Lis flung open the kitchen door and looked out through the dazzling rain.

It was a police car. A young deputy climbed out. He glanced at the Acura sitting in the middle of the flood and ran into the kitchen, flicking rainwater from his face in an effeminate way. He was round with the tautness of recent fat and had the face of a man on an unexpected assignment.

“Lis.” He pulled his hat off. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. We just found Owen’s truck at the bottom of a ravine.”

“Oh, God!” Lis’s hands flew to her eyes and she pressed hard, as if they stung with smoke.

“He’d been run into-by that fellow Hrubek, looks like. The psycho. Knocked him off the road. Seemed to be an ambush.”

“No! Hrubek’s going to Boyleston. You’re wrong!”

“Well, he ain’t going to Boyleston in the car he was driving. Front end’s mashed in.”

Lis turned instinctively toward where her purse lay on the counter. “How badly hurt is he? I have to go to him.”

“We don’t know. Can’t find him. Or Hrubek either.”

“Where did it happen?” Portia asked.

“By the old railroad trestle. Near downtown.”

“Downtown where?” Lis snapped.

His fat mouth fell silent. Perhaps he suspected her of hysteria. He said, “Well, downtown Ridgeton.”

No more than three miles from where they stood.

The wreck wasn’t too bad, the deputy explained. “We think Hrubek took off and Owen’s after him.”

“Or, Owen’s running, with Hrubek after him.”

“We thought of that too. The sheriff and Tom Scalon are out looking for them. All the phones in this part of town’re out. Stan had me drive over to tell you. He’s thinking you oughta leave. Till they find him. But your car’s outta commission, looks like.”

Lis didn’t respond. Portia told him that they couldn’t get a tow truck.

“Believe you’ll need more’n a tow for that particular vehicle.” He nodded toward the sunken Acura. “Anyway, I’ll take you. Just get your stuff together.”

“Owen…” Lis looked around her, scanning the woods in vain.

“I’m thinking,” the deputy said, “we oughta get a move on.”

“I’m not going anywhere until we find my husband.”

Perhaps she sounded ferocious, for the deputy added cautiously, “I understand how you feel… But I don’t exactly know there’s a lot you can do here but fret. And I’ll-”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said slowly. “You understand?”

He looked at Portia, who gave no response. Finally he said, “Have it your way, Lis. That’s your business. But Stanley said to make sure you’re okay. I better call him and tell him you don’t want to leave.” He waited a moment more, as if this might intimidate her into leaving. When she turned away he walked out into the rain once more and climbed into the front seat of the cruiser to make the radio call.

“Lis,” Portia protested. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“Go sit in the car with him if you want. Or have him take you to the Inn. I’m sorry, but I’m not leaving.”

Portia glanced outside, at a tree bending under a furious gust of wind. “No, I’ll stay.”

“Go lock the windows. I’ll check the doors.”

Before he’d left, Owen had dead-bolted the front door. Lis now fixed the security chain, thinking momentarily how tiny the brass links seemed compared with the manacles that had gripped Hrubek’s hands at trial. She then locked and chained the door off the kitchen utility room. She wondered if Owen had remembered the lath-house door-the only way one could enter or leave the greenhouse from the outside. She walked toward it but paused halfway. She noticed a large rose plant-a Chrysler Imperial hybrid cultivated into a tree. Last year, one week after Owen confessed his affair, he had bought her this plant. It was the only one he’d ever purchased without her guidance. On the day of rest after owning up to Ms. Trollop, Esq., he appeared with the massive scarlet rosebush in the back of his truck. At the time Lis nearly pitched it out. Then she decided not to. The plant owed its reprieve to a passage from a class assignment in Hamlet, which her students were then studying.

Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin… No reckoning made, but sent to my account, with all my imperfections on my head.

The coincidence was too great to dismiss-this combination of literature, horticulture and real-life drama. So what could Lis do but resist the urge to destroy it? She rooted the damn thing and wondered if the plant would survive. It of course proved to be one of her hardier specimens.

Lis stepped forward and cradled the flower. It was a paradox of her love for plants that her gardener’s hands had toughened so much that she could no longer feel the delicacy of petals. She brushed the backs of her hands over the blossoms, then started once again toward the door. She’d taken only a few steps when she saw vague motion from outside.

Walking cautiously to a window, thick with condensation and the sheets of rain, she wiped the glass with her sleeve and saw to her shock the indistinct form of a tall man standing near the house. Hands on his hips, he was trying to find the front door, it appeared. He wasn’t the young deputy. Maybe, she thought, another officer had accompanied him, though this fellow didn’t seem to be in uniform.

He noticed the side door that led into the utility room and walked to it, oblivious to the downpour. He knocked politely, like a man picking up a date. Lis walked cautiously to the door, and looked out through the curtain. Although she didn’t recognize him he had such a pleasant, innocent face, and looked so completely wet, that she let him in.

“Evening, ma’am. You must be Mrs. Atcheson.” He wiped his lanky hand on his pants, leaving it just as wet as before, and offered it to her. “Sorry to trouble you. My name’s-”

But he didn’t have the chance to complete the introduction just then because a large bloodhound pushed his way uninvited into the greenhouse and started to shake himself enthusiastically, showering them both with a million drops of rain.

Owen Atcheson, lying half in and half out of the chill creek, slowly came to. He sat up, praying that he wouldn’t faint again.

After the Cherokee had stopped tumbling, Owen hadn’t waited for Hrubek to come leaping down the hill after him. He’d examined his left shoulder and felt the indentation where the bone ought to be. He’d made certain his pistol and ammunition were in his pocket and flung the bolt of the deer rifle far into the dark creek, exhaling at the astonishing pain caused by this slight effort.

Then he’d straggled to his feet and run clumsily through the stream, putting distance between himself and the truck.

Two hundred yards into the forest that surrounded downtown Ridgeton he’d stopped and rolled onto his back, lying against a flat rock softened by an old growth of moss. He’d slipped a length of oak branch into his mouth and chewed down hard, gripping his left biceps with his right hand. With excruciating concentration he had forced himself to relax and slowly, slowly manipulated the bone, eyes closed, breathing staccato bursts and sending his teeth deep into the wood. Suddenly, with a pop, the shoulder had reseated itself in the cuff. He cried out softly as the amazing pain made him vomit and then he fainted and slid into the creek.

Now, his eyes open, he crawled to the shore and lay on his side.

He allowed himself no more than five minutes of recuperation before standing up. He removed his belt and tightly bound his left arm to his side. The temporary sling increased the pain but would safeguard against a catastrophic jolt of agony that might make him faint again. He lifted his head and breathed deeply. The rain was falling steadily now and the wind whipped into his face. He threw his head back and inhaled the wet air. After a few moments he began to struggle through the woods, slowly making his way north, around downtown Ridgeton. He didn’t want Hrubek to find him of course but neither did he wish to be spotted by anyone else-least of all a meddling sheriff or deputy. After a torturous mile he came to the intersection of North Street and Cedar Swamp Road. He found a pay phone and lifted the receiver. He was not surprised to hear only silence.