Mary nods, takes the flashlight, and heads into the hallway again, back to her bedroom. She has a senior moment, unable to remember where her stapler is, but sees it on the desk. She opens the top, checking to make sure it’s loaded.

A shot comes through the window, knocking the computer monitor off the desk. Mary considers dropping down to the floor, worries that she might not be able to get back up, and hurries for the door instead.

In the hallway, the fridge is once again being used for target practice, round after round dinging into it. Mary stays low, makes it back to the bathroom, and sits next to Jacqueline. The safety pin is still in her daughter’s head, pinching the ends of the wound together even though it isn’t closed.

Mary swings out the stapler base, presses the magazine to Jacqueline’s head, and pushes down.

It works. The staple holds.

She repeats the process eight more times, the bleeding slowing to a trickle.

“There’s witch hazel in the vanity,” she says to Harry.

“Witch hazel. Stat.”

He hands it down, and she pours it on Jacqueline’s head, hoping that’s enough to sterilize it. Then she towels off the excess and uses the medical tape to seal the wound completely.

“Once again, the day is saved by television,” Harry says. “Eat your heart out, George Clooney. I kind of look like him, don’t I?”

Mary lets out a long breath. “You’re practically twins.”

Now for the transfusion Harry mentioned.

“I don’t have any IV needles,” Mary says. “But this came with my ink refill kit.”

She reaches into the box and takes out a twenty-cc syringe, still in its package.

“Is that even sharp enough?” Harry asks.

“I’m going to find out.”

Mary bites the wrapper off. The needle is long, pointy. She stares down at her own arm, looking for a vein.

“What blood type are you?”

“Does it matter? I’m her mother. I should be compatible.”

Harry shakes his head. “That’s not how it works. What are you?”

“Type A.”

“What’s Jack?”

“Type O.”

“Type O is the universal donor. Jack could give you blood. But if you give her blood, you’ll kill her.”

Mary stares down at Jacqueline, watching her gasp for oxygen that her body isn’t absorbing. Mary almost starts crying again. Seeing her daughter suffer, and not being able to help, is the worst torture a parent can endure.

“I’m Type O,” Harry says. “She can have some of my blood.”

Mary touches his face and says, “Thank you, son.”

Harry smiles. The smile quickly falls away when she jabs him in the arm with the needle.

“Jesus!” He shirks away. “I think you hit bone!”

Mary pulls the plunger, filling the syringe with blood.

“You don’t have any diseases, do you?” Mary asks.

“Nothing that can’t be cured with antibiotics,” Harry says through his teeth.

Jacqueline has thin wrists, and her veins are easy to find. Mary’s hands are curled into painful claws, and the syringe is hard to hold, but she manages to give Jack twenty ccs of Harry’s blood.

“How many pints do you think Jacqueline has lost?” she asks Harry.

“Two, maybe more.”

“How many syringes is that?”

Harry turns very white.

“How many, Dr. Clooney?” Mary asks again.

Harry mumbles a number.

“Pardon me?”

“Forty or fifty,” Harry says, rubbing his eyes.

Mary takes his hand. “Jack and I won’t forget this.”

Harry yelps when she sticks him again.

THIS IS TAKING FAR TOO LONG. The more time Swanson squats here, waiting for a shot, the more time he has to dwell on why this is the granddaddy of all bad ideas.

So far, he’s only killed one man – the one who attacked Jen. That scumbag deserved to die. It isn’t Swanson’s fault that Munchel went butternuts and wasted all of those cops. Swanson had nothing to do with that. But this – staking out a police officer’s house and trying to murder everyone inside – Swanson is a full participant in this colossal mistake. Prior to this, a savvy lawyer could ensure that he wasn’t charged with Munchel’s murder spree, and a sympathetic jury might even let him off for wasting the pervert. But he’ll get the death penalty for what he’s doing right now.

The temperature has dropped, the wind picking up. Swanson wipes the sweat off the back of his neck, finds it cold as a mountain stream. He’s on his stomach, legs behind him, and his right pants cuff has ridden up, exposing his calf to the cool night air. He wastes a moment reaching back, covering his skin, and his shirt untucks and bares his belly to the breeze.

Noise, to his right. Swanson tries to swing the cumbersome TPG-1 around, gets the barrel hung up on the ground. He moans in his throat, getting onto his knees, ready to run for it.

“Easy, Swanson. It’s me.”

Pessolano.

“Dammit! You scared the crap out of me! I could have shot you!”

“Hard to shoot while running away.”

Swanson thinks about correcting him, about insisting he was adjusting his position for a better shot. For some reason, even with everything going to hell, Swanson wants the respect of his men. He’s still team leader, still the one calling the shots.

But instead of making excuses he takes control, asking, “Why didn’t you contact me over the radio?”

“Didn’t come here to talk.”

Pessolano hands something to him. A scope.

“Night vision,” Pessolano says, “to see inside the house.”

Swanson takes it. Of course Pessolano has night-vision scopes. If everyone in the house turned into vampires, Swanson would bet that Pessolano also came equipped with stakes and garlic. “Did you give one of these to Munchel?”

“I went to his spot. He wasn’t there.”

Swanson frowns. “Munchel is gone?”

“Said he wasn’t there, didn’t I?”

“I heard shots coming from his direction a minute ago.”

“That was me. I put a few into that refrigerator. That’s a seriously heavy-duty appliance. I may pick one up for myself.”

Swanson feels like a kite in a high wind, his string unraveled to the end and ready to break.

“Maybe we should go too,” Swanson says.

Pessolano hawks up a big one, spits it in the grass where Swanson had been lying.

“I got the cop,” Pessolano says. “Head shot.”

Another cop dead. Swanson feels like cringing, but doesn’t. Pessolano is wearing those stupid yellow sunglasses, and Swanson doesn’t know if he can see his expression in the dark. So he forces himself to say, “Good work. Then we can get out of here. I bet Munchel got bored and went back to the bar.”

“We’re staying,” Pessolano says.

“Why? The cop is dead.”

“There are witnesses.”

“How can there be witnesses? They can’t see us. We’re two hundred yards away.”

“Munchel said the cop had an infrared scope.”

“Munchel’s gone!” Swanson yells. “How do we know he was telling the truth?”

“Vehicle approaching,” Pessolano says.

They both drop to their bellies. A dark sedan rolls into the cop’s driveway and parks behind the other three cars.

Pessolano begins unfolding his bipod, setting his rifle up.

“What are you doing?” Swanson hisses.

Pessolano pulls back the bolt and loads a round. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“We don’t even know who it is!”

“Who cares?”

Swanson stares, overcome with impotence, as Pessolano shoots out a tire on the sedan. The car shifts into reverse, but Pessolano puts two quick shots into the engine, forcing a stall. The driver parks the car, kills the headlights. Swanson uses the night-vision scope, sees a portly man get out on the passenger side, opposite the rifle fire. The man has a badge hanging around his neck.

Another police officer.

“It’s a cop,” Swanson hisses. “He might have called for backup.”