Dix held up his arm. “Just a moment, boys, stay back, okay?” They responded instantly to the tone of voice but Brewster strained to get away from him. “Calm down, Brewster, calm down.”

Dix opened the front door to see a big man in a black leather jacket, black slacks, white shirt, black boots, and black leather gloves, standing with a woman beside him, also in black.

“Sheriff Noble?”

“Yeah. Who are you?”

“I’m Dillon Savich, and this is my wife, Lacey Sherlock. We understand you have a woman staying with you who’s having trouble remembering who she is. We’d like to see her.”

“You related to her?”

“She works with us—”

“Dillon! Oh God, is it really you, Dillon? I remember you! Sherlock? Oh, thank God—you guys look wonderful. I’m Ruth Warnecki, and I remember! I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

Savich quickly stepped forward into the entry hall as Ruth leaped at him and he caught her in his arms. She was laughing, kissing his cheek, letting him hold her close, her feet off the ground. She reared back in his arms, tears in her eyes. “It was so horrible. I didn’t remember who I was and all these strange things just popped out of my mouth. This is Sheriff Dixon Noble, and he’s been taking care of me. And Rob and Rafe, who’ve been taking care of me, too. The sheriff just heard from IAFIS, just this minute told me my name is Ruth Warnecki, and then I saw you both and everything came back again. It was real scary, Dillon. Sherlock, you look so beautiful all in black. You guys match so well. I am so glad to see both of you.” And she kissed Savich’s ear and his left eyebrow and held him like she’d never willingly let him go.

Dix and the boys stood back, Dix still holding a straining Brewster, who, oddly, wasn’t barking wildly anymore, just seemed anxious to join all the hugging.

The big man, Dillon Savich, let Ruth down, but still held her against him as he turned to say, “Forgive us, Sheriff, but we were very worried when we heard Ruth hadn’t checked in.”

“Checked in with whom?” Dix asked.

Ruth said, “Oh, Luther Hitchcock called you, right, Dillon? He’s a major-league worrier, for which I am profoundly grateful, this time,” Ruth said, grinning like a loon at all of them impartially. “He couldn’t come with me because he had that gallbladder attack and—” She broke off, her face suddenly slack and pale.

“What, Ruth? What happened?”

“Dillon, someone’s trying to kill me and it must be because of the treasure in Winkel’s Cave.”

“Winkel’s Cave?” Dix asked. “What treasure? Who are you, Ruth?”

Sherlock smiled at the tough-as-nails-looking man holding a little white ball of fluff under his right arm who was trying hard to jump at them, a teenage boy on either side of him, standing real close. “We’re all FBI, Sheriff.”

Ruth stuck out her hand. “Special Agent Ruth Warnecki, Sheriff Noble. A pleasure to meet you.”

Dix took her hand, Brewster licked it. She shook his hand up and down, she was that excited. He said, “So that’s why you shoot a SIG.”

“I also have a Glock seventeen.”

“You’re really an FBI agent, Madonna?” Rafe asked. “I mean, Ms. Warnecki, er, Special Agent Warnecki? A real FBI agent like they have on TV? Boy, it must have burned your butt when Dad told you to hide behind the dresser.”

She laughed. “Not really, at least at the time. I’m sure he wouldn’t ask me to do that now, he’s not like that idiot sheriff in North Carolina. Come on, you guys, call me Ruth.” Brewster started barking frantically. Ruth plucked him from Dix’s arms and hugged him. “It’s so good to be me again,” she said, “as in back in my own brain. Much better than being Madonna.”

Brewster licked her face, barking wildly between licks as he peed on Rob’s sweatshirt.

CHAPTER 10

RUTH SAT BETWEEN Savich and Sherlock. She didn’t want to let go of their hands.

“Tell us what you can,” Savich said, “we’ll help you fill in all the blanks, don’t worry.”

“The last thing I remember clearly is crawling through that low arch in the cave wall and into that chamber. Then everything starts to get confused and, well—black. I remember the feel of that blackness; it was exactly like in the dream I had last night—so maybe the dream reflects what happened to me.”

“Then tell us about the dream,” Sherlock said as she lightly squeezed Ruth’s hand.