All right—maybe, somewhere, he had read about all the activity in the region in the centuries in which the Crusades had taken place. Maybe he'd even heard the legends about the place, and so, in his subconscious, with his love of the ancient, he had come up with some correlation that was so deeply imbedded in his mind that he couldn't tell reality from fantasy.

Man, that was a load of bull!

He paused in his work. He was alone at his particular site, but right around the bend of the cliff, he could hear Carlo Ponti droning on along with some of the new people who had arrived; they were disinterring one of the skeletons, and the work there was being performed by the experts, and only the experts.

Today, he was working on his hands and knees on the very fine task of preparing the next fellow to be lifted and taken to the museum in Naples. This fellow had patches of naturally mummified skin remaining, and many fragments of clothing. Though he certainly hadn't been dressed in the full armor of a knight, he'd owned some kind of metal-and-wood shield, and though in pieces, there were lots of fragments to be delicately worked around. Yet, as he knelt on the ground, taking extreme care as he had been taught, his eyes wandered, and he frowned.

Just beneath the yellow stretch of plastic cord that designated the work area, there appeared to be a mound of dirt. Grant didn't remember the earth rising in that strange fashion before.

He sat back and stared at it.

A cold sensation swept his neck.

He dropped his work brush and came to his feet. Striding over to the area, he knelt down again.

The cold continued.

He began to dig, with his hands alone.

There was something there.

There was someone there.

Dirt, foliage, and tiny pebbles flew.

He stopped, his breath caught in his throat. The dirt filled his lungs, and he started to cough. He had come upon another body.

Only, this one wasn't centuries old.

The scent of death struck him, and he choked again, then fought down a swift rise of nausea.

Indeed, it was the smell of death.

And he'd not discovered a beached dolphin.

He sank back on his legs, exhausted, overwhelmed by a sense of sadness and despair. Then, after a moment, he managed to rise.

Sweaty, covered in dirt, he walked around to where Carlo Ponti worked.

"You found something else!" Carlo exclaimed.

"I'm afraid so."

"Afraid?"

"Yes, afraid. I think I've found the missing girl. Maria Britto."

Arturo assured Stephanie that he would get a doctor for Lena. "There is a local man, of course. Doctor Antinella. I will make sure that he sees Lena this afternoon. How odd, though! None of our staff or guests has shown the least sign of a flu."

"Well, she definitely has something," Stephanie assured him. "Anyway, I'm heading to the sand for a while."

"The sand?"

"The beach. We're going to take a little break."

"Lovely, lovely!" Arturo applauded.

"Think we could take some bread and cheese out there, something like that?" Stephanie asked.

"But of course!" Arturo assured her happily. "I will have it sent."

Stephanie thanked him and returned to her own cottage.

This morning, it looked bright and beautiful. It was amazing what one good night's sleep could do.

Usually, she hated taking sleep aids of any kind. They usually left her tired in the morning, or groggy.

Apparently, she had simply needed me deep sleep, because she didn't feel groggy at all. Just pleased that the world seemed so… normal.

She changed into a bathing suit, grabbed her towel, lotion, and a book. When she went out back, there were a few sunbathers stretched out on towels or resort lawn chairs, and a woman with two young children was watching them as they frolicked in the surf.

She stretched out her own towel, but the water was inviting. She wondered if it would be warm, and decided to find out. Hurrying to the shore, she felt the water trickle over her feet and was delighted.

She plunged in, swimming out, thinking that the salt water was absolutely wonderful. It felt especially delicious, since even at the best of times, the lake water in Illinois was chilly. She floated for several minutes, swam again, enjoying the feel of using her muscles, then headed back into shore.

She paused, a bit out, and saw that the others had arrived. Suzette was fetching in a risqué bikini, Doug and Drew were in shorts, and Clay was there, but he was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved, tailored shirt. He didn't look like he was going swimming.

She swam to the shallow, and stood in water that was about two feet deep and started walking out.

She had just stepped from the water when she heard screaming. Turning quickly to the sound, she was horrified to see one of the two chubby-cheeked children who had been playing in the shallows was too far out, and struggling in stronger waves. She started to run to the water, plunged in, and headed out.

It had seemed a calm day with easy waves, but the water could always be deceptive. The child was being quickly washed southward and away from shore. The woman who had been with him was still screaming.

