Nothing but the Night

50

All weekend Cam worried. About Jenna and what might have happened to her. About whether or not Nick Hendryx had had anything to do with it. About Hallie, if he should tell her about Jenna and what her reaction would be if he did. About himself, what his responsibilities were — legal, moral, personal.

He called Jenna’s home number twice, Fenwood Creek twice. She wasn’t home, she wasn’t at the winery. No one there had any idea where she might be.

He called Caitlin to make sure she was all right. Teddy answered, told him she was out somewhere, he didn’t know where; the kid’s voice said he didn’t much care. Sure she was okay, why wouldn’t she be? Hendryx? How should he know if she’d been with the dude Friday night? Yeah, he’d tell her Uncle Cameron called, making the word uncle sound like an obscenity.

Monday, first thing at the office, Cam called Fenwood Creek again. Jenna wasn’t there. Hadn’t called in, simply hadn’t shown up, her assistant said, and that wasn’t like her. Mr. Collins was on his way to her house to see if maybe she was ill or something.

The rest of the morning crawled by. A few minutes before noon he rang Fenwood Creek again, but Collins wasn’t there or wasn’t taking calls and his secretary had nothing to report about Jenna. He left a message for Bryan, then waited in an agony of suspense until Collins finally returned his call at two-thirty.

It was as bad as he’d feared. Jenna’s car was still parked on the turnout, her house was empty, and there was no indication she’d been home since Friday night or of where she might be. Collins tried to downplay the implications, but he was as upset as Cam had ever heard him. More upset than a boss over a missing employee, it seemed, which led Cam to wonder if the usually unflappable Collins had been or still was one of her lovers.

Bryan had notified the county’s criminal investigation department. So it was almost certain an investigator would be around to talk to Cam eventually. Someone at the Christmas party must have seen Jenna and him talking, possibly even seen her slip him the house key. The wise thing would seem to be for him to go to the authorities before they came to him. But he was afraid of them getting the wrong idea. If she’d been kidnapped or murdered, and the identity of the person responsible remained in doubt, his presence in her house the night of the disappearance would make him a prime suspect. Angry lover, sudden violence, that kind of scenario. In any case there would be bad publicity, the sort that could harm his family, harm PWS.

The other option was to wait it out. Hope Jenna was found quickly, alive and well; and if she wasn’t found, play dumb and innocent — exactly what he was — when the CID got around to him. But that was just as potentially disastrous. If the investigators caught him in a lie, they’d be even more suspicious of him. At the very least, even though he had no conclusive information about her disappearance, he could be charged with obstruction.

He didn’t know what to do about Hendryx, either. He called Caitlin again on Sunday, and this time she was home. His excuse was a futile plea for her to change her mind and spend Christmas Eve in Los Alegres. He managed to steer the conversation around to Hendryx, and she said no, she hadn’t been with him Friday night, he’d been away on an overnight haul. Why was he so interested? Cam said he thought he’d seen Hendryx in the Paloma Valley; she said maybe he needed glasses. And that was the end of that.

So he still had no idea whether or not Hendryx was involved. Jenna hadn’t mentioned him at the party, or at any time since their phone conversation weeks ago. Her early suspicions had no foundation, at least so far as he knew, and neither did his. If he sicced the law on Hendryx and the man was innocent, Caitlin would never forgive him — it would destroy what was left of their fragile relationship.

Yet what if Hendryx was guilty? What if he was a stalker, a rapist, something even worse? It was possible; anything was possible. Caitlin might be in jeopardy, Cam Gallagher might be. Would telling the county CID about Hendryx eliminate the threat in that case? Not necessarily. There was no guarantee anything could be proven against him. And the authorities nosing around might even provoke him into some sort of retaliation...

What was right? What was best for Hallie and his daughters, Caitlin, himself?

He didn’t know; he couldn’t decide. And what made it worse was the nagging fear that no matter what he did, something bad would come of it.

51

Week before Christmas, Nick went for long rides every night. Saturday and Sunday was a chicken run down to the Central Valley; but he had Wednesday and Thursday off with pay, part of North County Poultry Processors employees’ Christmas package. Wednesday and Thursday off at Goodwill, too — no pay, because they didn’t schedule any pickups right before the holidays. So he drove north and south, east and west, once as far downstate as Bakersfield, another time all the way to Truckee through a Sierra snowstorm.

Better in the car, moving, following the open road. He felt invulnerable, exercising the same control over his life and destiny that he had over his wheels — like the psychologist’d said in the article about night riders. Rained most of the time he was on the road, and that was all right, too. Tires humming, wipers shushing back and forth, radio playing soft, all of it soothing and the night so dark you couldn’t see much except the shiny black-and-white surface ahead, as if the world had shrunk all the way down to a narrow strip that kept on curling and unwinding under the headlights. Thinking sometimes about Annalisa, sometimes about Gallagher and how spooked he must be about his girlfriend, how he’d be figuring Nick must’ve had something to do with it but be too afraid to go to the cops on account of the hit-and-run charge hanging over his head. Didn’t think about the Bailey woman except in little blips and black flashes. Mostly didn’t think about anything, just kept driving with the heater turned up as high as it would go.

Couple of times he slept in the car. Partly because he got tired and didn’t trust himself to stay alert without some rest, but mainly to avoid going back to the house. He didn’t like being cooped up there. Before long he’d have to stick close to the place, like it or not. Work to be done, preparations to make. But not yet, not until after Christmas. Enough time would’ve passed by then, and the house wouldn’t keep reminding him of the dead woman, making him feel bad when he ought to feel good because it was almost over, he could count the days until he was back home.

Home. Sometimes the word was a pulse in his head: home home home home home home. Other times it was the wind and the tires on pavement and the engine whine, one long steady hum: hommmmmmmmmmmme. Denver. Annalisa. Mom and Pop Foster. He missed them all so much. The missing and the wishing and the wanting got so bad late one night that he stopped at a pay phone, middle of nowhere, and called up the Fosters. Just couldn’t help himself. Mom answered, all shook at such a late call. It choked him up so much hearing her voice, he could hardly speak, and she thought it was some crank caller and almost hung up on him before he could get the words out.

He apologized for calling so late, said he needed to hear a friendly voice, asked how Annalisa was. Mom said she was all right, just the same, and when are you coming home, Nickie? Like I told you last time, he said. Next month. Sometime after the first week in January.

“Can’t you come for Christmas?” Mom asked again. “Annalisa, she needs you — I know she does. And we need you, Pop and me, to be here with us. This year more than ever.”

“I want to be there, Mom. You know how much I want to. But I can’t. Not yet, not until I’m finished here.”

And she started to cry, and he hung up — had to hang up because it hurt too much listening to her cry like that in the middle of the night a few days before Christmas. But talking to her made him feel better, too. Love always made you feel better, even when you had to hear it and feel it from a long way off.

Love and night rides, they were what he needed right now. To chase away the cold, chase away the dead woman, give him the strength to get through the next two weeks. And make him ready inside his head when it finally got to be time for Gallagher.

52

On Wednesday morning a county CID lieutenant named Dudley showed up at PWS. Cam went cold and tight inside when Gretchen buzzed and told him who was waiting. He sat for a couple of minutes to compose himself; made sure his face was sweat-free before he told Gretchen to send the lieutenant in.

Dudley was tall, thin, flat-faced, and polite. And his visit was strictly routine; that became apparent in the first thirty seconds. He was questioning everyone, he said, who knew Jenna and who had spoken to her at the Fenwood Creek Christmas party. He knew nothing about the key, had no suspicion that Cam had been in her house that night — and Cam didn’t enlighten him. The desire to unburden himself was there, but he didn’t have the will or the courage to go through with it.

Atleast he didn’t quite lie to Dudley. No, Jenna hadn’t said anything to him about her plans for the rest of that evening or the weekend. No, he had no idea of what might have happened to her. No, he knew of no one who had threatened her or held a grievance against her or who had cause of any kind to want to harm her. Sins of omission. No justification for it, yet there was also no justification for putting himself and his reputation on the line. Cold comfort in that fact — the coldest kind.

Dudley was gone in less than fifteen minutes. Cam sat limp at his desk and began worrying all over again. He’d heard enough on the valley grapevine to know that both Bryan Collins and Dennis Frane remembered the man at the Hotel Paloma bar, how irritated Jenna had been when she saw him; but they knew nothing about the man, couldn’t provide a detailed description. Lieutenant Dudley hadn’t mentioned him, so he didn’t know that Cam had been with her that first night, but he’d certainly be investigating that angle. Suppose he found someone to whom Jenna had confided her fears of being stalked, who knew about the connection to Cam?

Fingerprints — that was another source of apprehension. He’d surely left some in her house; suppose they found one and identified him? Could he get away with claiming it was an old one, from the time of the wine-and-cheese party? The odds were in his favor that if identifiable prints hadn’t been found by now, there weren’t any. He’d read somewhere that it was not as easy to lift clear latents off any surface, even glass, as TV and mystery novels made it seem. But still. Still.

Suppose the driver of the car that had been behind him when he turned into Jenna’s driveway was found? Suppose the driver remembered the BMW, all or part of the license plate?

Suppose, suppose, suppose...

He didn’t believe the few minutes with Lieutenant Dudley would be the end of it. Any more than he believed, now, that Jenna would be found unharmed. No happy endings here. Not for her, not for him, either. The waiting, the gut sense of impending disaster, made him feel as though he had been squeezed into a hot, airless box. Keep on living in that box, he’d suffocate or drown in his own sour juices.

He had to get out. Make a decision, take some kind of action while there was still time. He didn’t know what yet, only that he’d have to do it soon. He could not go on this way.

53

Nick spent Christmas Eve alone with Annalisa.

Before supper he picked a small branch off one of the pine trees, gathered up a couple of the bigger, nicer cones. Arranged them on the kitchen table, added two of the red Christmas candles he’d bought, and lit the wicks. The framed photo of Annalisa went between the candles and among the pine needles and cones. Pretty. Just right. Even prettier when he shut off the overhead lights and it was only the candle glow shining soft on her face, on that little private smile of hers that made him think of the Madonna in all the religious pictures he’d seen.

He ate there with her, a can of Franco-American spagetti because it was something she’d always liked, and afterward he put the card he’d bought next to her. It was a nice card, not too sentimental — perfect. Later he’d mail it to Mom and Pop Foster for them to keep with all his letters, so she’d know he was thinking of her and how much he missed her on this special holiday.

He sat at the table until midnight, warm for the first time in days, not from the furnace but from her eyes shining in the candlelight. Before he went up to bed he sang her favorite hymn, “Silent Night,” like they used to do together back home. Voice was rusty, but he remembered all the words. And her voice, sweet and clear in his memory, seemed to join in and make it almost like a duet on the last couple of verses.

When they were done he said, “Merry Christmas, honey,” and picked her up and kissed her. “Merry Christmas.”

She smiled back at him as if she knew this was the last holiday they’d ever have to be apart.

Silent night, holy night.

54

The river was rising.

All the rain over the past three weeks, all the runoff from the mountain creeks that fed into it, had swollen it into a foamy brown swirl that ran high and fast against its banks. It was still five or six feet below flood stage, but if the rains continued — and the forecasters were saying they would, ballyhooing El Niño in loud voices and scare headlines — this would be another serious flood year on the Russian River. The residents of Guerneville, Rio Nido, and Monte Rio were already preparing for it. Cam drove past boarded-up houses and cabins, sandbagged storefronts, emergency evacuation equipment ready and waiting on high ground.

It had rained heavily on Christmas Day, off and on over the weekend; now, at noon on Monday, there was a thin, windblown drizzle out of low-hanging cloud cover so dark and restive it was like a black-dyed substance simmering in an enormous cauldron. The slick highway was mostly deserted. He passed only two other vehicles, one a county sheriff’s cruiser, between Guerneville and the turnoff to Crackerbox Road.

He drove with his mind shut down and a tight lid on his emotions. He’d turned himself off twenty-four hours ago, when he had made up his mind to come up here — the only way he’d be able to go through with it.

Some of the homes along Crackerbox Road were empty, battened down for the winter. The few that appeared occupied wore ground girdles of sandbags — useless barriers, like matchsticks stacked in front of a drainpipe, if floodwaters exceeded the forty-foot level. Behind the homes, the muddy river churned and eddied, half-submerging scrub trees and vegetation along the lower sections of both banks; the surface boil was less than a dozen feet below Highway 116 leading out to Jenner, the only main road through the flood zone. The highway, and Cracker-box and Moscow Roads on this side of the Duncans Mills bridge, would be inundated and impassable at a forty-foot-plus crest. The only means of transportation in and out of the area then would be boat or helicopter.

Neither Hendryx nor Riverbank Realty’s handyman had done anything to fortify Gallagher’s Bane. Waste of time if they had. The house squatted crumbling and dripping in its nest of evergreens and tall weedy grass. Ancient, decayed, near death with its wet eyes staring blindly, waiting to die and have done with it. This winter might just do the trick. El Niño’s one good deed. Tear the frigging place down, break it up, scatter its moldy bones along the riverbanks all the way out to the beaches at Jenner and Goat Rock, where the Russian River met the ocean.

He crawled past, looking. The open garage was empty; so was the mud-rutted drive and the expanse of roadside in front — no sign of the blue Mazda. As expected. Hendryx was at work at the Goodwill in Los Alegres. Cam had made sure the charity was open today, the Monday after Christmas, before leaving to drive up here.

A copse of pine separated the property line from its nearest west-side neighbor. He left the car in among the trees and walked back. No one around that he could see, only a few house lights to cut into the midday gloom. He stopped at the front gate, shoulders hunched inside his topcoat, chin ducked, looking up from under the brim of the rain hat he wore at the house’s blank face. Shifting his gaze after a few seconds to the river running behind, to a torn-off tree limb with thin bare branches like spider’s legs caught and bobbing in the current. When the limb swirled out of sight, he opened the gate and went through, heading first to the garage.

Nothing to find in there. Nor among the grass and weeds between the garage and the collapsed shed, between the shed and the rear porch of the house, or on the long sloping riverbank, or under the trees. He didn’t admit it to himself until he was on his way to the front porch, but what he’d been searching for was freshly turned ground. A grave — Jenna’s grave. The notion seemed a little foolish now, but that was part of his relief at finding nothing of the sort.

