Suddenly, his nakedness didn't matter any longer. Whatever had happened in that house or in that bed didn't matter. She didn't matter.

"I like it in the morning," Sheila said coyly, obviously shrugging off sleep very quickly.

"Like what?"

"I think you know, Chief," she answered, reaching out across his side of the bed to what the pillow once had covered.

He stepped back in the nick of time, but did feel that familiar, heavy swelling sensation down where her eyes were now fixed.

Damn it! DamnitDamnitDamnit!

Daryl had thrown many men into the slammer during his long career in law enforcement, and always with some feeling of derision and blame. They had screwed up and they would pay. The familiar clang of the gate and the snick of the lock had always given him a sense of accomplishment-one more low-life scum out of society, even if only for a night or two. But now, standing beside what had been a cold bed in what was still a foreign, dangerous bedroom, he could almost hear that clang and that snick as an enormous guilt blossomed deep within. It made the blood pound in his head; his entire body was acutely aware of the blood throbbing through his veins, energized in the arteries by the pressures of inexorable sadness and regret.

Still, though, the very sight of her thrilled him in ways he knew he could explain but was reluctant to. There she was, naked and ready, ripe for harvest. The thought that since he'd already screwed up, one more quick plunder of her inner treasures wouldn't hurt did cross his mind, and his swelling hardened.

The pocket pager vibrated again, rocking back and forth on the nightstand so long that Daryl thought it might fall off onto the floor. That would have been fine by him. As it spun from right to left on the polished oak tabletop, he'd spotted enough numbers on the LED panel to recognize his home telephone number.

"That her?" Sheila asked, shifting her position on the bed. She now was fully exposed from her belly-button on up. She looked over silently at the pager and then back at him. He stood for a moment, nearly fully erect, waiting for the inevitable, recurring beep cycle. He didn't have to wait long.

"That's Stella," he answered, his passions deflating. "That's my wife, Sheila. Her name is Stella. And I've made a terrible mistake."

Sheila rolled over onto her back, sighing heavily. Daryl took advantage of the moment to locate his pants, now halfway beneath the foot of the bed. There was no sign of his underwear or his shirt.

"I knew I would hear that word sooner or later," she said, shaking her head. "But you never hear it until morning. It's funny how that works. It's always a mistake."

Daryl could tell by the tone of her voice that she really thought it was anything but funny.

The pager beeped again to remind him of the page. That, and also to pound another nail into his heart. He didn't sit on the bed to pull on his pants but did it while standing, afraid of what might happen should he come anywhere near the woman lying prone before him. He could put on underwear later. What was important now was to get out of there and back to his team. Certainly, Stella wasn't the only one wondering where he was.

A new, terrifying thought washed through his mind. What if Stella had called the hotel room? One of his three temporary roommates would surely have answered the telephone to tell her that Collins had not returned from Baroni's the night before. He paused, still working his zipper with care. Had any of the three been to Baroni's? Had they spotted him with Sheila? The possibilities and likely repercussions were terrifying, and Daryl realized that he now was damaged goods so far as the manhunt was concerned. To be effective, his full attention should be on capturing Cliff Rilek, not preoccupied with what might or might not happen as a result of his infidelity. Out there-outside the window to his right-a "hundred year storm" raged, filling the river basin with snow and piling dangerous levels of frozen precipitation over steep mountain slopes throughout the area. And now, yet another distraction would inhibit his efforts-covering up the fact that he already struggled with a personal, potentially relationship-ending dilemma. Now, every step would be into unfamiliar territory and he would have to scrutinize every face-not wondering if they had any vital information about Cliff or the manhunt but if they had seen him with Sheila at Baroni's or knew that he hadn't returned to his hotel room or-

Stop it!

Sheila moved to the side and was on her feet before Daryl's busy mind even registered that fact that the scenery had changed. She, too, searched the floor for her personal items, bending down to retrieve her panties.

"It's not like we did anything technically wrong," she said, pulling that brief bit of clothing up to cover herself. "Everybody plays with a buddy once in a while."

She smiled and looked up, hope shining in her eyes.

"I was your little fuck-buddy, Chief. That's all. Two ships passing. Blew your horn, life goes on."

Daryl, realizing that he had stared at her delightfully shaped and meticulously groomed private area longer than what was appropriate, turned away, but couldn't stop himself from keeping her in his peripheral vision. That, more than anything, scared him. Apparently, the guilt had not drilled deep enough.

One last look…and then another…

He turned back toward her after she pulled on a loose, colorful t-shirt.

"Look, Sheila," he said with an unsteady voice. "I don't really remember what happened here. We had a few drinks; I got a bit tipsy. I remember you inviting me here and I remember accepting. Please tell me that we didn't…well, you know."

