"Jesus," Owen muttered again.

Billy cast him a wry glance and returned to crowd control.

"Dale!" Jeremy and my dad clasped hands and chest-b.u.mped like old pals.

They'd met once when my father had stopped in Madison on the way to Milwaukee with my brothers' entries for the Wisconsin State Fair holstein compet.i.tion in a trailer. He hadn't been able to stay long-cows in a trailer in August-but Jeremy had come by to loan me a textbook, and I'd introduced them. From the way they were behaving, they'd bonded like long-lost relatives.

I'd taken a single cla.s.s from Jeremy in my first year of veterinary school. He was well read, interesting, a good teacher. We'd stayed in touch. I didn't have many friends, and I wasn't certain I'd even consider Jeremy one of them-more a colleague-but he'd been helpful in the past, and he had rushed over personally just on the basis of my call.

My father caught sight of Owen, and his smile faded. "What are you doing here?"

"I told you Owen was in town, Dad."

"In town is one thing, here is another."

"It isn't that big of a town."

"Don't be a smarta.s.s," he said, but he was staring at Owen.

There was something going on I didn't understand. My dad and Owen had always gotten along fine. Even that last night, when my dad had walked in on us in the barn, his face had gotten really red, but he hadn't shouted at either one of us. However, within days Owen had been gone, which seemed a lot more suspicious now than it had been then.

"Why is either one of you here?" I asked. "Dad, you were supposed to be mending fences and you-" I switched my gaze to Owen. "I'd think you would be asleep."

"You'd think, wouldn't you?" My gaze narrowed, and Owen held up his hands. "I was on the porch, and Deb flew by. When she skidded to a stop in front of your place I certainly wasn't going to be able to sleep without finding out what was wrong."

"How did you know it was my place?"

"I can see straight down this street from my porch, and this had been the vet clinic since your father was a pup."

"Watch it," my dad murmured.

"What is up with you two?" I demanded.

"Same thing that's been up from the beginning," Owen said, and my father's hands clenched.

"Whoa!" I stepped between the two of them. "One of you want to expand on that?"

"No," they said at the same time.

"I thought you wanted me to examine a crime scene?"

Jeremy still hugged the wall. Reggie still stared at him as if he were a side of beef, or at least smelled like one. It would probably be a good idea to get Jeremy out of here.

"That's at Owen's place. I can-"

"You can go with Ross." Deb made an impatient "come here" gesture. Ross Quinleven, who had either just arrived, or been hovering out of sight around the corner, bolted forward.

Ross was of an age with my father. His own family farm had gone under while his dad owned it, leaving Ross to find other employment. He'd become a cop, and he seemed to enjoy it, though I'd never heard him speak more than a few words in my entire life.

Ross had always reminded me of a flamingo. He was tall, skinny, his hair a more unfortunate shade than my own-a faded deep pink rather than fire red. If he'd drawn himself up on one leg and stood quiet and still, I wouldn't have been surprised.

"I'll have someone take Dr. Reitman to Owen's," Deb continued.

"I can do it," Owen said.

I lifted my eyebrows. "I don't think so."

He'd already tried to kill Jeremy once. Sending the two of them into the woods, toward a place where Owen had already started digging a grave, was not the best idea.

Owen lifted one hand, palm out. "I promise not to bury him in the forest."

Jeremy rubbed his throat again.

"This shouldn't take long, right?" I asked and glanced at Deb, who shook her head. "I can drive him myself in a few minutes."

"You aren't going out there without a cop along," Deb said. "That's a crime scene."

Jeremy stiffened. "I know what to do with a crime scene. I don't need an escort."

"Fine," Deb agreed. "Becca and I will be along directly."

"He isn't going to my house without me," Owen insisted.

"Sheesh." They were acting like three-year-olds. I held out my plastic-covered hands. My palms were starting to sweat. "Just get this over with."

"Sc.r.a.pe her fingernails," Deb ordered. "Then get started on the rest of the room."

Ross led me away from the others, setting his box full of CSI tools on the hood of my Bronco. It resembled a tackle box, and maybe it was, but when he opened the lid I saw no evidence of lines, lures, or jigs. He removed a hooked chrome device that reminded me of something they used at the dentist's office. I hated the dentist's office. I swallowed and averted my gaze.

There were still people gathered behind the tape Billy had strung. Several waved, but my hands were occupied, so I nodded in return.

One woman sat on the b.u.mper of a parked car and stared at me as if she knew me, though I didn't know her. Long dark hair, flowing black skirt that brushed the ground, tie-dyed T-shirt. She had her arm in a sling. She seemed a little hippie, which is something we didn't see a lot in Three Harbors.

I smiled. She didn't smile back. She seemed p.i.s.sed off. Maybe her arm really hurt. Or maybe the commotion had ruined her cafe breakfast. She'd probably come here to get away from crime in the big city, and yet, here it was.

"What is he sc.r.a.ping her fingernails for?" Owen asked.

I glanced at him then back toward the crowd, still disturbed by that woman. But she was gone.