The stair risers sagged and creaked under his weight as he climbed onto the porch. At the door he took the spare key, the one he’d never used, out of his pocket. And stood there with the key in hand, aware of a faint weakness in his knees, the hard, irregular beat of his pulse.

I don’t want to go in there.

I’m not afraid of this goddamn house!

He slipped the key into the lock, blanking his mind again. Turned it, turned the knob, opened the door, and for the first time since that bloody long-ago night, he entered the river house.

Cold draft from somewhere, even after he shut the door. It produced a shiver as he stood in the murky hallway. He smelled damp, mold; heard the wind in the eaves, the rain on the roof, a steady dripping high above. His breath shortened, caught in his throat. He had an intense urge to turn and run out. He fought it, leaning against the wall. Same wallpaper, pattern of little blue flowers, forget-me-nots, the paper damp and sticky against his fingers and palm as if the paper, the wall, were bleeding—

He shoved upright again, forced himself to walk through the archway into the parlor. Different furniture, old and dusty and uncomfortable looking. Caitlin’s choices, or the Realtor’s? Ashes in the fireplace, no other indication that Hendryx spent much time in here. Back into the hallway. A deep breath, another, and he started up the stairs.

Runners worn through in places, loose riser halfway up, creak, creak, creak. Then he was on the second floor, walking toward the rear past the bathroom door, past the attic door. Into the back bedroom. His room twenty-five years ago — mostly his, except when Caitlin threw a fit about having to sleep downstairs all alone and Pa let her have her way. On those nights he’d had to sleep down there behind the kitchen, in the room where—

No.

Twin beds here once, now a queen with a scarred wooden headboard. Mattress bare except for a yellowed plastic covering. Musty, unused. He opened the closet. Empty. The dresser drawers. Empty.

Back along the hall to the bathroom. Old leather toilet kit, shaving gear, not much else. No medications or personal items of any kind, man’s or woman’s.

Front bedroom. This was where Hendryx slept. Sheets on the bed, pillowcases, thermal blanket, and a comforter — unmade and not very clean. The closet’s contents were two shirts, two pairs of pants, and a lightweight windbreaker on hangers, all cheap and worn, and a pair of scuffed shoes and a cardboard suitcase on the floor. The suitcase was empty. So were the pockets of the windbreaker.

On top of the dresser was a framed wedding-reception photo of Hendryx and a round-cheeked blond woman, pretty in a homespun way. His wife, the victim of the hit-and-run. The dresser and nightstand drawers contained nothing but dust and lint. No ashtray, alarm clock, books or TV or radio. Hendryx didn’t smoke or set an alarm or read or watch sitcoms or listen to music or talk radio. What did he do with his time?

Into the hallway again. The only place left up here was the attic. At first his legs refused to take him there. And when he finally did get them moving, he had to fight himself through every jerky step. His breathing was labored again when he reached the door. It had a lock now, not new, but it hadn’t been keyed. He opened the door, his teeth clamped so tight muscle pain flared along his jawline.

A pull cord hung from the wall fixture, same as when he was a boy; he tugged on it. Dead bulb. Murky shadows above, beyond the top of the stairs. Rain on the roof, dripping in the walls. Cold, damp, dark. Smells of mold and mildew, rain and dust and mouse turds. Voice crying in his memory, whimpering in the dark, saying things he didn’t want to hear.

There was cold sweat on his face, under his arms. Nothing up there but ghosts. Hiding place for ghosts and terrified children and he did not, did not, did not want to go up there—

Wimp, pisspoor excuse for a man — do it!

Push-pull, push-pull. It raged inside him for a little time, a silent bitter struggle; then, almost convulsively, he was through the door and on the stairs.

Enough daylight filtered in through the dormer windows to let him see that the attic had been cleared out. Empty space except for dust and droppings, no Jenna, and he turned and went back down, quickly at first and then more slowly as he reached the bottom. There. Not so bad, was it?

Bad enough.

He shut the door and descended to the first floor, mopping his face with his handkerchief. Kitchen. Same appliances, or ones that looked the same. The only difference was the dinette table; this one was chrome and yellow Formica. And on it — a pine bough, two fat cones, two half-burned red candles, and a color photograph of Hendryx’s wife in a tarnished silver frame.

Shrine, he thought. Like a shrine.

For a reason he couldn’t name, it made him uneasy. What kind of man worships a woman enough to create a shrine to her, yet maintains a relationship with another woman? The psychotic kind capable of stalking and kidnapping a third?

Cam stepped into the rear hallway, eyes avoiding the bedroom, and had a look around the screened porch. Washer, dryer, freezer, an ancient cracked oilskin hanging from a nail — nothing. Downstairs toilet. Nothing. Now the bedroom. Come on, come on, one quick look and you’re finished, you’re out of here, you never have to come back again.

The bedroom door was ajar. He stood in front of it, his breath making faint rattling sounds in his throat. He put his fingertips against the panel, pushed, and then clutched at the jamb, cringing, expecting to see blood and death, in reality or in flashback images.

He saw a room, just a room.

Four walls, small unfamiliar rollaway bed, bare unstained floor — an empty room.

He turned away. A few seconds later he was out through the front door, locking it behind him. On the weedy path, sucking cold fresh air, feeling the rain on his upturned face. Through the gate, on the road, into the copse of pines, into his car.

He sat there, feeling... what? As though he’d run a long gauntlet. Calm, almost numb. And acutely relieved. No sign of Jenna, nothing of hers to implicate Hendryx in her disappearance. But it went deeper than that. Beloit: Confront the creatures that inhabit your nightmares. Well, he’d confronted the house creature, and it hadn’t been half so terrifying as he’d imagined. Bad moments, but he’d fought through them, he hadn’t run away.

The sense of helplessness was gone. He was still in a box, but he was out of the attic. He wasn’t hiding anymore.

55

Monday was Nick’s day to go shopping.

On his lunch hour he walked down to a women’s store, one of those boutique places, on the same block as the Goodwill. Looked at some earrings, bought a long dangly pair made of beads and shiny stuff. They’d’ve looked good on Annalisa, so he figured they’d look good on Caitlin. She’d driven up the river on Christmas Day, surprised him with a present — silver key chain with a doodad that had a chunk of real turquoise in it — and he’d felt bad about not having something for her in return. He’d give her the earrings on New Year’s Eve. Asked him to spend it with her, kind of wistful and sad, and he didn’t have the heart to refuse her. Annalisa wouldn’t mind when he told her, about that or about the earrings.

After work he stopped at a hardware store on the north end of Los Alegres, then a furniture store in Rohnert Park, then a building supply outfit in Santa Rosa. Mazda wasn’t built for hauling, so he had to make two trips to the river house — drop off one load, go back to the building supply for the lumber. Took some roping and red-flagging, but he got everything tied on, no problem.

He lined up everything he’d bought, all the items on his list, in the front room. Good thing he’d always been handy. Worked construction building tract houses that one summer before he joined the army. Someday, when he and Annalisa had their own home, he’d have a workshop in the basement or garage, all the latest woodworking equipment, and he’d make things for her — tables, bookcases, one of those little catchall desks, maybe something big and fancy like those glass-fronted cabinets that held dishes and had drawers for silverware and table linens underneath. He could almost hear the whine of the power saws as they cut through fine-grained oak and mahogany and walnut, almost see and smell the flying sawdust. Man, he could hardly wait.

Job here ought to take him about three days, be finished by New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day. Part of this week off from both his jobs, same as last week, so he’d have plenty of time. That’d be a real pleasure, too — hammering and sawing and banging nails and tightening screws again — because it wasn’t just scut work. It was work that had to be just right, because it meant more than any he’d done in a long time.

56

New Year’s Eve.

The Edmondses’ annual party at their hundred-year-old Cherry Valley Victorian. Same dozen couples, same trite, traditional trappings — balloons, noisemakers, party favors, trays of cholesterol-laden canapés, salads, cold cuts. The usual crystal bowl of champagne punch and plenty of hard liquor, but Cam steered clear of it all. He was twitchy just being there; hadn’t wanted to come, but he couldn’t think of a valid excuse to cancel out, and it was a way to take his mind off things for a few hours.

It had been a long, empty week for him. No word on Jenna, no more contact with Lieutenant Dudley, and yet the vague sense of foreboding remained. Hallie knew something was bothering him, but beyond a few tentative overtures, she left him alone. Waiting for him to come to her. If only he could find the courage; he desperately needed to talk to somebody, and she was the only one who really understood him. But would she understand about this? That was the question that kept him mute.

The one positive thing to come out of recent events was that he seemed to have lost his reliance on alcohol. He’d had very little to drink since Jenna’s disappearance. Shocked sober. Shocked right out of his bleak, Rose-haunted indulgences, and into looking at himself and his life in a new, more objective way. The box he was squeezed into now wasn’t the first, merely the latest in a long succession. He’d been sweating and thrashing in dark boxes, mobile coffins, for the past quarter of a century, and booze had only helped to keep him locked in. If there was a way out of this one, out of the others, he’d never find it at the bottom of a bottle.

The party ebbed and flowed around him. He circulated, wearing a happy face like a mummer’s mask, listening, talking little. The main topics of conversation, predictably, were El Niño and Jenna Bailey.

“They’re predicting a chain of storms through most of next week. Heavy rain, high winds.”

“Just listen to it whacking down out there right now. Whole state’s in for heavy flooding. Rivers and lakes are already brimful.”

“You believe that big slide down in Pacifica the other day? Three houses, wham, right off a cliffside into the ocean.”

“That hill back of Rio Nido is liable to take out a few more houses the mud didn’t get last time. Whole slope is liquefied, they say.”

“U.S. Geological Survey estimates losses from slides alone at a billion dollars again this year. Add another billion for general flood damage. You know what that means. Somebody’s got to pay for all the federal and state disaster relief, and that means us, the poor taxpayers.”

“Remember when they said the ’eighty-six flood was the flood of the century on the Russian and Napa Rivers? How many have there been since? Four in the last thirteen years, right? At least two of ’em with higher crests than in ’eighty-six.”

“Weather Service guy said on TV the other night there’s a chance of worse winter weather next century, all across the world. Longer storm chains, floods, slides, coastal erosion, you name it.”

“Bad enough right now, here. We might as well be living in Oregon or Washington State.”

“Global warming, that’s the reason. More and more scientists agree on that. What they can’t agree on is what to do about it.”

“Well, I can give them one answer. Start building a fleet of arks.”

Laughter. The kind with a hollow core and a tiny wiggling undercurrent of fear.

“Anybody hear anything new on the Jenna Bailey kidnapping?”

“How do you know it was a kidnapping? It’s possible she went with some guy voluntarily.”

“And left behind everything she owned and a job that must pay close to six figures a year? You ask me, some sexual predator got her. One of those wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time things.”

“Either that, or it was some guy she knew — one of her lovers past or present. Papers keep hinting she was hot stuff. You knew her pretty well, didn’t you, Cam? Was she hot stuff?”

“One of the county CID investigators is a friend of mine. He says they found a shell casing near where her car was abandoned. Ejected from a thirty-two automatic. She had a thirty-two registered in her name.”

“What do they think it means, Lloyd? She took a shot at the guy who grabbed her?”

“Most likely scenario, since it was her gun.”

“Any chance she hit him?”

“They didn’t find any blood at the scene. But they’re not ruling out the possibility.”

“What else hasn’t the sheriff’s department released to the media, Lloyd?”

“Nothing, except there were two other handguns in her house. A twenty-two in the kitchen and a three-five-seven Magnum in her bedroom nightstand.”

“That’s a lot of firepower for one woman. What was she, a gun nut?”

“Well, she lived by herself. And she’d been raped once before, don’t forget that.”

“That’s right. Five or six years ago, wasn’t it?”

“Six. On the Silverado Trail where she used to work.”

“They catch the guy? Maybe it was the same one this time.”

“No, it wasn’t. They caught him, all right. Convicted on serial rape charges — she was his third or fourth victim. He’s still in San Quentin.”

“Guns aren’t the answer. All of hers didn’t do her any good, did they.”

“Her own fault, if it was somebody she knew. Women who sleep around like that are just asking for trouble.”

“Oh, you men. You think being friendly is an invitation to some jerk to commit rape.”

“We’re not talking friendly here, we’re talking promiscuous. Women with hot pants send out signals that give the wrong guys the wrong ideas.”

“Crap. Rape is hardly ever the woman’s fault. And it isn’t a sex crime, it’s a crime of violence against women. Some sicko’s idea of a power trip.”

“A sicko with a deep-seated sense of inadequacy, probably. It’s a well-known fact that most rapists have an average chubby of two and a half inches.”

“Ha ha. You’re disgusting, you know that, Walter?”

Cam moved away from the group, feeling sickened. Disgusting was the word, all right, not just for Walter but for all of them. Talking about Jenna as if she were a piece of meat, an inanimate object created for their amusement, instead of a flesh-and-blood human being with good and bad qualities, hopes, dreams — a soul — like everybody else. Alive or dead, she deserved better than this. Empathy and compassion, for God’s sake, if nothing else.

He found himself standing in front of the liquor buffet. But just looking at the stuff set up a reaction in his stomach; he poured another glass of ginger ale instead. Hallie was talking to Janet Edmonds, he noticed, and from the glass in her hand, he realized she was also drinking ginger ale. It occurred to him that she’d been watching him and following his lead. And that led to a sudden sharp insight: Not just tonight — on most social occasions, and even when it was the two of them alone — she drank when he drank. When he couldn’t stand himself and drank too much as a blotter, she couldn’t stand him, either, and drank too much in self-defense and to blot out what he was blotting out. His pain was her pain, his release was her release. It should have worked the other way as well: her pain his, her release his. But it hadn’t, not often enough. Selfish. All their married life he’d been selfish, and so whenever he tried not to hurt her, he’d only hurt her more.

The insight gave him something more than understanding; it gave him strength. He asked her to dance as an excuse to talk to her alone.