"You don't remember us playing that drinking game last night?"

"No." It was an honest answer. He'd had three or four whiskey drinks at Baroni's and could remember all of those, but there was no memory of any drinking after they'd left the bar together. No, take that back. She had offered him a beer when they'd arrived at her home and walked into the kitchen. He remembered that because it was a microbrew he'd never heard of and hadn't particularly liked.

"We started out with beer," she said. "You had a few. And then we moved to the hard stuff."

Daryl caught her gaze move down to his groin as those words left her mouth.

"Very hard stuff."

There they stood on opposite sides of the bed, both half-undressed, but one at a definite disadvantage.

…the hard stuff…fuck-buddy…oh god…

"But no," she said facetiously, chuckling. "We didn't do it. So don't go getting your little imaginations running wild, Mr. Policeman. I wanted to and would have if I could have, but you were too polite. That, or you were too drunk. I had to buckle you into the Jeep when we left the bar, so you already had several sheets flapping out there in the wind before we even got here."

She stared down at the bed, shaking her head sadly.

"You really don't remember going to bed with me?"

Daryl tried, but drew a blank. He wanted to remember-more than anything-but couldn't. It was vital that he remember. Otherwise, it was her word against his.

Sheriff Bounds glared back at him from a portrait on her wall, directly over her shoulder. It was a signed portrait. There was a stain on the sheriff's shirt, about two inches over the belt line, six to eight inches to the left of where his bellybutton would be if it could be seen. Didn't look like a coffee stain, more like a drip from breakfast or a dollop of catsup from a lunchtime sandwich.

It was just a simple case of human nature, to avoid the question and focus on something else. Without realizing it, he'd focused on the Sheriff's promotional photo. His mind had registered all those tiny details in only a few seconds. He'd likely walked past that picture a dozen times in the last twenty-four hours and not even seen it, but now he'd seen the stain.

Wrong word. He didn't want to think about stains.

"I undressed you," she said. "Actually, you were already mostly undressed."

She looked directly at him and he looked back at her, away from the stain.

"I just finished the job."

Looking to the side, Daryl spotted his shirt, draped over a chair beside her dresser. As he finished dressing, she sat back down on the bed, still covered only by her panties and the t-shirt.

"You don't remember me…waking you?"

He didn't acknowledge her, working with grim determination but with a muddled focus. Two more buttons. Or three. Then, he could find his shoes and socks and get the hell out of there. But damn, the pain in his head and the ringing in his ears made it tough to go through the motions. More than anything, he wanted to excuse himself to go throw up in the bathroom. But that would just move more chips to her side of the table if it came down to her word against his. Nothing really mattered now, outside of getting out with some dignity. With a silent, long-drawn prayer into the wind that none of this would blow up in his face down the road, he tucked his shirt into his pants and took a step toward the door.

"You crashed almost immediately. There I was, hoping for some attention from you but you were gone, Chief, snoring up a storm. I was able to bring you around, though. You woke up for a little while. Long enough to shoot, long enough to push my head away-long enough to mistake me for your wife and to thank her for the little chore."

Daryl stood, frozen in place. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, leaving no doubt as to the act she described.

"Look," he said finally, sadness and regret stitching his words together into one tight, short sentence. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too," she sighed. "You were trigger happy, Chief. I did all the work. And now, I'm hearing this big guilt trip from you. Last night, we were two responsible, consenting adults. Today, I wake up responsible and consenting but you…you are just another man. Another married man. It's funny how a good night's sleep can make that wedding ring magically appear on the finger overnight."

Listening to her, Daryl stared down at the carpet, using his big toe to turn over a piece of tree bark that had been carried in one someone's shoe. His, most likely.

"Time to go, Chief," she said, cocking her head toward the door. "Please. You can come back, but leave that granite slab you carry on your back outside the door next time."

He stood, still rooted to the floor.

"Go. Get your shoes and socks and get back to work."

He did, realizing that the granite slab she described might likely be the tombstone over his marriage-a union that had, until last night, been unblemished and mutually exclusive.

Though his motel room was only several blocks away at the bottom of a steep hill, it took about ten minutes to make the drive. The hill hadn't been plowed overnight and snow had pretty much drifted over several cars that had been parked or stalled since yesterday. One of them sat at a forty-five degree angle but because the snow was too deep, it was impossible to tell if it rested against the curb or out in the middle of the street. Beyond that, an evergreen tree leaned far over and into the roadway, driven down by an immense weight of snow that had accumulated in its branches. Its pointed top curved toward the ground and was only a foot or two above the smooth, concealing blanket of snow. There was no way to tell where the street ended and the sidewalk began. In all likelihood, the plow driver had decided against plowing the road until it was reasonably clear of vehicles and all other obstructions.

