Can the same killer strike again—a hundred and fifty years later?

Estes Park, Colorado, is a place of serenity. But it wasn’t always so serene. Shortly after the Civil War, Nathan Kendall and his wife were murdered there, leaving behind a young son. The crime was never solved.

Now…historian Scarlet Barlow is working at a small museum attached to a B and B, the same building where that murder occurred. She recently came to Colorado, reeling after her divorce from FBI agent Diego McCullough. Diego—who’s just been asked to join the Krewe of Hunters, a unit dealing with “unusual” situations…

When Scarlet unwittingly takes pictures of people who’ve been murdered—just like the Kendalls a hundred and fifty years before—the police look at her with suspicion. Then the museum’s statues of historic people, including Nathan Kendall, begin to talk to her, and she knows it’s time to call her ex-husband. Diego heads to Estes Park, determined to solve the bizarre case that threatens Scarlet’s life—and to reunite with the woman he never stopped loving.

Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

“Once again, Heather Graham has outdone herself. The Betrayed took me on a fantastic trip to Sleepy Hollow and I’d travel with Graham anywhere… This chilling novel has everything: suspense, romance, intrigue and an ending that takes your breath away.”

—Suspense Magazine

“The Hexed will take you through an intriguing maze with the right amount of twists and turns to keep you off balance to the surprising ending.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Dark, dangerous and deadly! Graham has the uncanny ability to bring her books to life, using exceptionally vivid details to add depth to all the people and places.”

—RT Book Reviews on Waking the Dead, *Top Pick*

“Murder, intrigue…a fast-paced read. You may never know in advance what harrowing situations Graham will place her characters in, but…rest assured that the end result will be satisfying.”

—Suspense Magazine on Let the Dead Sleep

“Graham deftly weaves elements of mystery, the paranormal and romance into a tight plot that will keep the reader guessing at the true nature of the killer’s evil.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Unseen

“I’ve long admired Heather Graham’s storytelling ability and this book hit the mark. I couldn’t put The Unholy down.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Suspenseful and dark.… The transitions between past and present flow seamlessly, and the main characters are interesting and their connection to one another is believable.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Unseen

The Hidden

Heather Graham

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For family and family trips.

Road trips!

Dennis, Jason, Shayne, Derek, D.J., Bryee-Annon and Chynna.

Ghost tours along the way…

And a precious journey through time and American history.

In memory of Shirley Dougherty, Harpers Ferry, West Virginia—one of the most entertaining and informative guides I have ever had the privilege to know.

And to ghost stories…

History isn’t so much a list of dates and times as it is the tales of those who came before us, their failures and their triumphs, and their place in the time that led us to our world today.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

The Colorado Territory Fall 1870

Nathan Kendall woke in the middle of the night, aware that something wasn’t right. He tried to tell himself that he was imagining the sudden sense of danger that had roused him from a deep sleep; he had done his best to leave the past behind, to embrace his new life.

And the woman he loved.

She lay at his side, still sleeping peacefully. Jillian Vickers Kendall, whose smile truly seemed to radiate light, whose every movement was silk and grace. The miracle was that she loved him—and that their child slept in a cradle at their side.

Jillian...and their child. Fear swept over him like a tidal wave.

He was instantly alert, afraid to move until he recognized the source of danger.

He wished to hell he’d thought to get himself a good guard dog. But at first there had been no reason to fear anyone, nothing to worry about except an angry bear.

There still shouldn’t have been anything to worry about.

He lay in the darkness, listening. He felt as he had sometimes during the brutal years of the Civil War, as he lay asleep in his tent on the cold earth, where the men slept wherever they had fallen in exhaustion after retreat had been sounded.

He felt as if the enemy might come at any minute, guns blazing and bayonets ready.

All his fears then had been of the enemy, of battle, guns and swords, the sound of horses shrieking, caught in the fire, dying in the mud. The sound of men screaming, the scent of burning flesh that coincided with horrible pain and despair.

But the enemy was no longer the enemy, at least not on paper. And not according to the greatest general the United States—and the Confederacy—had ever nurtured, Robert E. Lee.

When they’d lain down their arms, Lee had urged that they all sue for peace.

It had taken Nathan a few years to truly understand the concept.

His own home had been razed in the fighting. His parents had passed away during the war years. His only brother had been killed at Shiloh.

Peace, General Robert E. Lee had said. They were beaten. No more blood, no more horror. Find peace. But for some, many of them in Nathan’s company, drawn from what had become West Virginia during the middle of the war, the war hadn’t ended. For a while he’d fallen in with them. Brian Gleason’s home at Front Royal had been burned to the ground, Jeff Bay’s wife had died in childbirth while they’d been away fighting and Billie Merton’s father had sided with the North. All had felt they had nothing left but to keep fighting, which meant stealing anything that belonged to the hated Northerners.

He hadn’t thought it such a bad thing to rob banks owned by carpetbaggers. Or even to hold up stagecoaches as they moved westward, filled with more carpetbaggers from the North. He’d had no problem joining up with a few of the other men from his infantry company to become bandits—like Robin Hood, of course, stealing from those who had descended on the broken and bleeding South like a horde of vultures.

But then they had killed someone during a bank robbery.

And Nathan had wanted out. War was one thing—it was horrible and ugly, killing men with different ideals who just wanted to go home as much as he did. But that was kill or be killed.

Cold-blooded murder was another thing, and more than he could bear at this stage of his life.

Peace.

He had found it in the Colorado Territory.

A little bit of money had purchased a nice piece of land from old Rollo Conway, a worn-out prospector who hadn’t done so well, up on a plateau that looked out on the majestic peaks of the Rockies. The ranch still bore his name.

A fellow named Joel Estes had founded Estes Park, the nearby community that bore his name, around 1859, and since then, rich Europeans and inquisitive naturalists had come to marvel at the place, along with prospectors determined to search for riches in the nearby multitude of mountain streams.

Nathan panned for gold himself, but he kept quiet about his discoveries, because he didn’t really want to be a gold miner. He wanted to be a rancher. He wanted simple things. The precious gold bits he’d found were nothing but a means to an end. He wanted a stable and a home, both of which he was more than willing to build by hand. Hard labor, working to erase his painful memories, was his way of finding a new life.

And then he’d met Jillian at the little church just down the mountain. She’d been there with her father, United States Marshal Tom Vickers, and though Vickers hadn’t liked him, Jillian had fallen head over heels in love with Nathan. When Marshal Vickers had left town to do his duty in the surrounding countryside, Jillian had talked Father Ferguson into marrying them. After all, they were both of legal age, so that had been that.

After all those brutal years, he’d found peace.

Peace and that rare, elusive feeling called happiness.

But tonight...

What in God’s name was it? The slight difference in the breeze, the rustle as it moved through leaves just beginning to hint of fall...

The bugles were silent now.

But there was something out there...

He jumped out of bed and grabbed his Colt. It wasn’t as cumbersome as the the Enfield rifle he’d carried during the war. No, it had come from his outlaw days, an army rifle manufactured at the end of the war, and offering precision aim and six bullets that could be fired in quick succession.

He looked at his wife, his precious wife, where she still lay sleeping. And he looked at his child, his son, sleeping just as peacefully.

He walked to the window of their upstairs bedroom and looked out on the world he had forged on the little mountaintop plateau. Storage and stables to his right, smokehouse and bunkhouse to his left. So far, no one was sleeping in the bunkhouse; he was just getting to where he could afford to hire the ranch hands who would fill it.

Great trees stretched high to the heavens in the night sky, visible by the light of a slightly waning moon. He heard a horse neigh and that seemed like another warning.

He wished again that he’d gotten dogs; the cats he kept as ratters in the stables wouldn’t be much of an alarm.

What was spooking him? he wondered.

Indians suddenly creeping back to reclaim the area? No, not now, not here.

The ghost of a dead Yankee soldier he might have killed, back to seek his revenge?

Or a living man? His father-in-law, ready to kill them both for defying his edict not to marry?

Who else?

The outlaws he had ridden with until theft had become murder? Jeff Bay, who had led them all? Jeff had become so filled with hatred that he hadn’t understood Nathan’s anger that he’d shot a man in cold blood simply because the victim had come from the North.

Or were Brian Gleason, Billie Merton and the other outlaws he’d ridden with angry because he had opted out?

He jumped suddenly as his wife slipped her arms around him. He’d been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard her come up behind him.

“Nathan,” she said softly. “What is it?”

He turned, holding her close, feeling the beat of her heart and the warmth of her body. “I don’t know,” he said. “I thought something was out there.”

“It’s nothing, my love,” she told him. “Come back to bed.”

He nodded and turned back to the window for one last look.

And then he saw it, a shadow slipping from the storage shed next door.

“Stay here,” he told Jillian. “Look after the baby.”

Nathan crept quietly down the stairs. He unbolted the front door as silently as he could, then slid outside, using the wall as cover, straining to see in the darkness.

The shadow was still there by the storage shed. It seemed to be lumbering.

He almost laughed out loud.

A bear.

He stepped out on the porch, thinking to fire a warning shot, so the creature would amble off without doing any harm.

Without warning, he was hit. A blow to the head sent him stumbling forward, tripping over the steps to the porch, and he landed hard in the dirt with his head spinning so wildly that he saw stars in the sky that weren’t there.

He blinked to clear his eyes and realized that he’d been attacked by a monster.

No, not a monster.

A man.

A man in a bizarre mask and hat.

“Coward,” Nathan whispered. “Show yourself.”

And then he knew. He’d never really found peace.

And he was going to die.

1

Colorado, Present Day

A majestic elk stood stock-still on the hill, long neck arched to the sky in the sunset, antlers large and proud. Scattered wildflowers nestled within the long grass, and the colors of the horizon were almost whimsical in their beauty.