“Do you mind if we leave before midnight?” he asked.

“Not having a good time?”

“No, but that isn’t the reason. I... need to talk to you. It’s important, Hallie.”

“All right.” No hesitation, no questions. “I’ll make an excuse to Janet, and we can leave right away.”

They were silent in the car. At home he made quick work of paying the sitter, then sat Hallie down in the living room and told her everything except how close he’d come to having an affair with Jenna. The first few words were difficult, but once they were free, it was like removing an obstruction in a reservoir valve: the rest spilled out in a rush until the tank was dry.

She listened without interruption. And when she finally did speak, it was in quiet tones without anger or censure.

“Why didn’t you tell me this right away?”

“I was afraid to. Afraid of what you might think.”

“About you and Jenna.”

“Yes. I didn’t have an affair with her, Hallie. I’ve slept with exactly one woman the past thirteen years — you.”

“I believe you. I can take anything, go through anything with you, except that. Another woman would destroy us.”

“I know that,” he said. “And there’ll never be one, I swear that to you.” The promise was as devout as a prayer.

“Then you never have to be afraid with me, darling. Not about anything, ever.”

57

New Year’s Eve.

Sebastopol. Alone with Caitlin, Theodore away somewhere for the night. Cat happy, dressed up nice with her hair combed and makeup on, bustling around the kitchen like Annalisa used to do, eyes all bright and shiny when he gave her the package with the earrings. Dinner — ham and sweet potatoes. Wine — only a couple of sips for him, three or four glasses for her. Music, not too loud. Sitting together on the couch, her head on his shoulder, her fingers playing with one of the earrings that she’d gone and put on right away, chattering and laughing about nothing much. Something else Annalisa used to do.

Midnight. On TV they watched the ball drop in Times Square in New York City, and she wanted to kiss him and he let her, New Year’s Eve after all, just the one little kiss, even though he could see she wanted more. Another glass of wine for her, and she begged him to hold her the way he had that other time. In the bedroom where it was more comfortable. He wouldn’t’ve done it except that he felt like being held, too, tonight.

Lying in there with her, all their clothes on but their shoes, holding her in the dark. Not enjoying it much at first, letting it go on to please her. Liking it better after a while. Warm, sleepy, relaxed.

Until her hand moved, brushed his thigh, moved again and settled gently between his legs.

Her voice, wine-thick: “It must’ve been a long time for you. Such a long time.”

Didn’t answer. Didn’t feel anything except suddenly all bunched up inside. Lifted her hand, pushed it away.

“Can’t I do something for you, Nickie?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“We don’t have to make love. I can use my hand—”

“No.”

“Or give you head. Would you like that?”

“No.” Pulled away from her, sat up and swung his legs off the bed.

“Nick? I’m sorry, I only wanted to—”

“I have to go,” he said.

“Go? You mean leave?”

“Right now.”

“No, please don’t, please stay with me.”

Slid his feet into his loafers, walked out into the front room. Picked up his jacket from one of the chairs.

Behind him: “Don’t go, Nick. I said I was sorry, it won’t happen again, I swear it won’t.”

Didn’t look at her. Zipped up his jacket and headed for the door. He needed to drive now. Wrap the night and the Mazda tight around himself.

“Nick! I only wanted to do something nice for you!”

Something nice for him. She didn’t understand. Nobody understood, not even Mom and Pop Foster. Nobody knew how alone he was, what he needed, what really mattered to him. Nobody in the whole world except Annalisa.

“You’re no better than your brother,” he said to the woman, and went out and slammed the door behind him.

58

The call came a few minutes before ten on Monday morning.

He’d just gotten off the phone with Lloyd Edmonds. Making an appointment to see Lloyd at his office at one this afternoon. That was the first thing he and Hallie had decided he should do, consult with an attorney to determine his exact legal position. It could wait until today, they’d decided; the Edmondses had left on New Year’s morning for Placerville, to spend the weekend with Janet’s parents, and it hadn’t seemed necessary to upset their holiday plans. Enough time had passed already that an extra couple of days wouldn’t make any difference.

If Lloyd’s advice was that he should go to Lieutenant Dudley, as it probably would be, then that was what he’d have to do. Hallie’s opinion was that he wasn’t guilty of anything, really, except poor judgment. Lloyd would also likely advise him to offer up Nick Hendryx’s name, hold nothing back, and so he’d have to do that, too, in spite of Caitlin. All or nothing — that was the only way out of the box.

He was thinking this when Gretchen buzzed and told him he had a personal call. Important, the man had said. He said all right and picked up.

“Nick Hendryx, Mr. Gallagher.”

He was so surprised, all he could say was, “Yes?”

“I think it’s time we had a talk.”

“Talk about what?”

“Don’t you know? I think you do.”

“If you mean Caitlin—”

“How about I come by your place of business about four-thirty? I’ve got a delivery over your way, and I should be done by then.”

“I wasn’t planning to be here this afternoon.”

“Be a good idea if you changed your plans. I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”

“If you’ll tell me what it’s about—”

“You never having to worry about me again in a few days. Or about your sister and me.”

“...Are you going somewhere?”

“That’s right. Going home pretty soon.”

“Why the sudden decision? Something to do with your wife?”

“Everything to do with her.”

“Is she better?”

“She will be. Four-thirty, Mr. Gallagher. See you then.”

Cam put the receiver down, frowning. Hendryx’s words had had the odd undercurrent again, as if there were hidden meanings in what he’d said. If so, he couldn’t decipher them. Should he meet with Hendryx? Lloyd might urge him to talk to Lieutenant Dudley immediately... but shouldn’t he find out what Hendryx was up to before he did that? If he was going to tell Dudley about him? The lieutenant would certainly want to know what the man’s plans were and why.

Besides, what harm could there be in meeting Hendryx here at PWS and giving him a chance to explain himself?

59

Late Monday afternoon. Almost time.

Watching and waiting, Mazda parked on Blackwell Road under the trees near the closed-up animal shelter. Excitement building in him, hot and cold at the same time. Rain pounding down and smearing the windshield so that he had to keep the window open in order to see out.

Five-ten by his watch.

Clear look from here at Paloma Wine Systems inside its chain-link fence. Lights on in the office wing, pole lights reflecting off puddles in the lot in front. Only two cars left there now, Gallagher’s BMW and a little foreign job. Everybody else had cut out right at five.

Five-fifteen. Woman came out through the office door, umbrella fanning open. Foreign job belonged to her. She fired up the engine, exhaust smoke pumping out white and thick, headlights jabbing on, car gliding through the gate and out onto Blackwell and past where he was and gone.

Five-twenty.

Five-twenty-five.

Sweating over there, Gallagher? Wondering if I’m coming or not? Wondering if I’m really planning to let you off the hook? You’ll find out pretty soon. You’re all mine now. Now you start to pay for what you did.

Five-thirty.

Last of the office lights went out. Gallagher’d had enough of sitting and sweating. Almost time. Nick got the Mazda’s engine humming, switched the wipers on but left the headlamps dark.

Office door opened, Gallagher walked out. Stood hunched there, big black bird shape, wind flapping the tails of his coat. Locking up.

Nick put the tranny in gear, the headlights on. Rolling when Gallagher turned away from the door and half ran for the BMW. Rolling through the gate, the Mazda’s high beams stabbing Wineman, pinning him tight against the driver’s side of his car. Sliding to a stop, close but not too close, angled so the lights still held him in a freeze. Hit the trunk release. Hit the door handle. And Nick was out and moving, not too fast.

“Hendryx. I’d about given up on you...”

Didn’t answer. Kept going, away from Gallagher and along the Mazda to the rear. Lifted the trunk lid all the way up. Reached in and caught up the tire iron, hoisted the Bailey woman’s automatic out of his coat pocket at the same time, turned around with the gun and the iron where Gallagher could see them. Still moving, cutting the distance between them in half.

Gallagher said, “Oh my God.” Scared now. Knew he’d been suckered, but not why yet.

Nick said, “Come here. Get in the trunk.”

“What? Hendryx, for God’s sake—”

“Get in the trunk.”

“I don’t... what’re you...”

“In the trunk. Last time I’ll say it.”

“No. What’s the idea? I won’t—”

“Yeah, you will. By yourself, or I’ll shoot you and put you in. Or bust your kneecap with this iron and put you in.”

Gallagher made a sound like a moan. Eyes bulgy and glistening slimy-white in the light, like raw oysters. Plenty scared now, all right. Piss-in-his-pants scared.

“Three seconds. One. Two...”

Gallagher moved. Slow and jerky, bent forward a little, guy walking into a stiff wind that wasn’t there. Stopped and stared into the trunk.

Headlight beams on Blackwell Road. Nick said, “Hold it. Stand still.”

Stood still himself, body turned sideways to shield his hands from the road. Beams swam past without slowing.

“Now take off your coat. Throw it inside.”

Gallagher did it.

“Get in. Facedown, feet together, hands together behind your back.”

Did it. Not much room in there, had to twist and curl his body to bring both arms around behind him.

“What’re you going to do?” Voice muffled against the carpet mat. “Where’re you taking me?”

Nick put the gun away, the tire iron down. Then he said, “To death row,” and went to work with the roll of duct tape.

60

He wasn’t afraid.

Stunned, dismayed, desolate, but not afraid. In a way that was the most shocking thing of all, the utter absence of terror. He had just looked at death again, felt and smelled and tasted it, different face, different circumstances, but with the same awed disbelief as that night twenty-five years ago — and yet, except for the first minute or two after Hendryx’s arrival, he was quite calm. His own death staring back at him, looming in the dark that surrounded him, and all he felt was a kind of drugged numbness inside and out, as if he’d been given a massive shot of novocaine.

He lay cold and cramped, the car moving, stopping, moving, jouncing. He could hear the tires making serpent hisses on the wet pavement, the hum and rumble of other cars passing. The rough carpet abraded the side of his face; he lifted his head, wiggled his body until he was lying with his weight against his bound hands and his face upturned. The tape Hendryx had pressed across his mouth made breathing difficult. His nostrils twitched with the odors of dust, carpet fiber, grease, and oily metal; the combined smells seemed to act as a clog, so that he was unable to draw enough air through his nasal passages.

Suffocate in here.

The thought came and went. Leaving nothing in its wake.

His hands and arms began to go as numb as his mind. He maneuvered his body again, just enough to take the weight off his arms. He flexed his fingers, tried to catch hold of a tape edge to peel it loose. Couldn’t manage it; Hendryx had bound his wrists crosswise and too high up for his fingers to find purchase. He went through another painful shift, until he was once more in a facedown position, then tried to work the tape off his mouth by rubbing it back and forth across the matting. All the effort earned him was another abrasion. The tape was stuck tight, more than one strip that stretched around under both ears.

A brief surge of anger and desperation prodded him into heaving, twisting contortions — a futile attempt to free his hands and legs that left him as tightly bound and more cramped. Then he was calm again, as empty of emotion as before. He lay motionless, the skin prickling between his shoulder blades.

After a while the constant uneven motion of the car made him sick to his stomach. He tasted bile, felt it in the back of his throat, and thought: Keep it down — puke, and I’ll strangle. He shut his eyes, formed a vise grip with his teeth, locked the muscles in his throat. Lay like that, fighting the nausea. And even then, at the worst internal roilings, what he felt was an empty detachment, as though he were witness to an experiment involving somebody else.

The nausea passed, but the ride went on and on. No more stopping and starting; moving smoothly and steadily, not fast, not slow. Going where? Wherever Hendryx took Jenna? He took her, all right.

Took her and killed her.

Kill me, too. Last words before he shut the trunk... wind tore up the second, but the first was death.

Hallie... the girls... Caitlin? Dear God, no.

Must’ve been planning this all along. And I let him get away with it, walked right into it. Damn stupid fool.

Other thoughts came and went. Some more than once. But none lingered or produced much of a reaction in him except where his family was concerned. Then there were no thoughts, his mind as barren as a wasteland. He vegetated in the cold clotted black, shifting now and then, flexing his fingers to keep the circulation going as much as he could. Listened to the rain, the hissing passage of other cars, the steady throb of his pulse.

Waiting.

Two more thoughts came to him at wide intervals, like wanderers in the wasteland that appeared, passed by, and were gone again.

One: This must be what it’s like to be buried alive.

And the other: Pretty soon, when we get to where we’re going, when the numbness wears off, I’ll find out what kind of man I really am.

61

Something going on. Nick knew it even before he saw the flashing lights of the roadblock.

Hard, driving rain, howling wind gusts strong enough to shake the Mazda. Almost no traffic on the river highway, standing water in low places that forced him to slow down to thirty or less. Nearly all the houses and stores beyond the big Korbel Winery complex dark and closed up. River swollen to a level where it covered low-lying vineyards and fields, turned trees into black jutting shapes like the ones you saw in swamps. So when the cop cars swam into view, their flasher bars making yellow and red smears, he knew they weren’t there for him. An accident, maybe — something to do with the weather.

They were setup on both sides of the bridge that led across the river to Rio Nido, two cruisers on this side blocking the westbound lane. Reflector cones came up blurry in his headlights, then a cop wearing a yellow rain hat and slicker and waving a six-cell flashlight. Nick slowed to a crawl. Thinking: Gallagher makes any noise back there and they make me open the trunk, I’ll shoot him soon as I raise the lid. What happens to me doesn’t matter, long as he dies.

He braked to a stop, and the cop followed his flash beam around on the driver’s side. Nick put on a little smile, slid the window down. Wind whipped icy rain against his face as the cop bent to look in at him. Didn’t shine the flash in his face, just held the beam on the door so enough light reflected up between them to let him see. No, none of this was for him. Or for anybody in particular.

“Are you a resident of this area, sir?”

“Sure am.”

“Evacuation orders came through a little while ago. River’s rising fast — flood stage before noon tomorrow and more storms on the way. No one allowed in or out except emergency vehicles after nine A.M. at the latest. What’s your location?”

Nick strained to hear before he answered. Nothing from the trunk. Gallagher must be passed out or too scared and confused to know what was going on. Or maybe the rain was making too much racket; Nick could barely hear the cop. Any reason Gallagher was quiet, okay, except him lying dead in there like the Bailey woman.

