Afraid

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by Jack Kilborn

“A true page-turner, a novel that offers a million-mile-a-minute action and suspense. Definitely, a must have with constant thrills and chills.”

—Heather Graham, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author

Fran screamed.

She thought of her son. She thought of his teenage years, just around the corner, which he’d have to face without any parents if she died.

Fran couldn’t let that happen.

Reaching behind her, she felt along the shelves, her hands clasping around a five-pound can of tomato paste. The flashlight came on again, less than five feet away from her. Fran threw the can as hard as she could. She didn’t wait to find out if she’d hit the killer. She was already running away from him, climbing on the desk, seeking out the window to the alley.

Her fingers met cool glass. She found the latch, tried to turn it.

Painted over. Wouldn’t budge.

Frantic, she reached around, found the phone, and cracked it hard against the window.

Glass shattered. The window was small, and shards jutted from the pane, but Fran forced her upper body into the hole. Her hair snagged, but she pushed forward as glass cut her palms and elbows. Then her hands touched the brick on the outside of the building, and she was dragging her hips out, thinking that she’d actually made it, and her fear transformed into a crazy, almost hysterical sense of relief.

That’s when the killer grabbed her ankle.

—from AFRAID

This book is dedicated to four very smart publishing folks.

Miriam Goderich, for making me do it.

Jane Dystel, for never giving up on it.

Jaime Levine and Vicki Mellor, for seeing its potential.

For their help, support, and suggestions, thanks to fellow writers Raymond Benson, Blake Crouch, Barry Eisler, Henry Perez, Marcus Sakey, James Rollins, and especially JA Konrath—without whom this book couldn’t have been written.

For inventing the horrific thriller genre, thanks to Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and David Morrell.

Special thanks to my wife, Maria Kilborn, for her years of encouragement and enthusiasm.

Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear—not absence of fear.

—MARK TWAIN

There is no decent place to stand in a massacre.

—LEONARD COHEN

The hunter’s moon, a shade of orange so dark it appeared to be filled with blood, hung fat and low over the mirror surface of Big Lake McDonald. Sal Morton took in a lungful of crisp Wisconsin air, shifted on his seat cushion, and cast his Lucky 13 lure over the stern. The night of fishing had been uneventful; a few small bass earlier in the evening, half a dozen northern pike—none bigger than a pickle—and then, nothing. The zip of his baitcaster unspooling and the plop of the bait hitting the water were the only sounds he’d heard for the last hour.

Until the helicopter exploded.

It was already over the water before Sal noticed it. Black, without any lights, silhouetted by the moon. And quiet. Twenty years ago Sal had taken his wife, Maggie, on a helicopter ride at the Dells, both of them forced to ride with their hands clamped over their ears to muffle the sound. This one made a fraction of that noise. It hummed, like a refrigerator.

The chopper came over the lake on the east side, low enough that its downdraft produced large eddies and waves. So close to the water Sal wondered if its wake might overturn his twelve-foot aluminum boat. He ducked as it passed over him, knocking off his Packers baseball cap, scattering lures, lifting several empty Schmidt beer cans and tossing them overboard.

Sal dropped his pole next to his feet and gripped the sides of the boat, moving his body against the pitch and yaw. When capsizing ceased to be a fear, Sal squinted at the helicopter for a tag, a marking, some sort of ID, but it lacked both writing and numbers. It might as well have been a black ghost.

Three heartbeats later the helicopter had crossed the thousand-yard expanse of lake and dipped down over the tree line on the opposite shore. What was a helicopter doing in Safe Haven? Especially at night? Why was it flying so low? And why did it appear to have landed near his house?

Then came the explosion.

He felt it a moment after he saw it. A vibration in his feet, as if someone had hit the bow with a bat. Then a soft warm breeze on his face, carrying mingling scents of burning wood and gasoline. The cloud of flames and smoke went up at least fifty feet.

After watching for a moment, Sal retrieved his pole and reeled in his lure, then pulled the starter cord on his 7.5 horsepower Evinrude. The motor didn’t turn over. The second and third yank yielded similar results. Sal swore and began to play with the choke, wondering if Maggie was scared by the crash, hoping she was all right.

Maggie Morton awoke to what she thought was thunder. Storms in upper Wisconsin could be as mean as anywhere on earth, and in the twenty-six years they’d owned this house she and Sal had to replace several cracked windows and half the roof due to weather damage.

She opened her eyes, listened for the dual accompaniment of wind and rain. Strangely, she heard neither.