Scarlet Barlow kept her distance, though the animal didn’t seem to be the least bit afraid of her. The elk in the area were accustomed to people who came to hike the mountainous country, the crests and valleys and little plateau where the onetime Conway Ranch was now a bed-and-breakfast, complete with a gift shop and museum. No one disturbed the elk that came here to graze the lush meadows, and the elk apparently knew that. The B and B was a mere stone’s throw from the eastern entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park, so those who came to admire the animal life there meant it no harm.

The big bull elk seemed to be aware that he was posing like a model; it was almost as if he was happy to offer her the photo op.

She snapped several pictures, paused and glanced at them on the screen, then smiled, pleased with what she had captured.

“Thank you, sir,” she said to him, then turned away and looked out over the natural splendor of the Rockies and the town of Estes Park, nestled among them.

People came here for many reasons.

One of the biggies was The Stanley Hotel. Stephen King had been staying there when he’d been inspired to write The Shining. The hotel offered both ghost and historical tours, and Scarlet loved it. She liked to imagine what the author had thought and to hear the staff talk about how the events in the book related to what had really happened there.

The Conway Ranch, where she’d been working as a researcher and curator for the past two months, had a history just as unique and intriguing, even if not as well-known. She loved knowing that her contributions to the small on-site museum were helping it to become more and more of an attraction on its own. The ranch had been founded in the 1860s, just a few years after Joel Estes had established the town and a few months after Welsh explorer Griffith Evans had opened a dude ranch in the area. Ranching was no easy matter in this mountainous country seventy-five hundred feet above sea level. And as far as the Conway Ranch went, “ranching” had long meant guided trail rides for the tourists.

Scarlet smiled. She couldn’t get over the awe she always felt as she looked at the towering snowcapped peaks of the Rockies.

She’d been told nothing compared to the Canadian Rockies, but she couldn’t imagine that any scenery could be more beautiful than this.

Even the town felt special to her, with its unique shops and restaurants, everything nestled in a natural paradise of mountain peaks and forests cut through by brooks that were bubbling and bright in the sunlight, cool and mysterious by night. Hikers, horseback riders and tubers and rafters, who took their chances with the rapids, came year-round to enjoy the scenery.

This place was as different from her native South Florida as it could get, but both were natural playgrounds, and this was a perfect place to be. At least for now.

Her apartment was on the top floor of what had once been a storage barn for feed and ranching equipment. Now it housed the museum on the ground floor and her two-bedroom apartment on the second. The museum had actually come about accidentally. The original builder had started out organizing his own Civil War and Native American memorabilia, then added more pieces as he acquired them. Over the years various people had taken a stab at cataloging everything, but finally the current owner had decided it was time for a professional to come in and make sense of it all.

And that was where Scarlet had entered the picture.

She’d been a bookworm all her life, with a particular interest in history. At college she’d majored in history and minored in archaeology, going on to get master’s degrees in both. What she loved most wasn’t the bare bones of dates and places but the stories that went along with events, stories about the people who’d actually lived at the time and whose experiences provided a unique perspective.

After college she had worked in New York for several years before she had been invited to come home to South Florida to work a new dig in the field she considered her specialty, eighteenth and nineteenth century America, at the mouth of the Miami River. She had followed both the lure of the job and her heart, taking the position not only for itself, but also to be closer to the man she’d loved, FBI agent Diego McCullough. And now, thanks to the current owner of the ranch, Ben Kendall, she was here in Colorado.

Ben, a descendant of the original owner, Nathan Kendall, and his wife, Trisha, had purchased the place five years ago. For them, restoring the Conway Ranch was a labor of love. They’d refurbished it with the money he’d made as a New York stockbroker, having given up the city life to return to his family roots.

A history buff from way back, he had tracked down Scarlet in New York City after discovering that she, too, had a family connection to the ranch and to him, and they’d stayed in touch when she went back to Florida, where she’d eventually married Diego. And he’d been right there with a job offer after the divorce, when she’d wanted and needed to get away.

“Scarlet! Afternoon!” Ben called out to her now from the wide porch of the main house, breaking into her thoughts.

Given the time, she realized he must have just returned from leading the afternoon trail ride, just as he did six days a week. Angus Fillmore—the quintessential cowboy, with his long white hair and beard, solid shoulders and strong arms—was still leading horses into the stables. One of the guests, Terry Ballantree, thirtyish and another descendant of Nathan Kendall, was talking animatedly to Angus, who was nodding politely but didn’t seem to be saying much. Gwen and Charles Barton, newlyweds from Mississippi, were waiting for their chance to say something to Angus, but Terry seemed to be nothing if not long-winded.

“Scarlet, I’m glad to run into you,” Ben told her, just as the head housekeeper, Linda Reagan, tall, slim and very pretty, stepped out on the porch behind him.

“Don’t forget to wipe your boots off before you come inside,” Linda said, then waved to Scarlet.

“I will, I will!” Ben promised, then joined Scarlet on the wide front lawn.

She smiled, wondering how he had ever been a stockbroker. He was fifty-five and blessed with a full head of snow-white hair that he liked to keep long. He always had a smile on his face now, which he hadn’t had when she’d first met him. The stress of working on Wall Street had kept him looking harried and worn, but now he was a happy man. He’d told her once that he was certain he’d really been made for the great outdoors.

“You’re welcome on the ride anytime,” he told her. “I know you love the horses.”

“Believe it or not, Ben, I grew up around horses.”

“South Florida? That’s beach country.”

“There are lots of horses all over the state,” she said. “I grew up in Davie. We had horses there, and my folks still do.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “So how’s it going? Are you liking the job?”

“I love it here,” she assured him. “Your collection is amazing. Colts from just about every era from the 1850s onward, Spencer repeating rifles, Smith & Wesson revolvers, Winchesters, you name it. Worth a fortune, if you wanted to sell.”

He shook his head. “My selling days are over. I’m looking forward to spending every day here, sharing all this with our guests, for the rest of my life.”

“You’re a happy man,” she said.

He grinned. “Best wife in the world and this little piece of heaven. How can I not be happy? Looks like you appreciate the place, too.” He nodded toward her camera.

“I just got a terrific picture of an elk. Big guy with a huge set of antlers.”

“Can’t bring yourself to say ‘big rack,’ huh?” he teased.

She laughed. “Honestly, it never occurred to me. One thing we don’t have in Florida are elk. Especially not elk that like to pose for you.”

“Let me see,” Ben said.

She produced her camera and hit the little button to show her stored photos.

Ben took the camera from her with a grin on his face, but his grin froze as he stared at the screen and then at her. “Where the hell were you? What is this?” he demanded, handing the camera back to her.

Startled, Scarlet took the camera and stared at the screen. There was no bull elk with majestic antlers. It was the same spot, but the picture was of a man. A man hanging from a branch of a mighty oak, blood dripping from his body to the ground.

She stared at it, stunned.

“I—I didn’t take this!” she said.

She hit the button to switch to the next picture. That one showed two people, the same man and a woman, on the ground, tangled together in a pool of blood.

She flicked backward and saw a picture of the woman while she was still alive, though just barely. A large red stain covered her midriff, her arms were thrown back and her mouth was open in an O of agony and shock. It looked as if a bullet had just ripped through her body.

Dead people. Her pictures were of dead people.

She flicked back to the shot of the couple. It was hard to tell exactly which limbs belonged to which person as they embraced in a pool of blood.

“Honestly, Scarlet, what the hell?”

“I—I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t take these. I never saw any of this. I—I was right over there,” she said, pointing.

He looked at her for a moment as if she was severely disturbed. Scarlet looked back at the camera, flicking through the many shots she had taken in search of the elk.

It wasn’t there anywhere.

Just the man and the woman...

Perhaps her stunned expression had an effect on Ben, who asked, “Can a camera be hacked?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “But I just don’t get it. I didn’t see anything like that, and I never would have taken pictures of it if I had.” She shook her head and handed the camera back to Ben, as if she couldn’t bear to touch it.

Ben studied the camera and scrolled through the shots, then stared at her, frowning. “What did you do that for?”

“Do what?”

“Erase them all.”

“I didn’t erase anything!”

“Well, they’re gone. I admit your elk is fantastic, but why on earth would you fake pictures of corpses on my property?” Ben said.

She stared at him, angry now, and totally confused. How could those vile shots have disappeared and the elk have reappeared in their place? “Really, Ben? You think I could do something like that? Because I didn’t take those pictures, and I didn’t erase them, either. I don’t know how they got there, but I had nothing to do with it.”

“I’m sorry, Scarlet. But they were there, and it was a real shock to see them.”

He stared at her, puzzled, but she thought he believed her.

“We should just take your camera in to Marty Decker. He runs a great camera shop in town. I’m sure he can figure out what’s going on. You know, even if it’s just a camera, I think anything and everything can be hacked these days. I wouldn’t even have a computer if we didn’t need the damned thing for the business. Leave it with me. I’ll get it to him, and I’ll make sure he saves your pictures of the elk. They’re really beautiful.”

“Thanks, Ben,” she told him. “I use computers and cameras all the time while I’m working, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Ben shrugged, then asked, “You going to join us for dinner?”

She was still offended that he could even think she would do something like that, but on the other hand, she couldn’t really blame him. She forced a smile. “No, I’ve got some paperwork to finish, but thank you for the invitation. You’re sure you don’t mind taking the camera to your friend?”

“Not at all.”

“Okay, thanks.” She gave him a little wave and walked away. Terry Ballantree and the Bartons crossed her path, so she paused to say hello, even though she longed to get away and try to sort out what had happened.

“Scarlet, thanks so much for the tour yesterday,” Terry said. “Any way I can get another look before dinner? I’d love another look at some of those old photos.”