“Crackerbox Road near Duncans Mills,” he said.

Cop said, “High risk of road closure in that area. I’d advise you to evacuate as soon as possible, before dawn to be safe.”

“Thanks, officer.”

“Better leave to the west, as long as you can get across the bridge over there. Highway should be open to Jenner all night, and One south should be okay, too. Drive carefully.”

Nick nodded, put the window up, eased out around the cruisers and across the bridge past the cops and cars and light swirls on that side. Then he was alone again, traveling again, sealed off from the wet outside.

Evacuation orders, floods. He’d heard people talking about it, noted the rain and the river rising halfway up the bank behind the house, but it hadn’t meant much to him. Never seen a flood before. Hadn’t figured it’d happen so soon — too focused on Gallagher. Didn’t bother him, though, any of what the cop had said. Shame people had to leave their homes, lose possessions, but things like that happened, floods and hurricanes, all kinds of natural disasters. Wasn’t anything you could do except get through it in one piece if you could. No, he wasn’t worried. Would’ve been if tomorrow was January 4, because then he’d’ve had to change everything around at the last minute. But the fourth was today, and the only thing that was important about today was that he had Gallagher.

Everything ready and waiting at the river house. Be there pretty soon, and that was where he’d stay, evacuation orders or not. They couldn’t force him to leave unless they knew about Gallagher, and he’d make sure that didn’t happen.

No reprieves for the condemned prisoner. Place and time of the execution was set, and come hell or high water, Cameron Gallagher was going to die right on schedule.

62

Cam was suspended between consciousness and unconsciousness when the car stopped again, with enough of a sliding lurch to rouse him. He might have been riding in the trunk for minutes or hours — he had lost all track of time. His body, his limbs, had a frozen feel. Shivers racked him; he had almost no feeling in his hands and feet. His head ached from the exhaust fumes and the hot-oil stench. Breath whistled in his nose, rattled in his throat, ached rawly in his lungs.

All of that, and still his emotions remained as frozen as his skin.

Door slam, but the engine continued to idle. He waited for the trunk lid to open; it didn’t happen. Before long Hendryx was back behind the wheel, and the car was splashing and rocking forward along what felt like deep ruts. A sudden bump threw him around in the tight space, bounced his head off a metal surface. His grunt of pain died behind the tape gag. The car rolled a few more feet, there was another bump, and then it stopped once more, and this time the engine shut off.

Storm sounds. Then another door-slam and heavy, muffled steps. And the trunk lock released, the light in there came on as the lid was raised — not bright, but after the pitch-blackness it made him squint. The way he was folded up on his right side, he couldn’t see Hendryx. Just as well.

“End of the line, Gallagher.”

Hands pulled roughly at the tape binding his ankles. Even when they were free, he couldn’t move either leg except for little painful spasms in his thighs. There was no sensation at all below the knees.

Hendryx left his wrists tied, the tape in place over his mouth. The hands bunched in his clothing, tugged and turned and lifted him out of the trunk, scraping one hip on the lock mechanism, banging his head again. Hendryx held him propped against the car, his useless legs dangling to the floor, standing close enough to breathe tooth rot into his face.

Cam turned his head aside, sucked cold, fresh air to clear his head and lungs. Garage — he could make out walls, roof, rough plank floor. Beyond Hendryx and the doorless front there was nothing but sodden blackness. Gusts of rain-laden wind blew in and started him trembling again.

“Stand up. Walk.”

He shook his head stiffly, shook it again. Hendryx mistook the gestures for refusal, yanked him away from the car, and then released him and gave him a shove. His dead legs collapsed immediately and he was on the wet floorboards looking up. Hendryx hauled him upright, but the same thing happened as soon as he was released.

“Can’t you walk?”

Cam wagged his head.

“Drag you, then. We’re not waiting around out here.”

Hendryx lifted him once more, without much effort; more strength in that wiry body than it looked to have. They moved out of the garage into the rain and wind, one of Hendryx’s arms tight around his waist and the other gripping his arm, his feet dragging through wet grass and puddles like miniature lakes. House shape ahead, no lights. No lights anywhere. Swaying trees. And a loud pulsing, roaring noise — fast water somewhere close by.

Floodwater.

River house.

Jesus, why here?

It seemed to take a long time to reach the porch. By then Cam had some feeling back in his legs — muscle twinges, the pins-and-needles tingling that meant blood was flowing again. The numbness inside was wearing off, too. Sharpening awareness, muted feelings of rage and hate. No panic. Whatever fear lived in him ran as deep as the currents in the swollen river behind the house.

They were at the door. Hendryx held him braced with shoulder and knee while he keyed the lock. Inside then, the door slapping shut behind them. As cold and dark inside as it was outside. Furnace must be off... no gas or electricity? Power lines must be down all over the area. There were always power outages during storms with high winds—

But not here, not yet. Hendryx flipped the switch, and the hall light came on. Cam blinked, squinted as they crossed into the front parlor. The light clicked on in there, too.

Hendryx carried him to the overstuffed couch, pushed him down on it. Rolled him over, lifted his legs so he was lying flat on his belly with his ankles raised over one of the armrests. He heard the tearing sound of the tape being unwound from his wrists, but he had so little feeling in his hands and arms he wasn’t sure when they were free. Fingers pawed at his scalp, found purchase in his hair, yanked his head up; other fingers tore the tape off his mouth.

Hendryx let go of him, moved away. Then, “All right. Sit up and look at me.”

No, he thought, stay like this for now. Gesture of defiance. But he didn’t obey the impulse. Too helpless, too submissive lying here this way — don’t give the bastard the satisfaction.

He couldn’t use his hands or arms, and his legs weren’t much help, either; he was like a limbless man, a carnival freak performing a trick in a sideshow. Squirming, flopping with hips and torso — contortions and gyrations that left him panting when at last he heaved himself into an upright sprawl. He expected to see his captor laughing at him, enjoying his discomfort, but Hendryx was sitting rigidly in a chair a few feet away, wearing a fixed expression of brooding implacability.

“You know where we are, Gallagher?”

Nod. His throat was too sore, his mouth too dry, for words yet. He worked at producing saliva, at straightening himself on the cushions.

“How does it feel to be back home again after so many years?”

Cam looked away, remembering his visit here last week. If he hadn’t come then, if this really was his first time in the house since January of 1974, would he still be so calm? Facing a private hell was one thing when you were alone, in control of the situation. And another when you were at the mercy of a madman.

He stared at his hands lying at his sides. Lumps of dead meat, enormous bloated useless things. A little tingling had begun in his forearms, but that was all. Only his feet felt alive, buzzing furiously and starting to ache.

“I asked you a question, Gallagher.”

He licked cracked lips, managed to swallow. The words he forced out were a frog croak. “Isn’t my home.”

“Was once. Is again, now.”

“Why’d you bring me here?”

“Don’t you know?”

“I don’t know anything.” His voice was stronger. “Who you are, why you’re doing this.”

“Today’s January fourth.”

“What does that—?”

“Your twenty-fifth anniversary.”

Cam stared at him.

“You remember what happened twenty-five years ago tonight, Gallagher. Your father, your mother. You.”

January 4. He’d blanked completely on the date. The shivers were at him again as he said, “Caitlin. She told you about it.”

“That’s right. She told me everything.”

“I don’t... what does my family have to do with you bringing me here?”

“Anniversaries,” Hendryx said. “Two in January, four days apart.”

“... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Punishment for your crimes. Perfect timing.”

“What crimes?”

“Father, mother, sister.”

“For God’s sake, I was ten years old, none of what happened was my fault—”

“Not what Caitlin says. And what you did to Annalisa, that was all your fault.”

“I don’t know any Annalisa—”

“My wife. Woman you ran down in Denver and left to die. January eighth. Your second anniversary.”

What he was feeling now was surreality, as if he were caught in a new nightmare made up of old body parts. “This is crazy,” he said. “You’re crazy, Hendryx. I’ve never been in Denver in January, I told you that once — I’ve never hit anyone with a car, never had even a minor accident.”

“Keep on lying, it won’t do you any good. I know you’re guilty.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Your face. Damn ugly face.”

“Christ, what’re you talking about now?”

“Police sketch.” Hendryx stood, withdrew something from his coat pocket, advanced with the gun in one hand and a rectangle of laminated plastic in the other. He extended the plastic close to Cam’s eyes. “This one.”

Pen-and-ink drawing of a man’s head and face. Similar shape, similar features, same hairline — but it wasn’t him. “It’s not me,” he said. “Somebody I resemble, that’s all.”

“You,” Hendryx said.

“It could be anybody! It’s not me!”

Hendryx put the sketch away, backed up, and sat down with the automatic on his lap. His eyes were like holes burned into the set planes of his face. The fury in them was old, stoked and brooded over for a long time.

“You,” he said again. “You’re guilty and sentence has been passed. Execution date is the eighth. Four days on death row, then you get what’s coming to you.”

Hold on, stay calm. But he could feel the undercurrents of panic flowing closer to the surface.

“You’re going to kill me, just like that?”

“Execute you.”

“Without a trial.”

“You don’t deserve a trial. Not after what you did to Annalisa.”

“You wouldn’t hurt my wife?” Working to keep his voice steady, controlled. “My daughters or Caitlin?”

The look Hendryx gave him was almost pitying. “I’m not like you, Gallagher. I don’t hurt innocent people.”

“How can I believe that? I know you did something to Jenna Bailey—”

“Wrong. Did it to herself.”

“You kidnapped her.”

“No. She tried to shoot me.”

“You must’ve given her a reason.”

“Told you, it was her fault.”

“Did you try to rape her? Is that it?”

“Rape—! What d’you think I am?”

“What did you do, then?”

“Never mind. Shut up about her.”

Cam let a few seconds pass before he said, “My family, Hendryx. You swear you’ll leave them alone?”

“You. Just you.”

“The condemned prisoner.”

“That’s right.

“How am I going to die? Shoot me down in cold blood?”

“Don’t know yet. It won’t be in cold blood, no matter what. Execution isn’t murder.”

“A lot of people believe it is.”

“I don’t care what a lot of people believe.”

Cam took a breath, let it out slowly. Outside the wind seemed wilder, buffeting the house and shrieking in the eaves as if it were frustrated at being denied admittance. His left hand was pins-and-needles now; he was able to move it, then lift it onto his lap. Coax the sausage fingers into massaging the lump that was his right hand.

“Even if I was guilty,” he said, “I haven’t committed a capital crime.”

“What?”

“What you think I did, the hit-and-run. Your wife’s still alive, you said.”

“Yeah. In a hospital bed, not herself anymore, suffering on account of you. That’s the same as killing her.”

“Hendryx, listen to me—”

“Just the same.”

“All right, what about you? You’ve committed two capital offenses, worse ones than mine. If I deserve to be executed, so do you.”

“Bullshit. What d’you mean, capital offenses?”

“Kidnapping, that’s one. Two counts, Jenna and now me. You killed her, that’s two, and now you want to—”

“I didn’t kill your slut.”

“My— What do you think she was to me?”

“Bimbo, piece on the side.”

“I wasn’t having an affair with her. Is that what you think? Jesus, is that why you hurt her — another way to punish me?”

“Don’t you listen? She did it to herself.”

“Where is she? If she’s dead, you’re responsible—”

“Shut up about her! I didn’t kill her, I’m not responsible!”

“Okay. Okay, I believe you. Why won’t you believe I’m not responsible for hurting your wife?”

In a single convulsive movement Hendryx was out of the chair. His face was blood-dark; a tic jumped along one cheekbone, as if something beneath the skin was trying to tear loose. The gun was in his hand again. Small weapon, small caliber... Jenna’s missing .32?

“That’s enough talk,” he said. “Get up.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Put you where you belong, where I don’t have to listen to you anymore. Get up off there.”

“I can’t walk yet—”

“Walk or crawl, one or the other. Now!”

Argument was futile; it had been futile all along. You can’t reason with a madman — how many times had he heard that said? Any more resistance might provoke him into using that gun.

It took Cam three painful tries to stand. His legs were wobbly, still tingling, but he could stay up on them, and he could walk in an awkward, shuffling gait. Hendryx kept his distance — no more help from him. Partial feeling in his left hand, enough so he could use it as a brace against the end table alongside the couch. He made it from there to the hallway arch, leaned against the jamb.

“Upstairs,” Hendryx said.

It was like climbing a steep wall. Each riser was a little piece of agony, even with the banister for support. Movement took all his concentration, and that was just as well — he didn’t want to think anymore right now.

His legs felt weak and sore when he reached the second-floor landing, but the stinging sensations were gone. His left hand felt almost normal. His right had regained some feeling as well.

Hendryx put on the upstairs hall lights. “You know where the attic door is,” he said.

Cam’s pulse skipped; his step faltered, and he had to brace himself against the inside wall. Attic. Should’ve known that was where Hendryx would put him. The haunted place, the nightmare place.

The attic door was shut. He was a few feet from it before he realized that a pair of heavy, new-looking iron brackets had been mounted one on either side of the frame. And that a three-foot length of two-by-four was propped against the wall.

Hendryx stepped around in front of him, pulled the door open. Enough light penetrated the shadows within to show Cam that there was no longer even a dead bulb in the wall fixture.

“Inside. Everything’s ready for you.”

A draft from above gave him a whiff of the fetid smells of dust, mildew, mouse turds. It brought a tight shriveling to his groin. “Hendryx, for the love of God—”

“Get in there.” He waited until Cam had half-dragged himself around and through the narrow opening. “This is where you belong,” he said then. “Death row cell for the next four nights and days.”

And the door slammed shut and the two-by-four clattered into the iron brackets, trapping him once more in utter blackness.

63

Gray dawn, storm still blowing wild outside.

Nick got up, got dressed, walked down the hall to listen at the barred attic door. Quiet up there. He imagined Gallagher hiding in the dark, Little Jack Horner crouched in a corner. Image put a smile on his mouth.

He went on to the back bedroom, whistling “Who’ll Stop the Rain?” between his teeth. Tune Annalisa’d always liked. I’ll stop it, honey, he thought. Not here but where you are, inside of you. Pretty soon now. Comin’ home to you. Blue skies, nothing but blue skies from now on.

