright sun overhead, they weren’t cold, but their feet were wet through. “Rob’s got lots of wool socks he can lend us, if you need any,” Ruth said to Sherlock. “Dix can see to Dillon.”

Chappy held up his hand, stopped. They were standing some ten feet from the edge of a gully that fell at least twenty feet, forming a bowl of sorts some thirty feet across. The sides of the gully were covered with scraggly trees and blackberry bushes, all weighed down with snow. Lone Tree Hill stood to their left, upslope, the oak tree silhouetted against a cobalt sky, its branches laden with snow. Ruth said, “It looks sort of like a Christmas tree. I’ll bet it’s a favorite for photographers.”

“Yeah, but mostly from a distance. Few people come up here,” Chappy said, wiping snow off his arms. “

My wife loved to paint that tree, in every season. A lot of people can see it from all around here.”

Chappy pointed to the far side of the gully. “Over there, by that bent old pine tree, that’s where the cave opening is. That old tree looked near death when I was a boy. It still looks like it’s about to fall over.”

Once they’d made it across the gully and climbed up some six feet, Chappy stopped. “The opening must be right there, beneath all that brush.”

The brush came away easily, too easily. Savich stepped back when Dix began to shovel away the snow that had fallen through the brush. When he hit solid rock, he looked over his shoulder at Chappy. “You’

re sure, Chappy? There doesn’t seem to be an opening here. Should I try to the left or the right?”

Chappy shook his head. “Nope, right there, Dix, by the twisted old bush. I’m not totally senile yet.”

“Wait a minute,” Savich said. He squatted down and wiped away the remaining dirt and snow with his gloved hand. “Chappy’s right. This is the spot all right. That brush came away awfully easy, didn’t it, Dix? It looks like somebody’s packed a bunch of rocks in here. To hide the entrance.”

“They did a nice job of it,” Sherlock said. “It’s invisible until you brush it clean and look real close. This could be where you got out, Ruth. It looks like somebody’s trying to cover up that cave from both ends.”

“Dix, you think you can pry those rocks out of the way with your shovel?” Ruth asked.

“Let’s give it a shot,” Dix said. He wedged the shovel beneath the lowest rocks and shoved it down into the earth. It took a lot of muscle, but after five minutes, Sherlock had pulled out the last stone. They caught their breath, staring at a cave opening in the side of the hill, maybe four feet high, three feet wide. They looked into blackness.

“Just a moment, Dix,” Chappy said, elbowing his way forward. “Let me check this out first.” Chappy leaned down into the opening. “Yep, I remember now. There’s the easy slope downward, to the right. You have to press hard to the right because two feet to the left there’s a nearly sheer wall that plunges straight down. When I was a teenage boy with more luck than brains, I tried to rappel down. Maybe twenty feet later I freaked out because out of nowhere bats were swarming all around me, heading up to the cave entrance.

“I remember that right-hand passage led to one big chamber. I don’t remember any connections to Winkel’s Cave, but I suppose there may be some small ones.

“I’ll go first. You follow close behind me, single file. I remember it widens out pretty fast.”

Dix laid his hand on his father-in-law’s shoulder. “Ruth might have been exposed to gas in there, Chappy. There could be residue. I don’t want you swooning away at my feet. Think of your reputation. I’d prefer it if you’d let me go in first. I’ll be careful, I’ll keep pressed to the right.”

“I hate it when a snot-nosed kid plays sheriff.”

Dix laughed. “I’m paid to push you out, old man, if it means keeping you safe.” Dix lifted his flashlight to shine it down into the opening. It sloped down but the ceiling was more or less level, so it was well over six feet high very quickly. And it looked narrow, but not so much that he couldn’t get through. He eased through the opening, climbed down five steps to the right, and called back, “It’s seems okay down here so far.”

They followed him in, Savich bringing up the rear. Dix stopped when the space widened enough for them to all stand together. They shone their head lamps around them in the small space, and realized they’d been walking along a limestone ledge.

“Well, that’ll make your blood pump a bit,” Ruth said. She walked over to the edge and panned her head lamp upward. She saw glistening stalactites spearing down from a ceiling that was another twenty feet above them. She couldn’t see the bottom. “The limestone is stained. Look, it’s been gouged out in places. I wonder why.”

“It smells nice and fresh in here,” Savich said, “which means all that rock and dirt wasn’t piled in that opening for very long, not long enough for the air to go stale. Since someone went to all the trouble of hiding the entrance, this must be the place we’re looking for.”

They made their way slowly and carefully down the ledge. Ruth asked Chappy, “The chamber this passage opens into, do you remember how big it is?”

“Good-sized, maybe forty feet across, maybe five, ten feet more the long way. But there’s this weirdly shaped limestone niche inset deeply into the back wall that makes it seem even bigger.”

“I don’t suppose you found anything in that niche?”

Chappy gave her a sharp look. “I remember as a kid thinking there should be Indian relics set in there, but I didn’t find any.” He shook Dix’s sleeve. “Okay, you’re going to twist more to the right, I think, and then this passage drops off again—pretty steep so be careful—and dumps you right out into the big chamber.”

When they’d all stepped down into the chamber after Dix, Chappy asked, “Was this the chamber you were in, Ruth?”

“I don’t know yet, Chappy. I don’t remember much.”

“Let’s head in, see if we can find out,” Savich said.

Dix stepped farther into the cavern, his Coleman lantern casting misshapen shadows on the walls ahead of them.

CHAPTER 13

IT WAS LIKE a large vault, the ceiling soaring upward, with myriad groups of stalactites of incredible shapes hanging like chandeliers above their heads. But many of those within reach weren’t whole, more like jagged, broken spears, scattered chunks tossed about on the cavern floor. “What a shame,” Ruth said. “Men did this.”

It was odd, but when she turned her head lamp away from the formations, reflecting light at her, the chamber seemed dark, too dark, and quiet, her voice alien in the dead air. She realized she was afraid.

“You okay, Ruth?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said a little too brightly to Sherlock. “Look at that weird formation. It looks like a casket.”

“Thanks for pointing that out,” Chappy said. “Makes me feel all warm inside. Beautiful, though, isn’t it?

Too bad some people can’t leave beautiful things alone.”

It was odd, Ruth thought, but she had to struggle with herself to walk forward, afraid to find out what had happened to her here, if this was indeed the chamber. But of course it was since someone had gone to all the trouble of sealing up the entrance.

“It’s longer than you thought, Chappy,” Dix said as he walked farther into the cavern, his head lamp lighting up the shadowy walls near him. “Ruth, you think the arch might be over to your right? You want to take a look?”

No, she didn’t even want to move. She felt like she was buried alive and the air was running out and she would suffocate. She wanted to run back out of this airless black chamber with its secrets, wanted to run along that long ledge until she could climb back out into the daylight. She schooled herself not to breathe too hard. She stood very quietly, surrounded by the weaving splashes of light from all the head lamps, and made herself draw in air, slowly, and slower still. She felt a hitch in her throat and she shivered. It was cold in there, colder than it should be.

She drew in another deep breath. Good, she could do that. She was being ridiculous. She made herself turn and walk along the right-hand wall of the cavern. The arch would be there, and she would know once and for all if this was the place where—What? There was still a black hole in her brain, as black as the hole in which she stood. She focused her head lamp on the wall but couldn’t see any opening. She remembered taking steps before, too many steps that didn’t lead anywhere. Circles, she’d probably taken steps in circles, gone round and round, faster and faster. She shook her head again. She remembered the steps ending, but how was that possible?

She stumbled, went down on her hands and knees, and felt a jab of pain in her palm. She’d hit a sharp piece of fallen limestone. She looked at her hand, shook it. It wasn’t bad, she hadn’t cut through her glove. Other than the scattered limestone, the floor was surprisingly smooth. There was something, a small round object, on the floor at the edge of her head lamp light. She crawled over it to get a better look.

It was her compass.

A vivid memory seared through her. Her compass. She’d thrown it away in a moment of what? Anger?

Frustration? She’d thrown it away because it had lied to her, given her directions that were impossible. She’d thrown it away because she was afraid.

She called out in a voice that didn’t sound like hers, “I found my compass. I remember I dropped it here. This is the chamber all right.”

They surrounded her in a moment. Dix took her hand and pulled her up. He took the compass from her, laid it flat on his palm, studied it. “It still seems to be working.”

She swallowed. “When I was in here, it was all squirrelly.” She was shaking her head. “No, I didn’t drop it, I threw it as far away from me as I could.”

Dix slipped the compass into his jacket pocket. He heard her harsh breathing, stepped over to her, and rubbed his hands over her arms. “Listen to me, it’s okay. Whatever happened in this chamber, you survived it. It won’t happen again, all right?”

She wanted to throw herself against him, let him protect her from the monster in this place, just for a while, but she knew she shouldn’t. She held herself back. He sensed she was on the edge and pulled her against him for a moment. He said, “Savich, maybe you and Sherlock should look for the arch.”

Chappy stood beside them, staring at Ruth. “What arch? I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what’s going on here?”

“Later, Chappy,” Dix said.

“Here it is!”

Dix said, “Shall we all go see the arch?”

Ruth nodded her head against his shoulder. “Yes, okay. I’ll be all right. Stupid, really, falling apart like this.”

“Even a hard-ass can take a beating now and then,” Dix said.

They watched as Savich and Sherlock crawled carefully through the archway. There were jagged pieces of limestone around it. After a moment, Savich called out, “Not six feet up the passage is where they set the charge for the blast. It’s a mess in here.”

Sherlock said, “There really is only one way out again.”

Ruth said suddenly, “I smell jasmine. It’s really faint, but it’s there. I remember now I smelled the same thing on Friday.”

“Fresh air I can understand,” Savich said, “but jasmine? Like perfume?”

Ruth nodded. “But that doesn’t make any sense, does it? I wasn’t wearing any perfume. What could it be?”

Chappy said, “Yeah, I caught a vague whiff of something, too. I didn’t know it was jasmine, just something sort of sweet.”

Ruth said, “Chappy, could you show me the niche?”

He led her over to the far wall of the chamber as Savich and Sherlock began to walk the perimeter.

“Thanks, Chappy. Can I have a minute?”

Ruth ran her flashlight carefully along the walls of the irregular, deeply indented space cut in the limestone by water over thousands of years. It looked like it hadn’t been disturbed for a millennium. She knew the gold bars had been left there. Her map read Beneath the niche, but there was nothing there now. Who had found them, and how long ago? She wanted to cry. She’d been so excited, so hopeful, and it was all for nothing. “It’s empty all right, Chappy, you were right.”

She turned away and walked along the back wall of the cavern, away from the others. She smelled jasmine again, stronger now, and there was something else she smelled in the air, something nasty, unwholesome. She kept walking, leaning over when the cavern ceiling dipped a bit. The smells intensified.

She heard a noise, a sort of whispering sound, maybe the soft flap of a bat’s wings. Maybe bats had flown at her when she was there before, maybe they knocked her down and she hit her head. Her eyes flew up and she panned the ceiling with her head lamp. She saw nothing, only the gleam of lacy limestone. She took another step forward and stumbled over something. She went to her knees, threw out her hands to save herself. Her fingers fell on something oddly pulpy and cold. In the deepest part of her, she knew what she’d touched. She screamed, fell back, her head lamp scattering light all around her.

She heard their voices calling out to her, heard them running toward her. She forced her head lamp down. She stared into the greenish bloated face of a young woman.

“Ruth, what is it? What did you find?”

She looked up at Dix. “She’s dead, Dix. She’s the one wearing the jasmine perfume. And that sickening smell, it’s coming off her.”

Dix dropped to his knees beside her. “Savich, Sherlock, I need more light here. Chappy, you stay back, you hear me? Don’t you move an inch this way.”

“I know her,” Dix said as he studied her face. “She’s a student at Stanislaus. I don’t know her name but I

’ve seen her around town from time to time.” He touched his fingertips to her neck, her cheeks, and finally, her hands, folded neatly across her chest. She needed only a lily, he thought. She hadn’t wandered in here by accident, alone, that was for sure. Rigor had long passed. “She hasn’t been dead all that long. I’d say maybe three, four days.”

