"I'm afraid to ask what else has happened."

"Nothing – that I know of. There's someone here to see you, Sheriff. He doesn't have an appointment, but I think you'll want to see him."

"This can't be good," Matt muttered.

"It isn't." Her expression told him she was glad it was his problem rather than hers.

Matt gave her a wry smile. "All right, send him in."

He absently tidied the files on his desk and rose to his feet as Sharon showed the visitor into his office. And he didn't need to hear the man's introduction or see his badge to know exactly what he was looking at.

"Sheriff Dunbar? My name is Noah Bishop. I'm with the FBI."

He was a tall man, lean but with the wide shoulders and athletic carriage that spoke of a great deal of physical strength. He had black hair boasting a rather dramatic widow's peak, piercing gray eyes, and a strikingly handsome face marred by a jagged scar that ran from the corner of his left eye almost to the corner of his mouth.

It was not a face that inspired comfort.

"Agent Bishop." Matt gestured to a visitor's chair, then reclaimed his own. "What can I do for the FBI?"

"Relax, Sheriff." Bishop smiled. "I didn't come down here to stick my nose into your investigation." His voice was cool but matter-of-fact.

"No?"

"No. This is your jurisdiction. The FBI would be happy to offer its expertise, especially if you do indeed have a serial killer operating in the area, but we have learned in such situations as this that it's more politic to wait until we're invited."

"Glad to hear it."

If Mart's brevity disturbed the agent, it wasn't apparent. "Then we understand each other."

Matt inclined his head. "Care to tell me how you heard about our little investigation?"

"The local newspaper."

"Which you have delivered to you in Virginia?"

Bishop smiled again. It was rather frightening. "I have access to certain computer data banks, including one in this state. Your local paper, like so many others, archives its issues for research – and posterity. Once the phrase 'serial killer' was used, it showed up on my system when I did a routine search for information."

"The Internet," Matt said with ironic admiration. "It's just wonderful."

"It does tend to make secrecy difficult." Without waiting for a response to that provocative statement, Bishop went on calmly. "As I said, Sheriff, the FBI would be happy to offer any aid or advice you might require. However, I'm not here primarily because of your investigation, but on a related matter."

"Which is?"

"I'd like to talk to you about Cassandra Neill."

FEBRUARY 27, 1999

When Cassie woke, it was with the leaden sensation of having slept a long, long time. She lay there for a while, not particularly concerned about anything, staring drowsily up at the ceiling. But then the niggling suspicion that she had slept in her clothes intruded, and she finally forced herself to sit up and push back the covers.

Yes, she had slept in her clothes.

Why on earth had she done that?

The clock on her nightstand told her it was a bit after nine in the morning. She was reasonably sure it was Saturday.

And somebody was frying bacon in her kitchen.

Bewilderment rather than anxiety was uppermost in Cassie's mind. It took her several minutes of careful thought to recall what had happened the previous afternoon, and when she did she realized that Ben must indeed have stayed all night.

After carrying her to bed. And leaving her there.

She pushed that realization away and the covers with it, sliding stiffly out of bed and standing on the rug beside it for a moment as she automatically assessed her condition. Her thinking was still a bit fuzzy. Her muscles, having obviously remained in one exhausted position all night, complained with every movement, and her growling stomach told her it had been too long since her last meal, but other than that she felt surprisingly well.

A long, hot shower took care of the stiff muscles and cleared her head, and by the time she was dressed and on her way downstairs, her head was clearer and she felt ready to face just about anything. Even a prosecuting attorney frying bacon in her kitchen.

He had the table already set for two, and her portable radio was quietly playing oldies in the background. It was a cheerful, welcoming scene.

"Good morning," he said when she came in. "The coffee's hot."

"Good morning." She headed for the coffee, desperately in need of caffeine and hoping it didn't show.

Max, sprawled out near the back door with a rawhide treat between his front paws, thumped his tail in welcome but didn't stop chewing. The honeymoon, Cassie decided, was definitely over.

"I hope you don't mind, but I've made myself at home," Ben said casually and without looking at her.

"How could I mind?" she murmured.

"I imagine you might." His voice remained conversational. "Yesterday you told me to leave."

She vaguely recalled that. "I told you to leave me alone. You did."

He sent her a glance that was no less sharp for being brief. "How do you feel?"

"Better. Sleep usually helps." Though not usually sixteen hours' worth. Sipping her coffee, Cassie looked at Ben, noting both his ease in the kitchen and the fact that he had changed clothes since yesterday. Where had he slept?

"Do you like pancakes?" he asked. "Say yes."

"Yes." She went to get syrup and butter from the refrigerator, then poured orange juice for them both as he finished cooking.

She wanted to ask him about the poor girl who'd been taken yesterday, but her mind shied away from it. There was nothing she could do, she reminded herself fiercely. Not for that girl. Not now.

She remained silent while Ben transferred the food to the table and they both sat down to eat. The silence between them stretched out for most of the meal. It didn't seem to bother Ben at all. Cassie was in no hurry to break it; she was not uncomfortable with him, though she was highly conscious of his every movement. She just didn't know what to say to him.

They were nearly finished when she finally spoke. "This is good. Thanks."

"I specialize in breakfasts and steaks. Other than that…" He shrugged, smiling.

She thought that expertise had probably taken him as far as he wanted it to but didn't say it aloud. Instead, driven, she said, "That girl – "

"They haven't found her yet."

"I could – "

"No," Ben said. "You couldn't."

"I'm all right now."

"Maybe." He shook his head, watching her intently. "And maybe not. Do you remember it all, Cassie?"

"More or less."

"Do you remember speaking in the first person, in the killer's words?"

She felt a chill. "No."

"You did. I managed to pull you back, but – " He drew a breath. "Now I understand what you meant when you said you needed a lifeline."

Cassie didn't ask what, specifically, she had said. Instead, she shook her head and murmured, "Every case is a bit different, but… I don't understand anything about this one. Peculiar things have been happening almost from the beginning."

He hesitated. "Something else. Your eyes were open during most of the contact. That isn't usual, is it?"

"No."

"Your pupils were so dilated, there was almost no color showing at all."

Cassie felt more disturbed by what she heard in his voice than by the anomalous occurrence he described. "I can't explain it. The difference I felt was… a matter of degree."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the contact itself didn't feel different, just the depth of it. Almost instantly I was deep in his mind, his consciousness, so quick, it was like flipping a switch."

"Because you knew the way after finding him the last time?"