Beads of moisture on the window. He rubbed it off, looked out. River was flooding big-time, all right. Surprised him a little to see how far over its banks it was on this side, lapping at the top of the slope, some of the grassy yard underwater already. Another foot or two, and it’d be climbing the back steps. On the far side it was up to within a few feet of the highway. Not a river anymore, a muddy brown running lake. Fast current, eddies, white scum along the edges, half-submerged trees, logs and branches and all kinds of crap swirling and dancing along. Low clouds, black-bellied, and the rain coming down so heavy it was like a silver curtain.

He watched a high-wheeled truck with its lights on easing along the highway, plowing up spray. Some kind of rescue vehicle? He’d better get cracking.

Went into the bathroom first to take a leak. Flipped the light switch, and nothing happened. Power must’ve gone out during the night. No wonder it was so damn cold in here. He’d turned the furnace up over seventy before he turned in.

Downstairs he tried the lights in the hall, just to make sure. Yeah, the power was out. He shrugged into his coat, stepped out onto the porch. Front yard looked like a swamp, so much water and hillside mud on Crackerbox Road you could hardly see the asphalt. Weren’t any rescue crews around here yet, but somebody could come along before the day got too old and the flood closed all the roads.

One thing he had to do and do quick was move the Mazda. Leave it where it was, and anybody showed up, they’d figure the house was still occupied and come banging on the door, trying to get him to leave. More important was keeping the car safe. Lane into the garage was under at least an inch of water. Wouldn’t take much more of a rise for the garage floor to be under, too. Another eight to ten feet, the Mazda’d be floating. Water would screw up the brakes, knock out the electrical system — he wouldn’t be driving it anywhere when the flood level went down.

Down the road a ways somebody’d built a house high among the pines on the opposite side. Long driveway leading up to it. Place looked closed up for the winter — shutters over all the windows, no lights showing any of the times he’d passed it after dark. It was on ground higher than the roof of this house; river’d have to rise another forty or fifty feet to do any damage up there. No way that’d happen. Mazda’d be safe up there.

He slogged across to the garage. Whistled “My Baby Loves Me” as he started the car, backed it out. He felt good this morning. Weather didn’t bother him, flood didn’t bother him, nothing bothered him. New day, only three left until the execution. And in less than a week he’d be with Annalisa again. Gallagher’s talk talk talk had gotten to him last night, but he’d been tired and a little stressed out. Bailey woman’s death was a freak accident, he’d already settled that. And the punishment he’d designed for Gallagher was exactly right.

What could be more right than doing what had to be done for the woman you loved?

64

Cam lay shivering in the dark. The only way he’d known it was morning was by the faint, thin line of gray at the rear wall. Hendryx had closed off both small dormer windows with inch-thick boards screwed to the wall, half a dozen flathead screws to each piece to prevent them from being torn loose. The boards across the front window were fitted tightly together so no light showed through; the gap between two at the rear window, near the top, was a quarter of an inch at its widest, where the wood on one length had warped. The thread of daylight that shone there barely penetrated the thick gloom. All it was good for was as a peephole on disaster. By rising up on his knees and flattening one side of his face against the boards, he could look out and down at the river ripping madly at its banks.

He had crawled all over the attic, front to back, side to side. Not last night — this morning, a little while ago. Last night he’d huddled at the bottom of the stairs, unable to bring himself to climb up until cold and muscle cramps forced him into it; and when he’d got up here, he’d found the mattress near the top of the stairs and been too exhausted to do anything but crawl onto it. What little sleep he’d had had been fitful: jerk awake, doze, jerk awake, doze. It was the biting cold and the thin line of morning that had started him moving again.

Except for mice in the walls, spiders and their webs, the mattress was the only thing in the attic other than himself. The rest of the floor space and the walls were bare. Not even a bucket to use as a toilet. The mattress was child-size — he understood why without letting himself think much about it — and it felt and smelled new. Hendryx had meant it literally when he called the attic a cell. A death row cell in a prison run by a lunatic.

There was no way out of this box. His keys and penknife were gone; so were his belt with its thin-edged buckle, the few coins he’d had in his pocket. Hendryx had removed all of that in the PWS lot, after he’d finished trussing him up. Hadn’t seemed to be much sense in it at the time; now it was plain that Hendryx had been making sure there was nothing on him that could be used to work on the screws.

The door downstairs was the only possible exit. He had no chance of breaking it down with the two-by-four securing it. And Hendryx was not going to open it between now and Friday, the eighth — not to bring him food, not for any reason. Solitary confinement. Without even bread and water for the condemned prisoner. When that door finally did open again, it would be with care and cunning, to take him on his last walk or to carry out the death sentence right here. He’d be too weak to resist by then. No food or water for four days, nothing but his damp suit and shirt to shield him from the bitter cold, his throat already parched and scratchy... He might not even be able to crawl.

His one hope lay in outside help. Hallie knew about Hendryx; so did Lloyd now, after yesterday’s consultation. They’d tell the authorities, may already have done it. But there was no proof that Hendryx was responsible for his sudden disappearance, any more than there’d been in Jenna’s case. The police couldn’t mount an official investigation anyway on a missing person’s report until twenty-four hours had elapsed. Worst of all, there was the storm and the flooding river. All day yesterday there’d been countywide flash-flood warnings, reports of massive evacuations under way along the Russian River, and forecasts of a string of powerful storms over the next three days. By now, or very soon, the roads in and out of the area would be closed. As long as the heavy wind and rain continued, rescue boats couldn’t operate, and helicopters couldn’t fly safely. Even if rescuers did show up here, he had no way to signal them, and Hendryx couldn’t be forced to evacuate or to let anybody inside the house without a search warrant.

His only hope was no hope at all.

Dead man.

He listened to the wind rattling boards, the rain slashing against eaves and dormers, and thought about death. Not the sudden ceasing to exist, the nearness of whatever lay beyond, if anything did; he couldn’t quite deal with any of that yet. Death by murder, himself as the object of a cold-blooded, premeditated “execution.” The concept that a stranger, a madman, wanted him dead — wanted it badly enough to plot a bizarre scheme involving Caitlin and Jenna that had lasted for weeks — was as awesome as the specter of death itself. Him, Cameron Gallagher, singled out of millions of other men merely because he happened to bear a resemblance to an unknown felon, a face in a sketch. Going about his normal routine, struggling with all his other problems, not asking for much more than survival and a little peace of mind, while the madman stalked him day and night, schemed and assembled his plan, and put it into action.

The thought plagued him that he could have saved himself by telling the authorities about Hendryx immediately after Jenna vanished. Yet he knew it wasn’t true. What could they have done except talk to Hendryx, check into his past? No grounds for a search warrant there, either — and they wouldn’t have found anything in the house even if they had gotten a warrant, just as he hadn’t found anything last week. Jenna had probably been dead since that Friday night, her body buried far away from here. The county CID wouldn’t even have had cause to keep Hendryx under surveillance. He’d have been free to do as he pleased — and what he pleased to do was take Cameron Gallagher’s life.

The fear in him had surfaced, but only in the shadows of his mind. Mostly what he felt was a hatred for Nick Hendryx that was as powerful as any Hendryx felt for him. He, too, wanted another human being dead. Would make him dead if he could. Would strangle him, bludgeon him, shoot him, stab him, kill him if he could.

For now the hatred was sustaining. He focused on it, nurtured it as if it were a seedling, held it and stroked it and urged it to grow. The more it grew, the greater the barrier to hold fear at bay. But for how long? Until Friday — that long? Another seventy or eighty hours trapped in endless night?

If the fear grew faster and stronger than the hate, if it swarmed over him and began tearing at his soul, he’d be lost. He’d be ten years old again, screaming and pissing on himself. He’d beg for his life when the time came, crawl to his death with all sanity blown away. Somewhere else, anywhere else, the hatred might continue to sustain him, and he could die with rage and dignity. But not in this house where Rose and Paul had died in shame. Not in this attic where part of himself had died along with them.

65

Nick sat in the front room, wrapped up in his coat, no fire because he didn’t want the smoke to alert anybody that might be in the area. Eating a bag of M&Ms and drinking coffee he’d made with murky tap water. Still feeling good, thinking about Annalisa.

And somebody came up on the porch.

Thump, thump — he heard it plain. Then the doorknob rattled. Whoever it was trying to get in.

He jumped up, spilling the coffee, and ran out into the hall. Got there just as the door came flying inward, wind and rain and a figure in a hooded raincoat barging right into his house. Intruder leaned back against the door to get it shut, face coming up so he could see under the hood.

Caitlin.

Nick stared at her, she stared at him. “You are still here,” she said. “I didn’t see your car, so I thought—”

“What’s the idea, barging in here like that?”

“I thought you were gone.”

“Then why’d you come inside?”

Her face was pinched and white, mouth tight set, eyes bright. Stressed out. Damn flood, maybe, and maybe not. Voice sharper when she said, “This is my house, Nick.”

“Just caught me by surprise, that’s all. How long’ll the roads be open?”

“Not much longer. I almost didn’t get through.”

“Better leave quick, then, before you’re stranded.”

“What about you?”

“Me, too. Right after you.”

“Where’s your car?”

“High ground, close by. Why’d you drive all the way up here, anyway?”

“My brother’s missing,” she said.

Nick put on a surprised face. “Missing?”

“Since last night. He didn’t come home, and his wife’s frantic. She called me before dawn.”

“Maybe he got drunk or went off with a woman. Or both.”

Headshake. “Cameron wouldn’t do anything like that. His car’s still at Paloma Wine Systems. Hallie had an employee go and check.”

“So he went off with somebody. He’ll turn up, don’t worry. Might even be home by now.”

“Nick... did you see him last night?”

“Me? No. What made you ask that?”

“You weren’t over in the Paloma Valley?”

“I came straight here after work. What the hell, Cat? You think I had something to do with him going missing?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t, did you?”

“No.”

Kept looking at him, picking at his face with her eyes. Trying to make up her mind whether or not he was telling her the truth.

“You think he’s here, is that it? Well, go ahead, look around, waste the time. Then neither of us’ll get out before the roads are closed.”

“Maybe I should. Hallie asked me to.”

Goddamn woman, making it hard for him and bad for both of them. “Rain’s coming down harder,” he said.

No answer. Now she had her nose up and was snuffling the air like an animal.

“What’s that smell?” she said.

“Smell?”

“Don’t you smell it?”

“No. Listen, we don’t have much time—”

She moved away before he could do anything about it, walking quick along the hall to the kitchen.

He went after her, not as fast as he should’ve. Had to get her out of here one way or another, before she took it into her head to snoop around upstairs. Gallagher heard her, he’d start yelling. But Nick couldn’t catch hold of an idea, and by the time he was in the kitchen, she was already out of it, on her way to the back porch.

His nose twitched. Oh man, she was right about the smell. Why hadn’t he—?

He broke into a run to the porch.

Too late. She was at the far wall, standing in front of the fucking thing that squatted there.

“Rotten meat,” she said. “Nick, I told you the freezer doesn’t work right, doesn’t keep things frozen, and with the power off—”

“Cat, don’t open it!”

Opened it anyway. Looked inside.

He got to her just as she started to scream.

66

Cam heard it. There was a momentary lull in the storm, and the cry came up thin and shrill through the old walls and floors, then cut off on a rising note. The wind... but it hadn’t sounded like the wind. Human cry. The voice of terror.

He sat up on the mattress, still hugging himself with his chilled hands tucked into his armpits, and listened. Beat of the rain, skirl of the wind. Inside — nothing. Imagination, hallucination. A shriek out of the past, out of his nightmares.

Fresh tremors set his teeth chattering. Time to move again. Stand up and walk hunched and shuffling like an old blind man, from one end of his cell to the other. Or crawl along the floor, with a stop to peer once more at the tiny, sodden piece of the outside world that was left to him. Keep moving as often and as long as he was able. Lie huddled too long on the hard mattress, and his joints would seize up, he’d lose all motor response, and eventually the cold would stop his heart. Not that that was such a bad way to die. Sure to be less painful than whatever Hendryx had in store for him. Later, that might be an option. Now he still had the rage, he still had the will to live.

He pushed up onto his knees. Got one foot down on the floor and prepared for the effort it would take to stand.

Noises in the hallway below.

Footsteps, heavy and uneven. And then something thudding onto the floor or against the wall near the attic door.

“Gallagher! You hear me up there?”

Cam dropped to all fours again, crawled sideways to the top of the stairs.

Hendryx’s shout was louder this time: “I’m going to open the door. Your sister’s down here with me. I see or hear you on the stairs, I’ll put a bullet in her head.”

Caitlin!

“You hear me, Gallagher? Yell out so I know.”

His voice box might have been rusted shut; it took three tries to produce more than a creaky whisper. Then, with his head pushed into the stairwell and his pulse hammering, he managed, “I hear you. Don’t hurt her.”

“Not if you stay put.”

Three, four, five seconds. And Cam heard the scraping and banging of the two-by-four being lifted from the brackets. A key scratched in the lock. He jerked his head back as the door swung outward and light framed the opening below. Thin, filtered daylight that didn’t penetrate the shadows within, couldn’t possibly reach up to where he was crouched.

Tensely, blinking, he watched Hendryx move across the gray rectangle, out of sight again. Sounds. And Hendryx reappeared, carrying an inert shape in his arms. He stepped through the doorway, laid the shape at the foot of the stairs — slowly, almost gently. When he straightened and retreated, he turned his body, so that the last thing Cam saw was the stubby phallic barrel of the gun.

Another shout from behind the door: “Stay where you are until I’m gone. Then you can come down and get her.”

The door slammed shut.

Cam listened again to the key in the lock, the bar dropping into place. Instead of retreating footsteps, Hendryx’s voice came once more, thick and muffled.

“She didn’t give me any choice. You hear me, Gallagher? I don’t want to punish her, but she didn’t give me any choice. You tell her that. She’s the one to blame, not me.”

A little silence. And then the footsteps, going away.

