Why the ethics of this side job began to nag as the miles passed under the tires, the Texas Ranger didn’t have a clue. A personal favor for an unidentified friend of his captain wouldn’t exactly hurt his career. The double homicide was cold enough, a year old yesterday. And out of his or any Ranger’s usual jurisdiction, whole states out—Morrison, Montana, a town so small it didn’t rate a dot on a map.

Should be cut-and-dried easy.

Especially for a Ranger with a psychic gift, one that in the blink of his mind’s eye crisscrossed the world in threads, the ectoplasmic trails of people past and present, the residue of their daily lives, any moment of which he might experience simply by crossing their paths.

When it worked.