“That’s all right, Mrs. Lindstrom. You’ve been through a real strain.” The doctor patted her shoulder as he reached out to take the vial. Puzzled, he read the label. “What’s wrong with your neighbor?”

“She has Alzheimer’s.”

“Does she have a history of violent behavior?”

Her tears were gone now, as quickly as they’d come, and Jayne wondered if she was turning into a basket case. “I don’t think so. At least Dr. Glaser never mentioned it. He drives up to examine her every month and he brings a supply of her drugs for the . . . the nurse.”

“Dr. Glaser?”

“Dr. Harvey Glaser. I ran into him in the elevator a couple of months ago, and I’d rather take my chances with a ten-foot rattler than let him . . .” Jayne stopped and winced, realizing that she was bad-mouthing the doctor in front of a colleague. “Well, let’s just say I didn’t much care for his manner. But I’m sure he’s very competent.”

“He was, before his death four years ago.”

“But I don’t understand! He told me he was Dr. Harvey Glaser.”

“He lied. Do you know what this is, Mrs. Lindstrom?” The doctor pointed to the vial and Jayne shook her head. “It’s Melahydroflorizine, a sledgehammer of a drug used to calm violent psychotics. The side effects are short-term memory loss, slurred speech, and the inability to form sentences. If I wanted to give someone the symptoms of Alzheimer’s, I’d use this drug on a regular basis.”

Jayne’s mind was spinning. It was beginning to add up. “Then Betty doesn’t have Alzheimer’s?”

“I’d be willing to bet she doesn’t. But someone sure as hell wanted you to think she did!”

Ellen stepped onto the scaffolding and held the rope with both hands. She’d found a utility belt in the office and cinched it around her waist. The starting pistol was in a pouch on the right, along with a coil of rope. She’d slipped her tennis racket into a loop on the left, not much of a weapon, but at least she knew how to swing it. On the ground, she’d take up a position on the south side of the building where the juniper was thick, then fire the pistol. And while she was drawing Marc’s fire, Moira, Betty, and Grace would come down on the scaffolding and head for the woods.

She shut her eyes as Moira began to lower her with the crank. She’d always been afraid of heights and what awaited her on the ground wasn’t exactly reassuring. The only thing that kept her going was the thought of Walker out there alone, pinned down by Marc’s assault rifle.

The scaffolding swayed and Ellen bit back a moan of fear. She couldn’t make a sound. It was vital that Marc not see the scaffolding. It was their only means of escape.

Walker rubbed his hands together to warm them. It was bitter cold despise the windbreak under the pines. He knew he had to move soon, before the sky began to lighten. The darkness was his only advantage.

Gunfire sounded on the south side of the building. Walker didn’t take time to analyze who was firing what and why. He was up and running on legs painfully stiff from the cold. In the darkness, Walker saw Marc’s rifle blast at the bushes beneath the first-floor balcony. Another shot and a return shot and then Walker hurled himself forward with the bayonet.

Marc heard the steps behind him and whirled, deflecting Walker’s blow. The point of the bayonet buried itself in the sleeve of his jacket and the Springfield went flying to the snow. And then they were struggling, Walker clawing for the rifle barrel. An earsplitting shot missed Walker’s head by inches and he managed to knock Marc’s hand off the trigger, but his chilled arms had lost their strength. The two men grappled for long moments in the darkness of the night, but Marc was bigger and dressed for the weather. Walker felt his stamina ebbing in the biting wind.

Then something whizzed toward Marc’s head, connecting solidly enough to throw him off balance. He dropped to one knee and another blow sent the assault rifle flying. Marc was down, and Walker was on him before he could move, pulling his hands roughly behind his back. When he looked up, he saw Ellen standing over him with her tennis racket tucked under her arm, handing him a piece of rope. He secured Marc’s arms with hands that felt like blocks of ice. And then there was the welcome sound of a chopper in the distance, coming closer. Paul and Jayne had made it.

The next few moments were a blur of motion. Two officers rushed to take charge, handcuffing Marc and leading him away into the belly of the helicopter. Moira and Grace came around the side of the building supporting Betty between them, and two burly members of the SWAT team raced over the snow to help. Paul led four men into the building to inspect and secure it and Ellen and Walker found themselves momentarily alone, staring down at the trampled area in the snow where it had all happened.

Walker reached out to take Ellen’s arm. He wanted to tell her that she was the most beautiful, courageous woman in the world. At the same time, he wanted to yell at her for being so incredibly foolish and crazy. It took a real idiot to come out here armed with nothing but a starting pistol and a tennis racket. And then he wanted to pull her close and kiss her. And tell her he’d do anything for her, that he was ready to settle down with her for the rest of his life if she’d have him. But there wasn’t time for all that. Instead, he turned to her and said the first thing that popped into his mind. “Nice backhand, Ellen.”

EPILOGUE

It was noon in Vegas and the temperature had hit the hundred-degree mark. The desert sun was merciless, glaring against the sides of the mirrored tower building and causing several passing tourists to fumble in their purses and pockets for sunglasses. Inside, it was cool and dark with the drapes drawn tightly and the air-conditioner turned up as high as it would go. The twentieth floor was an oasis of soothing relief from the blazing heat, but the four men at the table took no pleasure in their comfortable surroundings.

The tanned blond man frowned as he addressed the senior member of the group. “I got the word that they’re moving him tomorrow. I made the arrangements, just like you said.”

“Good!” The older man smiled in satisfaction. “He betrayed my trust. A rat like that does not deserve to live.”

The short, thin man sighed deeply. “We respect your grief at your daughter’s death. He will not die peacefully.”

“I have no daughter!” The older man thumped his fist on the table. “It was an old man’s foolishness to agree to his plan. I see that now. If she had lived, I would have killed her myself. I swear it!”

The heavyset man nodded. “I called this meeting to discuss a new plan for distribution, since the mannequins are no longer possible. We own a mail-order company. Computers and printers. It would be a simple matter to switch over the whole operation.”

The older man frowned. “It is a risk to move my supplies.”

“It’s more of a risk to leave them where they are.” The blond man pushed back his chair and stood up. “We’ve located a new storage place and our truck is ready. You’ll go with me to supervise the move?”

“Do I have any choice in the matter?”

The blond man shook his head and there was silence until they had left. Then the heavyset man wiped his perspiring face with a handkerchief and sighed. “Your man knows what to do?”

“We went over the details this morning. It’s unfortunate, but he’s getting too old. He’s already made several mistakes.”

“I know that. Do you really think he would have killed his own daughter?”

The short, thin man shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Jack glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes and pressed the buzzer to summon the nurse. After a moment a tall woman with a mass of curly red hair bustled into the room. She was wearing a name tag that identified her as Miss Cooper.