Remote. Peaceful. Picturesque. That's how the Mumford Mountain Hotel bills itself in its brochure, and it lives up to its billing -- most of the time. But this year, the hotel is hosting a prestigious conference for the study of forensic science, and the organizers have extended CSI head Gil Grissom an invitation he can't refuse. Joined by fellow investigator Sara Sidle, Grissom leaves the department in the capable hands of Catherine Willows and heads east. But he and Sara soon find themselves in all too familiar territory -- and back in Las Vegas, Catherine, Warrick Brown, and Nick Stokes have uncovered trouble of their own. Max Allan Collins is a New York Times bestselling author of original mysteries, a Shamus award winner and an experienced author of movie adaptions and tie-in novels. His graphic novel Road to Perdition has been made into a major motion picture by Tom Hank’s production company. He is also the author of the tie-in novel series based on the original CSI. Chapter 1 Like the beacon over Bethlehem, the fallen but bright star called Las Vegas had long ago guided wise guys from the east to this unholy city where Christmas of a sort was celebrated year-round. Ever since Ben "Bugsy" Siegel had died for the sins of tourists everywhere, men had journeyed across the desert, lured by the glowing neon temples called FLAMINGO and SANDS and CAESAR'S, summoned by celestial bodies with names like Liberace and Sinatra and Darin, to worship at the altar of the elusive fast buck. Right now, with Christmas less than a month away, gamblers were high-rolling into town like a horde of last-minute shoppers, bucking the odds and dreaming of a green Christmas. Driving through the Lake Mead National Recreation Area in the predawn darkness, Ranger Ally Scott -- like most residents of Las Vegas -- was contemplating the upcoming holiday in terms that had nothing to do with gambling. That is, except for the gamble she would take buying anything for her perennially hard-to-shop-for father. Then there was her sister Elisa...a gift certificate, that would just be cold. Which was exactly what Ally was at the moment. She didn't have the Park Service Bronco's heater on and the vehicle's interior wasn't any warmer than the night she plowed through, the temperature hovering around a crisp forty. Ally had bundled her-self up in her heavy jacket and Thinsulate gloves, but like so much of the Las Vegas population she had grown up somewhere else. Iowa in her case -- so she damn well knew the difference between real winter and what Las Vegans only thought was winter. Thin, practically scrawny, and barely over the mandatory Ranger height minimum, Ally enjoyed the relative chill of the December Vegas night as she tooled along the two-lane blacktop that snaked its way through the entire twenty-mile length of the Lake Mead facility. The flat-brimmed campaign hat covered most of Ally's blonde hair, the rest ponytailed back and tucked inside the collar of her jacket. Ally had joined the Park Service right out of college and had spent the six years since then working her way up the ladder. Barely a year ago, after bouncing from station to station in the Southwest, she'd landed this plum assignment, here at Lake Mead. Now and then, she drew the night shift like this, but she didn't mind. She was comfortable in her own company. Headlights slashing the darkness, the Bronco rounded a curve, and the ranger felt (more than actually saw) a blur of motion to her left. Slamming on the brakes, she jolted the vehicle to a stop just as a creature tore across the road in front of her and disappeared into the blackness to her right. Coyote . Out here, the lights of the city were a glow on the horizon; otherwise, under a moonless desert sky scattered with half-hearted stars, the landscape remained a mystery. Still, Ally felt something -- off to the passenger side of the Bronco. With the windows rolled up, she could hear nothing, yet her well-trained senses were tingling. Was that...something? Some muffled sound, out there in the night...? She shoved the gearshift into park, let out a deep breath, and pretended the goosebumps on her arms were from the cold. Opening the driver-side door, she dropped onto the blacktop and stilled as she listened, intently. At first, only the wind whipping through the foothills, like the ghost of a mule train driver thrashing his team, broke the silence. Then, between lashes of wind, Ally heard something else.... Something animal. The ranger unsnapped her holster and rested her hand on the butt of her Smith and Wesson model 10, like a western gunfighter ready for the worst. Though most cops these days carried automatics, Glocks, Brownings, the Park Service still issued their rangers traditional, standard Smith and Wesson six-shooters with four-inch barrels. Ally wished she had something with a little more stopping power and, considering her prowess with the weapon, several more rounds at her dispos