He was silent for a moment, then said, "Tell me you aren't asking to stay just to be close to Charleston. In case."

"I can't," she admitted. "That's part of it. Because if it is Price, I'm the only one who got close once before. I'm the one you'd have to send if-when-they ask for our help."

"The last time nearly destroyed you, Riley. With all your senses and memories intact."

"I know. And I'm not looking for a repeat performance, believe me. I don't need a profiler to tell me he would be really pissed at anyone who'd taken him out of the game even temporarily. Pissed as in out for revenge and in a major way. That was his nature, right? Vengeful?"

"Among other things."

Riley didn't want to think about those other things. "So we both hope there's a copycat in Charleston. But whether I have to face a worse possibility or not, I'll be no good to myself or to the SCU if I can't fix whatever that bastard with the stun gun broke."

"Which is all the more reason to return to Quantico."

Riley hadn't wanted to but ended the argument with a simple fact neither of them could dispute, because both were cops.

"Memories or not, I did something on Sunday night that left me covered with blood. Maybe the blood of a murdered man. Until we know for sure, I can't leave."

Chapter 9

Leah Wells had wanted to be a cop since she was eight years old. Maybe even longer, but she remembered back to eight. She had turned her dollhouse into a jail, imprisoning three dolls, two teddy bears, and a ninja action figure borrowed from her brother when he hadn't been looking.

The ninja had committed the most heinous act; he had kidnapped Malibu Barbie and held her for ransom. The battle to capture him and free the hostage had been intense.

Leah's mother was somewhat bemused by all this, rightly fearing the childhood games heralded a less traditional life than the one that she, at least, hoped for. But Leah, instead of spending her college years joining a sorority and pursuing a degree in child psychology or some such, had studied criminal psychology and criminal investigation, interning with the state bureau of investigation.

But if her mother had been disappointed in her daughter's choice of careers, Leah herself was somewhat disillusioned by four years spent on the police force in Columbia; she discovered she did not like being a big-city cop. Too much violence. Too many depressing situations with unhappy, tragic outcomes.

Gordon said she'd picked the wrong career for a woman who believed happily-ever-after was the way stories were supposed to end, but the truth was that Leah enjoyed the work-mostly. She enjoyed helping people. So, when Columbia turned out to be too depressing for her, she decided a beach community would undoubtedly be more cheerful, less violent, and provide great fringe benefits.

Especially since she was that rare redhead who tanned instead of freckled.

She had landed in the Hazard County Sheriff's Department by virtue of a pin. With a list before her of law-enforcement agencies along the southeastern coast looking for experienced officers, she had closed her eyes and stabbed the paper with an open safety pin.

Hazard County it was.

Maybe a dumb way to plan a career, let alone a life, but it had worked out well for Leah. Because she liked her work now and loved the beach-community lifestyle. And she had a man she was fairly crazy about as well. Icing on the cake.

"And now," she said to Riley, bringing her story to the present and sounding aggrieved, "some murderous fiend has to come along and ruin paradise."

"Yeah, murderous fiends can really screw up your day," Riley said gravely. She was sitting on a corner of the conference table, idly swinging one foot, waiting for Sheriff Ballard to meet them there with the postmortem report. In the meantime, she had gotten Leah talking with a simple question or two about herself.

Leah sighed. "Oh, you know what I mean. It's not like I'm taking this murder lightly. Every time I close my eyes, I see that poor guy hanging out there in the woods. I feel queasy. And scared. Because if the maniac who killed him isn't a summer visitor, then chances are he's somebody I know."

Riley took another bite of the PowerBar she'd been eating, then said, "For what it's worth, I'd be surprised if this killer was a summer visitor."

"Shit. Why?"

"Because if he-or they-practice actual satanic rites, it's not something you usually just take on the road when you go on vacation. Not the extreme rituals, at any rate. Plus, secrecy is a really big factor, and that site was awfully public."

"So it could have been-what? A fake ritual?"

"Maybe a smoke screen. To hide the real motive behind the murder. And if that's the case, if somebody is using the trappings of the occult to throw us off the scent, then the reason is, most likely, to deflect attention away from someone who would otherwise be a logical suspect in the straightforward murder of this man."

Leah thought about that. "But we can't know if he had any enemies locally until we know who he is. Was."

"Yeah. So identifying him has to be a priority."

"It is. But so far, nada. The doc serving as our medical examiner gave us a preliminary report last night; he didn't find any identifying marks on the body. No old scars, no tattoos, no birthmarks. We ran his prints a second time just to be sure, but still no luck."

"I wouldn't expect his prints to be on file," Riley said.

"Any particular reason why?"

Neatly folding her empty PowerBar wrapper into a narrower and narrower strip, Riley said, "Because the head was removed."

Leah couldn't help grimacing, but said, "And so?"

"And so I've never heard of an occult ritual where the head of a victim was removed and taken away. And I can't see why that would be done other than to delay identification. That being the case, if the killer had any reason to suppose the guy's prints were on file, and obviously not being the squeamish kind, he would have destroyed the fingertips. Hacked them off, or maybe used a blowtorch."

Leah cleared her throat. "It's not a nice world where you live, is it?"

Riley looked slightly surprised, then smiled a bit ruefully. "I guess not. I don't think about it that way, most of the time."

"It's just a job?"

"Well…more or less. I meet some great people through my work. Have some interesting experiences, not all of them negative. I travel a lot. I do work I feel is important."

"Oh, no question about that." Leah lowered her voice slightly, even though they were alone in the conference room. "And you have a way to use the psychic stuff where it really means something, instead of working in a carnival sideshow or on one of those call-the-psychic hotlines."

"One of the most amazing psychics I know spent years in a carnival, telling fortunes."

"I didn't mean-"

Riley waved that away. "Oh, I know. But you're right-for some psychics, maybe most psychics, there aren't many ways to carve out a decent living using those abilities. That's assuming you even can use the abilities, and lots can't."

"Can't control them, you mean?"

"Most of us can't control them, or at least not reliably. My boss says that if ever a psychic is born who can control his or her abilities, the whole world will change. He's probably right about that."

"But that psychic won't be you, huh?"

"No. I've been using my abilities as long as I can remember, and it's still hit-or-miss. Even if my concentration is perfect and my energy level optimal, I may not get a damn thing. Other times I'm not even trying and get blindsided by a dump of information or emotions."

"You get emotions? Other people's emotions?" Leah hadn't intended to sound wary but heard it in her voice.