Ruth said clearly, “I smelled her perfume when I came into the cave on Friday.”

Dix continued matter-of-factly, “The time seems about right. Decomposition would slow in here since it’s cool and dry. You add the really cold weather we’ve been having, and it would slow things even more, but decomposition has started. See that small discolored circle on her chest? It looks like she’s been stabbed. I don’t see a knife, do you, guys?”

“The smell,” Ruth said. “Not the jasmine, that other smell, it’s pretty foul.”

“Yes, it is,” Dix said. “There’s something medicinal to it.”

“No knife,” Savich said, “but I suppose the murderer could have left it in here, tucked away somewhere. The forensic team will have a huge job ahead of them looking through this whole chamber.”

Ruth looked down at the young woman’s face, bathed in the light of all their head lamps. “She’s been posed. Look how her arms are crossed over her chest, her legs straightened out, her dress smoothed down.”

Dix slowly stood, stretched. “Must be some crazy loon here, guys. He kills her, poses her, entombs her here for all practical purposes. He couldn’t have known there was another exit from this chamber. At least he didn’t know until he found Ruth’s arch. It could be out of Poe.”

Sherlock was checking the young woman’s pockets, gently running her hands under the body. “I don’t see a purse. Two pockets, but they’re empty. No ID.”

Ruth looked toward the arched opening on the far side of the chamber. “Do you think she was killed in here?”

“I don’t know,” Dix said. “I don’t want to guess, either. I’m grateful you didn’t stumble over her when you were in here alone.”

She was shivering, so cold her body ached. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She couldn’t look away from that poor dead young woman. “I might have stumbled over her. It might have been what shoved me over the edge. I still don’t remember.”

Dix handed her the compass. “Hold it a moment, Ruth.”

She didn’t want to, but she took it and held it in her open palm. She heard Dillon’s voice. “That’s it, Ruth. Just hold it. You’ve had it for a long time. You’ve used it often. Do you remember what you were doing the last time you held it?”

She dropped the compass. “I was—terrified. Something was coming toward me, a slithering sound pulling itself across the cave floor. I ran, I had to get away from it. And I was screaming.”

Savich clutched her hand tightly. “That’s good, Ruth, that’s really good for now.” He nodded to Sherlock, who pulled Ruth against her. He watched Dix pick up the compass and slip it back into his jacket pocket.

Sherlock said, “Let’s head back outside. We need to get out of here to call for help.”

Savich said, “Dix, did you say your uncle-in-law is the director of Stanislaus, Dr. Gordon Holcombe?”

“Yes. If we can’t ID her real quick, he’ll be able to help us.”

AT THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon, the body of Erin Bushnell, age twenty-two, a very talented violinist from Sioux City, Iowa, was zipped into a body bag in the back of the Loudoun County medical examiner’s van and on its way to the morgue in the basement of the Loudoun County hospital. As they watched the white van make its way slowly through the now-slushy snow Dix said, “The ME, Burt Himple, he’s good, Savich. I think he had some training at Quantico. After meeting you and Sherlock, he

’ll be real careful not to screw up anything.”

Savich looked after the van. “I gave him Dr. Conrad’s name and number at Quantico if he wants to talk anything over.”

Dix said to Ruth, “I think you’re right. Erin Bushnell was probably lying dead in there when you first crawled into the chamber.” Dix paused, looked over at his deputy, Lee Hickey, who’d ticketed Erin Bushnell for speeding a couple of months ago and identified her immediately. “I asked her to go out with me but she told me she was seeing someone,” Lee had said and been violently ill. Savich said, “The murderer probably had just placed her there, posed her to suit some insane directive in his mind, and heard you come in, Ruth. It sounds to me like you were drugged somehow, or gassed—

that he somehow rendered you helpless.”

Chappy, who’d been sitting in the Range Rover, had come over to them when the forensic people had carried the body away in its zippered green bag. He stood watching the dozen or so people moving in and out of the cave entrance. “This has to be the strangest day of my life.”

“It sure ranks up there, all right,” Dix agreed.

“What I don’t understand is why Ruth is alive.”

Savich said, “If Dix hadn’t found Ruth in his woods, we would have searched the cave until there wasn’t a bat left who hadn’t had his wings stretched and examined for clues. Maybe the killer didn’t want to leave her here, knew since she was an FBI agent, there’d be a huge manhunt, centering right here at Winkel’s Cave.”

“Hello, people, it’s me, Ruth. I’m right here. I’m alive.”

Dix said, “And all of us are real happy about that, Ruth.”

“You’re going to go see that twerp-ass Twister now, aren’t you?” Chappy asked.

“Yes. We also need to find out where she lived. Sorry, Chappy, but you can’t come with us. Hey, why don’t you go finalize a buyout of the Bank of America, okay?”

Chappy shook his head. “I know Twister, Dix, know him down to the molecules that make that shifty little pissant tick. You can’t believe a word he says. I’ll be able to tell you if he’s trying to cover up, to protect that precious school of his. I knew every one of his tricks by the time he was ten.”

“Chappy,” Dix said, “Why don’t you tell our FBI agents how you really feel about Uncle Gordon.”

“He’s a sly, twisted little weasel.”

Sherlock asked, “Why on earth would your brother hide anything, sir? We’re only seeing him first because he’s the big cheese at Stanislaus, nothing more, and he can direct us to her friends and teachers.

”

Chappy opened his mouth, shut it, then gave a deep sigh. “I can’t acquire the Bank of America. I tried a couple of months ago, but they’ve got a stranglehold on all the stock options and the CEO is more shark than human—hey, that was a joke. Damn, what a day. All right, I’m going, but I want you to keep me in the loop on this. You promise, Dix?”

Dix nodded. “I promise. Deputy Moran is going to drive you home. Ah, Chappy, don’t get on the phone to Uncle Gordon, all right?”

THE CAMPUS OF Stanislaus School of Music was set some four miles east of Maestro, sprawled in its own private wilderness. Mountains formed a line to the north, with thick forests of oak, maple, and pine climbing their lower slopes. Closer in were low hills, little humps of land really, covered mostly with thick blackberry bushes that thinned toward the east into a wide, flat valley hidden under snow. In the late Monday afternoon light, the campus looked like a precious stone in a matching setting, its red brick buildings clustered around a large main quadrangle, surrounded by trees whose thick branches were weighed down with snow. All the walkways were neatly shoveled. The sounds of a Bach Brandenburg Concerto wafted out of the main auditorium, Van Cliburn Hall, named after the famed pianist, whose trust had given a large grant to the school fifteen years before. They all paused, taking in the scene and those beautiful sounds.

“It’s nearly four o’clock,” Sherlock said. “I hope Dr. Holcombe will still be here.”

“He should be,” Dix said. “He’s a pretty remarkable musician, a flautist and pianist. He’s run the school for the past ten years. Before that he toured, primarily in Europe, and lived in Paris for a couple of years. His daughter, Dr. Marian Gillespie, also teaches here.”

“Is Dr. Gillespie also a musician?” Savich asked.

Dix nodded. “She plays the viola, though Christie told me she didn’t have anywhere near her father’s talent, or his ability to deal with people or do administration. She’s something of an old hippie—you’ll see what I mean when you meet her.”

Ruth asked Dix as they walked up the wide sidewalk to Blankenship Hall, the administration building, “

What does Marian’s husband do?”

“Marian’s husband left her before we moved down here from New York so I never met him.” He added to Sherlock and Savich, “I was with the NYPD, a detective in homicide for four years. When we moved here, thanks in part to Christie’s father, I was elected sheriff of Maestro. The boys and I don’t see Marian much, maybe once every couple of months over at Tara for dinner. Rob and Rafe call it circus night.”

“Families are such fun,” Ruth said. “So did your boys get any of this talent?”

“Rob plays the drums in a band put together by one of his high school friends, a mixed blessing. Rafe plays a bit of piano. Whenever I mention taking lessons, though, he won’t have any of it. We’ll see.”

Dix led them to a gorgeous walnut semicircular information desk where two women watched them approach with a good deal of curiosity. Dix nodded to them both, said, “Mavis, I’m here to see my uncle.”

“He’s in, Sheriff Noble,” Mavis said, eyeing Savich, “although he did say he wanted to leave early today. I think Peter Pepper nabbed him.”

Mary Parton rolled her eyes. “If he’s with Peter, I know he’ll appreciate being rescued. Ah, who are these people, Sheriff? Wait, you’re the woman the sheriff found next to his house, right?”

Ruth smiled really big and nodded. “Yes, I’m Special Agent Ruth Warnecki.”

“Ah,” Mary said, nodding, “so you work in private security? In Richmond?”

“Well, not really,” Ruth said, “I’m a special agent with the FBI.”

“Oh goodness, oh my, how very thrilling. Does a pretty girl like you have a gun and body armor? Well, I suppose that’s top secret, isn’t it? All right then, Sheriff, you take these people right ahead.”

Dix thanked Mavis and Mary and turned to lead them down a long carpeted hallway. “I would have thought they’d have heard all about you by now, Ruth, down to that mole behind your left knee.”

Her eyebrow went up. “You must be thinking of the one behind my right knee.”

They stared at walls covered with large autographed photos of famous musicians, singers, and conductors.

“Quite a rogue’s gallery,” Ruth said. “Goodness, is this Pavarotti? In the flesh? Right here? Yep, it sure is. Would you look at that signature. Not shy, is he?”

Sherlock said absently as she studied Luciano Pavarotti’s photo, “Looks like this photo was taken in summer, maybe fifteen years ago, right here at Stanislaus, with a bunch of excited faculty and students. Hmm. I don’t think Pavarotti has anything to be shy about. Did you know he’s considered the only living operatic lyric tenor who’s really mastered the whole of the tenor’s range?”

Ruth said, “How do you know about his tenor’s range?”

Savich said, “Sherlock was on her way to Juilliard to become a concert pianist once upon a time.”

Ruth said, “I had no idea. I would love to hear you play.”

Sherlock nodded. She seemed to draw herself up. “It was a long time ago, Ruth, but I’d love to play for you. Sorry, Dix, you were taking us to Dr. Holcombe’s office?”

“It’s right at the end of the hall. We have to get past Helen Rafferty, his personal assistant-slash-secretary. She guards him like the Secret Service guards the president.”

Ms. Rafferty was drumming her pencil on a neat stack of papers in the middle of her desk, her eyes on the closed door to Dr. Holcombe’s office. Dix cleared his throat. “Helen?”

“Sheriff Noble! You’re with all these people I don’t know. Well, er, all of you, sit down, please.”

“Helen, could you please give us Erin Bushnell’s address?”

“Why? I see, you don’t want to tell me. Just a moment, I have a directory of all the students right here. I hope she’s not in trouble. Not drunk and disorderly. Ah, yes, here it is.” Helen Rafferty wrote down the address and handed it to Dix.

“Now we’d like to see Gordon.”

“Oh dear, Dr. Holcombe is meeting with a student—but you know what, I’m sure he’s had enough of that. It’s time for Peter to hang it up for the day.” She rose to her feet and marched on three-inch heels to a lovely mahogany door and knocked loudly several times. Without waiting for an answer, she opened the door, stuck her head in, and said in a loud voice, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but the sheriff is here to see you, Dr. Holcombe. He said it’s very important.”

A man’s easy, deep voice said, “Thank you, Helen. I’ll be right out.”

Dix said over Helen’s shoulder, “I’ve got three FBI agents with me, Gordon.”

“One moment,” Dr. Holcombe called out.

Helen stepped out of his office and turned to face them, her hand over her heart. “Oh my, you’re FBI agents? Really? Here at Stanislaus? Oh yes, you’re that woman Dix found huddled against his front door, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ruth said.

“Don’t worry about people staring at you, dear, you can barely make out that bandage beneath all that nice thick hair. You’re really FBI agents? All of you?”