“We loved it, too,” Gwen said.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourselves,” Scarlet said. “Ben is kind of strict about the museum. It’s only open Thursday to Sunday, and this is Monday, but if you’re all here for a few more days, I’ll ask him if I can take you back through for a private tour tomorrow or Wednesday.”

“Thanks,” Terry said.

“That would be great,” Gwen said. She and Charles were both in their twenties, and they almost looked like children playing at marriage, but Scarlet had found them both to be open and friendly. Charles had been a football player at Ole Miss, and Gwen had been a cheerleader. Now he had just started his own law practice. Gwen was blonde and blue-eyed, a perfect contrast to his tall, dark and handsome.

Terry was a nice guy, too, though his never-ending enthusiasm was a bit exhausting. He was good-looking, with sandy-brown hair and large hazel eyes, a generous mouth and a perfect nose. While he was only medium height, he was in good shape.

But with her nerves completely frayed right now, she just wasn’t up to dealing with any of them.

“I’ll talk to Ben and let you know,” Scarlet said, then quickly made her escape. “See you all later,” she called over her shoulder.

The old storage barn had been given windows sometime at the end of the Victorian era, and though plain shades were drawn over the museum windows, those upstairs boasted pretty drapes.

Scarlet unlocked the door and stepped inside. The security lights, added to the last of the daylight seeping in, created an eerie glow, but it didn’t bother her in the least. She was in love with the place. Many of the displays were the originals, over a hundred years old, as were the placards they held, written in cursive by a gentle hand almost a hundred and fifty years ago.

There were life-size figures on pedestals arranged throughout the room, ranging from Ute chiefs in full battle regalia to Yankee and Rebel soldiers, fur trappers, gunslingers and frontier women, along with excellent re-creations of real people like Teddy Roosevelt and John Muir. There were twenty-two of them altogether, the oldest nearly as old as the ranch itself. Her favorite was a Ute woman holding a child and looking skyward. There was something so beautiful in her expression that Scarlet was certain she had been modeled from life by an artist who adored her.

The stairs to her apartment were to the far left. A sign hanging from a velvet rope advised No Admittance. She unhooked the rope and walked upstairs.

The whole second floor was hers. She had a kitchen, dining room, living room, bedroom and even a guest room. It wasn’t fancy, but to be honest, she preferred it to the main house, which had been fully renovated to offer the rustic, frontier look guests expected.

In the main house, the parlor was spacious, and boasted Victorian furniture, period portraits and paintings, and a number of mounted animal heads, all of them at least a hundred years’ old. The dining room offered more massive heads, including a giant moose head that stared down at the large central table, which seated twelve.

The animal heads actually made Scarlet a little sad, but Trisha had told her that they were part of the tradition of the West and the guests expected them. Even so, Scarlet had never quite gotten used to them, and she had actually declined several meals at the main house because she felt so uncomfortable eating with the dead moose looking down at her.

Her place, however, was, in her opinion, just as nice as the main house, not to mention it was her own.

And neither her apartment nor the museum had trophy heads anywhere on the walls.

The apartment had been recently remodeled and refurbished. The master bedroom held two antique dressers, a washstand with a pitcher and bowl and an antique bed frame that held a very modern and comfortable queen-size mattress.

Scarlet loved her job here and was enjoying the emphasis on the Civil War, Reconstruction and westward expansion. It was so different from her work in Florida, which had focused on the Seminole Wars.

She walked into the kitchen and decided to brew tea while debating whether to go into town for dinner. She hadn’t actually left the property in a few days, so getting out and about was probably a good thing to do. She could become reclusive all too easily, she knew.

She was mulling over the strange pictures on the camera and pouring hot water over a tea bag when she heard a thump.

It was a loud thump. Loud enough to make her nearly spill scalding water over her hand.

She quickly set down the kettle and frowned. The sound had come from downstairs, where there shouldn’t have been anyone. She was certain she’d locked the door behind her.

Unease filled her. There wasn’t even a door between her and the downstairs, something she’d never thought about before.

She dug in her pocket quickly for her cell phone. After the camera incident, she didn’t want to sound like a paranoid idiot, but she didn’t want to take any chances, either.

She dialed the main house. “Hey,” she said when Ben picked up, “I’m just checking. Is anyone supposed to be downstairs in the museum? I just heard...something down there.”

“Not to worry, I’ll be right there,” he told her.

“I hate to bother you.”

“It’s a bother of about thirty steps. I’ll see you in two minutes.”

As soon as Scarlet heard Ben’s key in the door she ran down the steps to meet him.

He hit the switch that turned on all the overhead lights. “Let’s see what’s up, okay?” he asked.

“Thanks. I didn’t know—I thought maybe someone was supposed to be in here.”

He shook his head. “You, Trisha and I have keys. No one else. So what did you hear?”

“A thump.”

“A thump. Hmm. Well, let’s look around.”

The museum consisted of a single large room, with the platform holding Teddy Roosevelt and John Muir right in the middle.

They began to walk from one end to the other and found one of the frontiersmen on the floor.

“I’ll be darned. My great-great-whatever fell down,” Ben said.

“Poor Nathan Kendall,” Scarlet murmured. The mannequin was a handsome one; Nathan’s father-in-law had commissioned it—along with one of his daughter, which had disappeared at some time over the years—because he’d wanted them for his grandchild. Scarlet had never been sure whether she’d thought that was nice or creepy.

He grinned and hunkered down by the fallen figure. “I guess he wants to be sure we remember him. Well, we should. We’re both his descendants, after all. Give me a hand, will you?”

Scarlet helped him lift the mannequin. It was heavy, which made sense, since it had been carved from solid wood, then painted with care and dressed in period clothing. She assessed the handsome features for damage, thinking the nose might have been broken in the fall, but it was unharmed.

“Why would a statue just fall over?” she ventured.

“Who knows? So much mining went on around here, the earth is always adjusting. You okay?”

“Of course. The noise just startled me, that’s all.”

“I should probably install a security system out here. I never really thought that much about it. Locks on the doors. I didn’t even buy a gun and learn how to shoot until a few months ago. They frown on stockbrokers packing heat on the streets of New York.”

“I know how to shoot,” Scarlet said quietly. “But I don’t own a gun.”

“That’s right, I forgot. Your ex-husband was a cop.”

“Agent,” Scarlet said. “Federal agent.”

“I remember meeting him in New York one time, before you took that job in Florida. He seemed like a nice guy. But...none of my business. His loss is our gain, I say.”

“He is a nice guy,” Scarlet said. “Sometimes things just don’t work. Anyway, yes, he taught me how to use a gun.”

“Well, there you go—you’ve got a room full of guns right here,” Ben said. “Of course, half of these are older than the war between the States.”

“But most of them are in good working order,” she said. “Anyway, I’m fine. I think I’m going to head into town, but I’ll make sure I lock up when I go and when I get back.”

“’Night, then,” he said and left, locking the door carefully behind him.

Scarlet looked at the handsome face of Nathan Kendall. He and his wife had both been killed soon after he’d built the place, though their infant son had been spared. No one had ever been brought to justice for the murders. Some believed that the marauders he’d once ridden with had murdered them for revenge. Others said that Nathan’s father-in-law—a United States marshal who had taken over the ranch and raised the child, and who had opposed the marriage—had been responsible. Scarlet hated to think that a father might have killed his own daughter, but she knew that such things still happened to this day.

Back then, there had been no way to find the killer or killers. Forensic science had barely existed, and this little plateau had been truly isolated. Estes Park had been a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, and The Stanley had yet to rise on the mountaintop across the way.

“You behave,” she told the statue, wagging a finger at it. “I’ve been here two months and you’ve been good so far. Keep it up. I’m going out, and I don’t want to find that you’ve messed up the place when I get back, okay?”

She ran upstairs and grabbed a sweatshirt and her shoulder bag, then went back down.

She looked around the museum before leaving. Everything was quiet, just as it should have been.

But she was still spooked by the fallen mannequin.

Maybe it bugged her so much because it had come right after she’d seen those horrible pictures on her camera. Could a camera be hacked? She simply didn’t know.

She did know that she hadn’t taken those pictures.

If only Diego was here, maybe she wouldn’t feel so uneasy.

But Diego wasn’t with her. She had made that choice, and now...

She regretted it every day.

But this was her life now. And she loved Estes Park and the museum and the Conway Ranch. Okay, a mannequin had fallen over. No biggie. Maybe someone had bumped into it the other day and it had been unsteady ever since, so her walking around upstairs was all it had taken to tip it over.

And the pictures...

Ben had undoubtedly been right. She’d been hacked or tricked or played for a fool, somehow. She had just bought it on impulse at the electronics shop at the Miami airport, so some jerk there had probably fooled with it.

But how would anyone at the airport have known that she would be staying in the mountains, much less right here at this very ranch? She was certain she hadn’t said anything.

She let out a groan of self-disgust.

Getting shaky over this was ridiculous.

Scarlet stepped outside and started to close the door, but she paused and looked back, then said, “You all behave in here, do you understand me? I’m your best friend, preserving your history for posterity, so you need to listen to me, okay?”

Naturally, the mannequins did not reply.

She closed and locked the door and headed for her car, determined to think only about which restaurant to choose in town.

2

“The invitation will always stand,” FBI agent Brett Cody said, glancing over at Diego. “I’ve got to say, amigo, you’re the best partner I’ve ever had. So,” he added, “even if you don’t accept right now, we’ll always want you in the Krewe. And that really means something. No one gets into the Krewe by asking—it’s invitation only.”

Diego looked over at his partner. Brett was finishing out his last day at the Miami field office; he’d transferred in to the FBI’s Krewe of Hunters—the elite unit that investigated crimes that crossed over into the supernatural—when they’d closed a recent major case, a series of “zombie” murders that had rocked Miami.