Maggie squinted at the red blur next to the bed, groped for her glasses, pushed them on her face. The blur focused and became the time: 10:46.

“Sal?” she called. She repeated it, louder, in case he was downstairs.

No answer. Sal usually fished until midnight, so his absence didn’t alarm her. She considered flipping on the light, but investigating the noise that woke her held much less appeal than the soft down pillow and the warm flannel sheets tucked under her chin. Maggie removed her glasses, returned them to the nightstand, and went back to sleep.

The sound of the front door opening roused her sometime later.

“Sal?”

She listened to the footfalls below her, the wooden floors creaking. First in the hallway, and then into the kitchen.

“Sal!” Louder this time. After thirty-five years of marriage, her husband’s ears were just two of many body parts that seemed to be petering out on him. Maggie had talked to him about getting a hearing aid, but whenever she brought up the topic he smiled broadly and pretended not to hear her, and they both wound up giggling. Funny when they were in the same room. Not funny when they were on different floors and Maggie needed his attention.

“Sal!”

No answer.

Maggie considered banging on the floor and wondered what the point would be. She knew the man downstairs was Sal. Who else could it be?

Right?

Their lake house was the last one on Gold Star Road, and their nearest neighbors, the Kinsels, resided over half a mile down the shore and had left for the season. The solitude was one of the reasons the Mortons bought this property. Unless she went to town to shop, Maggie would often go days without seeing another human being, not counting her husband. The thought of someone else being in their home was ridiculous.

Reassured by that thought, Maggie closed her eyes.

She opened them a moment later, when the sound of the microwave carried up the stairs. Then came the muffled machine-gun report of popcorn popping. Sal shouldn’t be eating at this hour. The doctor had warned him about that, and how it aggravated his acid reflux disease, which in turn aggravated Maggie with his constant tossing and turning all night.

She sighed, annoyed, and sat up in bed.

“Sal! The doctor said no late-night snacks!”

No answer. Maggie wondered if Sal indeed had a hearing problem, or if he simply used that as an excuse for not listening to her. This time she did swing a foot off the bed and stomp on the floor, three times, with her heel.

She waited for his response.

Got none.

Maggie did it again and followed it up with yelling, “Sal!” as loud as she could.

Ten seconds passed.

Ten more.

Then she heard the downstairs toilet flush.

Anger coursed through Maggie. Her husband had obviously heard her and was ignoring her. That wasn’t like Sal at all.

Then, almost like a blush, a wave of doubt overtook her. What if the person downstairs wasn’t Sal?

It has to be, she told herself. She hadn’t heard any boats coming up to the dock or cars pulling onto their property. Besides, Maggie was a city girl, born and raised in Chicago. Twenty-some years in the Northwoods hadn’t broken her of the habit of locking doors before going to sleep.

The anger returned. Sal was deliberately ignoring her. When he came upstairs, she was going to give him a lecture to end all lectures. Or perhaps she’d ignore him for a while. Turnabout was fair play.

Comforted by the thought, she closed her eyes. The familiar sound of Sal’s outboard motor drifted in through the window, getting closer. That Evinrude was older than Sal was. Why he didn’t buy a newer, faster motor was beyond her understanding. One of the reasons she hated going out on the lake with him was because it stalled all the time and—

Maggie jackknifed to a sitting position, panic spiking through her body. If Sal is still out on the boat, then who is in the house?

She fumbled for her glasses, then picked up the phone next to her clock. No dial tone. She pressed buttons, but the phone just wouldn’t work.

Maggie’s breath became shallow, almost a pant. Sal’s boat drew closer, but he was still several minutes away from docking. And even when he got home, what then? Sal was an old man. What could he do against an intruder?

She held her breath, trying to listen to noises from downstairs. Maggie did hear something, but the sound wasn’t coming from the lower level. It was coming from the hallway right outside her bedroom.

The sound of someone chewing popcorn.

Maggie wondered what she should do. Say something? Maybe this was all some sort of mistake, some confused tourist who had walked into the wrong house. Or perhaps this was a robber, looking for money or drugs. Give him what he wanted, and he’d leave. No need for anyone to get hurt.

“Who’s there?”

More munching. Closer. He was practically in the room. She could smell the popcorn now, the butter and salt, and the odor made her stomach do flip-flops.

“My … medication is in the bathroom cabinet. And my purse is on the chair by the door. Take it.”

The ruffling of a paper bag, and more chewing. Open-mouthed chewing. Loud, like someone smacking gum. Why wouldn’t he say anything?