Sherlock said, “Would you like to see our IDs?”

“It’s really not my place to, but I’ve never seen FBI badges before.”

“They’re actually called shields, ma’am,” Sherlock said, “or ‘creds,’” and she handed over her ID. Helen studied it for several moments. “Oh my, isn’t this the neatest thing? Ah, could you please arrest the young man who will be coming out of Dr. Holcombe’s office very shortly?”

“Sure,” Savich said. “Do you want us to haul him out in handcuffs, maybe rough him up a bit first?”

“That would be a treat,” Helen said. She listened for a moment, then stepped back as a thin young man with a starkly ascetic face, a rumpled shirt, and close-cropped hair walked through the office door, his shoulders slumped. Dr. Holcombe followed him, saying, “There’s no such thing as name discrimination, Peter. You must rid yourself of this notion that if a conductor doesn’t like your name, he won’t hire you. Dix, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Peter didn’t appear at all interested, and continued in a loud voice, “Dr. Holcombe, you can’t overlook this. Two rejections. I’ve brought them to you so you can see the truth. The rejections are nice, certainly, but both of them don’t want me. Both! You know very well it’s because of my unfortunate last name. You put my two names together, and everyone busts a gut laughing, particularly conductors and those snotty folks on their boards. You have to read between the lines, but it’s there. No one wants a violinist whose name is Peter Pepper. Can you begin to imagine how many rejections I’ll get after I earn my Ph.D.?”

Helen said in a helpful voice, “I know I’ll think you’re rich from all the money you make on soft drinks. That’s a good start, isn’t it?”

“Enough, Helen, please,” said Dr. Holcombe, unable to suppress a small snort of laughter. “Peter, this has nothing to do with name discrimination; it has to do with their collective opinions that someone played better than you, nothing more, nothing less. I read both letters very carefully, there is no ‘between the lines.’”

Ruth said, “Hey, why not change your name?”

Peter Pepper stared over at her. “I can’t. My mother would kill me, cut me out of her will, then I couldn’t afford the tuition here.”

“Okay then, use a different first name when you next audition, then everyone will be happy. What’s your middle name?”

“Princeton. That’s where my mom went to college.”

“Hmm. Okay, then, how about simply reversing the two names. You’d be Pepper Princeton. Now, that sounds extraordinary. They’ll love it.”

Peter, aka Pepper Princeton, looked deeply thoughtful, then he began to nod slowly, never taking his eyes off Ruth. “No one’s ever admitted before that it was my name that was the problem, but of course I

’ve always known. Pepper Princeton. Now that’s different, and it won’t make anybody laugh. Hello, my name is Princeton, Dr. Princeton. That has a ring to it. It sounds like someone famous. Hey, can I take you to dinner tonight?”

Ruth patted his shoulder. “I’ve already got a date tonight, but thank you. Good luck.”

Dr. Gordon Holcombe watched the young man walk down the corridor, shoulders squared, lively now, a snap to his step. He said to Ruth, “That was brilliant. If only I’d thought of that six months ago. But it was better coming from you. May I take you to dinner tonight?”

Dix ushered them all into his uncle’s office.

“Hey, what about me?” Helen Rafferty called after them. “Would someone like to take me out to dinner?

”

CHAPTER 14

DIX HAD ALWAYS thought that Gordon’s office proclaimed the man. Sheet music littered every available surface, musical instruments leaned against three walls, and a black Steinway baby grand jutted out from the corner, lid closed, loaded down with music scores. The desk, Ruth saw with a smile, was there only as a delivery system for the computer and printer and still more sheet music. There were half a dozen chairs scattered around the room, probably so Dr. Holcombe could pick up random instruments with his students and play. There was no area to sit, only chairs and music stands. A French horn sat on one of the chairs, and others were covered with reviews from newspapers and more sheet music. It was a warm office, Ruth thought, reflecting what was important to the man and not the administrator of Stanislaus School of Music. She found she was smiling at Dr. Holcombe when she said, “Maybe I will have dinner with you, sir. Do you like Italian?”

Dix frowned. “Not dinner, Ruth, it’s not possible. I told the boys I was making all of us hot dogs, baked beans, and corn bread for dinner tonight. They’re expecting you.”

Dr. Holcombe started to say something, but Dix rolled right over him. “We need to speak with you about something serious, Gordon.”

“Why? Is this about Chappy, Dix? What is that old peckerhead up to now? Did you know Cynthia came to see me last week, afraid Chappy was going to kick Tony out of his position at the bank? The boy should simply pick up stakes and leave here, he’d be much better for it. So has Chappy accused me or the school of something and sent you here to arrest me? You know he’s always hated me, Dix. It’s jealousy, all of it; he wants me dead or in jail, anywhere he can’t see me and be reminded that all he’s ever accomplished was making money.”

Dix was the only one not appalled by this show of vitriol coming from the talented and sophisticated Dr. Holcombe’s very nicely sculpted mouth. Dix grinned, shook his head. “Nope, not everything’s about Chappy or his trying to make your life miserable, Gordon.”

Dr. Holcombe leaned against his desk, arms crossed over his chest, looked from one to the other of them. “All right then, Dix, tell me what’s going on. First off, why don’t you introduce me to all these people?”

Dix made the introductions, Dr. Holcombe’s left eyebrow rising each time the letters FBI were repeated. He shook hands with each of them, paused when he took Ruth’s hand. “I realize now that you’re the woman Dix found Friday evening, sleeping in his Range Rover, nearly dead of the cold, but how about these other two FBI agents? Are you all investigating together? How on earth can I help you?”

“How well do you know Erin Bushnell?”

Dr. Holcombe looked momentarily startled, then said to Dix, “Why, Erin Bushnell—very talented, plays the violin with extraordinary verve and bombast. I’ve been working with her on her control and spontaneity, which sounds weird, doesn’t it? After all, music is learned; music is practiced. But that’s what a true artist does—he sounds like the piece of music is bursting out of him, like he’s never played it before, but for these people, here is his gift, his blessing. You should hear Erin play Bartók’s Sonata for Solo Violin. She’s absolutely brilliant. You’ll feel like you’re the first human being to ever hear it.

“How else do I know her? She’s in her fourth year, due to graduate with her bachelor of music in May. I believe she wants to remain for her master’s. What’s going on, Dix? Has Erin done something? I know she doesn’t do drugs, maybe some marijuana, there’s some of that on campus, but never anything stronger. She likes to drive that little Miata of hers real fast, too. Oh no, she didn’t have an accident, did she?”

Dix said, “It’s not drugs, Gordon, and it’s not a car accident. I’m sorry to tell you this, but Erin Bushnell is dead. We found her body in a chamber in Winkel’s Cave. As of yet, we don’t know the cause of her death, but it looks like she was murdered and entombed in that cavern. The exits were covered up, the murderer probably hoping she’d never be found.”

Gordon looked ready to faint, his sharp-boned aristocratic face as white as his knuckles clutching the edge of the desk. His mouth moved, but all that came out was “No, that can’t be possible. No, Dix, not Erin. She was so very talented, you see, so fresh and young and promising. You’ve got to be mistaken. No, that can’t be right. Are you sure it’s her you found?”

Dix lightly laid his hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “I’m very sorry, Gordon, but we’re sure. We think she was killed shortly before Ruth entered that chamber on Friday. The killer probably dragged her in there right before Ruth arrived.”

“Erin in Winkel’s Cave? Why in heaven’s name would she be there? I was thinking about calling her this weekend, arranging for her to give another concert before she graduates, but I got caught up writing this new sonata I’m working on, and I forgot. Oh, that poor child.”

Ruth said to him, “We all feel very badly about it, Dr. Holcombe. But we need your help. Erin needs your help. Someone killed her. We need you to tell us about her—her friends, her instructors, boyfriends, her habits, whatever you can to help us. We need to know where she was on Friday.”

Ruth saw he wasn’t ready to deal with it yet. She couldn’t really blame him. Violent death was always a shock if one knew the victim.

Gordon covered his eyes with his hands. “This is very difficult to accept. A student, one of my students, murdered. Things like that simply don’t happen at Stanislaus. Oh dear. What will this do to our school, to our funding? You’re not thinking that another student murdered her, are you? We breed musicians here, not murderers.” He lowered his head, trying to get ahold of himself. When he looked up again, he was still remarkably pale, but his voice was steady. “Erin studied with Gloria Brichoux Stanford, an older woman, immensely talented, flamboyant, with a razor tongue. She’s given a dozen performances at Carnegie Hall over the years, made many recordings, played with a number of orchestras around the world. You and Christie knew her in New York, Dix.”

Dix explained. “Christie and Gloria’s daughter went to school at Carnegie Mellon at the same time. Gloria accepted a position here at Stanislaus about six months after we left New York, which surprised and pleased us. Her daughter also moved here with her. So Erin studied closely with her, Gordon?”

“Since the beginning of the fall term in September, Erin studied with Gloria two hours a day, at a minimum. I’d say no one on the faculty knows Erin better than Gloria. She may be able to tell you, well

…I don’t know, but wouldn’t she know about Erin’s boyfriends, people she didn’t like, if she’s been worried about something, things like that?” His voice fell off and he stood silent, leaning against his desk, staring down at his lovely Italian loafers. “Erin was so very young, twenty-one, twenty-two? Have you spoken to her parents, Dix?”

“Yes, I did. It was very difficult. They couldn’t think of anyone who disliked their daughter, much less enough to kill her. No recent boyfriend problems they were aware of. They’ll be coming here to take her back home to Iowa. Helen gave us Erin’s address. Do you know if she had roommates? Lived alone?”

Gordon shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“No matter. Thank you, Gordon, for your help. I’m very sorry about this. I’m sure you’ll have a lot to do now. Especially when this gets out to the media.”

“Oh yes, the media will see to it everyone at Stanislaus is crucified over this. I’ve got to take steps to protect my students from them. Well, we’ll deal with it, no choice.” He was no longer Gordon, he was Dr. Holcombe again. “Please keep me informed if you learn anything. I will call Erin’s parents myself. We

’ll set up a memorial here for her.”

Helen was silent when they came out. There were tears in her eyes. “This simply doesn’t seem possible. Erin, dead. I’m so very sorry. She was a fine young woman, really nice at least around me. I was at a couple of faculty parties where she was present. She didn’t drink much, I remember, seemed rather shy, but friendly if anyone made the effort. This is tragic, Sheriff, it really is.”

Ruth lightly patted her arm. “Thanks for your help, Helen.”

Helen said, “Erin didn’t have any roommates. She lived alone.” She handed Dix a card. They watched her walk into Dr. Holcombe’s office and speak quietly to him for a moment as they left. The air outside felt heavy, and cold.

“What’s on the card Helen gave you?” Savich asked Dix when they’d climbed back into the Range Rover.

“Gloria Brichoux Stanford’s cell phone number and address. We’ll visit her tomorrow. Let’s take thirty minutes now to stop by Erin Bushnell’s apartment, see if we can find anything.”

“Some torn-up love letters, signed, might be nice,” Ruth said.

“I’ll settle for some nice clear fingerprints,” Dix said. A couple minutes later he turned onto Upper Canyon Road, only three blocks from campus. It was an old neighborhood lined with brightly painted wooden houses, some of them Victorians. Ancient snow-laden oak trees filled the deep yards.

“She lives on the second floor. There it is,” Dix said.

There was no answer when Dix rang the bell. He knocked, waited, and knocked again. He yelled out his name. Still no answer. He tried the doorknob, and it opened.

He said over his shoulder, “This trust in your fellow man is good for us. Let’s go.”

It was a large house, an apartment on each of three floors. There was no number on the second-floor apartment. He turned the knob. The door opened. “I can’t believe she didn’t lock her door,” Ruth said. “

The front door’s one thing, but this is asking for trouble of a bad kind.”

Sherlock said, “Maybe the killer took her here and he was the one who left the door unlocked.”