Streets on the other side of the block had been plowed, but were very slick. Because of the way they'd been laid out, Daryl had to go around, cross the main road and then double back a ways to get to the motel. There were no other cars on the road at present; it wouldn't have been hard to imagine that he was the only soul around.

That, come to think of it, was exactly how he felt, too. He had made a terrible mistake and though Stella was none the wiser, he felt as if she were already gone. True, any other man might be able to go home, look his wife in the eye and carry on with life as though nothing had happened but not him-not Daryl. Even that realization was futile in this instance-there was no guarantee that Stella didn't already know what had transpired in Sheila's home. Though his omens and premonitions frequently came with greater clarity than hers, his usually faded quickly. They bloomed as a brief ejaculation of intense, vivid color and drama, to be followed by a rapid, inevitable deflation that required a recharge of his energies before manifesting themselves again. In contrast, Stella's visions came more in shades of gray. They came into focus slowly and faded away with no spectacular climax but were, more often than not, sustained over a longer period of time and usually more developed with regard to fine details. Stella had seen his daughter, ShellyLynn, in a boat, out on the surface of Roosevelt Lake. He had seen pumpkins-bright, fiercely hued, inexplicably radiant orbs of orange. He had seen ice cream cones; she had seen the monster, Cliff Rilek.

Last night, while he'd seen the patterns on the ceiling over Sheila's bed, Stella may well have seen more, much more. Too much more.

And that's probably why she had paged him so urgently this morning. Once again, he hoped that she hadn't called the hotel room, hadn't spoken with his temporary roommates and hadn't inquired with the front desk.

Passing Baroni's, he eased his foot off the gas as the motel was just ahead and to the right. The bar's parking lot was empty but in his mind

…not like a cupcake…

it was still full

…but like the frosting on a cupcake…

and he was stumbling out with Sheila, laughing at himself as she helped him into the front seat of the Jeep Cherokee, fastening the seat belt over his lap and sliding her wrist and hand over what had been hard most of the evening.

…someone's gonna get one hell of a lickin', Chief…

Already, the vivid images of her naked body were moving back to front and center in his mind, battling for dominance with the feeling of shame that occupied most of his being. It frustrated and troubled him to realize that although his guilt and regret were overwhelmingly tangible, the mere recollection of his time with her could cause that type of mental short-circuit, and could reverse the polarity in his mind. One moment, he was crushed beneath the weight of his regret but with one thought or triggering event, the remorse was moved to the background as lust and desire moved forward to displace it.

Good cop…bad cop…good cop…bad cop…

Now back at the motel, Daryl was relieved to find his room empty. It was 9:15 in the morning on a Saturday and, because of the storm blowing in, the manhunt had been called off for the day. So where were his roommates? There had been no footprints in the snow outside the door, so perhaps they never made it home from Baronis the previous evening. Maybe they, too, were out sleeping off hangovers and regret.

The message light blinked on the telephone and Daryl worked to calm himself, more certain now that Stella had not made contact with anyone who had seen him with Sheila at Baroni's and that his secret was safe. Wasting no time, he went through the steps to retrieve the voicemail, referring to the little card taped to the motel phone. Press 9. Press your room number. Press 3 to continue. Press 1 to listen to your messages. It was all so complicated.

The first message was for Cal Blunstone. Press 7 to save this message and continue to the next, or 3 to delete.

He pressed 7.

And then, finally, he heard Stella's voice.

"Hi honey. I'm up early today and had a real bad night so I thought I would call to tell you that I love you. I didn't hear from you last night so I figured that maybe you all were out searching late or that there was some kind of development. You know, it's really weird; I couldn't get to sleep so I stayed up until after midnight, working in the kitchen. You know that's so not me, Daryl, but you would have been proud of me. For some reason, I was craving cupcakes. Cupcakes of all things! I made four dozen of them. It was like I couldn't stop baking them. To tell you the truth, it scared me a bit, Daryl. I don't bake and I certainly don't bake cupcakes. But for some reason, I couldn't stop. I even drove over to Pat's Pantry to buy more muffin pans and cups. Then I went to Saar's Marketplace to buy frosting.

"Do you think it's an omen? Is it just a fluke or is there any significance there?"

Falling back into his bed, Daryl listened to the rest of the message but didn't hear a word she said. After a few moments of thought, he sat back up on the bed and reached out for the telephone, determined to call Stella and set her mind at ease. Damage control, when truly effective, must be done earlier rather than later.

But as his hand made contact with the headset, he noticed something missing, and his breath caught high up in his throat.

Somewhere, somehow, he had lost his wedding ring.