Not only that, but Brett was also now engaged to Lara Mayhew, who’d been key in helping them solve the case—in part by calling in longtime friends who were part of the Krewe—after a truly whirlwind romance. Not that he should comment on that. He and Scarlet had gotten married less than two months after meeting.

Would they have made it, if not for the accident?

He didn’t know. And there was no reason for him to doubt Brett and Lara just because of his own failure.

His mind returned to the recent case, when they’d been aided by the ghosts of several of the victims. Brett had actually been visited by them, and though he’d balked, he’d finally come to believe.

Diego wondered why he himself really had no problem believing in ghosts. He’d seen the murdered couple—Miguel and Maria Gomez—and never questioned the reality of the experience.

Then again, he’d grown up Cuban and Irish, and between the two sides of the family, he’d heard stories about ghosts, pixies, chupacabras, espíritus and all kinds of otherworldly beings. Maybe because of that, he hadn’t even been shaken when he’d seen Miguel’s and Maria’s ghosts.

Maybe that was why he’d been invited to join the Krewe along with Brett. But the Krewe only had offices in New York City and Alexandria, with teams dispatched all over the country as needed, and for years he’d wanted to fight the good fight in his native Miami. Still, it was hard thinking that he and Brett would no longer be partners; they’d worked together for several years and had become good friends. He’d always felt safe knowing that Brett had his back.

Of course, for now Brett would be coming and going. Lara wasn’t giving up her job at the Sea Life Center, so they were going to be long-distance lovers for a while. And he knew that the Bureau could transfer him anywhere, but unless his bosses forced him to leave Miami, he just wasn’t ready to move yet.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Diego assured Brett. “Let’s finish this, shall we?”

That morning they’d arrested a human trafficker named Amelio Parva and his partner, known only as Pancho, in the act of betraying and abandoning at sea a group of Cuban refugees who’d paid handsomely to be brought safely ashore. With the bad guys in custody, the rescued refugees had been taken to a detainment center, where Diego and Brett had just arrived so they could sign off on the paperwork.

“Here’s hoping they all get asylum,” Brett muttered as he parked. The people being held here weren’t criminals, but even so, the facility was surrounded by barbed wire. Once inside, though, it wasn’t so much a prison as it was a hospital.

Diego finished signing, then handed the papers to Brett and wandered over to look through a window into a social room, where the newest refugees had been allowed to gather.

Diego noted a woman sitting in a rocking chair. She was probably about seventy, gray-haired, very thin, with sharp blue eyes. She noticed him, too, and stared at him hard.

She lifted a hand and beckoned him over. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew she had something important to say to him.

Brett touched his shoulder. “Ready to go?” he asked.

“Hang on. I just want to talk to someone for a minute,” Diego said.

“I’m not sure if we should—” Brett began.

A doctor exited the room just then, and Diego went over to him. “Hey, we were on the detail that found these people today. Mind if I go speak to one of them?” Diego asked.

“I don’t see why not,” the doctor said.

As Diego stepped into the room, everyone stopped what they were doing to look at him.

The old woman was still watching him, and she lifted her hand to him again.

He walked over and hunkered down by her chair.

She smiled—a toothless smile that was still somehow beautiful. “Gracias, gracias,” she said, then picked up his hand and brought it to her cheek. “I will live out my days here,” she said in heavily accented English, smiling, and glancing up at Brett, who had followed and was standing just behind Diego. “Thanks to you.” Then she met Diego’s eyes again, her own bright and piercing. “But you—you must be very careful. And you must go where you are called. You understand? You will know. You must go where you are called.”

He rose, smiling, his mind spinning with thoughts. He wondered if she had been considered a bruja, a witch, back home, if young girls had come to her, wanting to know if they would marry the loves of their lives.

“Thank you, senora,” he told her. “Muchas gracias.”

She smiled sweetly. “You are a good man, but sometimes that isn’t enough. Listen with your soul and you will survive.”

“Thank you, senora,” he repeated.

He joined Brett, ready to leave, but stopped when she spoke again.

This time her voice was odd—it was suddenly deep and husky, and she sounded like a man. Stranger still, there wasn’t a hint of an accent as she spoke.

“I just want to protect her, too.”

Diego spun around to look at the old woman. Her head was down, her eyes closed, and she appeared to be sleeping. No one else was anywhere nearby.

He shook off his unease, and they left the facility. Diego was glad that his mother’s parents had come to the States when they had, aware that there was trouble ahead.

“She liked you,” Brett teased.

Diego shrugged. “What’s not to like?”

“You know, you are divorced, and Lara has a lot of friends,” Brett said.

Diego stopped walking and laughed. “No. No, no, no. I don’t need to be fixed up. I can find my own dates if I want to. I’m cool, okay?”

“Whatever you say,” Brett said.

* * *

Dinner was delicious. Scarlet had chosen one of the town’s many barbecue restaurants, where she’d run into a number of people she’d already met casually. Afterward she headed down to one of the bars where a local band played live every night.

It was on her way there that the one flaw in the evening happened.

As Scarlet walked down the sidewalk, dodging people—including a number of children who asked their parents to buy them “moose droppings,” the local name for little balls of chocolate aimed at the tourists—she was approached by a man in his thirties wearing jeans and a striped cowboy shirt. She would have found him handsome and appealing if the weird way he’d come on to her hadn’t been so unnerving.

“You need to be careful,” he told her without preamble.

“Excuse me?” she said in shock.

“You shouldn’t be running around alone,” he said. “You have to be careful. There’s something going on.”

“I’m always careful, thank you,” she said, trying to get past him and be polite at the same time. “And what’s going on is that you’re bothering me.”

“Be careful,” he persisted.

He gripped her arm, but she was so upset she didn’t feel anything. She paused and stared at him, then realized people were staring at her.

“Listen—” Scarlet began.

“You’re one of us. And they’ll come after you. They’ll want you dead, too.”

Really shaken now, she jerked her arm away. “Leave me alone,” she said firmly. People were still staring at her, and that upset her further. She loathed making a scene. She left him behind and hurried down the street.

Once she was in the bar, she felt fine. She’d been there several times before, and the drummer in the house band, Eddie Keye, had even asked her out. She’d told him the truth, that she wasn’t ready to date again yet. He’d accepted her refusal with a smile, and they’d become friends. She waved to him as she entered, then took a seat in the corner, where he joined her during the break between sets and she told him about her strange encounter.

When the band had finished for the night, Eddie walked her to her car. He assured her that he would deck the guy if they ran into him again. “Probably just a drunk,” he said.

Scarlet shook her head. “He didn’t seem drunk.”

“A loony, then,” he said reassuringly.

They’d reached her car by then, and she thanked him for escorting her, then hesitated. “It’s just been a weird day,” she said, and told him about the strange pictures on her camera.

“Did it come with a memory card? They might have been there when you bought it,” he said. “Some practical joker’s idea of funny. I say you should just chalk it up to the fact that the world is crazy and let it go.”

It was good advice. “I’ll do that,” she promised.

“Drive safe, and call me when you’re ready to hit the trail to romance again,” he told her cheerfully.

“You’re my number one guy,” she assured him.

She waved to Eddie and started the car, wondering why she still felt so uncomfortable.

Scarlet had the feeling that someone was watching her. Not the man who had approached her before. Someone different. Someone who wouldn’t come up to her but would stalk her—and then pounce.

She shook off the feeling, telling herself she was just feeling residual anxiety after the strange events of the day.

It was time for bed.

She drove carefully up the steep winding road to the ranch. She was still becoming accustomed to getting around here and was dreading her first winter.

She felt lighter heading back, convinced that someone had messed with the camera, and that natural vibrations, whether in the earth or the museum itself, had toppled the mannequin. No big deal.

The night was beautiful and very dark. She drove slowly and was glad of it when a buck leaped onto the road and stopped directly in front of her. He simply stood there, caught in her headlights.

“Think maybe you could move now?” she said after a long moment.

When he didn’t budge, she gave her horn a tap and was grateful when he bounded off into the surrounding woods.

She drove on, frowning as she saw what seemed to be a sea of light at the Conway Ranch.

There were eleven guests staying there, but she hadn’t heard anything about a campfire planned for that night. As she drew closer, she realized that the glow seemed to come from a multitude of headlights.

Her heart leaped into her throat when she got close enough to see that five cop cars and an ambulance with lights ablaze were parked on the property. A cop standing in the driveway motioned her to a stop and gestured for her to roll down her window.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asked.

“I’m Scarlet Barlow. I work at the museum and live above it. What’s happened?” she asked anxiously. “Ben and Trisha. Are they okay?”

He nodded to her gravely. “Yes, the owners are all right.”

“What’s happened?” she persisted.

“May I have your ID, please?”

She handed it over. He looked from it to her, aiming his flashlight at her face and making her blink.

“Says here your name is McCullough.”

“I’m divorced. I haven’t changed my ID yet,” she told him. “See? My license says Scarlet Barlow McCullough.”

He was looking at her as if she was a hardened criminal. “They’re definitely going to want to talk to you,” he said.

“They?”

“The detectives.”

“But—”

“You’re the one with the camera. The one who took pictures of dead people. The pictures that mysteriously disappeared, right?” he asked, his voice hard-edged.

“Someone messed with my camera, yes, but I don’t see why that calls for police response.”

“Really? Not when two people have been murdered exactly the way your boss says they were in the pictures you showed him? Park your car, please, then follow me. Lieutenant Gray is going to want to see you, pronto.”

* * *

Scarlet had advanced degrees in history and archaeology; she had worked at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and on an important dig in South Florida. She was bright, fun, cheerful, beautiful and eager for whatever life brought.

She did not tend to hysteria or tears.

Given all that, Diego wasn’t sure how or why he knew instinctively when he answered the phone that she was going to be on the other end.

