“Are you all right?” he demanded.
“I’m fine, but...phone. Do you have a phone? Call 9-1-1, please!”
“What’s your emergency? I can help you if you’ll just tell—”
“Dammit, are you stupid? I don’t need help! Dial 9-1-1—there’s a dead woman in the woods!”
He dialed. Then, slowly and precisely, he identified himself and their location—and the situation.
“Did you discover the body, sir?” the operator asked.
“No—I was stopped on the road by the woman who did.” He looked at Devin. “Who are you?” he asked.
“What?”
“Your name. They need to know who discovered the body.”
“Devin. Devin Lyle.”
“Devin Lyle found her,” he said into the phone. “Please send someone.” He knew the operator would keep him talking while the police were dispatched and he needed to find out what was going on, so he hung up.
“Where?” he asked Devin Lyle.
She pointed toward the woods. “But...but don’t go in there. The cops...they’ll want the crime scene intact, right?”
“Ma’am, I’m an FBI agent. Are you sure she’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Did you try CPR or just take her pulse?”
“Sir, she’s dead.”
“Agent,” Rocky said by rote. “Agent Rockwell. Do you have any kind of medical training? Are you certain that she’s dead?”
“No,” she said. “And yes, I’m sure.”
“Where is she?”
Devin Lyle’s finger rose, and she pointed.
Rocky hurried through the trees.
And found the victim.
She wasn’t far from the road; there was a break in the trees, and there she was.
For a moment he forgot his years of training and fieldwork. He simply froze. Body...and soul.
It was déjà vu.
She was lying just like Melissa had lain, limbs and head creating the five points of a star.
And on her breast lay...
A silver medallion. A pentagram.
Around her throat...
A red ribbon of blood.
He didn’t move to her side, only stood rigidly and stared.
Devin Lyle came up behind him. He suspected she thought he was being respectful of the dead woman.
That wasn’t it, though. He was simply frozen by his memories.
“Are you going to try to revive her?” she asked quietly, only a small note of irony in her tone.
He could hear sirens; the police were on the way.
He turned to face the dark-haired woman who had stopped him. “When did you find her?”
“Seconds before I stopped you.”
“How did you find her?”
She pointed. “My home is just there—on the other side of the trees.”
“How did you know to look for her here in the dark? Did you hear something? Did she cry out?”
“Yes, I—I don’t know what exactly. I heard something. Sobbing—a cry. Something.”
He broke his paralysis and moved forward carefully, hunkering down to set two fingers on the flesh of the woman’s wrist. She was cold. She’d been here awhile.
No attempt at resuscitation would have helped.
Her eyes had been green, her hair a soft brunette. She was clad in a simple halter dress and light sweater. At least the dress was pulled down decently, almost tucked between her outstretched legs.
He heard car doors slamming. The cops had arrived.
“Hey!” he said loudly, so he could be heard. “In here!”
A moment later two uniformed officers came through the trees and into the little clearing. They were competent and compassionate at the same time, the first checking the victim and securing the scene, the second speaking with Rocky and Devin Lyle. It was while they were in the midst of the conversation that more sirens sounded, and Rocky was surprised to look up and see that a third officer, this one in plain clothes, was coming his way.
He was even more surprised to realize that he knew the man.
“Hell, Rocky—you’re back in town?” the newcomer demanded.
“Jack Grail,” Rocky said, shaking Jack’s hand. “And you’re still here.” He grinned; it had been a good ten years since he’d seen Jack.
“Come on, I moved a bit. This is Salem, not Peabody.”
“Right. You working these murders?” Rocky asked.
“This one, anyway,” Jack said. They looked at each other for a long moment, both of them remembering a long ago day.
When they’d stared at the same scene that was before them now.
Rocky arched a brow. “Just like Swampscott, right?”
“Don’t go talking that way, Rocky. People will think we have a serial killer on our hands, and the last thing we need is mass panic. Kind of suspicious, though, isn’t it? You leave town not long after Melissa Wilson dies, and now you’re back and we’ve got two more dead women.”
Rocky stared at him and realized Jack wasn’t serious—not about that, anyway. He was serious that he didn’t want anyone yelling “serial killer” right now.
No, he didn’t seriously suspect Rocky.
But they knew. They both knew. They had been there. They had seen Melissa’s body, and they couldn’t deny the eerie similarity of the newest murders.
“So you grew up to be a detective with the county?” Rocky asked Jack. “Good going.”
Forget the past. They both had to shake off this feeling of déjà vu. They’d been boys back then. Now they were men—and the men assigned to work these newest killings.
Jack nodded. “And you just happened to discover this body, too?”
Rocky
