Woody was already in the motel lobby helping himself to the free breakfast and talking to an attractive young woman in an FBI windbreaker when Jordan finally came in.

He nodded in Jordan's direction, and she smiled back weakly. She grabbed a muffin and headed over as the FBI agent exited the lobby toward the parking lot.

"Hey, Jordan. I'm just about to head out to the crime scene with the feds, if you're interested."

"No, thanks. I'm observing the autopsy this morning. You have fun with...Agent Starling."

"Ooo! Jealous!" he said with a chuckle, but then he looked at her through narrowed eyes. "Are you all right, Jordan?"

"Fine. I didn't get much sleep last night..." she mumbled unconvincingly.

"Really? I slept like a baby. There's something about sleeping in motels that always puts me right out..."

He suddenly clamped his mouth shut, and she could see his cheeks flush red. They were both well aware of the last time Woody had slept in a motel.

"Well, I'll...see you tonight, Jordan." He headed out into the wintry air while she sat joylessly and finished her stale muffin.

Later, she walked in the cold the few blocks into the center of town. Sweet Grass was a typical small town with a courthouse on the square and main street with a bank and hardware store and diner.

She sat in on the autopsy with the local M.E., an older man who had been doing the job for decades. It was close to lunch when they finished, and she headed outside to where the late morning sun had taken the chill out of the air.

It was pleasant as she walked the streets. The locals nodded at her welcomingly, and the strange feeling of unease had lifted. She had spent all her life on one coast or the other and had never really seen the country's interior, but there was a homey and comfortable feel about this place.

She poked around in an antique store and wandered next door to a second hand book shop with row upon row of old paperbacks and dusty hardbacks. The proprietor, a rumpled woman with soft crinkles around her eyes, nodded and smiled as Jordan began to browse the shelves.

"Can I help you find something in particular?"

"No, I'm just looking right now. Thanks."

The woman smiled pleasantly. "Let me know if you need anything."

"Actually, there is," Jordan found herself asking. "I'm from out of town. I was wondering if you had anything about local history."

The woman's eyes lit up. "Well, I not only run this shop, I'm president of the county historical society." She rose from her stool at the counter and disappeared behind a tall stack of books. Jordan took it as an invitation to follow her and headed between the shelves.

At the back corner of the store was a section marked "Local History." The low shelves were crammed with books on pioneer history and the walls were covered with old maps and sepia-toned photographs from the turn of the century.

The woman pulled several volumes from the shelf and thrust them into Jordan's arms. "I recommend these. They're easy reading. That last one is a quick read, too. It's a reprint of an old journal kept by one of the homesteaders from the 1880s. The period detail is wonderful. And very spicy, too."

Jordan smiled wanly. She had really only wanted a guide book or maybe a coffee table book she could take home, but the woman seemed so enthusiastic that Jordan dropped them in a paper bag, paid for the books, and headed back to the motel.

She ordered a pizza from the nearby Domino's and sat on the bed with a slice in one hand and her cell phone in the other.

"Hey, Nigel. It's Jordan. I faxed you a copy of the toxicology report on the latest victim. Can you run it through the computer and cross-reference it with the Dorchester Strangler victims for me?"

"Will do. How goes it in Montana?"

"Let's just say it's cold."

"And how are things with young Woodrow?"

"What does that mean?"

"Don't mind me," he said with a quick laugh. "Well, duty calls, love..."

"Wait, Nige..." She took a deep breath before continuing. "What do you know about dream interpretation?"

There was a small silence. "What kind of dreams?"

"You know..." She took a bite of pizza. "Recurring dreams. The kind where you wake up in a cold sweat."

"What's going on out there, Jordan?" Nigel asked with mild concern.

"Well, you know. It's no big deal. I've just had a couple of...you know...strange, vivid dreams. It kind of had me curious, that's all."

"Fascinating!" he said with relish. "Jung believed that dreams are messages filled with hidden symbols from the unconscious mind. To unravel the mystery of the dreams, we have to learn the meaning of those symbols."

"Well, it's not really a dream per se. There are just some images: a falling snow, a weeping willow by a pond, a man on a horse, the sound of a woman screaming."

"And what do those images mean to you?"

"That's just it. Absolutely nothing. And I don't think they're symbols, actually. It feels very real. Like...I've been there before."

"Maybe you have."

"What? You mean like in a past life?" She snorted in disbelief.

"Some of the world's great religions believe in reincarnation."

"No, no. These are just your garden variety dreams." She laughed unconvincingly.

"Have you ever tried lucid dreaming?" Nigel said brightly. "The idea is that if you're aware you're in a dream, you can control it, change the outcome. Tonight before you go to sleep, tell yourself that when you see the tree by the pond, you'll remember you're really asleep, and it's only a dream."

"Thanks for the advice, Nigel, but this has gotten a little too weird."

"You know," he started with impish playfulness, "Freud would argue that dreams are actually wish-fulfillments, and those wishes are the result of repressed sexual desires."

"So, my secret fantasies involve a tree, a man on a horse, and a snowstorm?"

"Very kinky," purred Nigel. "I have a recurring dream where I'm late for an exam, and I can't find the classroom. When I finally get there, everyone else is already finished, and time is up."