"Billy said you were searching for a guy in a ski mask. What did he do?"

"None of your-" I began, but Deb answered. "Tried to smother her with a pillow."

Reggie woofed, low and concerned. Owen smoothed his palm over the dog's head. But Reggie wasn't having it.

Scared.

He spun counterclockwise.

Angry.

He spun clockwise. Was the dog talking about himself or Owen?

"Since when do people get attacked in their own homes in Three Harbors?" Owen's face was serene, his voice completely reasonable. I wasn't buying it.

"You need to calm down," I said.

His gaze flicked to me. "Who says I'm not calm?"

"Who says I was talking to you?" I lifted my chin to indicate Reggie. The dog was still spinning-right, left, right.

Ross was still sc.r.a.ping my fingernails. It didn't hurt, but I certainly hoped I never had to do this again. I remembered the pillow smashing my nose, my mouth.

For more reasons than one.

"Sitz," Owen ordered.

Reggie sat, but he cast Owen a concerned glance, which Owen ignored. He was too busy glaring at me.

"I'm fine," I said. "Not a scratch on me." Although my nose felt a little bruised.

"The scratches were all on him," Deb said. "Hence the nail sc.r.a.pings."

Owen grabbed Jeremy's hand and yanked on his shirt. Unfortunately the shirt was b.u.t.toned at the cuff and stuck tight about an inch above his wrist.

"Hey!" Jeremy tried to pull away.

Owen yanked the shirt so hard the b.u.t.ton flew through the air. Reggie started barking at it.

Owen stared at Jeremy's arm for a second, then he grabbed him by the throat and smacked him into the wall again.

Becca shouted something. Owen thought it might be his name, or maybe the doctor's. Everyone, especially Dale Carstairs, seemed to think Reitman was Three Harbors's answer to a prayer.

However, that wasn't why he put his hand around Jeremy's throat and squeezed-again. The reason for that were the scratches on the guy's arm.

Someone tried to grab Owen, probably Dale. He doubted Deb was that dumb. Reggie snarled, and the hands clutching at him disappeared.

"Let him go, Owen. Now."

That was Deb.

Owen released the guy for the second time that day, and for the second time Dr. Reitman slid to the ground like a rag doll.

"What is wrong with you?" Becca shoved past Owen and touched Jeremy's face.

"Look at his arm."

She glanced up, frowned, then lifted the shirtsleeve that had fallen back down in the upheaval.

Three scratches marred the man's skin.

Owen waited for Becca to straighten, to back away, to show them to Deb, who would then cuff the guy as Becca threw herself into Owen's arms and thanked him for seeing the truth when no one else had.

Instead her head fell forward; she shook it then stood. "Those scratches are healed over."

How had he missed that? His only excuse was that he'd been so furious at the thought of anyone hurting Becca that he'd gone a little overboard. A world without Becca in it was not one Owen could bear.

In dog handler school they'd learned why dogs were so good at explosives detection. Not only were their noses about a thousand times more sensitive than a human's, but the size of the portion of their brain used for a.n.a.lyzing those scents was between twenty and forty percent larger. Which might explain why a human would smell beef stew and a dog would smell onions, potatoes, carrots, beef, flour, salt, and so on. This was how MWDs could ferret out bombs. While one explosive might be made out of different materials than another, they all needed a reason to go boom-and that scent set off the dogs. Owen had seen IEDs buried in dirt, covered with garbage, wrapped in Lord knows what, but still Reggie had found them.

What this meant to Owen was that even though Reggie's indication of insurgent was suspect, there was something off about Dr. "Right Man."

Certainly Carstairs's adoration of the man, so soon after he had told Owen-again-to leave Becca alone, had made Owen want the guy to be bad so much he'd been blinded to anything else.

He still thought it was pretty d.a.m.n odd that they were searching for an intruder of the same size, wearing a ski mask, which had been found right next to a fellow who had scratches-albeit old ones-right where Becca had put some.

"Maybe he's a fast healer." Owen wasn't willing to let it go.

"Freaky fast," Deb said. "Like supernaturally woo-woo fast, even."

Becca cast Deb a curious glance, as if the chief were serious.

"Where'd those scratches come from?" Owen asked.

"What difference does it make?" Becca's dad snapped.

Owen had forgotten for a minute that the man was there.

"Jeremy didn't try to kill Becca," Carstairs continued. "Why would he?"

"Why would anyone?" Owen wondered.

"Exactly," Carstairs agreed.

"No, really. Why? You think it was random?" Owen's gaze went from Carstairs, to Becca, to Deb.

"Random is a lot more rare than people think," Deb said.

"Cat," Jeremy blurted. Reggie starting wailing.

"La.s.s das sein," Owen ordered.

Reggie stopped. The doctor stared at his arm so hard Owen wondered if he were trying to make the scratches disappear by wishing for it.

"What cat?" Becca asked.

Reggie let out a short yip, as if he just couldn't help it. Owen wondered how he even knew the word.