“Well, I’m going to my room for a while,” Kelsey said. “Ricky, if something comes up or if anyone wants to see me, call me, okay?”

He nodded gravely.

Kelsey walked up the stairs, wondering why she was so convinced that the answers had to be somewhere in Room 207. But now, when she went in, it seemed empty, as if all life—and death—had left it. She was in the midst of well-tended period furniture and plaster dust.

The bed was in bad shape. She dusted the quilt, kicked off her heels and lay back.

Kelsey closed her eyes and tried to reconstruct everything she’d seen, willing herself to view the image of the residual haunting again. In a few minutes, she opened her eyes slightly, and a silvery mist seemed to pervade the air. Then it dissipated and the residual haunting began.

Rose and Matt. She, with her stunning dark hair piled atop her head, in her usual half-dressed state, the rest of her garments strewn about. Matt in his dark suit, a tall hat, dapper but still rough around the edges.

He strode furiously across the room and seized hold of Rose, saying, “You won’t hold out on me! I want it, and I want it now.”

“I don’t have it,” she said.

The rest of the scene played out as she knew it would. Just like he had before, he reached out for Rose and his fingers curled around her neck. He strangled her, ignoring her pleas. Then Rose went limp, dead, and Matt picked her up and threw her on the bed and the scene faded. But this time, when it was gone, Kelsey kept seeing the death in her mind, and she tried to figure out what bothered her about it.

Don’t think too hard. Let it come.

She got up and walked to the broken wall. How had Sierra’s killer had managed to do it all—kill her so viciously and disappear, right in the middle of the inn’s sale and renovation?

A moment later, she went to her window and looked at the small yard. She caught sight of the old toolshed. It was just used by the gardeners now, Kelsey assumed, but she was suddenly tempted to check it out. She hesitated. She didn’t want to go through the gauntlet of men in the bar again; she wasn’t up to dealing with their questions and fears. But she wondered, if in the search for Sierra, anyone had inspected the toolshed. She couldn’t imagine that Jackson Crow or Logan hadn’t looked there.

Kelsey leaned out the window. There was a sturdy branch reaching up from an old oak; its leaves actually touched the outside wall. Reflecting that she hadn’t been a tomboy for nothing, Kelsey climbed onto the sill and stretched out, swinging herself over, testing her weight. It was absurdly easy to grab the branch, go hand over hand to the trunk, drop to a lower branch and then down to the ground.

She started across the manicured grounds and toward the toolshed.

The door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges. Inside, the small shed was dark, but she could see neat rows of gardening supplies and tools. She entered cautiously—and heard something, or thought she did. She paused, listening. She studied the space in which she stood. It was about twelve by twelve, and with the lawn mower, the shelves and more, she didn’t see anything that could make a noise.

But then she heard it again, and it seemed to come from beneath her.

The inn had a basement, of course, and she knew that Sandy stored things down there, in the various rooms created by the foundations. But would a toolshed have a basement? She wished she’d asked her more about the building itself.

The noise came again. And this time, it sounded like a word. A single word.

“Help.”

“Sandy?” Kelsey cried anxiously. She fell to her knees, studying the floor. There was nothing, no hint of cellar door or opening.

She moved the lawn mower and still saw nothing. She ran her hands over the floor and felt a line, a slight ridge. Following the line, she realized it was a flat three-sided door. Probably the entrance to some kind of tornado shelter.

She opened the door and peered in. Pitch dark. She’d have to go back to the house and get a flashlight.

But she heard her name, called out in a soft, barely discernible whisper. “Kelsey? Kelsey, please hurry!”

“Sandy, I can’t see you.”

“Just jump. It’s low…there’s sawdust, oh, please, please, before…”

Sandy’s voice trailed off. Desperate, Kelsey angled herself around, gripped the edge of the flooring, dangled for a minute and then let herself drop.

She didn’t fall far. She landed on a pile of old clothes or bedding and struggled to sit up.

A light began to glow and she felt something touch the back of her neck. She heard the sound of hoarse, throaty laughter. She felt a calm sweep through her body, a strange sense not of paralysis, but of almost lazy pleasure, and as her Glock was slipped from her holster, she knew she’d been hit with the drug cocktail.

“Welcome,” came a voice. “Now we’ll find the diamond!”