They were having a small farewell party for Brett at Sea Life, the dolphin facility where Lara Mayhew worked. Brett was flying to DC the next day for orientation. There was talk of him setting up a small Miami office for the Krewe, and if that happened Diego thought maybe he would take them up on their invitation, after all. Meanwhile, he had a party to enjoy.

The food had been catered and set up outside under a large tent. They’d visited the dolphins down at the lagoon earlier, and now everyone was just talking idly.

And yet, when his phone rang, Diego was instantly alert, somehow sure it was going to be his ex-wife.

She’d moved to Colorado, and he hadn’t let her see the ache in his heart when she’d told him she was going.

“Scarlet?” he said without even looking at the caller ID, stepping out into the darkness beneath a sea grape tree.

“Diego, yes, it’s me.”

“How are you? Are you all right?” he asked her anxiously.

“I’m...oh, Diego, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m in real trouble.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing!” She sounded indignant, even angry.

That was good, he thought. “Then what happened?”

“Two people were murdered, and they think...they think I was involved!”

“Why?”

“My camera. The views here are gorgeous, so I bought a good camera at the Miami airport before my flight out. It was working fine, but then today it took pictures of things that weren’t there. Bodies. Dead bodies. And then they disappeared.”

“The bodies?”

“The pictures!” she said. “The thing is, Ben saw them. Ben Kendall, my boss. He didn’t mean to get me in trouble, he was just so stunned when the bodies were found that he blurted it out about the pictures without thinking. They were killed right here at the ranch. They weren’t guests, and so far no one knows who they are or why they were here. From what I saw on the camera and what the cops have said, the man was cut to shreds and shot, and the woman was just shot. And they think I did it! It’s horrible. And now I’m at the police station, and all I could think to do was call you.”

“They think you did it?” he asked, incredulous. Scarlet wasn’t perfect, and she could certainly get good and angry. But murder? Never.

“Okay, let me get this straight. They’re holding you on suspicion of murder because of pictures that were on your camera but that aren’t there now?” Diego asked.

“Yes.”

“Then they have nothing.”

“Except Ben saw the pictures, too, and he told the police about them, so they think I erased them.”

“They need to get the camera to a police tech and examine the memory card.”

“They already have.”

“And they’re still holding you?”

“Yes!”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll make some calls, get the right people involved. Just don’t go snapping at anyone until I get there and can straighten things out.”

“I don’t snap.”

“You do when your pride is hurt. But don’t let them get to you, okay? Just be honest with them.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ll be there,” he promised.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

And then she was gone.

He suddenly found himself thinking about the refugees they had rescued and the words the old woman had said to him.

But you—you must be very careful. And you must go where you are called. You understand? You will know. You must go where you are called.

He’d always been open to possibilities in life, but he’d never been superstitious or a believer in omens.

But now...

It was time to join the Krewe.

He headed back inside to find Brett, and he prayed that the Krewe really did operate as efficiently and swiftly as he’d heard.

Because with or without official benediction, he was heading west.

He found Brett talking to Matt Bosworth, a longtime Krewe agent, and pulled them aside.

“This Krewe thing—I want in. But first I need help.”

“What is it?” Brett asked.

“I’ve got to get to Estes Park, Colorado, fast. As fast as possible. It’s Scarlet. She’s in trouble. They’re holding her for murder.”

Diego was amazed at the speed with which things happened after that. In short order their transport was set up for early the following morning, and he still had a few hours left to sleep. Luckily he’d taught himself how to sleep in any circumstances, even in the middle of a case.

But that night his sleep was disjointed and troubled. His dreams were of the old woman, and of Scarlet walking toward him through a fog.

A fog filled with the faces of the nameless dead.

* * *

The one place Scarlet had never expected to be in Estes Park was an interrogation room at the police station.

She understood that she wasn’t under arrest, at least not yet. Officially, she had only been asked in for questioning. But the questioning, she quickly realized, was intended to trip her up and lead to her arrest.

Her camera was with the police techs, and she really did understand why they suspected her and didn’t blame Ben for being so shocked that he hadn’t been able to stop himself from talking about the pictures. She hadn’t been allowed to speak with him, but she had seen him and Trisha, arm in arm, standing on the porch together, looking as if they’d been hit by a sledgehammer.

Meanwhile, she was reeling from the fact that two people had been found murdered right where the majestic elk had been standing earlier. Right where the bodies had been in the pictures.

And then there was that wacko in town who had warned her to be careful and had said she was “one of us,” whatever that might mean.

In one day, her world had gone mad.

“Tell me again about your day, Mrs. McCullough,” her interrogator said. Lieutenant Gray was somewhere between thirty-five and forty. He’d started out in a suit, but his jacket was gone now, his sleeves rolled up. His hair was military short, and his eyes were tired, his face haggard. His name fit him very well, she thought.

Though she had told him a dozen times that she was divorced, he insisted on calling her Mrs. McCullough. Somehow it seemed especially painful to hear that name tonight.

They never would have treated her like this if Diego was there, she thought.

And it was true. He would have stopped them cold.

She had told Lieutenant Gray as much. He hadn’t been impressed.

“The guy divorced you, huh?” he’d said at one point, his tone implying that whoever her husband had been, he’d been smart to separate from her.

She felt like a little kid, desperately hoping that someone bigger and tougher really would come to defend her.

And he would come, wouldn’t he? She’d made him her first phone call, and miraculously, he’d answered. He’d certainly sounded as if he intended to get here as soon as possible.

By morning, she hoped.

“Mrs. McCullough?” Gray repeated. “Pay attention. Tell me about your day again.”

“I woke up. I showered. I made tea. I had a bowl of cereal. I checked my email,” Scarlet said. “I went downstairs and spent the morning cataloging a display case of Civil War weapons. I inspected each for its condition, which I noted in the records. I went through the old display cards to find out when each piece was received by the museum. At noon I went back upstairs to my apartment and ate a tuna fish sandwich. No, wait, it was closer to twelve thirty, I think. But the sandwich was definitely tuna,” she said, trying very hard to maintain her temper. “At one o’clock I was back downstairs. I’ve been making notes on the different mannequins, their composition, the year they were donated to or commissioned by the museum or, before the museum’s funding, by the current owner of the Conway Ranch during the years when it was only a private collection. I began working on that project soon after I got here, about two months ago.”

“How late did you work?” he asked her.

“At four thirty I decided it was time to quit for the day. I went back upstairs and got my camera—I purchased it at the airport in Miami when I was coming out here. I have the receipt somewhere in the apartment. Wait—no,” she added, furrowing her brows. “I think it was more like four forty-five. And I didn’t go outside right away. I checked my email again first. Then I went out to take pictures. I saw a bull elk, who was practically posing for me. After that I went back to the ranch, where I talked to Ben Kendall. On the way I saw Angus Fillmore, Terry Ballantree and the Bartons down by the stables. Oh, and...”

“And?” he prompted.

“Horses,” she said gravely. “There were horses at the stables.”

He sat back. “I don’t think you understand the trouble you’re in,” he said severely.

She shook her head. “Why? Over pictures that don’t exist? That we thought we saw hours before the murders probably took place?”

She didn’t know that for a fact, but it had to be true. There certainly hadn’t been any bodies there when she’d taken the pictures.

He pointed a finger at her. “Ben Kendall saw those pictures. They existed—and you erased them as soon as you realized what you’d shown him.”

“Do you want me to tell you about the rest of my day again?” she asked.

“Go on—but we might be where we need to be already.”

“You have to be kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“I went back to the museum. I went upstairs. I heard a thump. I called Ben, wondering if he’d given the key to someone so they could look around the museum. He said he hadn’t. Then he came over and we looked around together. We saw that the statue of Nathan Kendall had fallen over, so we picked it up. He talked about putting in an alarm system, then went back to the house. I got my things and went into town for dinner. I can give you a list of the places I went and the people I talked to.”

He shoved a pad and pencil toward her. “I’ll take it,” he said grimly.

“I’ll be happy to make you a list, but this is ridiculous. I spoke with my ex-husband, and I am not lying to you, he’s a federal agent. He’s on his way here, and he’ll—”

She stopped abruptly. And he’ll show you who’s boss! she’d almost said. Now she wasn’t just thinking like a scared child, she was sounding like one.

“He’ll speak to your superiors and straighten everything out,” she said.

Gray shrugged. “Ex-husband?” he said. “I’m sure he’s just soaring his way right here.”

She felt her cheeks burn.

He didn’t know Diego. Diego would come.

There was a tap at the door. Lieutenant Gray scowled at her and went to answer it, leaving her alone in the interrogation room. She wondered if people were watching her from behind the glass, the way they did on TV.

She took the pad and began to write. A moment later, Lieutenant Gray, looking disgruntled, returned to the room.

“You can go,” he told her.

“Just like that?” she asked surprised.

“I can lock you up for twenty-four hours if you’d rather.”

She stood, anxious to leave. He opened the door for her.

As she passed him, she paused. “Why are you letting me go? It’s not because you believe me.”

“No,” he admitted. “My captain said to let you out. They can’t find anything on your camera to show those pictures were ever there. And,” he added grudgingly, “you were seen in town. Specifically, people remembered seeing you on the street, talking to yourself.”

“I was not talking to myself!” she protested.

Gray shrugged. “One of my own men actually saw you arguing with the air.”

“That’s ridiculous. I was stopped by a strange man and—”

Gray waved a hand, cutting her off. “You want me to hold you for twenty-four hours?”

“No!”

“Then leave. But I’ll be watching you. Even if that ex of yours shows up.”

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she told him, chin held high.

She felt as if everyone was watching her as she walked through the station and out to the street. When she reached the sidewalk, she realized she didn’t have her car—she’d arrived in a police car.

Just as she thought about the best place to catch a cab, she saw that the Kendalls were there, Trisha standing still and watching as Ben paced. She was about to say something when Trisha saw her and came running over.