They walked into a large, high-ceilinged living room with cushioned window seats lining a turret to the right, facing the street. The living room connected to a dining alcove and a kitchen on the other side of a long serving counter.

Even though no lights were on, it was bright and made brighter by colorful throw pillows and pastel walls covered with huge posters, mostly of Brad Pitt.

“Okay,” Dix said. “Let’s split up and check it out quickly. My deputies will be here to check for fingerprints when they’re done at the crime scene.”

They all knew what they were doing, and in ten minutes they were together again in the living room.

“She needed to go food shopping,” Ruth said. “There was a packet of carrots and a carton of nonfat milk in the refrigerator. I didn’t want to smell it. Only junk in the junk drawer, no memos, no notes.”

The living room, the single bedroom, and the bathroom looked almost unlived in. But not Erin Bushnell’s music room. It was shuttered and small, but they could tell this was the room where the young woman spent all her time. There were piles of neatly arranged musical scores for violin and orchestra. On a chair sat an open violin case with her violin tucked snugly inside it. Sherlock eased it out of its case, held it in her open hands. She said, “It was made by Hart and Sons in London in the nineteenth century. You rarely see these. It’s exquisite.”

Sherlock glanced through the music, didn’t see anything that didn’t belong. There was no address book, no diary, no stray pieces of paper with notes or names for appointments. She did have a small laptop and Dix took it with him. “I’ll have our resident Weenie check it out.” At Ruth’s raised eyebrow, he smiled. “His name is Allen. Everyone calls him Weenie. He actually likes it.”

Ruth closed Erin’s apartment door behind them. “The only thing really personal about the place was her music and her violin.”

“I think we’ll have to look elsewhere for why she died,” Dix said. As he pulled away from the old house, he added, “Okay, we’ll have to knock off for the night. The boys will be wondering where I’m hiding you guys. I hate to have them at home alone for too long after school. They’re beyond excited that you FBI agents will be at the house again.”

“Yep, I guess they’re the Big Dogs now at school,” Ruth said. “Bet they promised all their friends they’d dig secrets out of us tonight.”

Dix honked his horn to alert a car turning in front of him. He said to Ruth, “Be careful Brewster doesn’t pee on you again.”

Ruth grinned. “I know to be careful now. I couldn’t go out to dinner with any of my admirers if he did. And I may be wearing the last of Rob’s clothes.”

Dix’s cell rang as he was negotiating the Range Rover through a three-foot pile of snow blocking the middle of Stumptree Lane. Someone had put a ball of snow on top of it with a carrot for a nose. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Rob and Rafer were involved in that stunt.” He answered, “Yeah? Sheriff Noble here.”

He listened for a moment, pulled the Range Rover to the side of the road, and said, “Tell me you’re kidding. I really need you to.” He listened awhile longer, rang off, and slid the phone back in his jacket pocket. He said, “That was the medical examiner, Dr. Himple. He says Erin Bushnell had a drug in her system that he identified with his spectroscopy unit. He thinks it’s a chemical called BZ, and it may have incapacitated her. Then the murderer slid a thin blade or a needle into her chest.” Dix drew a deep breath. “But it’s what he did to her after he killed her—damnedest thing I’ve ever heard of.”

Ruth leaned over and touched his arm. “What, Dix, what did he do?”

“He embalmed her.”

CHAPTER 15

SAVICH SPRINKLED SALT on his corn on the cob, bit into it, and sighed with pleasure. “Rob, we liked the snowman you guys built in the middle of Stumptree Lane. That old carrot was a good touch—it would have brought most cars, except your dad’s, to a humiliated stop. He plowed the Range Rover right through it, probably would have eaten the carrot if it hadn’t looked so gnarly.”

The boys exchanged looks before Rob cleared his throat. “Well, it was a whole bunch of us, you know?

A lot of kids from the sophomore class walk home near there,” he said with a look toward their father. “

It really wouldn’t be fair to single any of them out, Dad. The thing is, they closed down school at three and none of us wanted to go sledding again. The snow on Breaker’s Hill is really trashed, you know?”

“You guys want another hot dog?” Dix asked them, and both boys smiled at him, limp with relief. Rob asked carefully, a potato chip suspended an inch from his mouth, “You’re not pissed, Dad? You’re not going to ground us?”

“Hey, Earth to Dad,” Rafe said, and snapped his fingers toward his father.

“What? Oh sorry, the snow pile. I remember we did the same thing once only it was in Queens, and the beat cop took half a dozen of us down to the precinct house to scare us. My dad tanned my butt. You know, you guys aren’t too old for me to hide.”

Rob said, “We’re too old, Dad, really. Besides, you always say that then never do.” He grinned. “If you really want to teach us a lesson, why don’t you toss us in jail for a night? That would be the ultimate punishment, you know?”

“Punishment as in really cool?” Ruth asked.

Dix rolled his eyes. “You were lucky I was the first one through your little snow fort and flattened it out for everybody else.”

“Bummer,” Rob said around a hot dog loaded with French’s mustard and sweet relish.

“We had our test on Othello today, Dad,” Rafe said. “I think I did really well. I think I knew the answers to all the questions.”

“I’m not surprised,” Dix said. “I’ve told you you have your mother’s brains.”

“Yeah, well,” Rafe continued, “if I get at least a B minus can I take that after-school job at Mr. Fulton’s hardware store?”

Dix’s cell phone rang, and he stepped away to answer it. When he returned, he pointed his finger at Rafe. “No part-time job until you have at least a B in biology and a B in English, as we agreed. Not a B

minus, a good, solid B. Your report card’s out in three weeks, so you’ve got a goal. And don’t whine about it. Sherlock and Savich have a little boy a lot younger than you guys, and we don’t have to show them what’s in store for them.”

“We’re not that bad, Agent Savich,” Rob said. “Dad just pretends we are.”

Rafe shot his brother a look, then leaned forward, his eyes on his dad’s face. “We heard about you finding that murdered student in Winkel’s Cave. Everyone’s talking about it—first those two guys who tried to kill Ruth on Saturday night, and now this girl. What’s happening, Dad?”

His father said, “Yes, we found a body in Winkel’s Cave. It wasn’t pleasant.”

“You sure are lucky you’ve got FBI special agents here to help you,” Rob said.

“Yeah,” Dix said, his voice dry as a bleached bone, “I’m very lucky.”

“Do you see dead bodies all the time, Agent Savich?” Rob asked.

“Not all the time, no,” Savich said easily. “Actually I do a whole lot of work on a computer, a laptop named MAX. He and I have tracked down a good number of bad guys over the years.”

“As for us,” Sherlock said, “Agent Warnecki and I have noses like bloodhounds. They set us on a trail, and we sniff the bad guys right out.”

“Dad, this is pretty scary,” Rafe said. “What happened to that girl?”

“I’ve got to keep some things close, boys. I don’t want the media to get ahold of everything I’ve got.”

“But—”

Dix shook his head. “I’ve got some questions for Ruth about treasure hunting. Are there clubs, newsletters, that sort of thing?”

She nodded, more to the boys than to their father. “Yes, there’s all of that. Have you guys ever heard of the buried treasure at Snow Hill Farm, about a mile south of the village of New Baltimore, right here in Virginia?”

The boys, who’d been sprawled long and skinny in their chairs, sat up and leaned toward her, Rafe’s chin on his hands. “Silver coins,” she said, “gold ones, too, valued at about sixty thousand dollars.”

“Who buried it?” Rafe wanted to know. “Did you find it?”

“A Scottish pirate named William Kirk buried it back in the 1770s for safekeeping. But when he died, there was no sign of the treasure, and his widow sold Snow Hill Farm to Colonel William Edmonds, whose heirs still own the property. People have searched over the years, but still no sign of it, only an occasional eighteenth-century coin.”

“I could find it,” Rafe said, “not just one or two stupid coins.”

Rob punched his brother in the arm. “There isn’t any treasure, Dumbo. It’s a myth, otherwise someone would have dug it up by now.”

“But that’s the thing about treasure,” Ruth said, her voice dropping low, “sometimes you wonder how all the talk of a treasure even got started. An old guy in a tavern two hundred years ago spun a story so he could get a free mug of ale? And then you sometimes wonder if it isn’t all magic. When you think it’s magic, you’re ready. You go to Fauquier County and find William Kirk’s will that’s still there, and read that he not only left his wife a large property, he also left her a big bundle of currency. Where is it?”

Rafe said, “Didn’t the wife know her husband was a pirate? Everyone knows pirates always hide their gold, like Captain Kidd did somewhere on Long Island. She shouldn’t have sold the farm, she was stupid.”

Ruth grinned. “Maybe. Or maybe she didn’t believe there was a treasure, like Rob. Or maybe she believed, she simply didn’t know how to find it.”

Dix said, “Knowing Ruth for only three days, boys, you can already tell the most important quality of a successful treasure hunter: You’ve got to believe. You’ve got to be the eternal optimist, and you have to be able to stand lots of disappointment.” He cocked his eyebrow at her. Ruth stared at him, lounged back in his chair, his fingers laced over his lean belly, his long sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

She started to say something, but found she had to clear her throat first. “Well, yes, that’s about it,” she admitted.

“So you think the gold’s still there, Ruth?” Rob wanted to know.

She nodded. “Oh yes, it’s there. I think it was in leather pouches, a number of them, and some of them have split open, scattering the coins. But the big cache is under there, still waiting.”

Dix rose. “With that, it’s time for some carrot cake from Millie’s Deli. You can each take a piece, then it’

s off to do your homework. We’ve got some work to do down here ourselves.”

Rob stopped long enough on the bottom step of the stairs to tell Ruth that Billy McCleland had come by today to fix the window frame in his bedroom. “No more cold leaks,” he told her. When the boys were out of earshot, the four adults moved into the living room, taking coffee and tea with them. The house was warm and quiet, except for Brewster’s snoring from his seat of honor on Ruth’s lap. Savich began, “So Dix, you told us the doctor at Loudoun County Community Hospital did a toxicology screen on Ruth when she was admitted. You hear from him yet?”

Dix nodded. “Actually, it was the ME who called earlier. He ran what was left of your blood sample, Ruth. You had the same drug in your system that Erin Bushnell did—a drug called BZ.”

Sherlock said, “I don’t know much about it except I think it’s a gas they used in Vietnam that affects the nervous system. Did he tell you more about it, Sheriff?”

Dix paused for a moment, smiled at her. “Actually, Sherlock, while Savich’s corn on the cob was boiling, I googled it on the Internet. I printed some of it out, so you can look at it later. It’s officially called quinuclidinyl benzilate, but for obvious reasons it’s known simply as BZ. It’s a colorless and odorless gas that’s usually delivered as an aerosol and was developed for the military in the 1960s. It works fairly quickly, causing increased heart rate, blurry vision, lack of coordination. The unusual thing is that it’s what they call a psychochemical—it affects perception and thought, causes hallucinations, confusion, forgetfulness, and eventually stupor.

“BZ didn’t turn out to be much use in war, though, because the effects are unpredictable, ranging from overwhelming fear and panic to all-out rage that led exposed soldiers to attack without regard for their own safety.

“The Russians used an agent similar to BZ against the Afghan guerrillas during the eighties, and get this—

it’s possible they pumped this gas into that theater during the hostage crisis in Moscow, probably in really high concentrations because they ended up with hundreds of people dead.”

“But Erin wasn’t dead when she was stabbed,” Sherlock said.

“No, but there was a lot of it in her system, more than in yours, Ruth. From what you told us about how terrifying it was for you in that cave chamber, how you were imagining God knows what coming after you, I hate to think what Erin Bushnell went through.”

Ruth let out a long breath. “So I guess I didn’t just go crazy. But how does anyone get ahold of a gas like this?”

Dix shrugged. “The ME said chemicals like this are available from pharmaceutical companies and on the Internet. Apparently they have some legitimate uses for research. It’s unusual enough to warrant looking into but it’s unlikely the BZ is from a nice, clean local source that would identify our killer.”