Chapter Seventeen

When Logan reached the station, he was advised of the strides the team had made in the past few hours. He sat with Sean, who was reading emails and trying to match up Facebook pages with missing women. They were dejected when they realized that psychicchic was a missing eighteen-year-old from Nebraska who’d hitchhiked down to Oklahoma with friends and was then never heard from again.

Logan said grimly that he’d contact the family and they’d get a DNA sample.

“Where are we on looking up anyone who might have had a medical, chemical or pharmaceutical background?” he asked.

“Pretty much nowhere,” Sean told him. “Most of the potential suspects went to Texas schools, and no one studied medicine, but they all had to take a pretty tough course in chemistry in order to graduate from high school. Our Ted Murphy recently took a course called ‘Street Drugs and Slang for Journalists.’ Cowboy Corey did some classes in animal husbandry. Ricky took a number of cooking classes. It doesn’t matter about Jeff Chasson anymore, does it?” He paused. “Ironically, our latest victim—or likely victim—Sandy Holly went to a seminar called ‘Young Woman on the Street, Beware.’”

As they spoke, there was a tap at the door. Logan answered it to find the desk sergeant with a tall, bald man who looked like he might have stepped out of a Mr. Clean commercial.

He offered his hand. “I’m Bobby Moore. I was the contractor on the Longhorn just before the murder took place. I was fired afterward when the old owner stepped back in and Ms. Holly was in a financial mess. I’m here to help you any way I can.”

Logan invited him in. They arranged a chair for him in the center of the room and grouped around him.

“How could Sierra Monte’s body have been walled in like that, without anyone knowing?” Logan began.

“When I heard, I asked myself that question. But I guess it wasn’t that hard. We’d been working on some pipes and the electricity, so there was fresh drywall and plaster in a lot of areas. From what I understand, the room was covered in blood, but I guess even when there’s blood everywhere and a massive search, if there’s no body, there’s no murder?” he asked, looking at each of them.

“That’s changed a bit, but it’s difficult to prosecute without a body, yes.”

“Anyone going into that room would know some work had been done recently—but there’d been work done all over the inn, mostly on things necessary to get the building up to code. And the inspectors had been in just a few days before that blood was found, so there seemed to be no reason to start knocking down walls.” He grimaced. “I got to admit, it gave me the chills when I heard, and I knew they’d have to investigate my team, but we were already out of there. We’d been out since the inspection. I was working an old mansion in Louisiana, and my men were scattered. I brought you a list of workers here in San Antonio—most of ’em day jobbers—and I also have a blueprint of the place, with the work we did, just in case you need it.” He reached into his pocket and produced a sheaf of neatly folded papers. “My God, that this could happen…”

Logan opened the blueprint. He stared at it, but he already knew the inn so well. He hadn’t been to the basement, though, and was intrigued to see the original foundation lines of the old saloon, along with the modern additions.

“What’s this?” he asked Moore, pointing at a line.

“Oh, that. There used to be a well out back. When city water came through, it wasn’t needed, but there was an old walkway that led from the house to the well, so the whole thing was incorporated into an underground tunnel. It was walled off for years. The old well was destroyed and a carriage house stood there at one time. Then that was destroyed and a toolshed was put out there, oh, probably sometime back in the early twentieth century.”

“I think I’ll do some exploring there tonight,” he told Moore. “Thank you for bringing this in, and for coming to speak with us.”

Moore rose and shook hands all around. “I’m a phone call away,” he said, “and happy to help.”

Logan was planning to head straight out to the Longhorn, but Jane tapped him on the shoulder. “You haven’t seen the sketches of the man who may be our culprit.”

He sat with her as she showed him the latest sketch she’d made; she’d entered it in the computer so she could alter hair, eyes and facial features at will.

There was something about the image that disturbed him. He felt he should have figured out what it was but couldn’t quite pinpoint it.

“Since Kelsey spoke with Alice White, who gave me the description, maybe she’ll have an idea,” Jane suggested.

He tried Kelsey’s number, but she didn’t answer. Then he called the bar and got Ricky, who assured him that Kelsey was fine and up in Room 207.

Logan decided to go there and talk to her before he did any exploring. Checking out the property again, with the asistance of Bobby Moore’s blueprint, was a last-ditch effort, but maybe they’d missed Sandy somehow.

“Jackson, there was a thorough search of the grounds, not just the house, after Sandy went missing, right?” Logan asked. “I’m not sure I gave this toolshed much attention.”