“What do you want?”

No answer.

Maggie was shivering now. The tourist scenario was gone from her head, the robber scenario fading fast. A new scenario entered Maggie’s mind. The scenario of campfire stories and horror movies. The boogeyman, hiding under the bed. The escaped lunatic, searching for someone to hurt, to kill.

Maggie needed to get out of there, to get away. She could run to the car, or meet Sal on the dock and get into his boat, or even hide out in the woods. She could hurry to the guest bedroom, lock the door, open up the window, climb down—

Chewing, right next to the bed. Maggie gasped, pulling the flannel sheets to her chest. She squinted into the darkness, could barely make out the dark figure of a man standing a few feet away.

The bag rustled. Something touched Maggie’s face and she gasped. A tiny pat on her cheek. It happened again, on her forehead, making her flinch. Again, and she swatted out with her hand, finding the object on the pillow.

Popcorn. He was throwing popcorn at her.

Maggie’s voice came out in a whisper. “What … what are you going to do?”

The springs creaked as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“Everything,” he said.

General Alton Tope had barely poured a finger of twenty-five-year-old Glenfarcas into his crystal rocks glass when his pager went off. He unclipped the device from his belt and squinted at the display. The number 6735 appeared. Following procedure, he mentally added the four digits of today’s date, coming up with 6762 and frowning at the unfamiliar code. What the hell was a 6762?

General Tope headed for his bedroom, the scotch forgotten. He made sure the blinds were drawn, sat down at his desktop, and punched in his password. A military virus detection program automatically ran, deemed his equipment secure, and allowed him to log into USAVOIP—the U.S. Army Voice Over Internet Protocol. He snugged on the headphones, noted the attached microphone smelled faintly of cigarette smoke, and automatically reached for the pack of Winstons next to the monitor. He punched in another password and listened to the phone ring through the foam speakers hugging his ears.

“Good evening, General,” came the same soothing voice that always answered. “Please speak the alert code.”

General Tope sometimes imagined a buxom young blonde owned the voice. But the likely culprit was probably computer-generated, programmed by some overweight civilian geek with posters of Wonder Woman in his bedroom.

“Six-seven-six-two,” he said, shaking out a cigarette and hanging it in the corner of his mouth. The lighter was in the same place he always left it, in a paper-clip container next to the mouse. A plastic disposable. He’d had the same one for over three years; Tope smoked only during these encrypted calls, and they didn’t come often.

“We have a Fallen Angel, General,” the voice said. “Highest Priority.”

General Tope drew deeply, filling his lungs with heat. When he answered, he tried not to exhale.

“What type of unit?”

As the computer on the other end of the conversation processed his question, Tope closed his eyes, waiting the twelve seconds for the nicotine in his lungs to hit his bloodstream and activate the pleasure receptors in his brain. Four seconds prior to that happening, the reply came.

“Red-ops.”

General Tope coughed so hard that spittle flecked his monitor.

“Repeat.”

“Red-ops.”

General Tope disconnected from USAVOIP, sucked in more smoke, and clicked on the icon to connect him to the White House.

• • •

Big Lake and Little Lake McDonald formed a horseshoe around the small town of Safe Haven—a sixty-thousand-acre horseshoe that effectively acted like a peninsula, cutting off the town from the rest of northern Wisconsin. Safe Haven had a single road coming in and out. For years there had been talks of widening the road and adding some attractions. The lucrative tourist trade enjoyed by neighboring towns never reached Safe Haven, partly because it was so secluded, but mostly because the 907 full-time residents preferred it that way. At town meetings, the value of the U.S. dollar was always outvoted by the value of privacy, so the road stayed narrow and the town stayed isolated, even at the cost of economic depression.

Sal was one of those residents, and the seclusion, along with the decent fishing, was the main reason he and Maggie bought property here. They enjoyed the solitude. No neighbors to exchange fake pleasantries with. No strangers to worry about. No excitement, no crime, and no surprises. Sal had spent the first half of his life hustling in the big city. Retirement in isolation was his reward to himself.

It was October, and the snowbirds had all gone back to California or Florida or wherever they lived during the cold months, which left only a handful of people still on this part of the lake.

When the screaming began, Sal knew of only one person within shouting distance.

He adjusted the touchy throttle on the Evinrude and squinted toward home, still several hundred yards away.

Another scream. A terrible scream. The scream of someone in horrible, agonizing pain.

Sound did strange things over water. It echoed, amplified, reverberated, and made it damn near impossible to pinpoint its location. But when Sal heard that second scream he knew whose it was and where it was coming from.