Savich nodded. “Since you got a lower dose than Erin, Ruth, you probably got the residue from the gas he used on her. Maybe he came back later to check on his handiwork and found you, freaked out, maybe unconscious. Maybe he bashed you on the head or he found you already injured, and hauled you out of there.”

“But why not simply kill me and leave me in there with Erin?”

Savich said slowly, “Because that was her tomb, Ruth, not yours. All hers.”

“That would be really sick, Dillon.”

“Yes,” he said, “it would be.”

Sherlock sat forward, her teacup balanced on her knee. “So you think this tomb idea has something to do with his embalming her?”

Dix said, “Dr. Himple said he didn’t actually embalm her. He said it was the strangest thing he’d ever seen. I’ll try to explain this correctly.” Dix pulled a sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket, perused it for a moment. “Okay, when a funeral home embalms a body, they make small incisions in the carotid artery and the jugular vein, thread a tube into the carotid to pump in the embalming fluid, and drain the blood out through the jugular vein. It takes about three gallons of embalming fluid to thoroughly disinfect and preserve a body. They also put fluid in the body cavities, a mixture of formaldehyde, methanol, ethanol, and other solvents.

“The thing is, our murderer didn’t do a thorough job of it. He made the small incisions in her carotid and jugular, pumped in about a gallon of embalming fluid, let a bit of blood drain out the jugular vein, then called it a day.”

Sherlock said slowly, staring into the fireplace, “So he either didn’t know how to do the procedure correctly or it was some kind of ritual, enough to give him the taste of the process, to give him the satisfaction.”

Savich nodded. “Yes, and he posed her. He may have considered it part of a ceremony, probably done with a good deal of gravity on his part, almost reverence. He may have wanted to preserve the body for a while before he buried it somewhere.”

Dix said, “I don’t like the sound of that. A ritual? I was thinking this guy may have done this before, but I was hoping you’d disagree.”

“We don’t know for sure, Dix, but it’s got all the earmarks,” Ruth said. “Did Dr. Himple tell you if the incision sites were sutured?”

“No, I don’t think so. But he did mention that the stab wound in her chest had no blood on it; it had been swabbed clean.”

“Part of the ritual then,” Ruth said. “He did a thorough job. So, Dix, are there any funeral homes in Maestro?”

“Of course. Tommy Oppenheimer is director of Peaceful Field Funeral Home, on Broadmoor Street. He

’s my deputy Penny’s husband, a good guy, a bit high-strung, overprotective of Penny, but okay. I’ll ask him if he’s had anyone asking questions about embalming, or if he’s heard anyone in his business mention any strange employees they might have now or recently fired.”

Sherlock said, “If I were you, I’d tell Dr. Himple to threaten all his techs with pain and dismemberment if any of them open their mouths about finding embalming fluids in her.”

Dix shook his head. “Unbelievable, the loony actually performed an embalming rite on her. That is something her parents will never find out about.”

Sherlock said, “You should go personally and speak to the techs, Dix. That might keep it under wraps longer, particularly if you guilt them about the parents finding out, and what it would do to them. Dillon will get MAX on the embalming process, and find out if this MO has ever appeared before.”

Dix stretched his back, crossed his legs at the ankles. “When I left New York, I thought I’d left the crazies behind. Was I wrong, or what? If Ruth hadn’t gone into Winkel’s Cave treasure hunting on that particular day, Erin Bushnell would have simply disappeared forever. No one would have had a clue what happened to her—did she pick up and leave with no word for anyone, or run off with some guy no one ever saw, or—did someone take her away?” He stopped dead, looked down at the floor, his hands frozen in fists on his thighs. Ruth saw he was pale, markedly so. There was something very wrong here. Then she knew. “Dix, what happened to your wife Christie?”

Dix didn’t answer for the longest time, didn’t move, didn’t look at any of them. Finally, he looked up at Ruth standing beside him. “My wife—Christie—she disappeared nearly three years ago.”

“And you don’t know what happened to her, do you?”

He shook his head. “She was simply gone one day, like Erin Bushnell would have been if you hadn’t happened along. We conducted a huge criminal investigation, did everything humanly possible—I even hired a private detective I’d heard about out of Chicago—but no one ever found a single clue, a single lead, nothing. For nearly three years.”

He looked up then at Savich and Sherlock. “From the minute Ruth found Erin Bushnell, I’ve been asking myself if this was what happened to Christie.”

Savich cleared his throat and glanced briefly at his wife. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to live with that uncertainty, the pain of not knowing. It’s got to have been really rough for you and your boys. But you’ve done a remarkable job with them. And I’ll tell you the truth: I’d be thinking along the same lines as you if it were Sherlock. But the fact is, I think it’s highly unlikely that Christie’s disappearance had anything to do with Erin Bushnell’s murder.”

Ruth felt tears burn her throat and swallowed them. She smiled at him. “Dix, did I ever tell you how very grateful I am that they dumped me in your woods? Hey, I never would have met your boys otherwise and had the opportunity to bleach the blue out of your boxers.”

There was quiet laughter. Ruth thought it felt very good.

As he helped Sherlock on with her jacket, Savich said, “We have a very unbalanced individual here, guys, but someone functioning normally enough to send those two men here to the house after you. It would behoove all of us to be very careful, you in particular, Ruth. He’s tried to kill you once, and he may try again.”

“What would be his reason now?” Ruth asked. “We found his cave, we found Erin, and I’ve told you everything I know. Why would he mess with an FBI agent now?”

Dix said, “Savich is right. You’re being logical, Ruth. I doubt we can say the same thing about someone who pumped embalming fluid into Erin’s body. Fact is, we can’t be sure about anything he might do.”

“That’s a cheery thought,” Ruth said.

Dix said, “Savich, what are the chances of your profilers at Quantico taking a shot at this?”

“I’ll call Steve in the morning.”

After Savich and Sherlock left, Dix walked Ruth to Rob’s bedroom. He paused by the closed door of Rafe’s room to listen. “It’s too quiet,” he said. “Usually I can hear at least one of them snoring.”

She lightly laid her hand on his arm. “I am very, very sorry about Christie. You believe she’s dead, don’t you?”

He nodded. “Yes, I know she is. There is no way Christie would leave me and the boys. Not willingly. Someone took her, someone killed her. I just don’t know who.”

There was nothing she could say, and so Ruth simply pressed against him, held him for a very long time. When she finally stepped back, she kept her hand on his arm for a moment. “You don’t think there’s any danger from me staying here tonight, do you?”

He heard the hint of fear in her voice and shook his head. “I’m thinking you could kick your way out of a bar fight, Special Agent. But I’m not about to take any more chances with you or the boys. I’ve got my deputies on a rotating schedule. They’ll be checking the house every hour, not to worry.”

She nodded. “I need to pick up some clothes tomorrow, Dix. Rob needs his stuff back.”

“No problem,” Dix said, and turned away. He paused, turned back. “You okay, Ruth?”

“Sure, I’m fine. Are you okay, Dix?”

He said nothing, merely nodded.

When he lay in his bed, Dix listened to the familiar sounds of the night and wondered what was happening to his peaceful town. And he thought of Christie. He’d never before spoken of her as he had tonight. Somehow he felt comforted, a bit freer of the numbing pain, a bit more open to life again. He still had Christie’s photo on his desk at work, taken with his boys only a month before she vanished. He looked at her every day, and every day he wondered what had happened to her.

CHAPTER 16

MAESTRO, VIRGINIA

TUESDAY MORNING

IT WAS TEN-THIRTY Tuesday morning before the four of them met for a late breakfast at Maurie’s Diner on Main Street. Savich sipped tea, set down his cup. “MAX found us instances of stabbing and gassing, of course, even embalming, by a parade of psychopaths you don’t want to know about, but never all together, at least that we know about. I make that caveat because if not for Ruth, we might never have found Erin Bushnell.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” Dix said as he spread butter on wheat toast. Savich shook his head. “I’ve learned that the killers among us have limitless imagination.”

Ruth laid down her fork, leaned her chin on her laced fingers. “And that’s the whole point. It’s his own special deal, his way of making himself unique, his own creation.”

Savich said, “I agree, Ruth. It’s usually a script the killer must follow to the letter if he’s to consider his act a success. He didn’t want his handiwork discovered, that isn’t what he’s about, what he’s after. It’s the process—that’s what’s important to him.”

“More tea, Special Agent?”

Savich smiled up at Glenna, the waitress. “Yes, thank you.” When she’d left, looking over her shoulder at him several times, Savich asked Dix, “Did you meet with the techs at the morgue this morning?”

“Yep. I threatened them with whatever I could think of.” He shrugged. “They all agreed, but who knows? None of my deputies know a thing about it, either. Only the four of us, Dr. Himple, and the three techs. I also called Dr. Crocker at Loudoun County Community Hospital.” Dix’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket, said, “Sheriff Noble here.”

His expression lightened as he listened, and then darkened, and his hand fisted on the tabletop. He looked very angry. “Is this your idea of good news, bad news, Emory?” He listened for quite a while, the three agents sensing the deputy calling was trying to calm his boss. He looked ready to eat nails when he flipped off his cell phone.

Ruth said, “Well?”

“My deputies found your Beemer in the shed behind Walt McGuffey’s house, Ruth. Remember the house we passed on the way to Lone Tree Hill? And I saw that the snow didn’t look like it had been disturbed at all, and called to have my people check on Walt?” He paused, and there was such a look of helpless rage on his face that Ruth laid her hand on his arm.

“What happened, Dix? What’s the bad news?”

“They didn’t stop by until this morning. Walt was dead, probably since Friday. Murdered, more than likely by the same monster who murdered Erin and tried to murder you. He hid your Beemer in the shed.

”

“How was Mr. McGuffey killed, Sheriff?”

Dix got ahold of himself at the sound of Savich’s voice. “Stabbed through the heart with one of his own kitchen knives.”

Sherlock said, “Walt wasn’t part of his ritual. It was expediency, nothing more than that. Maybe the old man saw something he shouldn’t have.”

Dix nodded. “Maybe he needed very badly to hide Ruth’s car in a hurry, and simply dispatched Walt quickly because he was in the way. Maybe we’ll find something in the car.”

Dix dropped a twenty alongside Savich’s money on the table. He helped Ruth on with Rob’s old leather jacket. She said, “I’m really sorry about this, Dix. This Walt McGuffey, have you known him for a long time?”

He nodded. “As long as I’ve lived here. Walt was eighty-seven years old, bragged about it, lived here all his life. Chappy told me he used to be the finest furniture maker in the state, liked to build with bird’s-eye maple the best. His wife, Martha, died in the seventies, cancer, I believe. Christie used to invite him over for Thanksgiving dinner, and—well, I’ve had him over myself for the past two years.”

Since Maurie’s was across the street from the sheriff’s office, Dix walked right over, ready to ream out Emory for waiting so long to get out to McGuffey’s place.

Penny Oppenheimer was sitting behind the information desk, a large bandage wrapped around her head. Dix was surprised to see her at work. She was supposed to rest for the next few days. Before he could say a word, Penny said, “The reason Emory didn’t send deputies out to the old McGuffey place sooner, Sheriff, is because we’ve all been working overtime guarding your house and working on the three deaths we already had, not to mention the downed power lines from the storm. Emory’s also been dealing with the hundreds of calls we’ve had from people asking about all this, not to mention fending off the press, and three DUIs, all of them teenagers.”

“The press?”

“Yes, sir. Milton has been bugging us every five minutes for updates, said it’s the public’s right to know and he wants up-to-date details for his deadline on Wednesday.”

Dix snorted, said to the three of them, “Milton Bean owns and operates the Maestro Daily Telegraph. He

’s seventy-four, hacks nonstop because he smokes cigars. He hasn’t had a byline in fifteen years.”

Penny said helpfully, “He swears he’s writing one right this instant, if only our office would cooperate—”

“I’m surprised the real press hasn’t arrived yet. Then you’ll really have your hands full. Where is Emory?”

