“Was her purse stolen? What do you think her attacker wanted?”

“No, and I don’t know,” Caroline said.

“Why just hit someone on the head if you’re not going to steal something from them—or worse?” Sarah asked. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know, but look, I have to get back out there. Hang in with me just another hour or so, please?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll hang in as long as you need me.”

“Thanks,” Caroline said. “We need to stick together these days.” She shivered, then hurried out of the room.

Caleb felt as if he’d been sitting in Jamison’s office—wasting time—for an eternity. Jamison was aggravated with him, he knew, complaining that Caleb hadn’t kept him fully informed about his follow-up investigation into the woman who’d been on the beach the night of the party.

Now, however, Caleb had been over everything he’d discovered, and Tim Jamison was still hostile. “You had a clue—and you went out without telling me?” Jamison demanded.

“Look, it was a worthless trip. The Martha Tyler in Cassadaga is elderly and petite, and she wasn’t running around on the beach the night the Hart girl disappeared.”

“She’s a medium,” Jamison said. “She didn’t tell you where to find the killer?” he asked sarcastically.

“No, she didn’t,” Caleb said and leaned forward. “Look, it’s very possible you have a living witness—Renee Otten. Why aren’t we with her now, pressuring her to tell you what she knows?”

“I’ve already questioned her,” Jamison said.

Caleb hesitated. He wanted to remind Jamison that the police had also questioned the kids from the beach and hadn’t come up with Martha Tyler’s name, but that wouldn’t help their working relationship—quite the opposite, so he refrained.

“I’d like to speak with her myself.”

Jamison shook his head. “She got hit on the head while she was walking home drunk. The girl’s an idiot. Who takes off alone knowing that a killer is loose in the city? Whoever attacked her, it wasn’t our killer or she’d be missing and probably dead right now.”

“Unless someone came up and interrupted the killer before he could carry her off.”

“What do you think we are—backwoods yokels?” Jamison asked. “We’ve released her picture, and the media are asking for help, anonymous tips included, from anyone who might have seen something.”

“Even so, do you mind if I question her myself?”

“If she’ll see you, you have my blessing. But I want to know everything—and I do mean everything—you find out. Which reminds me, why were you so insistent on Floby taking the newest body from the Grant house?” Jamison sounded seriously aggravated. He’d been looking worn-out before; today he really looked like hell. His suit was wrinkled, and his shoes were muddy. He leaned back in his chair, popping an antacid. “Well?” he persisted.

“I think that corpse is an ancestor of mine,” Caleb said.

Jamison frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Sarah McKinley did some research, and she found a direct link from Cato MacTavish to me. If I’m right and that corpse is Cato’s fiancée Eleanora, there’s a possibility she’s my whatever-number-of-greats grandmother.”

Jamison shook his head. “Look, Eleanora Stewart died or disappeared halfway through the war, and the odds are that your ancestor did her in. Meanwhile, I have two women still missing, another one dead on the beach, and you’re trying to catch a killer from the 1800s. Are you here on a case, or are you just looking for your roots?”

“I didn’t know a damned thing about the Grant house before I got here,” Caleb said, trying to control his temper. Jamison was being a jerk, but he was still the lead homicide investigator and someone Caleb needed on his side.

Adam Harrison had a way of staying calm under duress that Caleb envied. Adam said it had nothing to do with being the better man; it was just a good way of making the other guy realize he was being a jerk. Caleb tried it now, sitting back and letting Jamison take the lead.

“You’ve talked with Floby, so you know about the drugs in our corpse’s system, right?” Jamison asked.

“An opium derivative and yaupon holly,” Caleb said.

“Yaupon holly, a key ingredient of the so-called ‘black drink,’” Jamison said. “There actually might be someone out there trying to relive the past. Maybe trying to get revenge for the way his people were treated way back when.”

Caleb groaned aloud. “Come on, Jamison. You’re a trained cop. Are you really trying to convince me that a modern-day Seminole is imitating his ancestors and murdering women because of some centuries-old vendetta? That’s absurd.”

“You’re the one suggesting that we’ve had a killer hanging around for more than a hundred and fifty years. Now that’s absurd.”

