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As Chief Webster drove the police car out of Tunsboro, Riley felt her expectations rising. But she had to wonder …

Is it just me?

She’d seen no hint of interest in Agent Crivaro’s face. Now, sitting up front next to the chief, he actually looked bored.

Doesn’t Crivaro care about this case at all? Not even after dragging both of us this far across the whole country?

With a sigh, Riley settled into the back seat. She hoped her partner would perk up once they reached the crime scene.

Webster asked Crivaro, “That Harry Carnes fellow—the guy who called me—do you happen to know him?”

“A little,” Crivaro replied.

Riley realized that Crivaro didn’t want to admit that he and Riley had come out here as a personal favor for an old friend of his. It was probably just as well to let Webster think they’d actually been officially sent here by the BAU.

“Well, he’s sure got himself a motor mouth,” Webster said. “I barely got a word in the whole time I talked to him.”

Riley noticed a slight grin flicker across Crivaro’s face. It was easy to guess what he was thinking …

“Motor mouth” is right.

Harry had talked almost nonstop during the whole time they’d spent with him.

Webster added, “He sounded like some kind of conspiracy freak, the way he went on and on about that woman who got killed in Colorado. That’s quite some theory he’s got—that the same killer has struck again, some eight hundred miles away and a whole year later. You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Crivaro let out a noncommittal grunt.

Webster laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d guess Harry Carnes to be a Tunsboro native. We’ve got old-timers who spin tall tales like that. You know, there’s a legend about our little town that’s been told since our mining days. They say that anybody who takes a sip of water from Saguaro Creek never speaks a word of truth for the rest of his days. He just keeps telling crazy stories forever.”

Webster wagged his finger at Crivaro. “Don’t get me wrong, that legend’s got nothing to do with me. I’m a transplant, born and raised in Texas. And I drink bottled water, so I’m pretty truthful mostly. To a fault, some might say.”

Webster’s tone darkened as he said …

“And the truth is, I don’t like folks getting murdered around here. I don’t like it one little bit.”

Riley remembered what he’d said back at the station.

“I take it kind of personal when somebody gets murdered in my jurisdiction.”

He’d also told them …

“No offense, but I’d just as soon not have any interference from Quantico.”

Webster seemed like a stubborn, single-minded man, and that worried Riley a little. She could understand his determination to solve the case without outside help. But from her own experiences, she knew how a murder case could turn into a personal vendetta. Crivaro had been trying to teach her not to let such feelings get the best of her. Little by little, she was coming to appreciate the importance of teamwork.

She wondered—how well did Webster understand that?

Did he grasp how helpful she and Crivaro could be to him right now?

Most of all, she wondered …

Does this man know he might be seriously out of his depth?

If this killer was anything like the ones she and Crivaro had dealt with before, a small-town police department didn’t have the expertise, resources, or experience needed to catch him.

Riley had to stop her racing thoughts. So far, she had no reason to believe they were investigating a deadly serial killer. Crivaro certainly didn’t seem to think so.

She forced herself to turn her attention away and gaze out the car window.

The landscape had changed.

During the drive from Phoenix to Tunsboro, they’d passed mainly through developed areas—resorts and golf courses and the like. Now Webster had taken a road that wasn’t heavily traveled, and she was getting her first real look at the Southwestern desert.

She didn’t much like it.

The vast stretches of rocky, tan soil and dull green brush were punctuated only by tall, featureless cactuses. Even the intense blue sky seemed somehow harsh and unforgiving.

Growing up as Riley had in rural Virginia, she was accustomed to green vegetation, rolling hills, and especially trees.

There wasn’t a tree anywhere in sight.

Just why tourists like Harry and Jillian came here to enjoy this scenery was a mystery to her.

She reminded herself that at least the weather was pleasant. Chief Webster had the car windows rolled down, and the air was fresh, dry, and surprisingly cool for midday—not at all humid, like it often was in Virginia.

Soon Riley saw a couple of vehicles parked on the side of the road up ahead. Webster pulled over and stopped behind them,

One of the vehicles was another police car, and the other was a beat-up van. A couple of cops were leaning against the police car, smoking cigarettes.

A weathered sign nearby read “Wren’s Nest Hiking Trail.”

Webster explained to Riley and Crivaro as they got out of the car, “I left a couple of my guys here to watch over things. We’ve already checked out what we could from here. Didn’t find anything useful. I was just about to get a tow truck to take the van in. Then you guys showed up, so I figured I could leave it all in place a little longer.”

Riley and Crivaro followed Webster over to the van. Its back doors were wide open, and Riley could see a mattress on the floor littered with some camping gear. As they looked inside, Webster said …

“You can see that the poor kid wasn’t a seasoned camper. It looks like she bought some second- or third-hand old van, took out the back seats, and didn’t do much more to convert the vehicle than throw a mattress on the floor. A pretty Spartan get-up. She depended a lot on campground facilities.”