Indian Leap. It was the first thing in Portia’s mind when Lis had invited her here this evening-just as it had reared in her thoughts when the subject of the nursery was raised, and, for that matter, every time Portia had thought of moving back to Ridgeton, which-though she’d never confess it to Lis-she’d considered frequently in the past few years.

Indian Leap…

Oh, Lis, Portia thought, don’t you see? That’s what dooms the L’Auberget sisters, and always will. Not the tragedy, not the deaths, not the bitter words or the months of silence afterwards, but the past that led us to that pine bed, the past that’s certain to keep leading us to places just as terrible again and again and again.

The past, with all its spirits of the dead.

Portia now looked at her sister, ten feet away, as Lis put aside the shovel and waded toward the front seat of the car.

The sisters’ eyes met.

Lis frowned, troubled by Portia’s expression. “What is it?” she asked.

But just then a low whistle squealed from the car’s grille. The engine choked, and kicked hard several times as the fan blade slapped water. Then with a shudder it died, leaving the night filled only with the sounds of the wind, the rain and the lilting music of a clever baroque composer.

“Well, I didn’t go for help because it’s over a half mile to the neighbors and if you’ve listened to the radio you know what kind of storm it’s supposed to be. I mean, doesn’t it make sense?”

The words fired from the pale mouth of the petite blonde. She’d stopped crying but was pouring down brandy from a dusty bottle in a medicinal way. “And anyway,” she said to Trenton Heck, “he told me not to and if you ever saw him you’d do what he told you. Oh, my Lord. All I kept thinking was, Lucky me, lucky me, I had communion today.”

Owen Atcheson returned from the side yard to the house’s tiny living room, where Heck and the fragile woman stood.

“Lucky me,” she whispered and tossed down a belt of liquor. She started to cry again.

“He just pulled one wire out,” Owen reported. He lifted the receiver. “I got it working.”

“He’s got my car. It’s a beige Subaru station wagon. An ’89. Apologized about ten times. ‘I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…’ Phew.” Her tears stopped. “That’s what I mean when I call him strange. Well, you can imagine. Asked me for the keys and of course I gave them. Then off he went, squatting behind the wheel. Missed the drive completely but found the road. Guess I’ll write that vehicle off.”

Owen grimaced. “If we’d gone that way he would’ve come right to us.”

Heck looked again at the tiny skull, resting on the paper towel in which she’d handed it to him, unwilling to touch the bone itself.

“Well,” the woman continued, “you can find him on 315.”

“How’s that?”

“He’s going to Boyleston. Route 315.”

“He said that?”

“He asked me about the nearest town with a train station. I told him Boyleston. He asked me how to get there. And then asked me for fifty dollars for a train ticket. I gave it to him. And a little more.”

Heck stared at the phone for a minute. Can’t keep it a secret anymore, he thought. Not with Hrubek killing one woman and terrorizing another. He sighed and sucked air through bent teeth. Very conspicuous in Heck’s mind now was the thought that if he’d called Haversham like he’d thought of doing-after figuring out that Hrubek was heading west-they might’ve caught him before he got to that house in Cloverton. All law enforcers, Heck too, had inventories of times when their mistakes and failings had gotten other people hurt-times that occasionally returned hard and kept them from sleeping, and sometimes did worse than that. Though he was removed from the sorrow at the moment, he supposed that that woman’s death would be the most prominent in his personal store of those events, and he could only guess how bad it would later come back to him.

Now though he wanted only one thing-to see this fellow caught-and he snatched up the receiver. He placed a call to the local sheriff and reported Hrubek’s theft of the Subaru and where he seemed to be going. He turned to the woman. “Sheriff says he’ll send somebody out to the house to take you to a friend’s or relative’s, ma’am. If you want.”

“Tell him yes, please.”

Heck relayed this information to the sheriff. When he hung up, Owen took the phone and called the Marsden Inn and was surprised to find that Lis and Portia still hadn’t checked in. Frowning, he called the house. Lis picked up on the third ring.

“Lis, what are you doing there?”

“Owen? Where are you?”

“I’m in Fredericks. I tried to call you before. I thought you’d left. What’re you doing there? You were supposed to be at the Inn an hour ago.”

A momentary hollowness on the line. He heard her calling, “It’s Owen.” What was going on? Through the line he heard a roll of thunder. Lis came back on and explained that she and Portia had stayed to build up the sandbags. “The dam was overflowing. We could’ve lost the house.”

“Are you all right?”

“We’re fine. But the car’s stuck in the driveway. The rain’s terrible. We can’t get out. There’re no tow trucks. What are you doing in Fredericks?”

“I’ve been following Hrubek west.”

“West! He did turn around.”

“Lis, I have to tell you… He killed someone.”

“No!”

“A woman in Cloverton.”

“He’s coming here?”

“No, it doesn’t look like it. He’s going to Boyleston. To get a train out of the state, I’d guess.”

“What should we do?”

He paused. “I’m not going after him, Lis. I’m coming home.”

He heard her exhale a sigh. “Thank you, honey.”

“Stay in the house. Lock the doors. I’m only fifteen minutes away… Lis?”

“Yes?”

He paused. “I’ll be there soon.”

Heck and Owen said goodbye to the woman and hurried out into the rain, buffeted by the terrible wind. They followed the driveway to the dim road that led back to the highway.

Owen glanced at Heck, who was trudging along morosely.

“You’re thinking about your reward?”

“I have to say I am. They’ll probably get him in Boyleston for sure. But I had to call and tell them. I’m not going to risk anybody else getting hurt.”

Owen thought for a moment. “You’re still due that money, I’d say.”

“Well, the hospital’s gonna have a different opinion on that, I’ll guarantee you.”

“Tell you what, Heck, you burn on down that highway to Boyleston, and if you get him first, fine. If not, we’ll sue the hospital for your money and I’ll handle the case myself.”

“You a lawyer?”

Owen nodded. “Won’t charge you a penny.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“Surely would.”

Heck was embarrassed at Owen’s generosity and after a moment he shook the lawyer’s hand warmly. They continued in silence to the clearing where the ruined Cadillac sat.

“Okay, Emil and I’ll head south here. It’s a beige Subaru we’re looking for, right? Let’s hope he doesn’t drive Japanese any better’n he drives Detroit. Okay, let’s do it.” On impulse he added, “Say, after this’s over with, let’s stay in touch, you and me. What do you say? Do some fishing?”

“Hey, that’s a fine idea by me, Heck. Happy hunting to you.”

Heck and Emil limped, and trotted, back to the battered Chevy pickup fifty yards down the road. They climbed in. Heck started up the rattling engine, then sped through the fierce rain toward Route 315, his left foot on the accelerator and an eye on his modest prize.

The sign revolved slowly in the turbulent night sky.

Dr. Richard Kohler looked toward the flashes of light in the west and laughed out loud at the metaphor that occurred to him.

Wasn’t this how Mary Shelley’s doctor had animated his creature? Lightning?

The psychiatrist now recalled very clearly the first meeting with the patient who would play the monster to Kohler’s Frankenstein. Four months ago, two weeks after the Indian Leap trial and Michael’s incarceration in Marsden, Kohler-overcome with morbid and professional fascination-had walked slowly into Marsden’s grim, high-security E Ward and looked down at the huge, hunched form of Michael Hrubek, glaring up from beneath his dark eyebrows.