“Hurry! Please hurry!”

“They will, Ma’am.”

Jayne didn’t realize that she’d spoken aloud until he answered. She could see a blinking neon sign in the distance, four-thirty AM, eighty-five degrees. Another warm Vegas night, but she was still shivering in Betty’s fur coat.

The rotor started and the deafening noise filled Jayne with hope as she watched the huge helicopter lift off. She watched until it was nothing but a speck in the night sky and then turned to the officer beside her. “Twenty minutes?”

Dennis nodded. “That’s right, Ma’am. How about a cup of coffee?”

Jayne let him lead her back into the building. Her knees shaking as they walked back down the stairs. As she watched the steaming liquid pour into the cardboard cup, Jayne couldn’t help but think of the four friends they’d left behind, Moira, Grace, and Ellen, barricaded in poor Betty’s room. How long could they hold out against a trained killer?

TWENTY-TWO

The west side of the building was landscaped with a hedge of juniper and Walker crouched behind it for cover. He worked his way around the building, wincing at the open field of snow ahead, still showing the blurry indentation of their snow angels. That happy time seemed far in the past, though it had actually been less than thirty hours ago.

Feeling the adrenaline rushing through his veins, he forced himself to slow down. Time was not of the essence, but caution was, and his breathing was already ragged. The Springfield weighed approximately eleven pounds, the bayonet probably bringing the total up to twelve. He’d trekked through the muck of Vietnam carrying at least fifty pounds, but he’d been much younger then.

As soon as his breathing had slowed, Walker assessed his chances. The wind had died down and now it was as quiet as a tomb. To make matters worse, the temperature had dropped, causing the snow to crunch underfoot.

Just then a crash sounded back in the trees on the far side of the building, as a fairly large animal moved through the brush. A coyote, perhaps, or a deer. It was an unexpected break. The moment he heard it, Walker was up and moving, streaking across the bare field of snow, using the sound for cover.

A shot shattered the stillness of the night. Marc had spotted him, but only after he’d reached the safety of the pine grove. Here only light snow dusted the ground, and less than five minutes later he was in the center of the grove, about a hundred yards directly behind Marc’s position. There was still an exposed patch of snow to cross, but he had to wait for his chance.

Walker settled down and forced his tense body to relax. The bright pink jacket had only a thin lining of flannel inside. It had been designed for warmer temperatures, but it was better than nothing. Luckily, he’d been wearing his boots. Ellen had found a perfectly adequate pair of leather gloves, but Walker knew he couldn’t last indefinitely out here in the cold. He had to hope his chance would come soon, while he could still move rapidly and efficiently.

His opportunity could come in several ways. If the wind picked up from the north behind him, it would be difficult for Marc to use his rifle sight in the blowing snow. There was also the possibility of diversion from another animal. All he had to do was be patient, and waiting was the most difficult task of all.

The Caretaker checked his ammunition and smiled. He’d brought enough to take care of everyone and then some. Although it seemed impossible, Betty was still alive. The nurse must have sabotaged that injection somehow. He should have thought to check it. Another mistake that he shouldn’t have made.

He figured Walker was the one who had run for cover. The rest of them would still be huddled in Betty’s room, trying to decide what to do. They might have hooked up with Paul and Jayne by now, but that wouldn’t help them much. Not a man of action, it took Paul days to make a decision, and he’d never dash across the snow in a foolish attempt to outrun a man with a rifle. It had to be Walker. Of course the shot had given away his position. It was a bad break for him, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Walker still had a clear patch of snow to cross, and that would be suicide, especially since the absence of return fire meant that he was unarmed. Either Walker was stupid or he had real balls; it didn’t really matter which.

They’d plugged the air-conditioner vent with wet towels and were gathered at the windows. The open panel provided adequate ventilation. Grace peered out the window and frowned. “Marc’s got Walker pinned down in the grove. Think he’s hit?”

“Marc’s shot went wild.” Ellen let out her breath in a shuddering sigh. She’d seen the snow kick up at least ten feet in back of Walker.

“But now Marc knows that Walker’s out there.” Grace’s voice was shaking. “We’ve got to help. If we had a gun, we could draw Marc’s fire.”

Betty spoke up. “Race gun! Ready, set, go?”

Moira stared down at Betty in shock. “The starter pistol. Je . . . Jeepers, Betty! Alzheimer’s or not, you’re smarter than all of us put together.”

Paul’s knuckles were white by the time they passed the outskirts of town. He didn’t like planes, and helicopters were even worse. He stared down at the darkness below and hoped that the pilot had plenty of experience.

“Ten floors and there’s only one entrance to the building, is that right?” An officer wearing camouflage fatigues and carrying a clipboard sat down next to him.

“Unless you count the balconies, nine on the south side of the building. Someone could reach the first-floor balcony, but the sliding glass door to the unit will be locked from the inside with a metal post which slides into a hole on the frame. It is the type of burglar-proof lock the police recommend.”

“No problem.” The officer made a note. “And there’s no way for us to land on the roof?”

“No, the roof is a dome made of Plexiglas. However, there is a field one hundred and eighteen yards from the building on the east side. That is where the other helicopter made its landing.”

“Garage?”

“It covers three-quarters of the ground floor. The main entrance is there, served by an elevator which is not functioning. My wife and I used the stairs. The remainder of the space is subdivided into a one-bedroom apartment and security office.”

“And how many civilians are inside?”

It took Paul a moment to realize that anyone who wasn’t a police officer must be a civilian. “Four, perhaps five. I do not know if Marc Davies is still alive.”

“Four confirmed with a possible five,” the officer noted, handing Paul the clipboard.

“Make a rough layout of the building, including the elevator shaft and the stairwells. Use red marks to indicate where you last saw the civilians. Our ETA is ten minutes.”

Paul bent over the clipboard and began to sketch. The bright splashes of color against the white paper, one each for Moira, Grace, Betty, and Ellen, with a question mark on the seventh floor for Marc, made him shiver. Perhaps it was because red was the color of blood.

“This is a real treat.” The doctor closed his bag and smiled at her. “No bullets, no knife wounds, not even a broken bone. You ought to see the ones they usually call me in for.”

Jayne laughed. He was a wonderful doctor, old enough to be trusted and young enough to be up-to-date.

“Are you currently taking any medication, Mrs. Lindstrom?”

“No. Oh, I almost forgot!” Jayne reached into her pocket and took out the vial of Betty’s medication that Paul had grabbed from the nurse’s bag. “My neighbor has to have a shot of this every six hours. We were afraid they’d forget to bring it along when they rescued her, especially now that her nurse is . . . is dead.” Jayne’s voice broke and she began to sob. She wasn’t sure why, since she hadn’t cared for Margaret Woodard much when she’d been alive, but her death put a different perspective on things.