As soon as they faded, Cam was on the stairs, sliding down the risers on his buttocks because he was afraid of falling if he tried to descend standing up. He could hear the uneven rasp of Caitlin’s breathing before he reached her. When his hands found the rough cloth of her coat, she made a throat sound, half moan and half retch. He wrapped his arms around her thin body, lifted her, maneuvered both of them until they were sitting huddled on one of the lower steps. Held her, whispering protective words that brought a flash of childhood memory, big brother and little sister on a long-ago stormy night when the power had suddenly failed: “It’s all right, Cat, don’t be afraid. It’s all right.”

Terror and confusion had her when she first came to. She struggled in his grasp, crying out. He kept talking to her until the familiar sound of his voice penetrated; she sagged against him for a moment, then pulled away abruptly and scooted over against the wall.

“It’s so dark,” she said thickly. “Where are we?”

“Attic stairwell.”

“Locked in?”

“Yes. Cat, what’re you doing here? Did he bring you?”

“No. Drove up myself.”

“Why?”

“Hallie called, said you were missing—”

“The police? Do they know you came here?”

“No. I left right away... didn’t really believe you’d be here, even after what Hallie said, but she was so upset... Roads are flooded, they almost didn’t let me through...”

“You sound woozy. What did he do to you?”

“Hit me, my cheekbone—” She broke off and he heard the sudden sharp intake of her breath. “Oh God, Cameron! The back porch, the freezer—”

“What about it?”

“A body; what’s left of a woman’s body! Jenna Bailey... he’s the one, he killed her...”

Cam tasted sickness. “Jenna,” he said.

“He... my God, my God, he’s a monster...”

Chills chased along Cam’s back. The freezer. Not a grave somewhere, here in the house. The whole time he’d been here last week, she was right there in the freezer. If he’d opened it then... if he’d just thought to look inside...

“I believed in him, trusted him.” Caitlin’s voice was a whisper, heavy with loathing. “How could I have been so stupid!”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“I should have listened to you, I should have—” A fit of coughing seized her, dry, painful sounds in the cold blackness. When it was over, she asked, “Why does he hate you so much? Why did he bring you here?”

“He thinks I’m the one who ran down his wife.” He told her about the sketch. “He’s completely delusional. It doesn’t even look that much like me.”

“First Jenna Bailey and then you and now me. He’s going to kill me, too.”

“No, I’m the one he—”

“He can’t let me go after what I saw. He... oh Christ, Cameron, we have to get out of here. One of the attic windows, we can climb out on the roof—”

“He boarded them up.”

“Another way, then. There has to be some way... we have to get out of here!”

“We will,” he said. “We’ll find a way.”

But it was another lie.

Hendryx intended to kill both of them. And there was no way out.

67

Drive, drive, day ride, night ride. Needed to do that more than anything else right now, the car, the open road, tires whispering engine humming everything rushing past and him inside safe, secure, in control of his destiny, hours and hours hurtling through the daylight and the dark, going home to Annalisa. But he couldn’t drive, couldn’t go home yet, couldn’t even get out of this fucking house with the river rising, water inches deep on the road already, water everywhere he looked, it was like being trapped on an island in a swamp and the rain wouldn’t let up, just kept beating down beating down, and in here he could smell her in the freezer even with the windows open, why hadn’t he smelled her before, why hadn’t he taken her body somewhere and buried it instead of trusting that goddamn freezer, so what if somebody’d found the grave, it wasn’t his fault and they couldn’t tie her to him, what was he thinking that night, head up his butt, if he’d buried her he wouldn’t have the smell, he wouldn’t have Caitlin. Why’d she have to come here today, now he’d have to punish her too. What choice did he have, punish her along with Gallagher and he didn’t want to do that, poor Caitlin, he liked her, he really did, she wasn’t a bitch like the Bailey woman, she reminded him of Annalisa just wanting to be held, but now she was in his way making him change things all around, do things he didn’t want to do. And he couldn’t sit still, couldn’t drive, couldn’t do anything but walk walk walk, one room to another, upstairs downstairs, rain and cold blowing in through the open windows it was like an icebox in here, like a freezer no don’t think about that, why wouldn’t that dead woman smell go away? Walk with the cold in his bones, walk with the stink in his nose, he couldn’t stand two more days in here like this no three more days but what else could he do he couldn’t change the schedule and even if he could even if he executed Gallagher now Caitlin now he couldn’t get out couldn’t get the car couldn’t drive couldn’t go home couldn’t see Annalisa until the rain quit flood quit all he could do was walk and it felt like the top of his head was coming off walk cold wet dead smell walk walk walk because he couldn’t drive drive drive—

68

Cam knelt alongside the rear window, one eye close to the gap between the boards, watching the river run wild below. Rain lay like crinkled cellophane wrap on the dirty glass, so that everything outside seemed shimmery, distorted — the low-hanging black clouds, the half-submerged trees along the banks, the drift and wreckage riding the churning brown flood. As much of the property as he could see was underwater; there was probably water in the first-floor rooms by now. He could hear the sound of it out there, a constant thrumming rhythm, even with the rain drumming furious riffs above.

It was late afternoon now; the already fading daylight told him that. And yet his time sense was so fouled by the oppressive darkness that it seemed as though he’d been trapped in the attic much longer than nineteen or twenty hours. Days, endless days. He had difficulty recalling when he’d last seen the sun, or bright warm light of any kind. The rain, the blackness, might have been inside him as well, so that if he looked into a mirror, into his own eyes, what he’d see would be a wet, gray, swampy place, a landscape as desolate as the one he was witness to outside.

Caitlin stirred on the child’s mattress. “Cameron? What’re you doing?” Her voice was listless, a dissonance in the dark like the rain and flood sounds.

“Watching for rescue boats.”

“You might as well be jerking off.”

He didn’t respond to that.

“What’s the use?” she said. “Roads are all closed by now. By the time anyone finds us, it’ll be too late. We’ll be dead.”

“Not if the storms let up soon enough.”

“Nick will kill us before he’ll let us be rescued. You know he will.”

“Don’t think that way, Cat. Don’t give up.”

“Shit,” she said, “I already have.”

He resisted an impulse to go to her, try to give her a little comfort. The one time he’d attempted that, after she discovered just how escape-proof the attic was, she had pulled violently away from him and huddled up on the mattress, claiming it for herself. She hadn’t said much since then. He wondered if she blamed him, at least partly, for what was happening to them, in the same way she’d always blamed him for Rose’s death. Probably. We’re still not brother and sister, he thought, we’re still a pair of old antagonists. The grim, terrifying intimacy of the trap they were in, instead of drawing them close, only intensified the rift and strain that had built up between them. Even the prospect of dying together couldn’t bring them close to each other again.

She was right: What was the use in pretending there was hope when there wasn’t? Hendryx had removed anything Caitlin might have had in her possession that could be used on the screws, and the boards couldn’t be budged by hand; abrasions and splinters and a torn nail were all he’d gotten from that effort. The door below was an impregnable barrier. And the gun and his weakened state made the situation that much more hopeless.

His fear was like the river outside, continuing to rise and slowly, steadily tearing down what was left of his defenses. He could almost smell it in himself, an oozing stench like the brown-slime odor of the flood. He couldn’t withstand it much longer. If it weren’t for Caitlin being here, he might already have been swept away.

For another minute or so he watched the slanting rain, the turmoil of conflicting currents and weird boils and eddy lines in the main river channel, the soapy yellowish white foam that scudded along the ravaged banks, the debris weaving drunkenly across the range of his vision. Reluctant to exchange even such a scene of devastation for the suffocating blackness and more of Caitlin’s bitter silence.

A sudden gust of wind seemed to rattle and shake the entire house. That, and a gathering cramp in his leg, finally drove him away from the gap. He managed to stand, flexed his leg until the cramp eased, then began to make his way around the walls in a humped-over, shuffling stride, his hands sliding over rough wood and through clinging strands of spider silk. When he reached the front dormer window, he made another futile try at loosening one of the boards with his hands. Moved on, kept moving, through two full circuits around the perimeter of their prison.

Muffled sobbing sounds stopped him. He lowered to all fours again, crawled to the mattress. Caitlin was curled up on it tight as a shrimp. When he touched her face — wet, cold-hot — she jerked away as if from something obscene. He sat back on his haunches, helpless, his mind blank.

A long time passed before the sobbing ended and she said, “I’m a baby. A goddamn baby.”

“No. It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right. I’m like you were the night Ma died — curled up on a fucking mattress, bawling my head off. Next thing I’ll be pissing in my pants.”

Words, just words. They didn’t hurt him; words couldn’t hurt him anymore.

Another long silence. Then, dully, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s all right,” he said again.

“I understand what it must’ve been like for you. Jesus, Cammie, for the first time I really do.”

Cammie. She hadn’t called him that since she was eight years old, probably didn’t even realize she’d used the name. He yearned to touch her, but he didn’t. He couldn’t stand to have her shrink away from him again.

“I wish I had a cigarette,” she said. “I’d kill for a cigarette right now.” She coughed, laughed a little wildly, stifled another cough. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” she said.

“You’ll be okay, Cat.”

“Like hell I will. The dark... you know I’ve always hated the dark.”

“I know.”

“I think... I’m scared I’ll lose it. I mean really lose it, Cameron. You understand?”

“Yes. Me, too. But it won’t happen.”

She snuffled and started to cry again. Still he didn’t touch her — and then abruptly he did, a lowering of his hand to her shoulder that was almost like a spasm. This time she neither drew away nor cringed. Just lay there sobbing, her shoulder trembling under his hand.

So thin, so small, not much bigger than either of his daughters. Leah, Shannon... images of them crossed his mind. An image of Hallie. He felt wrenching pain. Never see any of them again, die here with Caitlin because of a stupid crazy accidental resemblance to a face in a sketch...

For a long time Hendryx had been on a rampage through the house, back and forth, up and down, running, banging into things, as if he were as out of control as the flood. Then the noises had stopped, and for a while now he’d been quiet. Where was he? What was he doing?

Waiting, Cam thought. Same as we are.

No, not the same. The difference is, Hendryx isn’t afraid — and Hendryx is already insane.

69

Nick woke up in bed. Still dressed, coat, shoes, everything on, buried under a pile of blankets that didn’t have any warmth in them. Freezing cold. He didn’t remember going to bed. Last thing he remembered was walking and walking because he couldn’t drive.

His head still hurt. He felt funny, like some part of him wasn’t there anymore. He remembered Caitlin showing up, the freezer, all of that, but it seemed fuzzy and far off, things that’d happened long ago. This morning? Yesterday? Pitch dark outside the bedroom window, and the rain had stopped. He got up, went and looked out. Wind still blowing hard, water rippling and gleaming everywhere. Almost pretty in the night, trees dancing shadowy jigs all around. Magical. One of Annalisa’s words. He might’ve thought so, too, if she were here. But she wasn’t here. And Denver was a long way away. And he had to stay here in this house, this flood, until Friday.

How far off was Friday?

He looked at his watch, but it’d stopped. Forgot to wind it. Now he couldn’t tell what time it was. Not that it mattered too much. He’d know when it was Friday, all right. Better believe he’d know when it was time.

Hunger pains in his gut as he turned away from the window. Long time since he’d had anything to eat. Checked his pockets, but he was out of M&Ms. Some left in the kitchen? Might be. Crackers and peanut butter, too. Thought of going below with that thing in the freezer bothered him, but he had to do it. You had to eat, you’d get sick if you didn’t. He wrapped one of the heavier blankets around himself and went downstairs.

Water down there. Muddy goddamn swamp down there.

Crept into the house while he was asleep. Foot deep now, brown and gleaming. Stank worse than what was in the freezer, smell so thick in the damp air it made him choke. He cringed at the idea of wading through it. Knew what it’d feel like on his skin, wet and cold and stinking like something dead and full of rot, like the bimbo on the back porch. But he had to do it, didn’t he? Had to get some food so he wouldn’t get sick, didn’t he?

He held his breath and stepped down into the brown crap. And it was bad, it swirled around his legs when he moved, clutching like dead hands trying to drag him down into it. He gagged and started to run. Splash, splash, splash into the kitchen, yank open cupboards, yank open the fridge, crackers, peanut butter, carton of milk, last two bags of M&Ms, and splash, splash, splash back to the stairs with the food clutched against his chest and all the while trying not to puke.

Ran upstairs, ran into the bedroom. Dumped everything on the nightstand and stood there shaking, looking down at his legs. Brown shit all over his shoes and pant legs. He ran out to the bathroom, tore off his shoes and socks, shucked free of his pants, kicked it all into a corner. Washed the dead brown off his hands, his feet, washed and washed until his skin was raw and red and clean.

Shaking like a leaf when he went back to the bedroom. Not hungry anymore — thought of food made him gag. Crawled into bed and piled the blankets on, covering his head, and lay there like a block of ice.

Everything felt wrong now. Part of him missing, dead thing downstairs, Annalisa so far away, Friday so far away. Wasn’t supposed to be like this. Flood, bimbo, Caitlin, freezer, brown shit, even Gallagher — all of it was wrong. And he didn’t know how to make it right again.

Too late to make it right again?

70

It’s the laughter that wakes him up.

He knows right away what’s going on. Her and Fatso, downstairs in the spare bedroom. When did Fatso show up? He’s not supposed to be here. Didn’t Dad warn her she better not let Fatso come around here anymore?

I hate you. I hate you, Ma.

I’m gonna tell Dad about this, too. You better believe I am. Soon as he comes up tomorrow.

The laughter stops. Now it’s quiet again.

I know what they’re doing. How can she do it with Fatso, right here in our house? How can she do it with him at all? That time I saw them, her all white and sweaty, him with his belly and hairy ass, and she was... I never thought I’d see her do anything like that...

Banging sound. Bedboard hitting the wall.

Another laugh that turns into a kind of yell.

He puts his hands over his ears, burrows down deep under the covers.

After a while he pokes his head out and listens. Quiet downstairs, but now it’s raining again. Wind howling, rain smacking on the roof and against the window. Is Fatso still here?

He gets up and goes to the window. There’s his truck in the yard. Jeez, is he going to spend the whole night here?

