“The dream catchers…they’re supposed to keep bad dreams away or something like that, right?”
She smiled and the beauty of that gesture shot an unexpected heat through Cole. It had been years since he’d allowed himself to feel anything for any woman, and the fact that a little lick of lust stirred in him for this woman didn’t improve his mood at all.
“The legend is that the dream catcher was used by the Woodland Indians to catch all dreams, both good and bad. The bad dreams get caught in the webbing and burn off with the morning sun. The good dreams are caught and make their way to the hole in the center, where they filter down the feathers and are dreamed.”
He looked back at the victim and the dream catcher hanging over her head. “So, our perp wants to make sure our victims have only good dreams in death?”
“Or he wants you to believe that he’s of Native American descent,” she replied.
“But you don’t think he is,” he countered.
She frowned thoughtfully. “At this point, there’s no way of really knowing. Certainly most Native Americans I know who own dream catchers have the real thing made with their own hands with either soaked willow or grapevine. They’re usually very personal and made with lots of love.” She flashed him another quick smile. “But of course, that’s the old way.”
He wondered if the FBI powers-that-be had specifically chosen her for this job because of her Native American background.
They fell quiet as the men continued their jobs, and the victim was eventually taken away. It was growing dark when the last of the work was done at the scene of the crime, and Agent Nightsong followed Cole to the sheriff’s office.
He’d found her an irritant all evening. It wasn’t anything she’d said. For the most part, she’d been silent. It had been the way she’d watched them with those intelligent, enigmatic eyes.
Cole had found himself snapping at his men, feeling as if both he and all of them were on display and Agent Nightsong was just waiting for errors to occur so she could step in and take over.
As he drove toward the office, with her in her own car just behind him, he drew in a deep breath to ease the tension that had crackled through him since the moment she’d arrived on scene.
He wasn’t arrogant enough to believe he didn’t need some kind of help. This latest murder had definitely shaken him up. Not only did he lack the manpower for the kind of investigation these murders required, but he also lacked resources. Mystic Lake was a small town with very little crime, and it had been years since Cole had done the kind of police work that was now required of him.
He probably would have asked for help, but it ticked him off that the mayor hadn’t even discussed the issue with him and instead had just gone behind Cole’s back and then told him he’d called the feds.
As far as Cole was concerned, it had shown a lack of respect, which heated his insides along with the other feeling that fired inside him each time his gaze landed on Amberly Nightsong.
He’d give her the copies of the files of the other murders, and then she’d be on her way back to Kansas City. She wasn’t officially a part of the case. She was just here as a consultant of sorts. She’d read the files, call him with her thoughts, and that would be the end of it.
His hands relaxed on the steering wheel as he turned into the parking lot behind his office. Funny that his lust hormones hadn’t been active for eight long years and now had suddenly decided to awaken for the one woman he wanted absolutely nothing to do with.
She parked beside his car and joined him at the back door of the building. “It should take about twenty minutes or so to get copies of those files ready for you,” he said as he used his key to unlock the back door of the building.
He gestured her into the hallway. A door on the left led to a conference room, a second to a small break room, and to the right was his private office. There was also an interrogation room. Ahead were the reception area and the deputy desks, with the jail in the basement of the building.
He took her into the conference room, where the old wall-size bulletin board was covered with crime photos of the two previous murders. It had become their war room, devoted specifically to the murders since the second one had occurred.
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll be back with copies of the files,” he said.
She nodded absently, already engrossed in the photos on the board.
She was still standing in front of the board when he reentered the room fifteen minutes later. She appeared to be so deep in thought she didn’t hear his return.
He took a brief moment to admire the curve of her butt in her tight jeans, the waist-length braided rope of thick hair that seemed to beg to be released from its binding. He cleared his throat, not liking the drift of his thoughts.
She whirled around to face him. “I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t some sort of a mercy-killing element to these. He killed them and then tried to assure that they would have happy dreams through eternity. Were any of the women sick? Maybe terminally ill?”
“According to the autopsy reports, both Mary Mathis and Gretchen Johnson were in perfect health, and of course we won’t know about Barbara Tillman until George performs the complete autopsy. I should have something from him by midday tomorrow.”
She frowned. “Well, that shoots my potential initial theory right out the window.” She smiled. “But then it isn’t unusual for me to throw out several of my theories before settling on the one that’s right.”
The room was too small and filled with that evocative scent of her. He was suddenly far too focused on her lips, which were covered with a nude, glossy lipstick. He should be thinking about the photos of the victims on the board, not the vibrant, beautiful woman in front of him.
“Here are the files,” he said briskly and thrust them toward her. He wanted her gone, away from him. She unsettled him in a way that was distinctly uncomfortable.
“Thanks. Once I plow through these, I’ll feel like I’m up to speed.”
He gestured her out of the conference room and down the hallway toward the front of the building. When they reached the main area, he introduced her to Linda Scott, who served as receptionist/secretary and dispatcher.
“Where do you send your forensic evidence for analysis?” she asked when they stepped out the front door and into the warm September night.
“We use a lab in Kansas City. We don’t have any facilities here.”
“I could get you access to the FBI lab.”
“That’s not necessary,” he replied. “I’m satisfied with the lab we’re already using.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself.”
“Do you sleep under a dream catcher?” he asked, the personal question leaping from his mouth before he’d actually considered asking.
“My son does. The day he was born my granny Nightsong made him one to hang above his bed. I don’t sleep beneath one.” Her chocolate-brown eyes seemed to grow a tad bit darker. “I need to allow myself to have nightmares. It’s one of the ways I get in touch with people who do things like this.” She held up the files.
“You must have terrible dreams,” he observed.
“Sometimes I do. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
He watched as she got into her car. He wasn’t surprised that she had a family. A woman as bright as her, as beautiful as her, would have been snapped up by some man as quickly as possible.