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was inevitable. The Lindstrom house, site of the massacre twenty-five years ago, the place where Cara Lindstrom’s life, and very probably her sanity, had been shattered for all time.
    The house had been standing empty for years, a foreclosure, bank-owned. It had a history of high turnover, defaulted mortgages. Like a curse. Bad energy. A retired sheriff Roarke had interviewed about the Lindstrom case had suggested it would be best if the house burned to the ground.
    It sat on a land lot of several acres, a house fanning out in four sections like an accordion, surrounded by thick patches of old-growth trees. The property was bordered by agricultural fields on three sides. The other side of the lot butted up against a road. There was no other house adjacent at all; the closest residence was across that highway. Isolated. A perfect setting for the gruesome work the Reaper had done.
    There was a packed dirt road leading from the highway to the house, which was encircled by a split-rail fence. The lawn beyond was dry and brown, but the eucalyptus and olive trees were huge and healthy, cooling the air with their spicy sage green leaves. There was a large garage and also some kind of shed.
    As he turned into the drive, Roarke stared out the windows with the same powerful feeling of déjà vu he always had, seeing it. As a child of nine he had watched the house on T.V. broadcasts countless times, riveted to news reports on the massacre. It was the case that had infected him with the desire to be an FBI agent, to solve crimes and lock up bad guys. He’d studied the case, dreamed it. And some force he did not understand had crossed his path with Cara Lindstrom’s twenty-five years later.
    He got out of the car and let the door shut with a hollow clunk before he moved up the pavers toward the front entrance. There was a dry breeze, a whispering in the trees around him that made the air seem alive.
    The recessed porch had a high triangular arched entrance and a wide door with ornate carved wooden panels. He stepped up and looked down at the concrete slab of the porch, hearing Trent’s voice in his head. “ She found a rabbit, all torn up. Out here coyotes do that kind of thing all the time …”
    But coyotes weren’t in the habit of dragging animal carcasses up onto porches. If anything they shunned security lights.
    He looked up toward the solid front door. There was a realtor’s lock box on the door handle. Roarke remembered the combination from his previous visit, and mentally crossed his fingers that it had not been changed. He punched in the numbers, held his breath. The compartment slid open.
    He removed the key and used it, and the door swung open into the silent house.
    The entry hall was dark wood beams and white-painted brick walls, with Mexican tiled floors. The red light of sunset spilled through the windows but the house was cool. He stepped into the great room, huge and gorgeous, with two huge arched windows framing a double-size fireplace, cathedral ceilings of more beamed dark wood and antique ceiling fans.
    He stood for a moment under the vaulted ceilings. Listening. Feeling . The whole house had an energy… it seemed to have been deserted for years. There was an eerie sense of arrested time.
    He didn’t know why he was there, except that he couldn’t stay away, any more than Cara had been able to stay away. The place was imprinted with horror, and mystery. He felt the eternal pull of the cold case, the itch to know. Who killed them ? Where did he come from ? Where did he go ? What was his sickness ?
    And there was the pull of something deeper. It was the great mystery of his childhood, the imprint that had decided the course of his life forever.
    He moved toward the wing of the house that had housed the children’s bedrooms. Room after room was completely empty; his footsteps echoed off the ubiquitous tiles. In his mind, the trail of blood the killer had left was still crimson on the floors, on the walls.