"I don't know. But something has to."

Not without sympathy, McDaniel said, "Maybe it's time to let it go, Quentin."

"No. No, I'm not ready to do that."

"But you are ready to waste another vacation sitting in the conference room with dusty files and crime-scene photographs, and drinking lousy coffee for hours on end."

Quentin frowned. "As you say, that's hardly gotten me anywhere in years of trying."

"So try something else," McDaniel suggested. "I know you always stay here in town; why not get a room or cottage out at The Lodge this time?" He watched the play of emotions across the other man's expressive face, and added quietly, "I can guess why you've avoided that, but maybe it's time you hunted those ghosts where they're more likely to be."

"I hope you don't mean ghosts literally," Quentin muttered.

McDaniel hesitated, then said, "You'd know more about that than I would."

Quentin looked at him, brows raised.

"Oh, come on, Quentin. The SCU's been gaining quite a reputation in law enforcement circles, you know that. I'm not saying I buy everything I've heard, but it's clear you guys deal with stuff that's more than a little bit out of the ordinary. Hell, I always wondered how you and Bishop found that little girl, as if you went straight to her. I've followed a few hunches myself over the years, but they were never as accurate as yours clearly were that day."

"We got lucky."

"You had a damned sight more than luck on your side that day, and don't try to deny it."

"Maybe," Quentin admitted finally. "But whatever we had, whatever I have, it doesn't open a window into the past. And I'm no medium."

"That's somebody who talks to the dead, right?" McDaniel strove to keep the disbelief out of his voice but, judging by the other man's wry smile, failed.