“In the men’s room, I think,” Penny said. “On top of everything else, he was talking about diarrhea. He’s really sorry, Sheriff, feels really bad.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna make him feel a lot worse.”

Ruth grinned. “But you, Penny, did a great job breaking all this to the sheriff. Everyone knew he wouldn’t get mad at a poor deputy whose head is all bandaged up from risking her life for him.” She added to Dix, “You’ve got a pretty smart staff here, Dix.”

Dix asked abruptly, “How is your head, Penny? Maybe you should still be home. Did Emory get you in here to keep me from kicking his butt?”

Penny shook her head. “Believe me, I want to be here. At home Tommy makes me lie on the sofa and watch TV. I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m only doing desk duty—taking calls, that’s all, answering questions if anyone comes in, I promise. Hey, everyone’s really upset about this. Walt was a neat old guy.”

“He sure was,” Dix said, and stomped away to his office.

Sherlock said to Deputy Penny Oppenheimer as she walked by her desk, “Nice touch, that lovely huge bandage. No man could withstand that. No man would have even thought of it.”

“Thank you,” Penny said. “I figured I had to do something or the sheriff would kick in Emory’s kneecaps. Hey, he doesn’t seem to mind you guys being here. I guess you’re not trying to tromp him under your big Federal shoes.”

“An occasional toe nudge is all,” Sherlock said. She nodded at the large room through a glass partition behind Penny, where half a dozen deputies were trying to look busy, but naturally were focused on the three interlopers. And Ruth in particular, who was dressed in Rob’s jeans, a flannel shirt, and an old leather jacket. She followed Dillon into the sheriff’s office.

“Nice office,” Sherlock said.

Ruth was surprised, truth be told. Covering an entire wall was a photographic pictorial of Virginia, from the old town in Alexandria to the sweeping white paddocks of horse country. There was a large black-and-white print of the fog-shrouded mountains and color blowups of incredible green valleys, wildly beautiful in the middle of summer with thick pines, maples, and oaks. They were framed in black like the photo on his desk of a woman and two boys. It must be Christie, she thought. She saw he was looking at her and smiled. “She’s lovely, Dix.”

“Thank you.” Dix tucked some papers in his pocket he’d pulled out of his desk drawer. “Okay, let’s go out to Walt’s place.”

Fifteen minutes later, after Dix had spoken to four of his deputies who had marked off the perimeter of the McGuffey property from sightseers, they stepped into Walt McGuffey’s 1940s bungalow that looked like it hadn’t been updated since it was built. The furniture, though, was amazing. Walt had kept his best pieces, all of bird’s-eye maple and exquisitely made—a sofa, a table, six chairs, several side tables. The unfortunate 1970s burnt-orange shag carpet, however, didn’t enhance the setting. Dr. Himple was there with the forensic team from Loudoun, the county seat. The forensic folks looked tired. Dr. Himple stretched as he stood up, and nodded in their direction, but his eyes were on Dix. “I’m really sorry, Dix. Walt died easily, if it makes any difference. The knife killed him fast; he probably hardly felt it. There aren

’t any defensive wounds. He probably didn’t even see it coming. But that’s preliminary, you understand. I

’ll do an autopsy immediately and let you know.”

Savich said, “So Mr. McGuffey knew his murderer—he let him in, welcomed him.”

Dr. Himple nodded. “Yes, I would say so.”

Sherlock said, “Mr. McGuffey probably invited him into the kitchen, say for a cup of coffee. The murderer knew he was going to kill the old man, probably looked around for a weapon, saw the knife on the counter, and used it.”

Dr. Himple looked from Sherlock to Savich and slowly nodded. “That could be about right.”

“Fingerprint everything,” Dix said to Marvin Wilkes, head of the forensic team. “Especially around the kitchen.”

Dix knelt down next to the old man, who, in truth, resembled a bundle of old clothes wrapped around bones. He lightly laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder and closed his eyes for a moment. He pictured Walt grinning up at him with his six remaining teeth, asking if those gall-derned boys of his had given him any gray hairs yet. Now there was a look of surprise on the old man’s face, no pain, only blank surprise. He felt tears sting his eyes and swallowed. He rose quickly, said to Dr. Himple, “Treat him well, Burt, he was a grand old man. My boys are going to be very upset by this.”

“I’ll take care of him now, Sheriff.”

“He doesn’t have any family. I’ll set up his funeral myself.”

They searched Walt McGuffey’s house, but found nothing of note except an ancient wooden box that held photos of Walt and his wife, and a young boy, taken in the forties. “His son?” Savich asked. Dix shook his head. “I don’t know. If so, he must have died real young. Walt never mentioned any children.” Dix paused, then tucked the box under his arm. “I think Walt might want to be buried with this.

”

In the old shed at the back of the house they found Ruth’s Beemer, nice and clean since the murderer had hidden it there before the snow started. Her wallet lay on the front seat, her duffel bag on the passenger-side floor. The Beemer’s keys were in the ignition.

You’ll have to leave all this here for a while, Ruth,” Dix said. “The forensic team needs to go over everything.”

“Of course, no problem.”

“The boys will probably bug you to drive them around in it later,” Dix added wearily. “All right. If everyone wants to pile back into the Range Rover, we’ll go to meet the famous violinist.”

GLORIA BRICHOUX STANFORD lived on Elk Horn Road, not a quarter mile from the Stanislaus campus, in a one-story ranch-style house with a very big footprint, surrounded on three sides by woods. The three-car garage was tucked away in the back and connected to the kitchen. It was in a lovely setting that once belonged, Dix told them, to an old gentleman who’d been the head bookkeeper for Chappy at the Maestro First Independent Bank before he retired. He’d inherited the property and house from his great-aunt. When he died, his heirs sold it to Gloria when she retired from public life and accepted a position at Stanislaus.

“What’s she like, Dix?” Ruth asked as they walked up a well-shoveled front walkway.

“I told you she and her daughter moved here about six months after Christie, the boys, and me. Her daughter is a lawyer here in Maestro, does primarily wills, trusts, and estate planning. Christie said Ginger always bragged about not having a lick of musical talent, thank the Lord.”

“Why was she happy about that?” Sherlock asked.

Dix turned to Sherlock. “Ginger felt like her life was in constant upheaval, with her mother always traveling, always performing, leaving her at home. When Gloria wasn’t touring, she was down for the count with exhaustion or shot through with adrenaline about her next performance. Ginger’s father took off when she was about ten. Ginger says all she needs is a will to draw up in peace and quiet and she’s a happy camper.”

The front door was opened by a plump older woman who appeared to be the housekeeper. They were shown to the living room and politely asked to be seated. They were all speaking quietly and looking out over the beautiful front lawn when Gloria Brichoux Stanford made her entrance. She was wearing ratty old sweats, sneakers, and a headband, and was toweling off her face. “I see Phyllis gave you the formal treatment,” she said in a deep, booming voice. She tossed the towel on the floor and walked to where they stood, her hand outstretched.

Dix accepted a kiss from her on his cheek and made the introductions. She said to the rest of them, “

Welcome, all of you. You’re here about my poor Erin. Gordon called me right after you left him, Dix. I’

ve been running my feet off on the treadmill trying not to think about it.” She pressed her palm over her mouth for a moment, as if catching a sob, and turned back to them. “Forgive me. She was like a daughter to me. She had such talent, such passion and life in her music, but none in her own life—a very strange thing, I always thought. She poured everything out of herself into her music. She was acquainted with a lot of men, but rarely dated, and no, she wasn’t involved closely with anyone. I would know if she had been.

“I hope you don’t mind, Dix, but I called Ginger. She’ll be over soon, after she finishes up composing one of her very important wills.” She rolled her eyes and wandered to the fireplace, fingering the Hummel figures that stood in a line across the mantel. “Gordon said you would want me to tell you everything I know about her. Well, as I said, she didn’t talk about any men in her life. She had no time for them; every bit of her passion went into her music. I could close my eyes while she played a violin solo from Schumann or Edvard Grieg and be reminded of Yehudi Menuhin or myself playing it. She could be that good.”

Gloria paused, pulled the headband off her forehead, and ran her fingers through her thick, sweaty salt-and-pepper hair. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, or she’d sweated it all off. She’d always worked out, taken good care of herself, Dix thought. She was big-boned, firm, her color excellent. What a change from how he remembered her years before. She’d been much thinner, drawn so tightly she could snap at you like a violin string.

Gloria said, looking off at nothing in particular as far as Ruth could tell, “Erin always wanted to study here at Stanislaus, never Juilliard. She hated New York, thought it was dirty, too big and loud, and didn’t like some of the people who lived there.” She paused for a moment, sighed. “Her idol was Arcangelo Corelli, though of course she never heard him play since he performed in the seventeenth century. She read a contemporary poet’s description of his playing and swore she wanted nothing else.”

She turned suddenly, and there were tears in her eyes. “Gordon is devastated. I am devastated. When Erin graduated, she would have been one of the top violinists to come out of Stanislaus in many years. In time, she would have taken her place as first violinist in one of the finest orchestras in the world. I do not understand why anyone would want to snuff out her life and her immense talent.”

“How old was she when she began to study violin, Ms. Stanford?” Ruth asked.

“Three, I believe, the usual age if the parents are intelligent and observant.”

“Was she close to her family? To her siblings?” Sherlock asked.

“She was an only child. Before you arrived, her parents called me. I could hardly understand her mother she was crying so hard, poor woman.”

“You know of no one who was jealous of her? Hated her because she played so well? Saw her as competition to be eliminated?”

She looked at Agent Savich, who’d asked the question in a deep, soft voice but looked so hard and competent, and dangerous. She saw the wedding ring on his finger and felt a moment of disappointment.

“I’m sorry, Agent Savich, what did you say?”

“Jealousy, ma’am. Can you think of anyone who could have gone over the edge because of jealousy?”

Gloria said matter-of-factly, “Let me be clear here. Schools like Stanislaus and Juilliard have only exceptionally talented young people, and every student is in competition with every other student. There aren’t that many occupational avenues open for violinists other than performing unless one wants to teach in some high school in Los Angeles. It is cutthroat, sometimes heartbreaking, and it can bring out a person’s darkest passions. But musicians learn to focus on themselves and the music when they are challenged, not on each other.

“I cannot imagine a single one of the dozen violin students here at Stanislaus who would have considered Erin such a threat to their own future that they would consider killing her. I’ve never heard of such a thing. How strange it is that she died in a cave. Do you know she once visited a cave near her home in Iowa so she could hear how her violin sounded deep underground?”

Dix asked about Erin’s professors, if she knew anyone living in Maestro. He told her to call him if she thought of anything at all, and because he realized she needed it, he spoke to her of Rob and Rafe, about their sledding on Breaker’s Hill and Rafe’s double helix project. She was smiling when they left ten minutes later.

Sherlock rose on her tiptoes and said into Savich’s ear, “I thought there for a while that she was going to jump you.”

He looked startled, automatically shook his head. “You are such an innocent.” Sherlock squeezed his arm, and then she noticed the twinkle in his eyes. “Dillon, I’m going to have to punish you for pulling my chain like that.”

“How long have they been married?” Dix asked Ruth as he opened the passenger-side door for her.

“Forever,” Ruth said. She watched Dix looking at Savich and Sherlock, his gaze unreadable.

CHAPTER 17

AT SIX O’CLOCK, as everyone filed into Dix’s kitchen to eat his homemade meat loaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a Boston cream pie from Millie’s Deli, Savich’s cell phone sang the opening lines of “Georgia on My Mind.”

Savich excused himself and walked to the kitchen doorway. He looked down at his cell phone screen. It read Private. He said, “Savich here.”

“Hello, boy, been too long since I checked in with you, now ain’t it? Hey, you miss me and my little pranks?” Moses Grace’s scratchy old voice sounded happy and so clear he could have been at Savich’s elbow.

Savich quickly stepped over to his laptop, MAX, sitting open on the sideboard in the dining room, and pressed ENTER.