“I never said that. I’m saying we have a killer who is either imitating the past or honestly believes in black magic. I think you have a couple, a man and a woman, who are doing the killing, but for exactly what reason, I don’t know, though the body on the beach was drained of blood, and that may have something to do with it. It’s a theory of mine, that there are two people involved. One to do the luring, maybe. The logistics involved, toting, carrying, and all in the dark—I’d say two people. One with the real power of persuasion. One easily led. I’ll tell you one thing for sure, this is someone who knows the area, who knows the history—and the legends.”

Jamison stood up. “I’m going to follow the Seminole lead—and the yaupon holly. I also have men in the streets watching every ghost tour, history tour and haunted happening out there. I don’t think Miss Otten will speak with you—she seems to be afraid of you. But knock yourself out. Do whatever you want short of trespassing, harassing or making a public nuisance out of yourself.”

“I think you’re on the wrong track, and I think you’re wasting time—time we don’t have. Renee was attacked last night, and that means the killer is stepping up the pace. We need to find out who it is quickly, before someone else goes missing or dies.”

Without a word, Jamison walked to the door to his office and held it open, waiting. As he left, Caleb noticed again that Jamison’s shoes were covered with mud.

As soon as Sarah was able to leave the museum, she headed over to Renee Otten’s place.

Renee had rented a small free-standing townhome just outside the historic section of the city. She had decorated it pleasantly with a mixture of modern furniture and period pieces, old throws, tapestry pillows, framed prints and bric-a-brac.

Barry opened the door for Sarah, and she looked past him to see Renee sitting on the sofa, propped up on a pillow, with a tray holding the remnants of tea and toast.

Sarah turned to Barry and asked, “She doing all right?”

Barry nodded, then spoke, his voice low. “She got lucky. Insanely lucky. She drank too much, she was mad at me…thank God some Good Samaritan came along and got her to the hospital. She’ll be happy to see you.” Then he frowned suddenly and asked, “What are you doing out on your own?”

She was surprised by the question. Yes, the world was getting scary, but it was broad daylight. She smiled, though, glad that he was concerned. “It’s the middle of the afternoon! And I told Caroline exactly where I was going, and I’ll give her a buzz to let her know I got here. Will had to work this afternoon, but they’ll both be over later.”

“I just don’t want anything to happen to anyone else. I just can’t help thinking this was my fault,” Barry said miserably.

Sarah touched his face. “Stop that. It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is. With everything going on around here, I should have followed her all over town whether she was mad at me or not,” Barry said.

“Hey!” Renee called. “I can hear you, you know.”

Sarah smiled reassuringly at Barry, then walked into the other room, and leaned down to give Renee a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Despite the bandage on her forehead, Renee looked better than Barry.

Sarah took the chair across the coffee table from her and said, “What the hell happened? Cary Hagan came by the museum to say she was sorry—she thinks it’s her fault.”

Renee had the grace to look guilty. “It was my fault and no one else’s. I had a few drinks with Cary—I remember that—and then, after I left the bar, I remember feeling really woozy.”

“Alcohol will do that in large quantities,” Barry said.

“Very funny. I was walking down the street, and…I know this sounds crazy, but I saw lights. And then I woke up in the hospital. I’m really lucky. I don’t even have a concussion,” Renee said.

“Are you sure you were attacked?” Sarah asked. “I mean…it sounds as if you might have just passed out. The bandage is on your forehead. Maybe you just crashed forward.”

“The doctor said she was struck with a heavy object—like a big flashlight,” Barry said. “That’s why they called the cops. Tim Jamison took the case, and then he called me right after he got there.”

“I know this will sound crazy, and I admit I was loaded, but…” Renee hesitated, staring at Sarah.

“Tell her,” Barry said.

“Tell me what?”

“All right, I didn’t say this to the police, because they just would’ve said I was crazy, but…someone was there. A car pulled up. I remember hearing it, but I didn’t see anyone get out. And then, I could swear I saw Caleb Anderson all dressed up in some kind of costume, heading straight for me. And that’s all I remember,” Renee said miserably.

Sarah was silent, stunned. Had Renee also seen the ghost of Cato MacTavish?

“Caleb was with me,” she said.