The click of stiletto heels was traveling up the hall. Deputy U. S. Marshal Tim Gutterson imagined long legs and round hips ticking back and forth under a pencil skirt. He imagined full breasts and a full mouth and long red hair. His only disappointment was that she bypassed the office and continued down the hall.

Not far behind her was a very different kind of woman. She was a brunette and she wore her hair very simply around her shoulders. She adorned her slim frame with a grey pant suit and small flat-heeled shoes. This woman did enter the Marshal office.

Chief Deputy Art Mullin poked his head out into the common area, "Snow?" he asked.

She nodded and held out her hand. He shook it and then showed her into his office, shutting the door behind them. As soon as the door latch clicked Rachel Brooks leaned over from her desk on Tim's right and hissed, "Who is that?"

"If you whisper much louder she might come out and introduce herself," Raylan Givens said quietly from his desk between them.

Rachel smiled at Raylan, "Do you think that she is the one Art mentioned?" In the recent months Harlan had experienced a large influx of Aryan gangs, many of them fugitives in other states. Raylan had no doubt that this sudden migration had something to do with the prison ministrations of Boyd Crowder. He had no doubt that they had been drawn, as Boyd would have said, like moths to the flame of righteousness.

Art was sure that the Lexington Marshall office had things under control, but after the bombing of several local minority owned business, the bigwigs in D.C. had decided to send someone they referred to as an 'expert' who could help them organize their extensive list of suspects and ensure that they were investigating the leaders.

He brought her out into the main room and made a general introduction. Doctor Sarah Snow was a criminal psychologist who would be assisting them indefinitely. Her eyes rested on each of them in turn when Art gave her their names. Raylan was sure that she would remember every one. When his name was called she gave him a once over and moved on, but he was surprised by the razor sharp intelligence that he saw in her eyes. It changed her face from something that was almost plain to something interesting and beautiful.

Art led her into the small conference room where he left her with the instruction to ask anyone if she needed anything and Raylan if she needed someone shot. She glanced out at Raylan with a smirk on her face. After Art left she set about arranging the precarious pile of criminal files he had given her.

She built a photo pyramid with magnets on the wall-mounted whiteboard and stepped back and studied it for several minutes. Raylan and Rachel lined up to admire her quick work.

"Where did you go to school?" Raylan asked, moving closer to the board to inspect the names written on the bottoms of the photographs. He was suspicious of her presence, but for good reason. The last psychologist he'd worked with had done nothing but put a murderer back on the streets with his diagnosis of 'post traumatic stress' and recommendation that the man be sent to court mandated therapy. He'd killed again within hours of being released.

"I studied at Harvard," Sarah answered, sitting down to her computer. She was searching through a folder full of mugshots.

"Is that what makes you an expert?" Tim asked, appearing behind them.

"No. I spent the last four years in prisons interviewing inmates who identify themselves as 'Aryan soldiers,'" she replied without looking up.

"Don't mind them," Rachel assured her. "They go around beating their chests all day- no matter who is in the room."

Sarah turned to the board and smiled when she saw the looks Tim and Raylan were giving Rachel, "The top three are the ones you should be focusing on, but you haven't found the most important one yet." She swiveled her laptop to show them all a picture of a tiny, hard-faced man named Clifton Stephson.

"I know that name." Tim said, frowning. "Georgia?"

"Yes," Sarah replied, "Stephson killed fourteen black men and women over the course of a week and a half just outside of Atlanta last year. He locked them in the shacks where they were making crack and lit them on fire. All fourteen burned alive. The FBI believes that he deliberately skipped over cook-houses run by whites- and he isn't limited to setting fires. He is also suspected of bombing an Islamic church in Virginia."

"How do you know he is here?" Art asked from the doorway.

"If he isn't he will be soon. More than half of the files I've looked through so far are known associates. They are the group up at the top," Sarah told him gesturing back to the whiteboard. "I think that his second in command is his half-sister, Clara All. She has avoided arrest thus far, but I met her briefly when the FBI was investigating the fires in Georgia and she is full of just as much venom as he is."

Art studied the computer screen and then the photos on the board. "Do we have a last name on this one?" he asked, gesturing to the top photo. It was a man named Jimmy Joe.

"I think that is his last name," Raylan said, smiling. "Two first ones- he's a winner."

Art nodded. He seemed pleased that Sarah had presented him with a useful hierarchy so quickly. "Rachel, Tim, I want you to speak to him. Luckily for us he is locked up so you won't have to look too far. Raylan, go talk to Boyd. See if he knows anything about Stephson."

Raylan's eyebrows jumped up toward his hairline, but he only nodded. Boyd Crowder was usually a good place to start.

Rachel gathered Jimmy Joe's file and she and Tim headed out to the prison. He glanced over his shoulder at Sarah before he left. She was studying the pictures on the whiteboard again. He wondered briefly about something he'd seen in her eyes, but Rachel was hurrying to catch the elevator and he hurried out after her.