“You’re going outside?” Portia sounded frightened, mystified.

“The padlock on the basement door. I have to see about it.”

“No, Lis. Don’t. I’m sure Owen checked it.”

“I don’t think so.”

Portia shook her head and watched Lis take the gun from her pocket and awkwardly pull the slide to put a bullet in the chamber. “Lis…”

“What?”

“Nothing. I… Nothing.”

Carefully pointing the muzzle toward the floor, Lis dons the bomber jacket. She pauses at the back door, looking back. The old house is dark, this house three stories high and filled with flowers and books and the spirits of many dead. She thinks how odd it is that we’re awed by our mortality only during the small moments-when we think of painted fingernails, or a passage of music, or the proximity of sleeping bodies-never at mean, ruthless times like these. She flicks off the safety catch of the gun and feels no fear whatsoever as she steps into the rain-drenched yard.

Owen Atcheson, every inch of his skin wet, in agony, ducked against the muddy embankment of the drainage ditch and cringed like a child as a shaft of lightning engulfed the sky above him. The thunder shook his teeth and sent spasms of pain through his left arm.

After all this, he thought, please don’t let me get electrocuted.

He looked along Cedar Swamp Road, down which the Jeep had vanished five minutes before, sending rooster tails of dirty rain into the air behind it. He’d recognized it as Will McCaffrey’s. He supposed the old coot had worked overtime at the mill and was finally heading home.

Owen sank back into the dirty, foaming water. This unpleasantness didn’t bother him. On hunting trips, he’d endured leeches, mosquitoes and temperatures of 110 degrees and 30 below. Tonight, he carried only his pistol and twenty rounds of ammunition; on other occasions he’d borne not only his weapons but an eighty-pound pack and, more than once, the body of a fallen comrade as well.

These hardships he could cope with. Far more troubling was the question-where the hell was his prey?

Owen surveyed the terrain for the dozenth time. Yes, he supposed, it’d be possible for Hrubek to avoid the road completely and reach the house through the forest. But that would require a compass and hours of time, and would force him to swim the lake or skirt the shore, which was thickly overgrown and virtually impassable. Besides, Hrubek had shown a strong preference for roads-as if his impeded mind believed that people could be connected only via asphalt or concrete.

Roads, Owen reflected. Cars…

The Jeep…

McCaffrey, he recalled, didn’t live north of town. His bungalow was on the west side. He’d have no need or occasion to take Cedar Swamp, certainly not to reach his house. The only reason someone who didn’t live near here would come this way was to take the shortcut to the mall in Chilton. And there sure weren’t any stores open there this time of night.

Owen looked up the dark, rain-swept road for a moment then struggled from the water and began the agonizing run to his wife and his home.

Trenton Heck slowly climbed the face of the huge rock shelf that cut the Atcheson property in two.

The surface was slick with rain but slipperiness was not the greatest impediment to his twenty-foot climb; rather, Heck’s disobedient leg made for very slow progress. He was as exhausted as he was drenched by the time he reached the summit and collapsed on the rocky plain. He caught his breath while he massaged his thigh and scanned the driveway and forest below him. He saw nothing but the mesmerizing flutter of leaves as the rain poured down. After resting for a moment he rose slowly and in a crouch eased along the crest of this hill, parallel to the vague white strip of driveway in the shallow valley below. He made his way slowly from the house toward Cedar Swamp Road-keen to spot Hrubek, yes, but even more eager to find Owen, a man with whom Heck felt considerable kinship. And a man maybe weaponless, maybe injured.

As he moved cautiously toward the road, he found himself thinking about Lis Atcheson. He kept returning to the question that had occurred to him on the hectic drive here after he’d abandoned his journey to Boyleston. Limping into cover behind a tall oak tree for a futile inspection of the rain-drenched panorama beneath him, he wondered again: why exactly was Michael Hrubek after her?

Of course the fellow was maybe completely mad, Heck allowed. Lord knew, enough people seemed to think so. But if Heck understood right, Hrubek’d need one hell of a motive to go through with a trip like this-a journey that clearly terrified him. It’d be like Heck himself standing up and with full intent walking right toward someone threatening to shoot him in the leg again.

Why would a man bring that kind of heartache on himself?

Lis testifying against him? Naw, there had to be more to it. It was true, as he’d told her, that convicts rarely make matters worse for themselves by hurting witnesses.

The only time…

Well, usually the only time they carried out threats was when the witness had lied. But why would she’ve done that?

These musings were interrupted by something Heck saw in the distance: a large cube of faint blue light. It was in the direction of the house. He made his way closer and squinted through the rain. The lights of the greenhouse. She must have forgotten to turn them off. The radiance was, he thought, an unfortunate beacon but there was nothing to be done about it now.

Lightning flared through the forest and Heck was jarred by the encompassing blast of thunder. The lightning troubled him-not from fear of a hit but because he couldn’t afford to be light-blinded. Also, a nearby strike would make him, if even for a fraction of a second, as sharp a target as if he’d been flare-lit.

Thunder sounded again.

Or was it thunder? The sound was more of a crack than a boom. And now that he thought about it, the noise seemed to have come from the driveway of the Atcheson place. Alarmed, he looked toward the house again for Lis’s summoning signal but no lights flashed.

Through the plastic bag he thumbed the old Walther nervously and stalked toward Cedar Swamp Road, surveying the dense forest around him-with its mulchy, cluttered carpet of downed foliage. In this tangle he saw a dozen shadows that clearly resembled the man he sought. Then he forgot about the thunder that resembled a gunshot and grew depressed. The task of finding either Owen or Hrubek suddenly seemed hopeless.

“Oh, man,” Heck muttered. Here he’d turned down Kohler’s bribe, he’d helped get a woman killed, and he could just hear Adler saying, Oh, no, sorry Mr. Heck, it really was Tactical Services that caught Hrubek.

But here’s a hundred bucks for your trouble.

“Damn.”

Five minutes later he was engaged in a conversation with Jill about his troubles when he saw out of the corner of his eye a flash of light coming from the direction of the house. He stepped forward quickly, thinking at first that it was a summons from Lis. But then he stopped and, squinting through the rain, noted how remarkable it was that light would reflect so vibrantly off a bald, blue-tinted head.

Michael Hrubek was not fifty feet away.

The madman was oblivious to Heck and hiding in a stand of bushes overlooking the garage.

Lord, he’s a monster, Heck thought, his face burning at the first sight of his quarry. He trained the Walther, still in the Baggie, on the man’s back. He flicked up the thumb safety and, walking as silently as he could, closed the distance between them. When he was thirty feet away Heck took a deep breath and called, “Hrubek!”

The big man jumped and barked out a frightened, pathetic cry. He looked back through the streaming rain toward Heck, his eyes scanning the darkness.