I hate you, Ma. You and him both.

He’s in bed again when he hears the voices downstairs. Loud at first, Fatso saying, When can I see you again, sweet tits? Her saying, Keep your voice down, you want to wake up the kid? Then he can’t hear what they’re saying because the door’s open and the wind is whistling in. Then the door bumps shut again. Outside, Fatso’s truck starts up and he guns the engine the way he likes to do. Damn son of a bitch Fatso. Then the truck backs out and roars off, and it’s quiet again except for the storm.

But not for long.

Now there’s another car in the driveway. Not Fatso’s truck, engine sound’s different — Daddy’s car! Dad’s here!

He jumps out of bed, rushes over to look. Dad’s car, all right, Dad getting out and running through the rain. Door slams downstairs. Hard footsteps heading for the kitchen. “Rose? I know you’re down here, I saw his truck.” Thump, thump. “Right where I knew you’d be, you bitch.” And then Dad starts yelling and swearing, real loud. Oh jeez, he’s pissed! I never heard him that pissed before.

And she starts yelling back at him, calling him dirty names. She sounds drunk. Sure she is, her and Fatso must’ve been drinking whiskey. They did that the last time, too.

Her: Do what I please, don’t have to answer to you, fucking bastard.

Dad: Whore, slut, right here in our house with the boy upstairs, what kind of mother are you.

Smack. Shriek. Wow, he must’ve hit her! Serves her right, the dirty whore.

Her: Leave me alone damn you don’t you lay a hand on me again or you’ll be sorry.

Dad: Had all I can stand can’t take any more.

Her: Chrissake what’re you doing with that, put that thing away, are you crazy?

Dad: Show you what I’m going to do with it.

Her: You don’t have the guts you wimp you pisspoor excuse for a man.

He’s over at the door now, opening it, looking out and listening. And then—

Bang!

Oh no, that sounded like a gun—

“Rose!” Dad’s voice, different, all moany and wild like the wind. “Rose, God, I didn’t mean... Rose!”

Little noises.

“No!” Dad again, like he’s wailing. “No no!”

Quiet.

And then—

Bang!

Dad, Daddy, what—?

And he’s in the hallway, at the top of the stairs. His heart is pounding like it wants to burst through his chest. He leans over the banister and stares down. Dark except for light coming from the kitchen, long pale wedge of light.

“Dad?”

Thud, thud, thud of his heart.

He’s afraid, more afraid than he’s ever been. He doesn’t want to go down there, he’s so scared of what he’ll find. But he has to go, he has to find out — slow and then fast and then slow again as he reaches the bottom.

“Dad? Daddy?”

Thud. Thud, thud. Thud.

Along the hall into the kitchen. It’s empty. Lights are on in the spare bedroom, too, and he keeps going that way, the floor cold under his bare feet. He’s shivering as he nears the open bedroom doorway.

Smell comes out at him and makes him stop.

Burned smell. Gunpowder smell.

Don’t go in there, don’t look!

He goes in, he looks—

Oh God oh shit!

Both of them—

Dad Daddy on the floor—

And her on the bed—

And the gun on the floor—

And bright red all over both of them, her nightgown, his head and face, wet, glistening, dripping—

Daddy’s eyes are open, staring, and her eyes—

Shut, they’re shut—

And he wants to run, but instead he goes to Daddy, maybe Daddy’s not dead, and he bends down and looks close—

Dead dead dead.

And the gun lying there—

Don’t touch it don’t pick it up!

His hand reaches down, he can’t stop himself—

And then he’s holding the gun and he hears the bedsprings squeak, somebody groaning, and when he looks—

She’s moving on the bed, groaning and sitting up.

She’s not dead!

Holding her chest with one hand, looking at Daddy, looking at him, her eyes all funny and big. Saying, He shot me hurts call a doctor call nine-eleven don’t just stand there you little shit call somebody!

He can’t think, can’t move.

And she says, Goddamn you what’s the matter with you can’t you see I’m hurt?

But he can’t make his legs work—

And she says, What’re you doing with that gun give it to me damn you give it to me!

She reaches out for him, her hand like a claw, and her fingers are on the gun, pulling on the gun, she’s saying, Give it to me! and he lets her have it—

Oh God, he lets her have it but—

His finger is on the trigger and—

The gun roars, he yells, the gun flies away, and she she she—

Mama!

She falls back, another big hole more blood, run to her run away from her but his legs won’t work and now she isn’t moving anymore and her eyes—

Her eyes, they’re—

Wide open, staring at him.

Accusing him.

No! I didn’t do it! You did it!

Accusing him with her dead eyes.

“It’s not my fault!” Yelling it. Again. Again.

And then at last his legs work and he’s running shivering running crying running back up the stairs but not into his bedroom up the attic stairs hide in the attic safe in the attic scared cold shaking all over Daddy Mama hide hide hide!

He was sitting up on the cold floor, staring stunned into the blackness. Sweat on his chilled body, his face and throat burning, the echo of his own terrified voice in his ears. And the nightmare, the memory, the truth as bright as blood in his mind.

From the mattress Caitlin’s voice said groggily, “Cameron, what—?”

And he said in a painful rasp, “Pa didn’t kill her, I did. God help me, I’m the one who killed Rose!”

71

Something woke Nick up. Yell or scream. He uncurled under the pile of blankets, shaking off sleep and listening.

Wasn’t raining and the wind had slacked off, so he could hear one or both of them moving around in the attic. Floorboards creaking, muffled noises that might’ve been voices. Still dark outside, must be middle of the night... what were they doing? Wasn’t much they could be doing. Not even a rat could get out of there, the way he’d fixed it.

One of them cracking under the strain? Caitlin... he didn’t want it to be her. Bad enough, what he was going to have to do to her. She cracked up, then she’d cry and beg and Christ knew what else, make it twice as hard for him to go through with it.

Shoot them in the head, that was the way he’d decided to do it. Make them kneel down, let them pray, then one bullet for each. Just Gallagher, like it was supposed to’ve been, he’d have thought of some other way, not so quick, but now with both of them it had to be a bullet. Humane. He really didn’t want Caitlin to suffer any more than she had to.

Still moving around and talking up there. No more yells or screams, so maybe she hadn’t cracked up. Or him, either. All right. Let them talk all they wanted, didn’t make any difference. It was almost Friday. He’d know when it was and then he’d use the gun and then he could go home again. Everything was still all right.

Only it wasn’t.

Caitlin, the thing in the freezer, the brown shit getting deeper and deeper — but that wasn’t all. Something else wasn’t right, something important wasn’t right. He didn’t know what it was, but maybe he would on Friday. After the executions maybe he’d know.

Right now all he knew was that what should’ve been right was wrong wrong wrong.

72

“For God’s sake, Cameron, what’re you talking about?”

He couldn’t get any more words out right away. His throat was on fire, the inside of his mouth like hot ashes. Fever. But the nightmare hadn’t come out of delirium; it had come from the same place as all the others, only deeper, a sudden eruption from the long-dormant core of him.

Caitlin said, “What did you say about Ma?”

“Pa shot her first.” The same painful rasp, as if words were tearing membrane off his larynx. “But only once, not twice.”

“What? Cameron, make sense.”

“He didn’t kill her. Must’ve thought he did, that’s why he shot himself. But he only wounded her.”

“That’s crazy...”

The wild acceleration of his pulse was easing. He felt sick, awed, guilty — and in spite of the magnitude of his discovery, suddenly very calm again. At another time in another place, he might have been trying to deny it; would surely have struggled to come to terms with it. But not here, now, in the house where it’d happened, the attic where he’d gone to hide. The truth was irrefutable. After twenty-five years of protective self-delusion, he had been shocked into confronting the terrified ten-year-old trapped inside him.

“I thought she was dead when I went in,” he said. The words came less painfully now. “Her and Pa both. The gun was there on the floor. I picked it up... I don’t know why. And she opened her eyes and saw me. Sat up, ordered me to call for help. I couldn’t move. Then she saw the gun and grabbed for it, tried to take it out of my hand, and I... it went off. That was the shot that killed her.”

Caitlin made a moaning sound of protest and disbelief.

“I’m so sorry, Cat.”

“My God. My God!” Then, “That’s why you ran up here and hid afterward.”

“Yes.”

“And you never told anybody? Twenty-five years you lived with that kind of secret?”

“No, that’s not—”

“Why tell me now? Damn you, Cameron, why?”

“I didn’t know, until just now. Another nightmare, only this one the way it really happened. I repressed that part of it, blanked it out.”

“Bullshit...”

“I couldn’t face it, so I made it go away. Happens in trauma cases, especially in kids. You know it does.”

“I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Being here like this, what’s happening to us... that’s what brought it out. But I think it might’ve come out anyway, sooner or later. Other nightmares I’ve had recently—”

“Shut up! I don’t want to hear any more of this. You and your fucking nightmares. Crazy, mixed-up nonsense, that’s what nightmares are.”

“No.” The traveling soul, he thought, imprinted with images of hell. “That’s the way it happened, Cat.”

After a few beats, she said with sudden harsh anger, “All right. You killed her, not Pa. Then you did it on purpose. You hated her, you wanted her dead—”

“Christ, no. I hated her, yes, for what she was doing to us. But I’d never have intentionally harmed her. It was an accident. A terrible accident.”

“You said you killed her.”

“Yes, but I didn’t want it to happen, I’d give anything to go back and stop it from happening. That’s why I couldn’t face myself.”

Silence. He didn’t break it; there was not much else to say.

“Why’d you have to tell me?” Caitlin’s voice was dull, lifeless again. “Isn’t it hard enough sitting here in the dark waiting to die?”

“I had to let it out. And you have a right to know.”

“Yeah. I have a right to live, too, but that isn’t how it’s going to be. What do you want from me, Cameron? Forgiveness? Poor baby, it wasn’t your fault?”

Fault. Blame. That was really what this was all about, he thought, past and present. Everybody blaming everybody else, Nick Hendryx included, and Cam Gallagher smack in the middle blaming himself. And all of it wrong, unnecessary, like so much blame and fault, because the acts that had spawned those feelings were beyond any control of theirs. Victims, all of them, like Rose and Paul and Hendryx’s wife.

He said, “Is it too much to ask, the way things are?”

“Damn right it is. I don’t forgive you, and I won’t.”

“Will you at least try not to hate me?”

Nothing from Caitlin.

And nothing more from him. He’d shot his wad. Words, all his emotions, were used up.

After a time he heard her moving on the mattress: She’d lain down again. He lay down, too, on the floor nearby, drawing into himself. He was so cold his skin felt brittle, as if pieces of it might begin to flake off. He could feel the fever working in him. His thoughts were as raw and hot as his throat.

The closeness of death no longer frightened him. Instead he was enraged by it. Knowing the truth about the night of January 4, 1974, dealing with it at last, wasn’t half so difficult as living the lie had been. Dr. Beloit had been right after all; his only failing was that he hadn’t dug deep enough or in the right place to get at the root cause. Cameron Gallagher had had a death wish, had been indulging in a pattern of systematic self-destruction for a childhood sin that wasn’t a sin at all. The truth was like a rebirth. He’d wanted to die, and now that death was imminent, he had never wanted more intensely to live.

After ten or fifteen or twenty minutes Caitlin’s voice came again, small and empty like a child’s voice. “Cameron? You asleep?”

“No.”

“It’s so cold. I can’t stop shaking.”

He said tentatively, “We could try huddling together, the way we did when we were kids.”

He counted a dozen seconds before she answered. “All right,” she said.

In laborious movements he crawled onto the mattress, stretched his body out next to hers. The mattress was barely wide enough for the two of them, and so short their legs extended well beyond the one end. He embraced her, gently, as he had so long ago. She was rigid against him at first; then, gradually, some of the tension went away. It took a while, but what heat was left in their bodies began to rub a little of the edge off the chill.

Against his chest she said, “I don’t hate you, Cameron. I thought I did, I wanted to, but I can’t”.

“I’m glad,” he said, but he was thinking about something else by then.

He was thinking about life instead of death.

73

Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t rest. Up at first light, look out the window. Water everywhere, in the sky, on the ground. Walk fast to the stairs and halfway down. Brown shit higher, over the bottom couple of risers. Like it was climbing up after him, slow but steady, like it wanted to drag him down and smother him in its sewer stink.

Head hurting, belly hurting. Couldn’t eat even though he was starting to feel weak. Every time he looked at the milk and crackers and peanut butter, he wanted to puke. Couldn’t even suck on the candy, one little M&M’d make him puke, too. Drank some water in the can, but it wouldn’t stay down. Heaved it right back up into the sink.

Drive. Oh Lord, how he wanted to drive! ’56 Chevy Impala with the dumped front end and mag rims and bad shimmy, ’82 Ford Taurus, what a piece of shit, ’65 Pontiac GTO, candy-apple red, sweet-and-mean driving machine, ’85 Olds, ’89 Merc, ’91 Ford, ’90 Plymouth, ’94 Mazda sitting up on the hill waiting for him, and it might as well’ve been ten thousand miles away — all those safe and secure metal-and-leather cocoons where he could exercise control over his life, his destiny. Night riding to unwind, for pleasure, to keep his problems at bay. Longer the drive, the better it was — major highways, two-laners, back-country roads, unpaved mountain tracks — Annalisa beside him, warm hip touching his, soft breast pressing his arm, heat building in him until it gave him a hard-on, wanting her bad and knowing she wanted him the same way, two of them part of a missile like a huge lighted cock splitting the night, holding it apart like two black thighs, penetrating it, taking it for their own—

— but he couldn’t drive, couldn’t sleep and couldn’t eat and couldn’t drive, all he could do was prowl the hallway up here, front bedroom to rear bedroom, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth like an animal in a goddamn cage and the brown shit climbing up to drag him down and smother him and the wet outside and the Mazda so close and Annalisa so far away and Friday so close and so far away and upstairs in the attic, upstairs in the dark death cell—

— somebody screamed.

Caitlin screamed, woman’s voice thin and high like a siren going off.

He was in the hallway when she cut loose. Turned him toward the attic door, stopped him right there. And she hollered again, and then she was rushing down the stairs, heard her running in there, and when she hit bottom she started beating on the door with her hands and yelling like a crazy woman.

