She wondered if the sun had gone behind a cloud, if that's why she felt so cold. Why everything seemed dark all at once and she could barely feel Gordon's big hand on her arm. Except that she knew the sky was cloudless and the sun was hot, that it was a normal summer day.

Normal. That was it, that was the lie.

Because it's not normal. Nothing is normal, not if he's hunting again. A ghost can't hunt, and that's what he's supposed to be. He's dead.

I killed him.

2½ Years Previously

It was an unexpectedly cool night in New Orleans, which suited Riley. She liked heat when she was on the beach or at a pool, but otherwise not so much. Especially at night, and most especially on a night when she might have to move fast.

Being distracted by the sense-assaulting chaos of the French Quarter at night was bad enough without also coping with sticky clothing. What little she was wearing, anyway.

"Hey, honey-how 'bout a date?"

"I'm off duty," she said.

He blinked in surprise and nervously fingered a strand of alien-head Mardi Gras beads that were adding a nicely tacky flourish to his colorful shorts and floral shirt. "Aw, now, don't be like that, honey. I can pay for a room."

"I'm sure you can, champ, but I'm just not interested." She kept her tone bored and her gaze moving; the last thing she needed tonight was to get picked up for solicitation, and she'd been on the watch all evening for cops patrolling the street on foot.

It made the job she was here to do even more difficult, and for at least the tenth time she regretted the skimpy clothing that made her blend right into the festive crowd but also made her a target of unwanted attention.

He'll never notice me, but, dammit, every straight guy between fifteen and sixty-five has. I could make a bloody fortune. Probably should have picked an outfit closer to tourist and further away from hooker.

Not that there was much distance between those two seeming opposites, not with today's skimpy summer fashions. Besides which, she wanted to look more like a native than a tourist and, clearly, had achieved that goal.

Realizing that the hopeful would-be john was still standing there, Riley allowed an edge to creep into her voice. "Look, it's my night off, okay? Find another playmate."

He hesitated, scanning her up and down with clear disappointment, then sighed and moved on.

Riley decided that she obviously looked too available just hovering, so she began to stroll slowly along the sidewalk, allowing the moving crowd to carry her.

It had to be New Orleans. She was certain of it. She had followed the killer from Memphis to Little Rock, a step behind him as she'd been for months, studying the butchered bodies he left for the police to find, trying to climb inside his mind far enough to do more than guess where he'd strike next.

Then, in Little Rock, looking at the bloody scene of his latest murder, something inside her had whispered Birmingham. She had hesitated, questioning her instincts, her clairvoyance, whatever it was trying to guide her.

But she had been right; his next victim died in Birmingham. And Riley had arrived just in time to view yet another scene of butchery.

By then her own anger at being once again too late to help the victim had nearly blocked her, but even through that fury she had heard the whisper. New Orleans .

I'll be in New Orleans, little girl. Meet you there.

She hadn't told Bishop that part when she reported it. It had probably been her imagination anyway, that's what she convinced herself. Because she wasn't a telepath and couldn't possibly have heard the killer's voice in her mind. So all she told her boss was that she felt sure New Orleans would be the next stalking ground.

So here she was. A month later.

And so far, nothing.

It was almost impossible to be bored in New Orleans, but Riley knew her patience was wearing thin. This killer had struck at least nine times-Bishop felt there were probably earlier victims not found or not connected, and Bishop was usually right about stuff like that-and all she was sure of after months of exhaustive effort was that her target was a salesman or traveling rep of some kind.

"It makes sense," Bishop agreed. "He knows the cities and towns he visits. So he'd know where to hunt. All the local hangouts. It wouldn't take him more than a few nights to be able to recognize the regulars."

"And pick his target, yeah. But why family men, guys stopping for a beer or two on the way home from work? Jealousy? Because they have what he doesn't?"

"Maybe. Jealousy. Resentment. Envy. Or just rage. Because it's all so unfair. Because they're normal and he's not."

"You think he knows that? Knows he isn't normal?"

"Some part of him knows." Bishop hesitated, then added soberly, "I hope that's the part you're tapping into, Riley. Because the other part of him is black as the inside of hell, pure evil, and that's not a place you ever want to get caught up in."

"I'm not a telepath."

"No, you're an ultrasensitive clairvoyant and you've gotten obsessed with this guy. Which means you're letting his work seep into your mind, your emotions, into your very pores. It's dangerous. I warned you-don't get too close."

"You knew I would," she said, and it wasn't quite an accusation. "When this started. When you recruited me."

"Yeah. I knew."

Hearing or sensing what might have been a touch of regret in him, she said, "It's okay. I knew it too."

"I wish that helped," Bishop said. "Be careful, Riley. Be very, very careful."

Three weeks after that phone conversation, Riley was tense, edgy, and getting a little too familiar with her surroundings. At night on Bourbon Street, it was noisy and colorful and held a particular flavor no other city on earth could match.

People filled the street, some of them lurching or staggering, their eighty-proof laughter scraping along her nerves. The spicy aromas of Cajun cooking mixed uneasily with that of the musty old buildings and cigarette smoke and people. Occasionally the breeze changed, and the muddy smell of the river was added to the rest.

A space had been cleared about halfway down for a juggler to entertain the crowd, his practiced patter loud and cheerful. The music booming from the clubs and strip bars lining the street clashed with the mournful wail of a folk singer, his guitar case open for contributions on the sidewalk before him.

And under the bright lights of the street, the appearance of the crowd ran the gamut from a few garish costumes apparently left over from Mardi Gras to men and women in business suits. In between lay everything from jeans and T-shirts to the brief skirts or shorts and halter tops of the teenagers-and hookers.

Riley was trying to close out all that, trying to focus her mind only on her prey.

You're here, you bastard. The cops don't know it yet, don't know there's a hunter prowling their streets. These people don't know. But I know. I can feel you, like an itch on the back of my neck. Smell you, like the sour stench of cheap cologne and old sweat.

And need. You smell like need. You need to kill tonight, don't you? It's been too long since the last one. Why have you waited so long? You never did before. Three weeks, max, never a whole month. Why wait a month this time?

Is it me? Do you know about me?

Can you feel me the way I can feel you?

A peculiar dizziness swept over Riley, and her step faltered. She blinked at the sea of moving people, then managed to make her way far enough out of the flow to lean a hand against a building.

She realized she was gagging, that there was an awful metallic taste in her mouth. She put her free hand up to touch her lips and when she looked at it could see blood.