Dr. Tarver reached out with his free hand and pulled Rusk's chin until they were looking eye to eye. "It's time."

Rusk felt physical pain as he spoke the words, or perhaps the emotional shock was so severe that it caused pain. "Under my bed," he whispered. "In a flight case, like yours."

Tarver laughed. "You keep them under your bed?"

"I buried them like you said. I dug them up this afternoon."

"Good decision, Andrew."

Tarver walked around the desk and stuffed the second cottonmouth into the croker sack with its mate. Then he resealed the tape over Rusk's mouth and walked out of the study.

A soft mewling rose from the other side of the desk. Knowing Lisa as he did, Rusk could not begin to fathom what must be going on in her mind, if indeed any rational mind remained. He was surprised how desperately he wanted to help her, but the duct tape made it impossible.

A creaking floorboard announced Dr. Tarver's return. Grinning though his beard, the doctor set the heavy flight case down on Rusk's desk with a bang. It was bright white, and twice as thick as a normal briefcase.

Tarver pulled a corner of the tape from Rusk's mouth. "What are they worth, Andrew? I know you have at least half your money tied up in business deals. I opened it in the bedroom. These looked like about ten million to me."

"Nine point six."

Tarver resealed the tape, then picked up the croker sack from the floor and stuffed it into his backpack. Pulling a small knife from his pocket, he knelt over the spot where Rusk assumed Lisa lay. Had he lied? Was he about to sever Lisa's carotids?

"I'm cutting the tape on her wrists about three-quarters through," the doctor said calmly. "She should be able to rip it the rest of the way in a few minutes, if you can keep her conscious. She looks a little shocky to me."

Rusk heard a faint slap. Then Tarver said, "Stay awake, sugar tits."

As Rusk struggled against the tape binding his arms, the doctor got to his feet, shouldered his backpack, picked up the flight case, and strode out of the study.

Rusk felt as though he had been raped. He flexed his jaw muscles hard, and the tape came loose.

"Lisa!" he cried. "Can you hear me?"

She didn't respond.

"I know you can hear me. Rip the tape off your hands. You've got to do it before you pass out. You've got to save us, baby."

Still no response.

Rusk heard shifting body weight. Relief coursed through him. "Rip the tape off your mouth! Use your teeth! Come on, honey, do it!"

More movement on the floor. Then he heard the blessed sound of adhesive coming loose. A low, inhuman moan filled the study.

"Lisa? Are you loose? Do your feet! Honey, can you hear me?"

Now the sound of tape coming loose was continuous. Rusk flashed back to the high school autumns when he'd had to unwind what seemed miles of tape from his ankles after football games. Lisa was doing almost the same thing now. Soon she would be free. He was surprised at how little he felt the loss of the diamonds compared with the joy of surviving and the prospect of getting Lisa medical attention.

"That's it, honey. He didn't think you had it in you, but I knew you could do it."

The ripping stopped, replaced by the sound of heavy wheezing.

"Get up, sweetheart. Get up and get me loose."

The woman who stood up on the other side of the desk was almost unrecognizable. An hour before, Lisa Rusk had been a woman of rare beauty who had glided through life without trauma of any kind. Her eyes had shone with the complacent bliss that could only exist in the young. But the woman standing across from him now looked like a refugee from a war zone, someone who had been dragged through the pit of hell and violated in ways unknown and unknowable. Her pupils were pinned against globes of white shot with blood. Her mouth hung open as from a mindless stupor, and her left breast swung free, smeared with blood and yellowish fluid.

"Lisa, can you hear me?"

Her mouth closed and opened three times, but no sound emerged.

She's in shock, Rusk thought desperately. Holy shit. "Cut me loose, Lisa! I've got to get you to the hospital. There's a pocketknife on the end table by the sofa. The one I got for a wedding present."

A flicker of recognition in her eyes? Yes!

She turned toward the sofa. Then, with the slow tread of a zombie, she walked toward the end table. She bent down. But when she came up, she was not holding the pocketknife. She was holding the golf club.

"Lisa? Get the knife, honey. That's a golf club you're holding."

She looked down at the putter as though unable to identify it. Then she said softly, "I know."

As she walked toward the desk, Lisa lifted the putter high above her head. Then she swung it in a long, roundhouse arc. Strapped immobile to the chair, Rusk could only tense as the flashing silver club smashed into his cranium.

Alex let go of her mother's limp hand and quietly left the hospital room. She had sat there for the best part of an hour, talking quietly most of the time, but her mother's face had not even twitched in response. Margaret Morse's sedation was deep, and justly so. She had reached the point where an ending was better than continuing-or it would have been, were Alex in the same situation.

Alex's hospital slippers hissed along the floor as she passed the five doors that separated her mother's room from Chris's. Her head throbbed incessantly. The ER doctors had given her over-the-counter Tylenol, which hadn't even dented the pain that accompanied her concussion. To her surprise, she found Chris awake when she entered his room. As she leaned over his bed, she saw tears on his face. She took his hand.

"What's the matter?"

"I just talked to Mrs. Johnson."

Fear awakened in the pit of Alex's stomach. The same fear she felt when she thought about Jamie.

"Ben's pretty upset," Chris went on. "Thora hasn't called him, and he's picked up from my voice that there's something wrong."

Alex laid her hand carefully on his arm. "You need to know some things."

His eyes instantly became more alert.

"Will overheard Thora telling Andrew Rusk to call off the hit on you."

Chris started to rise from the bed, but Alex pushed him back with ease. It frightened her to realize that he had become so weak so fast. She squeezed his hand. "It's time to arrest her, Chris."

Confusion filled his eyes. "She tried to call it off?"

"Only because she knew you were onto her. Frankly, I think she needs to be arrested for her own protection. She's a threat to Rusk and Tarver. They might kill her just to keep her quiet. And not only that."

"What else?"

"I'm worried that in her present state, Thora might be a threat to Ben."

Chris's eyes widened. "I don't think she'd physically hurt him."

"Given the pressure she's under? She could be suicidal. What if she decided to take Ben with her?"

He shook his head. "I don't think she'd…hell, I guess I'm the worst person to ask. I've been completely wrong about her so far."

"Thora's sick, Chris. But you didn't know that. You couldn't."

"I'm a doctor. I should have seen some clue."

"We're all blind when it comes to people we love. I've done the same thing myself."

"Who would take care of Ben if Thora's arrested?"

"Mrs. Johnson?" Alex suggested.

Chris shook his head. "I'd rather Tom Cage and his wife do it. Tom will know what to do if things get crazy."

She nodded. "I'll call him for you. You lie back and take it easy."

"I don't want Ben to see his mother arrested."

"I know you don't. And I don't think he will. But the alternative could be a lot worse."

Chris stared up at her with ineffable sadness. Alex had only seen sadness like that on the night James Broadbent confessed his feelings to her. After working closely with her for three years, Broadbent had become convinced that Alex was the love of his life. He was no wide-eyed boy, but a highly decorated FBI agent of forty with a loyal wife and two children. In a voice cracking with pain, Broadbent had told Alex that he could never abandon his family, but neither could he go on without telling her about his feelings. Because he couldn't endure being close to her without possessing her, he'd planned to put in for a transfer the next week. But he never did. Two days after his confession, James Broadbent was dead.