Maggie.

The realization made his stomach roll. He pushed the engine as hard as it would go, beelining toward home.

What could make Maggie scream like that? Had she fallen, broken something? Burned herself? Appendicitis? A toothache?

Or was it something to do with that helicopter?

As the screaming continued, Sal felt his stomach go from sour to ulcerous. He had to get home. Had to make sure she was safe. Had to—

The motor chugged twice, then died.

“Goddammit! Goddamn hunk of junk!”

Sal lifted the large red tank by the handle and found it still half full. He reached for the fuel hose, squeezed the bulb, discovered it firm. The motor was getting gas. He pulled the starter cord four times, and each time it failed to turn the engine over.

Then Maggie’s screams changed. They went from incoherent and bestial to forming words.

“STOP STOP STOP GOD STOP STOP!”

Sal touched his chest. The pain in his gut had shot up into his heart. Who was Maggie yelling at? What was happening to her? He stuck the oars in the locks, turned around on his seat, and began to row.

“NO NO NO NO STOP NO!”

Sal had to get home. He hadn’t rowed in years, maybe decades. When the Evinrude refused to work, Sal would pop the cover and futz around until it started again. Sometimes it took an hour. Sometimes he had to flag down another boat and get a tow back to his dock. But rowing—never. That was for young men or those without patience. But he had to get to Maggie and had to get to her now.

“PLEASE PLEASE GOD PLEASE GOD!”

Sal’s chest and arms screamed at him. His lungs were two burning bags, unable to get enough air. His back and his knees pleaded with him to stop, to rest. But Sal kept rowing. He glanced painfully over his shoulder, saw he was less than fifty yards away.

“KILL ME! KILL ME! KILL ME!”

Sweet Jesus, Maggie, what is happening? Sal’s arms shook, and he could barely lift the oars out of the water, but he kept the rhythm, kept the pace.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Stroke.

Each stroke closer to home, closer to the woman he loved.

I’m coming, honey. I’m coming.

Sal hadn’t thought anything could be more terrifying than his wife’s screams. But he was wrong. It was much more terrifying when the screams stopped.

Sal put his entire body into one final stroke, and momentum took him to his pier. He fumbled with the line, hooked it to a cleat on the dock, and then pulled himself out of the boat.

“Maggie!” His shout came out more like a wheeze.

On wobbly knees, Sal shuffled up to shore, toward his house. The door was open wide. Maggie would never leave it like that. Someone was in their house. Someone doing something terrible to his wife. He looked around for a weapon. On the porch, next to the tables, he saw the two-by-four. He used it to club fish before he filleted them. Sal picked it up, reassured by its weight. Then he went into the house.

The living room and kitchen were empty. He smelled burned popcorn, and something else. Something he’d smelled before, but never so strongly.

Blood.

“Maggie! Where are you!”

No answer. He went up the stairs as quickly as his old legs could carry him, up to the bedroom.

Something was sprawled out on the bed.

“… kill … me …” it said.

Sal couldn’t understand what he was seeing. It didn’t look human. When he realized what had been done, that the thing on the bed was what remained of his wife, the board fell from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. He was barely aware when someone came up behind him and pressed a blade to his throat.

“You must be Sal,” the man whispered. “We need to talk.”

Ashburn County Sheriff Arnold “Ace” Streng had just settled down in his easy chair for a cup of microwave chili and a marathon of MythBusters on the Discovery Channel when his cell phone rang. He set the chili on the TV table next to his chair and squinted through his reading glasses at the number. His phone blinked FIREHOUSE 4.

Safe Haven.

Streng sighed. Safe Haven required a forty-minute drive, and it probably wouldn’t be anything more than a cat in a tree or some campers annoying the residents with their fireworks. He hit the accept button.

“This is Streng.”

The line disconnected. Streng brought the phone closer, saw he had two black bars indicating reception. It flickered to one bar, then back to two. Good enough. The fault was probably on the other end. Why anyone in this county voluntarily used cell phones was beyond Streng’s comprehension. A typical three-minute conversation usually involved being dropped eight or nine times. Streng often joked that instead of cells he was going to give his deputies tin cans tied together with string.

The phone rang again. Streng craned his neck so the phone was a precious two inches higher up, that much closer to the satellite signal.

“This is Streng.”

“Sheriff, it’s Josh VanCamp from the Safe Haven fire station. We have, um, a situation here.”

