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section of the Bitterroot Mountains and that had brought the camera crews, with their recording equipment, lights and vans sprouting satellite dishes, descending like Ivor’s aliens upon this sleepy, usually boring town. Freelance reporters and photographers for the local, statewide and even national newspapers were filling the local motels. Armed with pocket recorders, sharp rapid-fire questions and a sense of importance, they, along with their television counterparts, had been mixing it up with the locals.
    One idiot of an innkeeper had winked at Grayson over coffee and said, “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Sheriff, all this press is damned good for business.”
    Grayson had wanted to shove Rod Larimer’s cherry Danish down his throat. Instead, he’d finished his coffee in one swallow and said, “What’s happening around here, Rod, isn’t good for anything. Including business.”
    Now, Grayson found a bottle of antacids in his desk, opened the plastic lid with one hand and popped a pill dry before settling into his squeaky, old leather chair. Earlier in the day, just after noon, he’d held a press conference, warning the public, explaining the severity of the situation. You would think that’d satisfy them, but when he was finished, the reporters had still clamored for more information. He had given them what he could, had held back only a few vital bits of knowledge, and he’d locked Ivor Hicks up on a trumped-up charge just to keep him away from the press.
    Ivor’s son, Bill, had gotten wind of his father’s predicament and had insisted the old man be released. “You can’t hold him, Sheriff,” he’d insisted on a telephone call earlier in the day. “For God’s sake, Dad helped you, didn’t he?”
    Grayson hadn’t been able to argue that point and had promised to let Ivor go free as soon as the detectives had interviewed him again and taken his statement.
    “I’ll hold you to it,” Bill Hicks had growled before hanging up. It wasn’t the first time Ivor’s son had tried to bail his father out of a tight spot. It wouldn’t be the last.
    The truth of the matter was that Ivor’s son had called his bluff. Holding the old man was really a load of cock and bull. Several detectives had interviewed Hicks. Grayson was convinced that the sheriff’s department had learned everything they could from the old man, yet he hated to think what would happen if one reporter offered to buy Ivor a drink. Ivor could very easily give the guy details of the investigation only the police knew, though, if pressed, he would start talking about the aliens prodding him to the killing site and the reporter would rule the old man out as a credible source.
    Or not.
    “Hell,” Grayson grumbled.
    As soon as he figured out a way to keep Ivor from spouting off to the press or neighbors or anyone who would buy him a drink for a good story, he’d release him.
    But Ivor Hicks wasn’t his only concern. The Feds were involved, too, though this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Right now, he felt he needed all the help he could get, from the state police to the Feds.
    Absently, Grayson tugged on his moustache and stared at the snow blowing in from the north. Predictions were that another blizzard was heading their way. Which was only more bad news. The department was stretched to the limit as it was. Roads were closing, power crews were working double time to keep the electricity and gas flowing, and meanwhile there were some people who didn’t have heat, idiots were still trying to drive and ending up wrecking their cars and, if that weren’t enough, somewhere in the frigid coming night, a psycho was plotting his next move.
    Grayson’s jaw slid to one side. “Not in my county,” he said, but even to himself the words sounded hollow. Already three murders had been committed, all within the boundaries of Pinewood County.
    He just hoped there wouldn’t be more.
    A rap on the door snapped him out of his