Yelling his name, saying “Nick! Nick, let me out of here, please let me out, he’s dead, he’s dead, I can’t stay in here with my brother lying up there dead!”

Dead? Gallagher?

“I know you’re there, Nick, I heard you walking.” Bang, thump, bang. “Please let me out, please!”

He moved closer to the door. “What’re you trying to pull? Gallagher’s not dead, he can’t be.”

“He is, he is!”

“No, it’s not Friday yet.”

“He must’ve died during the night. His heart, or the cold... I don’t know, I touched him just now and he’s not breathing, he’s dead. I can’t stay in here with his body, I’ll go out of my mind if you don’t let me out!”

“You’re lying,” he said.

“Go up and look, you’ll see — Nick, please, for the love of God...”

His head hurt so much he couldn’t think straight. Trick, some kind of trick. But what could they do? He had the gun and they didn’t have anything and Gallagher would have to be half dead by now anyway so he could be all the way dead—

Was he dead up there?

Everything wrong, and now this.

“I’ll shoot you right now if this is a trick.”

“It’s not a trick, Cameron is dead.”

Dead before his execution?

“Nick, if you ever cared anything about me let me out of here!”

“...Go back upstairs first.”

“What? I can’t—”

“Go upstairs, or I won’t open the door. He’s really dead, I’ll let you out.”

“He is, oh Nick—”

“Go on go on go on.”

Thump, thump, thump — back up the stairs. He ran to the front bedroom, got his flashlight, and brought it back with him. “Cat? Sing out so I know you’re still in the attic.”

“Hurry, please hurry.”

All right. He lifted the two-by-four free, leaned it against the wall. Gallagher, you son of a bitch, you can’t be dead. He took the automatic out, took the key out, used his left hand to slip the key into the lock. Listened. Can’t be dead. Turned the key, stepped away from the door as soon as the lock clicked.

It stayed shut, no trick there.

He reached out with his left hand, turned the knob, pulled the door open, creaking on its hinges.

Thick dark, cold air, Gallagher dead in the cold dark? He bent toward the opening, switched on the flashlight.

And something came rushing out at him from the light-splashed blackness.

Something white and big as the door, mattress with hands clutching it on either side, Gallagher using the mattress as a shield, and Nick squeezed the trigger, blew a hole in the mattress, and then Gallagher and the thing hit him and drove him backward and smashed him into the wall.

74

The gun going off was thunderous in the confines of the hallway. Cam felt the bullet’s impact high up on the mattress, but it didn’t come through. An instant later, his legs already giving out, he collided with Hendryx and they slammed the wall, slanted downward to the floor. The mattress was under him and on top of Hendryx, his weight pinning the other man despite a furious flailing of arms and legs. Over the pulse-roar in his ears, Cam could hear Caitlin running on the attic stairs.

He was too weak to hold Hendryx down. It had taken all his strength and Caitlin’s help to quietly maneuver the mattress into the dark stairwell and then to mount his charge. Hendryx bucked and squirmed, freed part of his body. Dimly Cam saw an arm come up, a hand with the gun still in it. He clutched frantically at the weapon; his fingers slid off, but he managed to clamp a grip on the wrist as Hendryx writhed all the way out from under the mattress.

They were sprawled together then, thrashing body to body, face-to-face, bulging eyes staring into his half-blind ones. Hendryx’s other hand ripped at his imprisoned wrist, struggling to free it. Cam would have lost the scuffle if Caitlin hadn’t been there. She came up cursing shrilly and kicked Hendryx in the head, hard enough to bring a bellow of pain. Cam twisted, got his other hand on the gun. A second kick caused Hendryx’s fingers to spasm, slacken their grip, and Cam was able to tear the weapon loose.

He couldn’t hold it; it skidded along the hallway. He kicked away from Hendryx, scuttled after the gun on all fours. Didn’t see it, didn’t see it... it was as though he were crawling in slow motion through a thick, viscous liquid. Behind him there was a confusion of sounds, Caitlin still hurling obscenities. Then he saw the automatic, over against the far baseboard. He scrambled that way, and just as his hand closed over the butt, Caitlin shrieked; an instant later, he heard the thud of a body smacking the floor.

Cam came up on his knees, swiping at his eyes to clear them. Caitlin wasn’t hurt; Hendryx must have toppled her somehow, and now she was scooting away from him on her back, knees and clawed fingers upraised like a cat in fighting position. Hendryx, bleeding, seemingly dazed, paid no attention to her. He was dragging himself up the wall opposite, leaving blood smears on the paper forget-me-nots.

Cam’s hands were shaking; he wrapped both tight around the automatic to hold it steady. Caitlin had flopped over and was getting up. He sent a ragged shout at her: “Stay there, I’ve got the gun!” Hendryx was on his feet, swinging around against the wall to look in Cam’s direction. Another ragged shout held him where he was: “Don’t make me shoot you!”

Frozen tableau for a clutch of seconds, the three of them in a triangle, staring and breathing noisily, blood dripping down from a gash in Hendryx’s cheek. His mouth hung open; the whites of his eyes showed.

Caitlin moved first, taking a sideways step toward her brother. That acted as a release on Hendryx. He rotated his head and body and went stumbling away along the wall.

“Shoot him, Cameron!”

But he couldn’t shoot a man in the back, any man. He struggled to stand, and Caitlin rushed to help him. “Jesus,” she said, “what if he has another gun?”

Hendryx had reached the rear bedroom; Cam could see him through the open doorway, heading straight to the window in the far wall. He staggered forward with his left arm around Caitlin’s waist, his legs so wobbly he would’ve fallen without her support. He saw Hendryx tugging at the window sash. It came ratcheting up, letting in a blast of frigid wind and rain, as he and Caitlin piled through the doorway.

“Hendryx!”

The madman bent his body into the opening, throwing one leg over the sill.

“Hendryx! Don’t do it, you can’t get away!”

Caitlin cried, “Cameron, let him go!”

Hendryx threw a look at her, another at Cam. His face was an anguished crimson mask.

“I didn’t hurt your wife,” Cam yelled at him. “I’m not the one who hurt your wife!”

Hendryx shook his head. “Wrong,” he said clearly, “it’s all wrong.”

And he swung his other leg over the sill and pushed off.

The splash was audible even with the noise of the cataract. Cam let go of Caitlin, fell to his knees in front of the window. The wind flailed him with rain and surface spume as he thrust his head out. The flood-waters had risen to within a few feet of the window, mostly inundating the downstairs rooms by now; they boiled and frothed, creating little whirlpools clogged with flotsam. Hendryx was caught in one of these thirty yards out, turning this way and that, his arms lifted high as if seeking absolution. All around him other wreckage heaved and churned.

“God,” Caitlin whispered.

Cam said nothing. Another few seconds, and the madman wasn’t there anymore.

75

Annalisa!

76

They were trapped in the house for another twenty-eight hours before rescuers came.

The rains stopped for good late Thursday afternoon, and the river was no longer rising at nightfall. Rescue boats and helicopters were out at dawn Friday morning, as the floodwaters slowly began to recede. Caitlin, wrapped in a blanket and keeping watch at the rear bedroom window, saw the boat coming their way shortly before ten. Three men wearing neoprene wet suits, two of them Paloma County sheriff’s deputies, were in the house a few minutes later.

Cam was pretty sick by then. High fever, hot and cold chills, swollen lymph glands. He was in bed in the front bedroom, swaddled in the remaining blankets. Caitlin had made him swallow as much drinkable water as was left in the hot-water pipes and water heater; made him eat most of the food Hendryx had left, to keep up his strength. But he was still dehydrated and too weak to walk by himself. The rescue team wouldn’t risk taking him out by boat; they called for a medevac helicopter. Two hours after that, he was in a private room at Santa Rosa General, jabbed full of antibiotics and hooked up to an IV.

Visitors that night, after he woke up:

Hallie, her eyes moist, holding his hand and saying, “There’s no fluid in your lungs, darling, you don’t have pneumonia. The doctors say you should be able to come home in a day or two.”

The county CID lieutenant, Dudley, asking terse questions and reporting that Hendryx’s body hadn’t been found yet. They thought it might have washed out to sea, but there was so much cleanup left to be done along the river, it might yet turn up.

“Any chance he survived?” Cam asked.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Mr. Gallagher.”

And Caitlin, almost shyly uncomfortable, not making eye contact and not staying long. Their conversation was limited to the flood, the worst in the river’s history, with a crest of forty-nine feet, six inches, and enough about the house for Cam to know that it had suffered considerable damage and that she no longer wanted it in her life, either. Both avoided the issue of Rose’s death. There would be another time to talk about that.

In the morning Hallie brought Leah and Shannon to see him. After ten minutes she sent the girls out so she could speak to him alone.

“There’re all sorts of media people waiting to see you,” she said. “You’ll have to talk to them sooner or later.”

“I can stand it. Have they bothered you?”

“Not much. I won’t let them bother me.”

“Am I going to be charged with anything?”

“No, thank God.”

“Lucky,” he said. “Lucky all around.”

“Caitlin told me about your nightmare in the attic, how Rose really died. How do you feel about remembering?”

“Like a weight has been lifted off me.”

“Caitlin knows it wasn’t your fault. I think she wanted me to tell you that.”

“I hope she can forgive me.”

“There’s nothing for her to forgive,” Hallie said. “You’re the only one who has to do any forgiving.”

“Of a terrified ten-year-old boy.”

“Exactly. Then maybe the nightmares will stop.”

What Hendryx had done to him was terrible, monstrous, but some good had come out of it. He’d learned more things about himself than he might ever have otherwise. And he’d found out how to be Somebody. He’d found out how to be Cameron Gallagher.

“Yes,” he said. “Then the nightmares will stop.”

After Hallie had gone, Lieutenant Dudley came again.

“We’ve tracked down quite a bit of information about Nick Hendryx, Mr. Gallagher,” he said. “I figured you should know before we release any of it to the media.”

“About his past, you mean?”

“That’s right. Came mainly from his wife’s family in Denver. The Fosters. He was in contact with them periodically over the past six years. They kept trying to talk him into coming back there so they could get him psychiatric help, the last time a few days before Christmas. But he wouldn’t listen, and he’d never tell them exactly where he was.”

“Six years?”

“That’s how long it’s been since the hit-and-run.”

“He talked as though it was no more than a year or so.”

“He was more disturbed than you could’ve known. He kept sending the Fosters letters addressed to his wife, for them to hold until she got well enough to read them. Six years of letters, sometimes more than one a week.”

“Did they open any?”

“The first few. After that, they let them pile up until about a year ago. It’s too bad, but Mr. Foster couldn’t take it anymore and burned them all. Burned the ones that came afterward, too.”

“Why would he do that? Isn’t there any chance his daughter will get well?”

“Annalisa Hendryx died three weeks after the accident, Mr. Gallagher. She’s been dead nearly six years.”

77

He regained his senses at the edge of high ground, caught in a snarl of brush and other junk, humped in the crotch of the tree limb he’d grabbed onto. He crawled out of the flood, up a grassy slope. Buildings nearby, house and barn. He was hurt and half-drowned, but he could walk all right. Made it to the house, nobody there, residents evacuated long ago. Back door wasn’t locked. He went in and found a bed and stripped and fell into it.

Stayed in the house all that day and night, sleeping mostly, eating canned stuff from the larder. Morning of the next day, he woke to patches of blue sky and the flood level dropping. Cleaned himself up and left the place wearing somebody’s clothes that fit him well enough, carrying what was left of his own. Followed a muddy road back of the barn until he saw the ocean in the distance. Then he threw his old clothes into some weeds in a gully. Only things he kept were his Colorado driver’s license and the sketch. Lamination had kept the flood from damaging either one.

After a mile or so he came to a highway that ran along the ocean. Mouth of the river was there, long bridge across it, and on his side of the bridge a skinny old guy was working hard to change a flat on a mud-spattered pickup. Nick offered to help. Old guy looked him over and wanted to know what’d happened to him. He said he’d been working in Guerneville, got caught and hurt in the flood, lost everything he owned. When he finished with the tire, old guy asked him if he’d ever worked on a sheep ranch. Nick said no, but he’d do any kind of work as long as it was honest.

So he went with the old guy up the coast to Mendocino County, a sheep ranch back in the hills, and started work the next day. Hard work and not much money, but all his meals came with the job, and the old guy’s wife was a good cook. Pretty soon the rancher let him do some driving around the place, into the nearest town to pick up supplies. Felt good being behind the wheel again, even if it was almost all short rides and daylight mileage.

He stayed on the sheep ranch three months, saving up. Then the old man sold him his other pickup, a dented GMC Nick’d done some engine work on, for five hundred dollars, most of what he’d earned working there. First time he went out night riding, he didn’t come back. Just kept on going up Highway 1 into Oregon.

In Eugene he got a job delivering pizzas and then wrote Annalisa a long letter and then started showing the sketch around. Showed it all over Eugene, Salem, Portland, then up in Washington. He landed a driving job with a short-haul gypsy outfit in Tacoma and stayed with it long enough to build up a stake. Then he bought a better set of wheels, ’eighty-nine Toyota that had 97,000 miles on it but ran fine with a little tune-up.

It was late summer when he rolled into Phoenix. Been there once before, so long ago he could barely remember it. Found a soup kitchen, ate and got cleaned up, and went out showing the sketch. More he showed it, more he had a good feeling about this town. Nothing to get excited about, not yet, but a feeling with hope in it.

Went to a mall that night, big covered mall, lots of people. He was showing the sketch in front of a bookstore when the man came out.

Nick had a good look at him, straight on, and it was like being kicked in the groin. He couldn’t get his breath. Blood pounding in his ears like the ocean during a storm, a wild roaring that was hate and excitement and thankfulness and a dozen other feelings all wrapped up together.

Him. Man in the sketch, the face he’d lived with every day, that haunted his sleep, that he’d been hunting so long. Son of a bitch bastard who’d hurt Annalisa. No doubt of it, no mistake like he’d made with Gallagher and the five or six others before Gallagher.

It was him!