Savich had been waiting for this, had expected Moses Grace to call again, and here he was, only four days since Savich had first heard the old man’s voice. He walked into the entrance hall, not wanting anyone to overhear the conversation. “So, you’re blocking Caller ID, Moses. That’s cute. Did you kill someone else for this phone?”

An obscene laugh sounded in his ear, ending in a phlegm-filled cough. “Hey, you’re the cop, boy, you’re the one who’s supposed to be able to pinpoint a flea on a sand dune. But you know what? You couldn’t find me if I drove up and waved in your face. You want a hint?”

“Yes, give me a hint.”

“Maybe I will. Hey, how’s that precious little wife of yours?”

A flash of rage poured through Savich. “She’s well out of your reach.”

“You really believe that? I was thinking about taking that little wife of yours and giving her a shove off a nice steep cliff, watch her roll over and over and pound herself into pieces, watch her sprawl out dead at the bottom. You can watch, too, from the top, boy.”

Savich hated this, hated it to his soul. But words couldn’t kill and he needed Moses Grace to keep talking. “You still sound pretty bad, Moses. I suppose you’re too far gone for any drugs to help you?”

“Me? Not well? Just a little tobacco cough, is all. For a sick man, I did pretty well against all of you comic FBI agents at Arlington. How about I go shoot up the FBI building?”

“Yeah, why don’t you? Or maybe you should first come after me again, you evil old bastard.”

The old man was silent for a moment.

“Me? Evil? Yeah, well, meybe so. Meybe my pa poured Drano in Mama’s mouth when she sassed him once too often. Always had a mouth on her, Mama did. Daddy socked her upside the head so many times it knocked her brains squirrelly, but she kept on mouthing off at him.

“Hey, what do I care if I’m evil, anyway? The good Lord can take care of His, and I’ll take care of my own. Ain’t you glad to hear from me, Special Agent Savich? Special Agent—I like that, like all you baboons are worth spit. Four whole days and none of you have gotten anywhere close to me and Claudia. She laughs and laughs whenever we drive by a cop, even flips some of ’em the finger. A finger from my cute little dolly always makes the cops gape at her—they can’t believe someone so young and sweet-looking would do such a vulgar thing. She pushes the envelope when meybe she shouldn’t. Meybe she’s not the brightest child in the world, but she’s mine.”

“What do you want?”

“I done told you,” Moses said, his drawl stretching out endlessly. “I wanted to check in with you—ah, ask you a favor. I want you to call Ms. Lilly at the Bonhomie Club, tell her what a lovely memorial party she threw for Pinky last night.”

Moses Grace and Claudia hadn’t been in the nightclub the night before. Six undercover agents were there, hidden cameras everywhere. But they were outside, watching who went in.

“Your boss, D.A.D. Maitland, looked really nice in his dark suit and that yellow tie with the black squiggles on it.”

“Yeah, tell me what James Quinlan was wearing.”

“Dark suit, red tie with blue triangles on it, looked pretty somber for someone carrying a saxophone. I enjoyed listening to him play. Surprised me—there were lots of folks weeping. It was affectin’, real affectin’.”

Savich drew a deep breath. They’d been talking a good long time now. Maybe long enough, but he wasn

’t sure. Best to keep him talking as long as possible, to make certain. “Tell me, Moses, why are you so interested in me? Me in particular? What did I ever do to you?”

Moses was silent for a moment. “So you think this is personal, do you, boy? Well, fact is, you’re right. I got more hate for you stored up inside me than Lucifer.”

“Why?”

“You hurt her, boy, hurt her so bad she was screaming with it.” He broke off. Savich heard the old man’s breathing quicken.

“Who was that, Moses?”

“I might tell you before you die, boy. You know my Claudia still wants you, don’t you?”

All right. Moses was not going to tell him. He decided to shake the old man. It might be the best way to keep him on the line. Savich said in an amused voice, filled with contempt, “You think I’d actually have down and dirty sex with that bug-eyed crazy teenage slut? I bet Claudia drools, she’s so far gone, particularly since she’s with you.” Savich laughed, vicious and nail-hard. “Hey, I’d kick that crazy bitch in the head before I’d let her get near me. What is she, old man, your granddaughter? Or is she some pathetic drugged-out teenager you picked up?”

Blank surprise, Savich heard it in the cold, dead silence. He waited, finally heard a wheeze, as if Moses Grace was going to start hacking. He’d been as crude as he could manage—was this teenage girl old Moses’s lover?

Then Moses Grace wheezed out a laugh that made gooseflesh rise on Savich’s arms. He said in that wet drawl, “Must have been real tough for you, boy, talking all dirty like that. Let me tell you, you’ll change your mind if Claudia has a shot at you. I’ve seen my little sweet cakes diddle a woman before I told her enough was enough and to dig out the old girl’s eyes then kick her out of the van.”

Yes, tell me more, you insane old man, yes. “Yeah, right, you old liar. That’s about as believable as Hollywood throwing a ticker-tape parade for Schwarzenegger.”

He looked up to see Sherlock standing ten feet away, watching him. He said very deliberately, “It must be tough for you, Moses, knowing you’re too decrepit, too diseased, to screw your own wife.”

Savich felt cold dead rage blasting at him. Then Moses Grace chortled, a disgusting, juicy sound. “I don’t like a dirty mouth on you, boy, it don’t seem right somehow. You know, Claudia’s got her fantasies about you and I’ve got mine. We’ll see what you say when I watch your life drain away. I’ll win and you’

ll know it. See you then, Savich.”

There was the silence of dead space. Moses Grace had disconnected.

Sherlock walked to him, nosed against his shoulder. “I’ve never heard you speak like that before.”

“It surprised old Moses, too,” he said as he saw Dix walking toward them. Savich nodded to him, then speed-dialed the communications center in the Hoover Building. “This is Savich. Did you locate Moses Grace’s cell phone?”

He heard a man shouting, “I need the location now!” Then a voice came back on the line, panting, “He’s within a two-mile radius of a semi-rural area west of Dulles, heading toward Leesburg. We just dispatched local police and agents to the area. He was moving, and unfortunately knew enough to turn the phone off, so we’ve lost his signal. You kept him going a long time, Savich, but he didn’t make it easy on us. He was using a different carrier than yours, so we had to track him down through Sprint’s Automatic Number Identification system, using your number as the target phone. That took a while. We’

ll keep you posted.”

Savich punched off his cell, turning to Sherlock and Dix, “Moses is headed toward Leesburg. Cops and agents are on their way, but it sounds like a crapshoot.”

Sherlock said, “A pity he’s not at a nice warm motel, all tucked in for the night.”

“How did you track him from way out here, Savich?” Dix asked.

“MAX helped,” Savich said. “I had him set up to instant message our communications center in Washington if Moses called again. MAX recorded the call, too, through a Bluetooth transmitter I have wired into my phone.

“Since the PATRIOT Act was put into place, we’ve been able to get wiretap warrants for all calls made by an individual suspect, not just a particular phone number. So it doesn’t help them to just ditch a phone and get a new one. So, wherever Moses goes, no matter what cell phone he happens to use, we go with him. He used Caller ID blocking, which slowed us down at bit. If we’d known his number right away, we could have located him in about fifteen seconds.”

“Do you think the police and agents will catch him?” Dix said.

“We should be so lucky,” Savich said, and sighed. “He was driving while he talked, and probably kept driving after he turned the phone off.” To Sherlock he said, “Do you know he bragged how he and Claudia were at the Bonhomie Club last night for Pinky’s memorial? There was no way they were inside, that’s for certain. They had to be hiding outside, watching who went into the club.”

They stood silently for a moment before Savich spoke again. “It kept him talking, though, and he may have given me a lead without realizing it. We need to find a woman who was probably kidnapped and eventually dumped on the side of the road, with possible eye injuries. I’ll call Mr. Maitland, give him a heads-up. Moses still sounded like he was wheezing; he can’t disguise that. You guys head into the kitchen, play it light. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

Sherlock nodded. “When we get back to the B-and-B, we’ll get MAX started on finding this woman.”

She rose to her tiptoes, kissed his mouth. “Okay, don’t be too long, there are two growing boys in there. No telling how long that corn on the cob’s going to last.”

“One more thing, Sherlock. Moses said I hurt a woman he cared for. That’s why he hates me.”

BUD BAILEY’S BED & BREAKFAST TUESDAY NIGHT

SAVICH GOT THE call that the roadblocks hadn’t turned up anyone resembling Moses Grace or Claudia. The cell phone belonged to a woman in Hamilton whose purse had gone missing. He wanted to kick something.

Instead, he put MAX to work. When Sherlock came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, Savich said, “Her name is Elsa Bender, forty-five, divorced a little over a year, kids grown. About two months ago, she was kidnapped right out of the parking lot at her local supermarket—only one witness. The guy said he heard a woman scream, saw a dirty white van screech into the street. Elsa was found the following morning by a farmer driving a tractor on a country road only three miles from her home in Westcott, in western Pennsylvania. She was naked, dumb with pain, her eyes gone. There’d been a warm spell, thank God, or else she’d have died. As it was, she nearly died from shock.

“She’s now living in Philadelphia with her ex-husband, who’s evidently been a stand-up guy since this happened. I think we need to go see her, Sherlock. I called the chief of police in Westcott, finally convinced him I was for real and asked him to read her description of the kidnappers. He said he didn’t have one; she couldn’t remember what had happened from the moment she drove into the supermarket parking lot until she woke up in the hospital. He didn’t know if she was telling the truth or was just scared, and he couldn’t do any follow-up interviews because the ex-husband took her out of the local hospital and his jurisdiction and back to Philadelphia. The Philadelphia police know about it, but so far, the chief said, they’ve got squat. The last time the local police spoke to her was four weeks ago. There’s been nothing since.”

Sherlock was excited. “How lovely of that mad old man to tell you about her. We could be there tomorrow.”

He nodded slowly, rose and stretched.

“Hey, sailor, you wanna dance?”

He laughed, pulled her to him, and hugged her hard. He said against her ear, “We can be back in Maestro by tomorrow evening. Maybe we’ll want to dance again.”

“What if Moses and Claudia do—”

“It’s okay. If they act, we’ll deal with it. I’ll be surprised if they don’t do something. Old Moses called me to brag, and he needs something new to brag about. He’s not well, Sherlock. I’m thinking this may be his last hurrah.”

CHAPTER 18

MAESTRO, VIRGINIA

WEDNESDAY MORNING

“HOLD UP A minute, Ruth,” Dix said. He and Ruth waited by the Range Rover for Tony Holcombe to cross Main Street. He was focused on Dix, looking straight ahead ignoring the slushy ground, nearly sending an old Ford Fairlane skidding into a parking meter to avoid hitting him. Ruth watched the beautifully dressed man hurrying toward them. He was tall and fit, probably in his early forties. He looked like a fashion plate out of GQ, his thick light brown hair beautifully styled, shining in the morning sun.

“Hey, Tony,” Dix called out. “What’s up?”

Tony Holcombe came to a stop not a foot from Dix’s face. “I—I heard about Erin—that is, Dad told me what happened. I can’t believe it, Dix. Erin was the sweetest girl, never did anything to anybody, only wanted to play her violin, there was nothing else in the world for her but her music.”

Ruth came around the Range Roger and nodded to the man bundled up in the thousand-dollar black leather coat and soft leather gloves.

Tony Holcombe turned his large dark eyes to her face. “You’re the woman Brewster found in Dix’s shed, aren’t you? Are you still staying at Dix’s house? I was wondering how it might look if my sister—”

“That’s enough, Tony.”

“Sorry. Yes, all right. Dix, do you know anything about who killed Erin?”

Dix said, “Why don’t you come into my office, I’d like to warm up a bit.”

Tony had the Holcombe body—long bones, no extra flesh, a strong jawline. His dark eyes were a dramatic contrast to his light hair. He looked remarkably like Chappy, his father, but wasn’t as graceful as he, a man as lithe as a dancer despite his age. Tony walked awkwardly, his arms moving in a different rhythm from his legs. It was curiously charming.