"Everyone has that dream."

"Except in mine, I'm completely naked."

"Please. I'm eating." Jordan said with a groan. "Good night, Nigel."

"Good night, Jordan. I'll call you with the results. Sweet dreams."

She hung up the phone, and there was a soft rap at the door. Woody stood there in the doorway. He had changed out of his suit and into a pair of jeans and a sweater. She noted with a pang of regret that it was the same sweater he had worn when they were at the Lucy Carver Inn.

His face was dark when she had watched him through the peephole, but his eyes were smiling when she opened the door.

"Hey, I was just checking to see how you were doing."

"Fine," she said blandly. An awkward silence followed.

"I'm going a little stir crazy in my room. There's not a lot to do in Sweet Grass, is there? It's like they roll up the sidewalks at 5PM." He laughed, and then his eyes darkened again. "Do you mind if I come in? I'm freezing out here."

"Oh. Sorry." She moved aside reluctantly, and he edged past her inside the room. "What's up?"

"Well," he rubbed his hands together nervously. "I noticed in the bar downstairs that they've got an 80's night tonight. How about you and me slap on a couple of Swatches, peg our jeans, and everybody Wang Chung tonight?" he said with a hopeful laugh.

"I'm really beat, Woody..."

"Sure, I understand. You interested in maybe getting a movie on pay-per-view? Strictly the PG-13 rated kind, of course." He laughed again nervously, but it died in his throat. She looked back at him squarely.

"I don't think so, Woody." Her voice dropped. "We can't do this."

"Jordan, I know things have been a little strained since..." His voice matched hers. "Since the Lucy Carver Inn. There's no point denying it, and it's all my fault. I know I begged you to talk to Pollack, and then I backed away when it ended between you two. Man, I should have come in that night you asked me to. I don't know why I didn't. I was scared, I guess. I don't know. I've been kicking myself ever since then."

She steeled herself. She had read his emails and replayed his voicemail message countless times. How often had she wanted to hit reply or dial his number? She hadn't, though, and she knew it was for the best.

"We can't."

"I know we need to take some time," he said in a rush, but she cut him off.

"Woody, please." She shook her head so her long hair whipped around her. "I don't need time."

"I'm asking for a second chance," he said earnestly. "We can do this however you want. I just don't want us not to be friends."

She couldn't look at his imploring face, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. Her resolve was crumbling, and she could feel the tears burn in her eyes.

"Jordan, please..." he murmured and reached up to cup her cheek in his hand. "Please."

She took a step back and batted his hand away. "No. No! Don't you get it? We can't be friends!"

He took a step into her, but she darted away from him again. "Jordan..."

She breathed in, an unsteady, hitching breath. "We can't have a personal relationship. I don't want to see you outside work anymore." Her voice was a barely audible whisper. Every word cut into her. "That's the way it has to be."

He shook his head, stunned. "You can't mean that."

"I do mean it, Woody. This is not going to work. This is never going to work. It's always too slow or too fast. Too much or not enough. I can't do this anymore." She covered her face with her hands.

"Jordan," he started tenderly. "Jordan, I'm through with that. I've tried to tell you. I want us to be together."

"Please go, Woody."

"Jordan..."

"Go!"

WIth her eyes closed, she could still sense him there in the room. Finally, she felt the air move around her. He was gone, the door closing with a sharp click behind him.

She stood for a minute in the empty room and bit her lip to keep from crying. It was no use, and there was the salty taste of her own blood in her mouth. Then, she splashed water on her puffy red eyes, and finished her pizza in silence.

XXXXXX

It was past midnight when she finally got ready for bed. As she switched off the bedroom light and curled into a ball, she found herself repeating in a hushed breath, "It's just a dream. It's not real. When you see the tree, you'll know you're asleep..."

The tree. Swaying in the breeze. A light wind rippled the surface of the pond.

I'm dreaming. It's only a dream.

She felt then as if she had been pulled into it. She was there rather than watching it, and she could feel the cool air against her skin.

The man. She knew instinctively that he would be behind her. She spun around, to where she could see him begin to recede in the distance.

A noise came, the sound of someone calling after him, and she realized it was her. She was moving then, the heavy ache of loss pulling at her center. If she could stop him from disappearing over the horizon, she could end this now.

It's only a dream.

She moved towards him, and he pulled the collar of his heavy coat against his ears as if to dampen the sound of her calling. She drew even with him, then. His hat was drawn down to shield his face from the wind.

If she could only see him...

She reached out, there was the muffled sound of her voice whispering a name, her fingers brushed against the edge of his coat.

And then he was gone. She could feel the rough cloth slip out of her grasp, and the sound that awakened her was her own scream.

Her eyes snapped open, and she woke with her heart thundering in her chest.

She hadn't been able to stop it. It was only a dream; she had been aware of that. Why couldn't she stop him?

As her eyes adjusted to the dim of her room, she replayed the dream in her head. No, they weren't symbols at all. They were as indelibly written on her memory as images of high school graduation or of Christmases past.

It was as if they were long-forgotten memories that had been dredged up. It was as if it had already happened.