They would probably still be wearing those wings when they came home, Cate thought, tears sparkling in her eyes even as she smiled at the thought.

“The first thing they saw when we got home was the riding lawn mower,” her mother continued. “Your father is out there now with both of them in his lap, riding them around and around. The blades are disengaged,” she added.

Cate could remember riding with her father on the lawn mower, and she got a mushy feeling around her heart knowing that now he was doing that with her children.

“So now you can stop sniffling,” Sheila said. “They’re not only having a blast, they’ve exhausted me and are now working on your father, which should give you a nice warm sense of revenge.”

“It does,” Cate admitted. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Do you want me to send pictures? We’ve already taken a bunch.”

“No, it takes too long for them to download, since I just have dial-up. Print them out and bring copies when you come back.”

“okay. How did you do today?”

“Been cleaning like a maniac.”

“Good. Now that yon have afternoons free, go get your hair done.”

Cate laughed, and for the first time truly realized she could get a haircut. A trim, at least, wouldn’t cost all that much, and she desperately needed one. “I think I will.”

“Spend some time on yourself. Read a book. Watch a movie. Paint your toenails.”

After they hung up, Cate realized that her parents’ intention had been to give her a little break as much as it had been to have the boys to themselves for a while. She appreciated their concern, she really did, and would try to spend some time on herself. With that in mind, after she’d checked her e-mail and handled the reservations that had come in via the Web site, after she’d finished the laundry, after she’d copied down a list of ingredients for her next shopping trip—for some recipes she wanted to try—and after she had prepared supper for herself—a grilled cheese sandwich—she took her mother’s advice to heart and painted her toenails.

That night Teague met with Toxtel and Goss again. The three men he’d called in came, too: his first cousin, Troy Gunnell: his nephew. Blake Hester; and an old friend, Billy Copeland. Troy and Bill) were almost as good in the mountains as league was himself; Blake was pretty good, but his main accomplishment, and the reason he was included, was his marksmanship. If there were any tough shots to be made, Blake would be the triggerman.

The six of them went over the plan again and again. Teague had spent most of the day mapping it out, literally, using a combination of road maps, topography maps, satellite images, and maps he himself had made of the area. While he’d been in Trail Stop, he’d also surreptitiously taken pictures, using a digital camera, and printed out the photos on his computer. Using the photos and his own memory, he’d drawn a rough map of Trail Stop, showing the placement of the houses and their distance apart.

“Why do we need to know where the houses are?” Goss asked, staling intently at the map. There was no impatience in his tone, but a genuine interest. He was looking better than he had the day before; when Teague had commented on that, he’d admitted he’d been bashed in the head by Trail Stop’s handyman, whom Toxtel described as a skinny-assed bastard with a big shotgun.

“Because these aren’t people who’ll just throw up their hands and surrender,” Teague explained. “One or two might, but for the most, part they’ll get mad, and they’ll try to fight back. Don’t underestimate them. These people have grown up hunting in these mountains, and there’ll be some damn fine marksmen among them. By choosing our spots, we can neutralize most of their avenues of effective fire; plus we need to get them congregated as much as possible. Makes them easier to watch. See how the houses are spread out?” he asked, tapping the map. “With the firing platforms I’ve selected, we have direct lines of fire at twenty-five of the thirty-one houses.”

“What about the bed-and-breakfast?” Toxtel asked.

Teague drew a dotted line from one of his selected firing positions to the bed-and-breakfast. There was a clear shot only to the upper-right corner room; everything else was blocked by another building.

Toxtel frowned at the dotted line. He’d evidently hoped for something more. “You can’t move your position and get a better angle?”

“No, not without repositioning way the hell up on this slope.” Teague tapped a spot on the map, at the northeast corner of Trail Stop.

“Why don’t you, then?”

“First, I’m not a damn mountain goat; that’s an almost vertical slab of rock. Second, it isn’t cost effective, because any attempts to escape won’t go in that direction. We’ve left them only one way out, and it’s through here.” He traced a route that ran roughly horizontal to the land peninsula on which Trail Stop was situated, then angled northwestward through a deep cut in the mountains.

“Why don’t you close that gap, too?” Goss asked.

“Last time I looked, there are only four of us. Six, counting you two, but I gather neither of you has any experience with a rifle. Am I right?”

Goss shrugged. “I don’t. Can’t say about Toxtel.”

“Some,” Toxtel said grudgingly. “Not much.”

“Then, what it comes down to is the four of us will have to split the watches into twelve-hour shifts. That’s tough enough as it is. At first there will be one of us with a rifle on each of these three firing positions, but after we drive most of the people to the far left corner, the position here at the bridge will be turned over to you two. They won’t know the rifles have been concentrated on the other two filing positions, and on the right the river makes an effective barrier anyway.”

“What about the nights? Do you have night-vision goggles?” Goss asked.

Teague gave a feral grin. “I have something better than that. FLIR scopes.”

“Flur? What the hell’s that?”

“Forward-looking infrared. FLIR. Picks out body heat. Camouflage can fool night vision, but it can’t fool the heat seekers. Our field of vision will be limited with scopes, so we’ll have to be on our toes, but by limiting the places where we’ll have to look, we can offset that shortcoming.”

Teague had put some thought into the scopes. For one thing, they were heavy, three pounds at least. That meant he and the others couldn’t hold the rifles for any length of time; they’d have to be on rests. And the battery packs lasted only about six hours—in optimal conditions, meaning around eighty degrees. He thought they’d be lucky to get five hours out of them. Given that daylight hours were shrinking daily, it was a given each man would have to change battery packs at least once a shift, and probably twice if the weather turned cold. Last night the temperature had dipped into the low forties. Snow wasn’t all that unusual in September, so the weather could turn bad without notice. To be on the safe side, he’d gotten twelve rechargeable battery packs, plus heavy-duty rechargers capable of handling more than one pack at a time.

“Billy got some collapsible sawhorses, painted them up to look like the ones used by the state, to block the road and keep nosy people out. We’ve also put a magnetic construction company sign on a pickup we can use, to make it look like work is being done on the bridge. I’m not worried about the state people. What worries me are the power and telephone companies. Everything they have is computerized. Are they gonna know when Trail Stop goes dark?”

Blake spoke for the first time. He was twenty-five, a six-footer, with short dark hair and eyes, a lot like his uncle. “Not necessarily. They don’t know if an individual customer is having trouble, even when it’s line trouble; someone has to report the problem. Trail Stop is the end of the line; there’s nothing beyond. And if” they do show up—hell, the bridge is out, they can’t get across. What they gonna do? Wait for the state to fix the bridge, that’s what.”