Josh was a good kid, tall and strong like his late father. Kid was probably a misnomer—Josh had to be over thirty. But Streng was nearing seventy, and that meant he considered almost everyone a kid.

“Is this an emergency, Josh? I’ve got my old carcass parked for the evening.”

“It is, Sheriff. There’s been a … helicopter crash.”

Streng didn’t know of anyone in the county who owned a helicopter. He looked longingly at his chili. The cheddar cheese he’d crumbled on top had melted perfectly.

“A helicopter? You’re sure?”

“I’m standing at the wreckage site. And there’s been some … fatalities.”

Streng sat forward in his chair. “People are dead?”

“Two.”

“Did you call for an ambulance?”

“Uh, no. They’re dead, that’s for sure.”

“Where are you at, Josh?”

“Off the big lake, on Gold Star Road, two and a half miles down. I brought the tanker. Fire’s under control. We’ll keep the lights on so you can find it.”

“Gold Star, you said?”

Streng hadn’t been down Gold Star in a while. The last time was to visit his cousin Sal Morton. They’d caught some walleye, tilted a few back, and promised to do it again real soon. That had been two months ago. Streng had planned to call him, see how things were going, maybe set up a date to get on the lake once more before it got too cold. They’d been close friends since childhood, and it was wrong they didn’t try harder to stay in touch.

“Yes, Sheriff. Should I call the staties?”

Streng considered it. The state police were the ones who dealt with highway accidents, but Gold Star was a private road. They wouldn’t want jurisdiction any more than he did.

“No, this is ours. I’ll be there in half an hour. Anyone with you?”

“Erwin.”

“Tell him not to touch anything. Same goes for you.”

Streng hung up, then pulled himself out of the recliner. He dipped his spoon into the chili, blew on it, and took a single bite. Delicious. Then he put the cup into the fridge, strapped on his sidearm, and went out to his Jeep Wrangler, reminding himself that he only had three more weeks until retirement. Then it would be someone else’s job to take care of these late-night calls, and he’d be able to enjoy a little chili in peace.

Erwin Luggs made up for his deficiencies in the brainpower department by being helpful, dependable, and an all-around nice guy. He didn’t have the strong jaw and athletic build of his buddy Josh, but his oversized frame and an abundance of hair accentuated his friendly demeanor. The ladies thought of him as a big, cuddly teddy bear. One particular lady, Jessie Lee Sloan, liked him so much that she had agreed to be his wife, and their wedding was set for next month.

The wedding troubled Erwin, because it was costing a lot more than he originally thought. He had the part-time-fireman gig and taught gym at the junior high nine months out of the year, but Jessie Lee had just added a string quartet to the growing list of wedding expenses. Even without totaling up the final numbers, Erwin knew he’d need at least two more jobs to cover all the bills.

But all thoughts of money, and the wedding, and Jessie Lee, vanished as he stared into the cockpit of that chopper.

“Don’t look at it,” Josh told him.

“I can’t help it. Never saw nothing like that before. You?”

Josh was staring past the wreck, into the dark of the forest surrounding them. He shook his head and spat.

Erwin asked, “Which head belongs to which, you think?”

“Coroner will figure it out.”

“Must have been the helicopter blades, right?”

Josh didn’t answer. Erwin stepped away from the wreck, but his eyes didn’t leave it. Their fire truck—a three-thousand-gallon tanker parked a few yards away on the sand road—had its emergency lights on, teasing the crash site with alternating flashes of red and blue. Erwin and Josh each held flashlights, but even with those and a full moon they couldn’t see everything at once—the trees were too thick.

When they arrived, the fire had mostly gone out by itself. A few of the nearby pines had been scorched, but the rain from two days ago prevented anything major from starting. Debris littered an area of about twenty yards in every direction, though it was hard to see because their flashlights weren’t powerful enough. The smoking shards of metal were out of place in the woods, making it look like an eerie alien planet. Erwin didn’t like it.

He backed up until he could no longer see the corpses in detail. A twig snapped, to his right. Erwin startled, focusing his light into the woods next to him, wondering what deer or coon was curious enough to come and see the wreckage. As his beam played across the trees he saw a brief glint of two eyes, which quickly vanished.

Erwin looked over at Josh. His partner had approached the cockpit and was peering in reverently. Erwin glanced back to the woods. The eyes couldn’t have belonged to a deer, because these were side by side. A bear? Maybe, if the bear was standing up. But Erwin knew bears, and the whole forest shuffled when a bear moved past. Erwin craned his neck forward, listening.