Stephanie swam as hard and as fast as she could. Though it couldn't have been long, it seemed like forever. Finally, her fingers contacted a little leg. She caught the child across the chest in a lifesaving hold and made for the shore.

As she neared it, hands reached out. Doug had come into the shallows and was reaching for the child.

Though he was small, Stephanie quickly gave up her little burden. She was panting.

She rested a moment, then came somewhat awkwardly to her feet and walked against the water to reach the sand.

The boy was down on a towel. Doug had come to her assistance, but it was Clay manipulating the boy to clear his lungs and throat, and giving him mouth-to-mouth. Just as she reached his side, the little boy rocketed out a geyser of water and began to cough and sputter. The woman stepped in then, sweeping him up, patting him on the back. She was crying and laughing at the same time, speaking in rapid Italian.

She kept trying to hug and kiss Clay and Doug while holding the child. Stephanie watched, feeling a little underappreciated, but yet, delighted that the little one seemed fine, and had suffered no serious consequences. The little boy started to cry, clinging to his mother. Doug kept saying in English that everything was fine, and that he'd done nothing, and Clay was saying something to her in Italian.

She saw Stephanie then and rushed over to her, hugging, smashing the child between them, and thanking her effusively again. Stephanie felt ashamed.

The noise had alerted Arturo. He came out with extra towels, and, after a great deal of excitement, he, the woman, and both children left the beach area.

"Well, there's some excitement for you!" Suzette said, standing near their towels. "Maybe that means we're just supposed to work through the days, no matter what."

"Ah—or it meant that we were supposed to be right where we were! Hey, good for you, Steph! You are the woman of the moment."

She shrugged. "I was closest."

"And good thing you were. Clay can't swim."

Amused, Stephanie looked at him with surprise. "You—can't swim?"

"I loathe the water," he admitted.

"Imagine—Mr. Macho, Muscles, and facial-features-to-grace-a-Grecian-coin, can't swim!" Drew said, finding it somewhat amusing—and, apparently, pleasing.

She laughed as well, looking at Clay. "Everyone has different talents. But, hey, good place to be working then—right on the beach!"

"I don't mind looking at the water," Clay said. "Well, congratulations—you did do great."

"Doug helped, and hey, you did the CPR."

"Well, you know, what the heck, we are an ensemble," Clay said with a shrug.

"Arturo brought us out a special sparkling wine. I accepted it graciously, but was going to save it for later, since we have the afternoon ahead of us," Suzette said. "The food came out before your glorious rescue—don't go getting the idea that Arturo paused to extol the wine in the middle of a trauma!

Anyway, after that, I say we pop the cork on the stuff!"

"Sure," Stephanie agreed. "How loaded can we all get on one bottle? We can have a pot of coffee brought in to our rehearsals." She noticed that Clay had a wet towel on his arm. "Hey!" she told him. "Let me take that—you're dressed, and you'll wind up soaked."

"It's all right. I'm already soaked," he said.

She reached for the towel impatiently. "I'll take it!"

Apparently, he hadn't expected her to grab at the towel. She took it easily.

Her eyes widened.

His arm looked horrible. As if he had just been badly burned. She gasped aloud. "Your arm! What on earth—"

"What? I didn't see anything wrong with him," Suzette said.

"Look! You've got blisters—" Stephanie said.

"It's nothing!" Clay snapped out the words, then gritted his teeth. "Honestly… a reaction to the sun and salt. It's all right. It will be fine tomorrow."

"You need to see a doctor!" Stephanie protested.

"I'm telling you, it's just a reaction. Honestly, please don't worry. Listen, I'm not hanging around to picnic anyway. Don't worry about me. I'll put some lotion on it—and I'll change to a long-sleeved shirt. It will be fine, really. Hey, good picnic, guys. I'll see you at one!"

With a wave, he left them, long strides taking him quickly away, toward his bungalow.

"Wow, poor guy!" Drew said.

"Yeah, but…" Doug began.

"But what?" Stephanie demanded.

Doug grinned. "I don't know. He's too perfect. So there's his flaw. Get him baked in the sun, and he looks like salsa! I gotta kind of enjoy that."

Drew sighed. "Irish with freckles—I look like that when I'm not careful, so don't go making fun of skin that comes out like mincemeat, huh?"

"Sorry!" Doug said. But he smiled again. "I, on the other hand," he said, making his voice very deep,