In the sheriff’s office, Dix spoke to half a dozen people before he opened his office door and ushered the two of them inside.

“Now, let’s get official here. Ruth, this is my brother-in-law, Tony Holcombe, Chappy’s son. He runs the local Holcombe bank. Tony, this is Ruth Warnecki, FBI.”

They shook hands. Tony had a nice firm grip along with his well-manicured nails, and his beautiful eyes met hers directly. She wondered if his sister’s eyes were that color, her coloring that dramatic. She hadn’

t been able to tell from the photo on Dix’s desk.

“Call me Tony, please. Why are you still here in Maestro?”

“I’m here to find out who tried to kill me. It appears that the same person also killed Erin Bushnell.”

His face tightened. “I can’t believe she’s dead. My dad told me and my wife, Cynthia. She’s really upset. She and Erin were like sisters.”

This was odd, Dix thought. To the best of his knowledge Cynthia Holcombe had never liked anyone of her own sex, beginning with her own mother and two sisters, whom he’d heard Cynthia refer to as the old bitch and her two whining whelps. Her dislike had extended to her sister-in-law Christie, whom she’d called a gun-toting right-wing redneck. Christie a redneck—it still boggled his mind. As for what Cynthia thought of him, he wasn’t about to go there. She was like a sister to Erin Bushnell?

“How is Cynthia?” Dix asked, holding out a mug of black coffee with two sugar cubes to his brother-in-law, and waiting for him to pull off his gloves.

“Distraught, as I said. She wanted me to find out what you’re doing, what you know. I heard you found her in Winkel’s Cave. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

“Yes, Tony, we found her in Winkel’s Cave, where her killer left her. How did Cynthia meet Erin Bushnell?”

“At a concert at Stanislaus last year, but that’s not important now. Dix, if you hadn’t gone to Winkel’s Cave, if my father hadn’t shown you that back entrance, no one would ever have known she was dead.”

“Very true.”

“She would have simply disappeared, like Christie.”

Dix’s face was impassive. He nodded.

Tony turned to Ruth, who was sipping her own coffee. She’d laced it liberally with cream, realizing quickly if she didn’t, it would clot blood. “I heard you were hunting some kind of treasure, that you found a cave chamber no one knew was there.”

“That’s right,” Ruth said. So bits and pieces had gotten out, which wasn’t too bad as long as it didn’t go any further.

Chappy had given Tony a few facts, Dix thought, but not everything, thank the good Lord. Chappy never could keep his mouth shut, except when it came to money. He could tell Ruth was assessing Tony, like a cop would a suspect in a crime. He watched her push her hair behind her ear, a habit of hers. It took only a moment for her hair to swing back again. Thick, dark hair, with a bit of a curl to it. Dix watched Tony focus all of his bred-to-the-bone intensity on Ruth, then he eyed both of them in frustration. “Dad asked me to drop by and invite the two of you over to lunch, said you wouldn’t be available for dinner because the other two FBI agents are coming back this evening.”

“How does your father know that?” Ruth asked. Without thinking, she took a sip of coffee, and shuddered.

“Dad spoke to Rafer this morning, caught him as he was going to school. Told him Agent Savich and Agent Sherlock were going to fly in a special FBI Bell helicopter up to Philadelphia on a case. He didn’t know what it was, but he said they would be back for dinner tonight.”

Dix grunted. He’d have to speak to both his boys. He wondered if either of them could even spell “

discretion.” He’d give them the loose lips talk.

“Why did they take off for Philadelphia all of a sudden?”

“That’s an FBI matter, Tony,” Ruth said. “I’d like to have lunch with your dad. Will you and your wife be there as well? She could tell me all about Erin Bushnell and their sisterhood.”

Tony Holcombe’s eyes darkened, suspecting sarcasm, but not hearing any he finally nodded and set his mug on Dix’s desk. “I must get to the bank now.” He pulled on his black leather gloves.

“How’s the banking business, Tony?”

Tony Holcombe shrugged as he opened the office door. “Things are going quite well, but you know Dad

—he’ll never admit it, says everything’s been going to hell in a handbasket since I’ve been running things.

”

They heard him greet some of the deputies on his way out.

“He seems quite likable,” Ruth said. “I’d sure hate to be in his shoes.”

Dix said, “Tony’s always had to walk in Chappy’s long shadow. If I’d been born in Tony’s shoes, I’d have left the state a long time ago, made my own way as far from Chappy as I could get. Now, I want to head over and meet with Ginger Stanford, Gloria’s daughter, see what she has to say about Erin Bushnell. So far, Erin is a beloved, talented sister to my sister-in-law Cynthia, and believe me, that’s both scary and unbelievable.”

Ginger Stanford owned a four-story red brick Georgian sandwiched between Angelo’s Pizza and Classic Threads. On their short walk there, everyone seemed to want to speak to the sheriff and to inspect Ruth, as if an FBI agent had an extra arm or two heads and needed a closer look. Dix was patient but tight-lipped, doing a much better job than his sons of keeping quiet about their business. Ginger’s secretary was an ancient old man who was hunkered down behind a huge mahogany desk. A wooden name plaque set in the center of the desk read HENRY O.

“Sheriff,” the old man croaked, nodded to Ruth, and looked back at his computer screen. “I got me a real puzzle here,” he said. “Five words and each word contains three different words. You know, like ‘

splice.’”

“I don’t think ‘plice’ is a word, Henry. We’re here to see Ginger. Buzz her, please.”

“You’re right, it isn’t. Drat. Ms. Ginger’s writing up old Mr. Curmudgeon’s will.”

“I’ve never actually heard of anyone named Curmudgeon,” Ruth said.

Henry O rose slowly. He was wearing a starched white shirt and natty black pants belted up near his chest. “That’s just what I call him, miss. It’s Amos McQueen, older even than me. I can’t believe he’s still breathing. Shoulda croaked in 1971 when his hay baler rolled over on him, but he walked away from it. Durnedest thing.” Henry tottered toward a closed door and knocked. Ruth saw he was wearing new Ferragamos on his small, narrow feet.

“Come.”

Henry opened the door, stuck his head in. “Ms. Ginger, the cops are here, acting all friendly so’s I’ll cooperate.”

They heard a woman’s laugh. “Show them in, Henry, show them in. I’ll cooperate, too.”

Ruth stopped cold at the sight of Ginger Stanford. She was a stunning woman, there no other word for her, her cheekbones high and sharp, her natural blond hair coiled at the back of her head. When she rose, Ruth thought she must be near six feet tall, with long legs that looked like they ended at her earlobes. She gave Dix a lovely big smile as she walked around her desk, her hand extended. Ruth didn’t miss the look in Ginger’s eyes. She really liked the sheriff.

They exchanged pleasantries. When Dix introduced her to Ruth, Ruth was aware of her quick, assessing glance, a look every woman recognizes when she’s seen as a possible poacher. Ruth said, “I’m an FBI agent, Ms. Stanford.”

“Yes, so I heard. I don’t see any sign of a head wound.”

Ruth automatically touched her fingertips to the small Band-Aid hidden beneath her hair. “Nearly gone now,” she said.

Dix shook his head. “Everyone in this town hears everything.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ginger said and waved an elegant hand toward the sofa. “I heard Brewster found you behind the woodpile at the side of Dix’s house.”

Once seated again behind her desk, Ginger steepled her fingers in front of her and said thoughtfully, “

Mother is miserable about Erin, Dix. I spent last night with her, she was so upset. She couldn’t stop crying. Please tell me you’ve discovered who’s responsible. And now Walt McGuffey. What’s going on here, Dix?”

He shrugged. “I’d really like you to tell us about Erin Bushnell, Ginger.”

Ginger sat back in her chair, closed her eyes for a moment, snapped them open, and blinked as her mouth formed a slow smile. Ruth wondered how that series of attention-getters played with a jury. Probably drove the guys wild. She finally said, “Other than the fact that she had the hots for Dr. Holcombe, she was pretty smart.”

“What?”

“I know, I know. He’s old enough to have been her daddy, but there it is. She was always hanging around him, offering to do things for him—put new reeds in his woodwinds, tune his harpsichord, polish his French horn, whatever. She audited all the classes he taught, even went mooning over to his house a couple of times, or so my mom told me.”

“Your mother didn’t say anything about this to us.”

“She wouldn’t. She just waved it off, said it was infatuation, nothing more, and that’s why it didn’t bother her. She saw Dr. Holcombe as being a safe lover who understood his role and could easily be left behind when Erin was ready to hit stardom road. I tried to tell her Erin was gone over Dr. Holcombe, that she’d lie down in front of his car to get his attention, but Mom didn’t buy it. She’d always shake her head and say no, Erin was going to tour the world, nothing would stop her.” Ginger paused, looked at one of the African masks on the opposite wall. “She won’t now, Dix.”

“You think you could be wrong about the depth of Erin’s feelings for Dr. Holcombe?”

“Me? Of course I’m not wrong, I’m a lawyer.”

Ruth laughed, couldn’t help it. “That was good,” she said.

Ginger gave her a gracious nod, but her eyes weren’t at all friendly. “When are you going back to Washington, Agent Warnecki?”

“If I can keep her here, she’s staying until we catch the murderer,” Dix said. Ginger wasn’t happy with that news. She pushed her chair back and crossed her legs. “I heard you found Erin in Winkel’s Cave. I also heard that’s where you’d been, Agent Warnecki. So you think the two men who shot at you killed Erin?”

“Could be. Maybe not.”

“That’s very proficient cop talk, Agent.”

Ruth smiled, nodded, and said, “Thank you. I’m very good at it.”

Dix asked, “What else should we know about Erin, Ginger?”

“She was a dream on the violin. Incredible, but you know that.” Then she gave Dix The Look, though he didn’t appear to pick up on it. Instead he frowned down at his short black boots and said, “Did she go out with any guys her own age? Classmates?”

“Nary a one, as far as I know, and believe me, I know everything about Erin because of Mom. When Erin woke up to the guy factor, it was Dr. Holcombe from the get-go.”

Ruth sat forward in her chair. “Did Dr. Holcombe reciprocate her feelings?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask Gordon’s dragon, Helen Rafferty. She knows all, and I mean that literally. The word is that she and Dr. Holcombe had a hot thing going maybe five years ago, and he was the one who called it off. Evidently he’s quite a smooth talker, convinced her to stay on as his personal assistant, which indicates to me he’s pretty selfish, and she’s got the self-esteem of a rug. She’d know exactly what his feelings are—were—toward Erin.”

They left ten minutes later to drive out to Chappy’s house for lunch. Ruth said as she buckled her seat belt, “Curiouser and curiouser. What do you think about Erin Bushnell, age twenty-two, in the throes of unrequited passion for Chappy’s brother, a man more than twice her age?”

“We need to find out if it was unrequited,” Dix said.

“Maybe what he felt was lust for her talent—the guy might have a thing for talented women, sees himself as a Svengali. No, that doesn’t work. There’s Helen Rafferty, his personal assistant, in the mix.”

Dix said, “Helen Rafferty plays the piano beautifully.”

“Hmm. I wonder what Dr. Holcombe will tell us about this.”

“It’ll be interesting. Chappy told me one of the reasons he calls his brother Twister is that he can wriggle out of anything.”

Ruth looked out the window at the lovely expanse of white pristine snow. Two hawks cruised overhead, their wingspan impressive against the clear blue sky. When she lost sight of them, she said, “If I’ve got this right, Erin Bushnell wasn’t only a brilliant music student at the Stanislaus School of Music, she was also in love with the director and was the best friend of the director’s niece-in-law.”

CHAPTER 19

CHAPPY HOLCOMBE SAT at the head of the spit-polished Chippendale dining table. “Well, how about it, Cynthia, do you think Twister was sleeping with your good friend Erin Bushnell?”

Cynthia Holcombe finished chewing her breadstick, swallowed, and regarded her father-in-law as if he’d made a tacky joke. “No, I don’t,” was all she said. She picked up another breadstick, as if in self-defense.