“Scarlet! This is so awful. Ben is beside himself. They’ve grilled him, too, but they didn’t hold him like they did you.”

Ben had reached them by that point. “Scarlet, I’m so sorry. When the cops told me about the murders, I—I wasn’t thinking. All I could think of was the pictures, and I said... Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

“Both of you, please don’t worry,” she said. “It’s over.”

“I’m sure they know you could never do anything like that,” Trisha said.

“They don’t, but they do know I was in town at the time of the murders, and they couldn’t find anything in the camera. They didn’t give it back yet, but...it’s over, it’s okay.”

It really wasn’t over, she knew, but it was well past midnight and they were all ready to keel over. “What about the ranch?” she asked. “Who’s looking after the guests?”

Ben waved a hand dismissively. “Linda has the house, and Angus is down at the stables. Six of the guests left, too upset by what happened to stay on. Only Mr. Ballantree, the Bartons and Gigi and Clark Levin are still here.”

“What did happen?” Scarlet asked. “I mean... I know two people were killed but who and how and...?” Her voice trailed off.

“Let’s get to the car,” Trisha suggested. She was the perfect wife for Ben, Scarlet thought. They were lovely people separately as well as great together. Trisha was ready to go along with whatever people wanted, but she was also quick to take charge when she needed to. Tall, lean and athletic, with short gray hair, she fit right in on the ranch.

Together they hurried down the street to the parking lot.

Trisha drove, and she glanced at Scarlet in the rearview mirror and said, “Ben saw them—the bodies, I mean—from a distance, but he couldn’t tell what he was seeing, just that something was there. He went to see what it was, and then he called the police on his cell. He waited there for them, and I kept people away.”

“It was a mess,” Ben said. “Blood everywhere. He was all cut up, and shot, too. The woman...she was just shot.”

They were all silent after that, until they neared the ranch and Trisha said, “You’re more than welcome to stay at the main house, you know, Scarlet.”

“I’m fine, really. Only you and Ben have keys to the museum, and I’ll be sure to lock up. I’m way too tired to pack up and move right now,” Scarlet said. “But thank you.”

There was silence for a minute in the car, and then Trisha said, “I hope you had a nice night in town. I mean, before all this happened.”

“Nice and a little weird,” Scarlet said.

“How so?” Ben asked.

“Just some guy pestering me on the street. But I ran into some friends, and one of them walked me to my car.”

“Maybe something is going on with the planets,” Trisha said, shaking her head.

Scarlet took a deep breath and then asked again, “Who were they—the couple who were killed?”

“We don’t know. The police haven’t released that information yet, pending notification of next of kin,” Trisha informed her.

“Young? Old?”

“I didn’t—I didn’t really look,” Ben said. “I just turned the other way and called 911.”

They were quiet again. They’d reached the ranch. None of them looked toward the woods as they parked and got out of the car.

Trisha slipped her arm around her husband’s. “Let’s see that Scarlet gets upstairs safely. We’ll just walk through the museum and make sure no one’s there.”

“That would be great,” Scarlet said. “Thanks.”

Ben opened the door to the building. Trisha hit the lights. They walked through the museum. It was empty.

Empty, of course, except for the stationary residents standing on their pedestals, bearing silent witness to the night.

“Upstairs,” Trisha said, and started walking up. Ben followed her.

Scarlet followed Ben, then paused at the foot of the stairs, staring at the mannequin of Nathan Kendall.

If the artist’s rendering had been a true one, he’d been a handsome man. He’d been captured in time in his early thirties, the age he’d been when he’d died.

His eyes seemed to be wise and world-weary. They’d been painted blue.

For a moment she almost felt as if he would speak.

She forced herself to reach out and touch the statue.

Wood. It was made of wood.

“Scarlet?” Trisha called.

“Coming!”

“We’re right next door,” Trisha reminded Scarlet as she reached the top of the stairs. “And you really are more than welcome there.”

“I know,” Scarlet said. “Thank you. And thank you for waiting for me and driving me home.” She hesitated. “I asked an old friend out here to help. My ex-husband, actually. He’s with the FBI. Do you mind?”

“Mind?” Ben asked. “I think that’s great.”

“I’m guessing his partner will be coming with him. They should be here tomorrow, I hope. Sometime in the morning.”

“Wonderful. We’ll get some rooms ready for them,” Trisha said. “For now, let’s check out this whole place, just for safety’s sake.”

They went together from room to room, then wound up in the kitchen, staring at one another.

With everything seemingly safe and nothing more to be done that night, an exhausted Scarlet followed them downstairs and locked up behind them, then made her way back up to her apartment.

She couldn’t help wondering, though, whether she really was going to be all right, or if maybe she should have agreed to sleep at the main house.

After all, two people had been brutally murdered just where the mountain rose to meet the Conway Ranch. She shouldn’t be alone.

But she was exhausted, so exhausted that she didn’t even take off her clothes as she pitched down on the bed.

It wasn’t over, she thought. Not for her. Lieutenant Gray had said so.

But Diego was coming. He had said that he would, and he was always true to his word.

She thought she would never sleep, as her distraught mind kept going over the events of the day.

The pictures on her camera...

And then two people dead just like the people in the photos...

And then she’d been interrogated. The kid who had never stolen so much as a piece of gum.

To her amazement, her eyes finally closed and her mind began to shut down. She was just so tired.

But her dreams were troubled...

Blood was everywhere in her mind’s eye. She could see the dead, and they could see her. She felt their eyes, and the intensity of their regard sent chills up her spine...

Restless, she awoke. She walked into the kitchen and made herself a cup of chamomile tea. At the kitchen table, she sat sipping it, listening. The museum was quiet. The door below was locked.

Diego would be here soon.

She finished her tea, walked to the window and looked out. Everything was peaceful.

Bizarrely peaceful, given what had happened there in the woods.

And as she stood there, she felt once again that she was being watched.

She told herself that was foolish. “I am alone,” she said into the empty air.

The feeling persisted, but she forced herself back to bed, leaving the door to her room ajar so that she could hear anything that went on in the museum.

Surprisingly, she fell asleep easily, and so deeply that she was untroubled by dreams.

The next thing she knew, she heard birds.

She smiled slightly, waking up. It was nice here, that sound of birds in the morning, with the feel of the sun, strong and warm at this time of year.

She opened her eyes, feeling as if everything would be all right.

Then she realized someone was standing at the foot of her bed, and a scream tore from her lips.

She stopped with a gasp when she saw who that someone was.

The decidedly not-alive statue of Nathan Kendall was staring down at her.

3

Diego wondered why he had ever turned down an invitation to join the Krewe of Hunters.

By 6:00 a.m. he was aboard a private plane with Brett Cody, along with Krewe agents—and lovers—Meg Murray and Matt Bosworth. They were flying out via a friend of Adam Harrison’s, the man who had established and still ran the Krewe. Nothing they were doing was official yet—and might never be, Matt had reminded him. Until the local authorities asked for their help, they couldn’t officially give it, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t run their own investigation.

That was one of the greatest assets of the Krewe. Their purpose was to investigate when there were strange and otherworldly elements to a crime, but they operated independently, beholden to no one and able to operate freely.

All Diego really knew was that he was incredibly grateful that he had been able to ask for assistance, and that it could so quickly and easily be granted.

“Adam will be coming out himself,” Matt had told Diego earlier. “Estes Park is apparently one of his favorite places in the world. He’s a major supporter of our national parks, and Rocky Mountain National Park is one of his favorites.”

Diego was glad to have a seasoned agent like Matt on the case. Meg was still new—not even a year out of the academy—but she was a rising star, and since the Krewe had its own rules, their personal relationship was no barrier to the two of them working together.

All they’d had to do was make a few phone calls to set everything in motion. Special Agent Angela Hawkins—wife of Jackson Crow, their official field director—had made travel arrangements for them and found out everything the police knew so far regarding the murders at the Conway Ranch.

The dead couple was Candace and Larry Parker, who’d been visiting the area from their home in Denver. They had apparently headed out to Estes Park without hotel reservations for a lodge; one supposition was that they’d been hiking up to the Conway Ranch to see if there was a vacancy.

Based on bark found in abrasions on his back and blood found on a nearby tree, Larry Parker had been strung up and had his torso ripped repeatedly by a bowie knife or something similar, and then he’d been shot in the head. Candace had been shot in the gut and bled out in about twenty minutes, according to the medical examiner’s estimate.

Bertram—aka Ben—Kendall had found the bodies at approximately 10:30 p.m. The medical examiner could narrow the time of death down to about an hour—sometime between eight and nine the night before, Monday, a beautiful, cool October evening.

There were more details about the insects and woodland creatures that had already gone to work before the bodies were found. Diego read the reports with a careful and practiced eye.

The police had questioned one Scarlet Barlow McCullough regarding reports of her having had in her possession a camera with pictures of a similar murder scene, pictures that were no longer on the memory card. The camera had been thoroughly examined by the police techs and no evidence of any such pictures had been found, nor could they find any indication that the camera might have been tampered with. Further, witnesses had been found to corroborate her claim that she had gone into town to eat and visit a local bar at the time of the murders. The guests and staff of the Conway Ranch had been questioned, as well. No one had seen the victims or anything suspicious, but they’d all been asked to remain in the area for the next twenty-four hours, though a number of the guests had elected to check out and rebook elsewhere.

The most interesting aspect of the case—one that might have tightened the noose around Scarlet’s neck if not for her solid alibi—was that the bullets had come from a vintage Colt revolver.

Antique bullets and casings.

Like the ones in the museum where she worked.

Not that the museum was a model of security. It was part of a rustic mountaintop resort. The door locks could be picked by anyone with a modicum of skill. The only security on the property came from the cats in the stables, and they only kept the place secure against mice.

They touched down in Denver at 10:00 a.m. The drive out to Estes Park was about an hour, give or take, depending on traffic.

Diego knew that Scarlet had been released from police custody and was back at the ranch. He called her cell to let her know that they were on their way.

She didn’t sound at all like herself. Her voice was raspy and anxious.

“Just hang in there, okay?” he told her. “Brett and a couple of agents from a special unit are with me, and we’ll be there in an hour.”

“Of course,” she told him, then added, “Just hurry. Please.”

As if he hadn’t been concerned enough before, he thought.

He hadn’t been to Colorado, and despite his eagerness to reach Scarlet and make sure she really was all right, he couldn’t help noticing how beautiful the scenery was as they moved higher into the Rocky Mountains. They passed through charming small towns and what was obviously horse country, and saw ads for businesses dedicated to celebrating the Old West. Wild Bill Hickok had a museum dedicated to him, and the casinos all seemed to have modeled themselves on old mining towns.

But nothing could detract from the raw and even savage beauty of the land, soaring rock faces and crystalline waters that gleamed in the sunlight as they climbed toward Estes Park.

From the road, he could see the famous Stanley Hotel, gleaming in the sunlight.

Finally the road curved, they passed through a break in the trees and arrived at the Conway Ranch. Diego let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The main house was built of wood and handsomely varnished in its natural shade. To the left were the museum and stables, both nicely restored, as well. To the right, two more outbuildings—the smokehouse and the bunkhouse.

And surrounding everything was a dense forest that draped like a cloak over the mountain to the valley below.

Up the mountain he could see the bright yellow crime-scene tape, though the bodies were long gone. A lone officer sat in a patrol car in the parking lot, his head back and his fingers tapping on the steering wheel, presumably keeping time to whatever music the radio was playing.

Matt, who was driving, pulled up out front. Yes, everything here was magnificent, Diego thought, but the only nature he was interested in was the force of nature that was Scarlet.

* * *

Of course Scarlet had screamed as if every hellhound from the dark unknown had come after her.

And of course no one heard her.

Something she would need to remember.

She’d leaped from the bed, staring at the thing in terror, all the while telling herself it was a mannequin, just a damned mannequin.

That meant someone alive and stealthy had carried it up the stairs and left it there to terrify her. But the doors had been locked, and only she, Ben and Trisha had keys.

After her initial shock of fear, her instinct had warned her that someone might still be in the building with her, lurking, waiting...

Well, they would know, after the way she had screamed, that she was now awake.

Were they waiting for her?

Next she thought of a weapon. She could grab a big knife from the kitchen. She wished she was a black belt, but she wasn’t.

What she needed was a gun.

The place was full of guns, of course.

But they were all downstairs.

She did have one thing. Her spear gun. She’d brought it with her when she moved, since she didn’t own enough stuff to make renting a storage locker worthwhile. She’d gotten the spear gun in case of a visit from a too-inquisitive shark when she went diving, one of the things she loved about being a Floridian.

It was in her closet. Staring warily at the mannequin, as if half believing it could move on its own, she backed over to the closet and found the spear gun, then clicked the spear into the mechanism.

Ridiculous.

She lifted the gun toward the mannequin. “Don’t you move—and I mean it,” she said.

The effigy of Nathan Kendall just stared back at her.

She slipped from the room and into the kitchen, then down the hall to the living room and then on into the second bedroom. No one.

She dared to go downstairs. Inch by inch she swept the place—nothing had changed.

Nothing, of course, except that the pedestal near the stairs where Nathan Kendall usually stood was empty.

A key started to turn in the lock of the front door. She was standing there in flannel pajamas, a spear gun in her hand.

“Scarlet, coming in!” someone called. It was Ben.

In that moment she stood there as different scenarios flashed through her mind like wildfire.

Tell Ben what had happened? Accuse him or Trisha of having moved a mannequin upstairs in the middle of the night to give her a heart attack? Accuse them of giving someone else a key?

Someone was guilty of something, that much she knew.

Ben had found the bodies.

Could Ben have killed someone? Surely not.

Then she remembered her feeling of being watched during the night. Had someone really been out there observing her? Had that someone gotten in and brought the mannequin upstairs?

Was that someone Ben?

She had to keep her wits about her, had to keep silent. It was broad daylight now. Even if he was a killer, surely Ben wouldn’t dare do violence right here in his own museum.

But if she told him what had happened...

She could wind up back at the police station with everyone thinking she was a lunatic, at the very least.

“Hang on!” she called. “Let me just throw on a robe.”

She raced back up the stairs, threw on her robe, then struggled to carry Nathan into the living room, hoping she could keep Ben from noticing his absence from his usual spot.

She ran to the top of the stairs, amazed at what she had done. She had left her fingerprints all over the damn thing, and now she was going to pretend that it had never appeared at the foot of her bed.

“Scarlet?” Ben called as she heard the museum door open.

At that moment her cell phone rang. Diego.

An hour, just one hour, and he would be there!

She ran back down the stairs and through the museum, breathless as she came face-to-face with Ben.

He looked at her with surprise. “I woke you up. I’m so sorry. I forgot how late it was when we got in. I just came by to make sure you really are okay after yesterday.”

“I’m fine. What about you and Trisha?”

He nodded. “We’re going to be okay, though with the news rocketing around town and a cop car in front of the house, we won’t be too busy for a while.”

“Everything will be all right eventually, Ben, I promise. They’ll catch the person who did this and prove it had nothing to do with the ranch, and everything will go back to normal. Just hang in there, okay?” she added quietly.

He grinned ruefully. “I was a stockbroker, remember? I’m used to life on the roller coaster. We’ll be good. It’s just that I love this place so much.”

“And you should love it,” Scarlet said. “Spend more time during the next few days riding the trails. Hike.”

He brightened. “I can help you out here in the museum.”

She opened her mouth, trying to figure out just how to answer him.

She didn’t have to; the front door opened again and Trisha walked in. “Scarlet, you doing all right?” she asked.

Scarlet nodded. “I just got up.”

“I can see that,” Trisha said with a smile. “Want us to hang around down here while you go upstairs and shower?” She looked toward the stairs as she spoke, and her eyes widened. “Where’s Nathan?” she asked, almost as if the mannequin was a living, breathing man who might have headed out for a morning walk.

“I have him upstairs,” Scarlet said. “I’m studying his construction. I think he was carved in the 1870s but I’m trying to ascertain who the artist might have been.”

“You moved him upstairs?” Trisha asked.

“Yeah, I’m stronger than I look,” Scarlet said lightly. “But, it’s such a great figure, I want to know more about it.”

“People whittled in these mountains all the time, so if you don’t find a signature or anything, it won’t be surprising. Back then, once the snow fell, there wasn’t much to do except sit around the fire and whittle,” Ben said.

“That’s always true in my line of work,” Scarlet said. “Sometimes we can find the answers, sometimes we can’t. But yes, I’d feel more secure if I knew the two of you were here while I was getting ready. Thank you. Come on up. Nathan Kendall’s in the living room, if you feel like visiting him.”

She turned and fled up the stairs, wondering for a minute if she’d asked a pair of psychotic killers to stand guard while she showered.

No. The idea that Ben and Trisha could be killers was ridiculous.

More ridiculous than that a mannequin had moved on its own?

She winced and silently prayed that Diego would arrive soon.

Taking a deep breath, she told herself that she had to behave normally. Still, she locked the door to her room. Her mind was racing, filled with all the crazy things that had happened in less than twenty-four hours.

Ben and Trisha, the murders, the mannequin at the foot of the bed, her feeling of being watched, the pictures, the man who had stopped her in town...

She finally turned on the water.

But even in the shower, she kept peeking around the curtain, making sure that Nathan didn’t walk in to surprise her when she stepped out.

She was more relieved than she liked to admit when he didn’t make another appearance.

Clean and dressed, she entered the living room. Nathan Kendall was still right where she had put him, and Ben and Trisha were talking about his merits. Despite herself, she couldn’t help feeling suspicious.

Trisha turned to her with a smile. “I took the liberty of putting coffee on,” she said. “Or would you rather have tea?”

“I’m happy with either,” Scarlet assured her. “And no liberty—you own this place.”

“But we’ve given you the apartment as part of your employee package,” Ben said. “That means we’re guests in here right now.”

“Then I should be getting you coffee,” Scarlet said. “And I hope you don’t mind, but Diego, my ex, has three other agents with him. I can ask them to stay somewhere else if you’d rather.”

“Four FBI agents to watch over us?” Trish asked. “I don’t mind in the least. In fact, I’m thrilled.”

“We have an almost empty bed-and-breakfast,” Ben said drily. “Not a problem at all.”

“They should be here soon. While we’re waiting, I’ll whip up omelets,” Scarlet said. “I’m actually a pretty good cook,” she promised.

She looked at her watch and realized that she didn’t want to be alone in the museum.

And once Diego and his friends got here, did she tell him that either one or both of her employers might be a psychotic killer, or else a mannequin had moved all by itself? Even if he didn’t think she was the killer, she really didn’t want him thinking she was crazy.

That thought made her smile fade as she looked at Ben and Trisha.

“Any more news on the couple who were killed?” she asked.

“The police are still withholding identification pending notification of next of kin,” Ben said. “But the town is buzzing with speculation. Scarlet,” he said, clearly upset, “I saw them. I saw those pictures, and then I saw them. I have to admit, it’s unnerving to think about something like that happening right here on the ranch.”

“It can’t have anything to do with us,” Trisha whispered.

“No, of course not,” Ben said. “But I’m a grown man and I have to say, I’m glad I keep a gun in the house, because I’m more than a little scared.”

So am I, Scarlet thought.

But Diego was coming, and he would find a way to make everything right.

Now, looking at Ben’s stricken expression, she decided she had to be crazy to think he and Trisha could have had anything to do with the deaths. And if they were after her, they could have killed her at any time.

Like the person who had moved the mannequin. That person could have killed her last night if he’d wanted to.

Unless the mannequin had moved on its own.

Okay, she told herself, that was enough of that. If she kept thinking along those lines she would start thinking she was crazy.

Diego and his friends would be there soon. All she had to do was hold on until then.

“I’ll make breakfast,” she said.

And then she fled to the kitchen to concentrate on creating omelets.

* * *

The minute Diego saw Scarlet come running out the door of the museum, eyes anxious and hopeful, he felt his muscles tighten, and an aching pulse began to pound through him. He wondered how things could have gone so wrong between the two of them when they’d loved each other so much.

Watching her run to him, blue eyes wide, chestnut hair streaming out behind her, he felt the same rush in his veins that he’d felt the first time he’d seen her. Her features were alive with intelligence, her movements the epitome of grace, even when fear, relief and a dozen other emotions were fighting for expression.

His love for her was as strong as ever, but she’d needed to leave him, and he’d never stood in the way of her happiness.

She’d gone through a miscarriage alone, while he had been on a case. In his defense, she’d never told him that she was pregnant. She’d been waiting for a special moment, a moment that had never happened, because he’d been so buried in his case. They’d tried to arrange a romantic evening, but somehow it had never happened.

And then it had been too late.

He noticed the attractive older couple who followed her out. He realized they must be Ben and Trisha Kendall.

Scarlet hurried toward the car, and he couldn’t help noticing that her jeans and a blue sweater heightened the color of her eyes, which looked as clear and pristine as the sky.

He stepped out of the car, determined to be calm and professional, to keep his emotional distance and remember that she had only called him because she was in trouble.

She wasn’t really in trouble anymore, he reminded himself; she’d been released. But the expression on her face told him that she was still upset about something, and he wondered what it could be.

To his astonishment, she threw herself into his arms.

For just a minute he allowed himself to pretend it was because she still loved him, and he reveled in the scent and feel of her. She smelled of the same shampoo she’d always loved, mixed with a light perfume. She was warm and soft, and it was the most difficult thing in the world to tell his body that this embrace wasn’t a prelude to more.

He held her tightly. She was trembling almost imperceptibly, but he could tell that she was scared, really scared, and Scarlet didn’t scare easily. In her day she had crawled through Egyptian tombs, excavated Native American burial mounds and explored what many might consider to be the creepiest places on earth.

He held her, wishing he could somehow infuse her with some of his own strength.

Despite himself, he remembered, not just in his mind’s eye but deep in his soul, the way they had somehow known instantly when they’d met that they were meant to be together. The way they had dated and fallen so quickly into one another’s arms, and then into love. He remembered her laughter when she’d greeted him the night of his last birthday, wearing a bow tie, stiletto heels and nothing else. He would never forget the way she moved against him, with him, like a sweet, sensual heat wave.

But marriage was more than desire and even love, and they had somehow allowed it to fall apart.

Her call. But his fault, he knew. He’d been so blind. She had known that his work was important to him, of course, and she had never protested his long absences or said anything about the late hours as he let his career become all-consuming. He hadn’t even realized that she’d slowly stopped talking to him because he never talked back, not about anything important. He didn’t see what he was doing, how much he was gone...and that nights together, no matter how passionate, didn’t make up for the things that went unsaid.

At last she pulled away and he felt her absence like a physical pain.

Brett cleared his throat and Scarlet turned to greet him. They had always gotten along well, and now she smiled, then gave him a big hug, as well.

“Thank you for coming,” she said to Brett, and then she turned to the others, her eyes questioning.

Diego quickly introduced them. “Scarlet, these are Special Agents Matt Bosworth and Meg Murray. We met when they came down to Miami to work a case, and now Brett and I have transferred to their unit.”

She thanked them both for coming, then turned to the older couple and said, “Ben and Trisha Kendall, owners of this fantastic place.”

“Rattled owners, at the moment,” Ben said, shaking Diego’s hand.

“This place is absolutely beautiful,” Meg said.

“It is—or was,” Trisha said.

“One thing we’ve learned,” Matt said, “is that you can’t let what happens somewhere affect your feelings about it. This place is beautiful, and I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re not only glad to be here to help, but also to get a chance to enjoy the area.”

“In fact, assuming you don’t mind,” Brett said to Ben and Trisha, “my fiancée is coming for the weekend.”

“You’re engaged? That’s wonderful!” Scarlet said. “Is she FBI, too?”

“No, she handles media relations for the Sea Life Center,” Brett told her.

Diego took control of the conversation then, taking refuge from his reawakened feelings in the details of the job. “Just so you know,” he explained, “we’re not here officially, though in a little while we’re going to head down to the police station and see if Adam Harrison, the director of our unit, has managed to arrange an in for us.” He turned to Ben and Trisha. “I don’t know how many rooms you have available, but I think he plans on coming out, too.”

“And we’re all paying guests,” Meg added.

“Not necessary,” Ben said.

“Maybe not, but it only makes sense. Whenever we travel for a case, we have to stay somewhere,” Diego said.

“Save the taxpayers’ money,” Ben told him, smiling as he put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We’re not the Vanderbilts but I invested wisely over the years. We run this place because we love it, not because we need the income.”

“We’ll let you and Adam hash that out when he gets here. Right now, we need to take a look at the crime scene, then check in at the police station and introduce ourselves,” Brett said.

“You don’t want to see the whole place first?” Trisha asked.

“I can’t wait to look around,” Meg said.

“And we will,” Brett said. “When we’re back.”

Scarlet looked suddenly nervous. “All of you are leaving?” she asked.

“I’m staying,” Diego told her.

She lowered her head quickly, but he got a glimpse of her expression first and could tell that she was tremendously relieved. Strange. Was she afraid of Ben and Trisha Kendall?

“We need to talk to the officer over there in his car, too,” Matt said.

“They had people out there for hours—pretty much all through the night—after I called 911,” Ben said.

“You never heard anything?” Diego asked. “You didn’t hear the gunshots?”

“No, nothing,” Ben said, as Trisha shook her head. “None of the guests did, either.”

“Well, we’ll take a look, see what we can see,” Diego said. “Ben, you mind coming along? You can tell us what you found.”

Trisha took Ben’s hand, making it clear that if he was going, so was she. Scarlet, arms crossed over her chest, joined them without a word as they walked across the gravel parking lot toward the police cruiser.

The back of Diego’s neck prickled. They were being watched.

He turned toward the stables and saw a grizzled cowboy standing in the doorway. The man waved to Diego.

Diego waved back, then looked over at the house. Upstairs, a curtain was pulled back. Someone was watching them from one of the bedrooms. He also thought he saw a face in a downstairs window, but whoever it was quickly stepped back, as if they realized they’d been seen.

Diego decided not to pretend. He waved to whoever was at the house, as well. No response.

The officer got out of the car as they approached and said, “Can I help you folks? No lookie-loos allowed up on the mountain, just in case that’s what you’re here for.”

Matt stepped forward to produce his credentials. The officer looked at him and then at the others. “This is of interest to the FBI? Why?”

“Let’s just say there’s something about it that resonates for us and leave it at that,” Matt said.

The officer nodded, studying them. “Don’t go past the tape,” he told him. “Not unless I get an official okay from my boss.”

He got back into his car and Diego figured he was calling headquarters, alerting them that the FBI was interested in their crime scene.

Diego turned to Ben as they all started walking up the slope. “Tell us what happened, how you discovered the bodies.”

“I had been at the stables—I’m a horse guy, spend as much time as I can there—and was walking toward the house when I saw lumps up by the trees, lumps that shouldn’t have been there. It was too dark for me to tell what they were, so I walked over and...”

He paused and drew a shaky breath.

“He was a bloody mess. She was just...bloody. It looked as if he had been...cut up before he was shot. I was shaking so badly I dropped my phone. I had to pick it up from the dirt to dial 911. I turned my back to them and just stared down at the house until the cops arrived. I think I was in shock when they finally got there. I couldn’t help thinking the scene was just like the pictures Scarlet had shown me, and I said so to the cops, and I am still so damned sorry I did.”

Diego looked at Scarlet. “Tell us about those pictures.”

“I don’t know how they got on my camera,” she said, and there was a mix of frustration and fear in her voice. “I ran into Ben and wanted to show him the shots I’d gotten of an elk. And they were just there. Pictures of dead people.”

“The same dead people you saw?” Diego asked Ben.

Ben frowned and then nodded gravely. “If it wasn’t them, it was just like them. One showed the guy hung up in a tree, but the other one... It was both of them, same position, same huge amount of blood. I handed the camera back to Scarlet, asked her what the hell was going on. She saw the pictures and she was stunned. And then they were gone. Just gone. And the elk was back where he was supposed to be.”

“I didn’t take those the pictures,” Scarlet said firmly. “And I didn’t erase them.”

“The police took the camera,” Ben said. “They didn’t find any sign of those shots, and they let Scarlet go.”

Scarlet looked at Ben and then at the agents. “The thing is...well, it’s strange, even stranger than it seemed at the time. I was thinking about it while I was cooking breakfast, and those pictures were like the story of this place. It was built by one of Ben’s ancestors, Nathan Kendall. He was attacked one night. Whoever did it dragged him up the mountain and tortured him with a knife, then shot him. And when his wife heard him screaming and went to help him, she was shot, too. They never did catch who did it. There were several theories, but no one was ever arrested, much less convicted.”

She paused, shivering slightly as she looked straight at Diego. “It’s as if history repeated itself. He was tortured, then shot...she was shot but at least not tortured. They died the same way and in the same place as Nathan and Jillian Kendall died nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.”

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