The woods were silent. Erwin had the uncomfortable feeling that the eyes were still there, watching him.

“Hello? Someone there?”

He felt foolish saying it, and even more foolish when no one answered. Erwin moved the flashlight to and fro, trying to penetrate the trees, but saw nothing. Could someone have survived the wreck? Someone hurt and unable to answer? He glanced again at Josh, saw that he was busy examining the inside of the chopper, and decided to investigate on his own.

The woods became very dark, very fast. The canopy screened out the full moon, and the thin beam of his flashlight worked like a theater spot, illuminating only a small circle and nothing else. Erwin moved slowly, respectful of his environment. In his teenage years he’d disturbed a badger on a late-night hike through the forest, and the bite he’d taken on the knee still ached when it rained. It had been the scariest moment in Erwin’s life, and he’d been unable to fight back, his muscles locked with fear.

Since then, Erwin avoided confrontation of any sort. He stopped playing sports. He walked away from fights. Thinking of himself as a coward was much easier to deal with than the horror of being attacked.

Movement, to the left. Erwin got the flashlight there in time to see something black dart behind a large oak. Too tall for a bear. A person?

He opened his mouth to say something but didn’t make a sound. If it was a person hiding behind the tree, why were they hiding?

Erwin took a step closer, feeling his arms go goosepimply and adrenaline tingle in his bowels.

Then a deer came crashing out of the woods.

Erwin reached out his hands to ward off the impact, dropping his flashlight, bracing his legs. The blow came weaker than he’d anticipated. Weaker, and warmer. The deer’s head connected with Erwin’s chest but didn’t push back. It just sort of stopped—as if he’d been tossed a football—and then came a spray of heat that stung Erwin’s eyes.

He took two steps backward, the deer collapsing at his feet, kicking out its legs like it was still running. Then it jerked twice and became still.

Erwin rubbed his eyes, realizing the heat was liquid, and the liquid was blood. He found his flashlight in a bush a few feet away and it was also soaked in blood, the smears on the lens making it cast red light. Hand shaking, he pointed it at the deer and saw a three-foot gash in the animal’s side, so deep it cut through the ribs.

“Josh!” he yelled, though it came out as more of a croak.

Then he heard something else moving in the woods.

Sal Morton hadn’t cried in more than thirty years, but he was crying now. The shapeless, bleeding thing that his wife had become continued to twitch and gasp on the bed beside him, and rather than allow him to end her agony, the intruder forced Sal to answer a series of inane questions.

“I don’t know.”

“When was it?” The man’s foreign accent was heavy, his voice breathy and almost feminine.

“A long time ago. Years.”

“Where?”

Sal eyed his wife, watched her undulate. How could she even still be conscious?

“Please. Just kill her. Kill us both.”

“Where were you?”

“In town. At the hardware store. Jesus, please, can’t you let her die?”

The man did something with his knife, and the thing that was Maggie mewled like a sick kitten.

Sal reached for her, touched her, and this prompted more screams. He pulled back his hands and clenched his fists, shaking so badly he almost fell off the edge of the bed.

The man appeared amused.

“Will killing her help you focus?”

“Yes. Dear God, yes.”

“Then go ahead.”

The man offered Sal a pillow. Sal stared at it and wondered for the hundredth time if this was really happening, if this was real. Only a few minutes ago he was fishing, pondering the activities for the upcoming holiday weekend. Perhaps they would eat out, then see a scary movie to celebrate Halloween. But life changed when he walked into that bedroom. The whole world changed. He wasn’t ever going to a movie with Maggie again. Instead, he was going to murder her. Could he do it? Did he have the strength?

Sal closed his eyes, tried to picture Maggie the first time he saw her. A blind date. Sal could no longer remember who had set it up, but he remembered every second of their evening together. Maggie had worn a pink dress, her hair all styled up, and she giggled when she met him, obviously as pleased with his appearance as he’d been with hers. They’d gone bowling and had a wonderful time, even though neither of them possessed any skill or even particularly liked the game. Every year since then, on their anniversary, they’d go bowling. November fifteenth. Just a few weeks away.

“I can’t.” Sal dropped the pillow.

“You love her.”

“Yes.”

“She’s suffering. See?”

The man did something unspeakable to Maggie, and he kept doing it. Sal tried to shove him away, but the intruder had muscles like brick. Maggie made a sound that didn’t sound human, a gurgling moan of pure agony.

“Stop it! Please stop it!”

The man didn’t stop. He smiled.

“Only you can stop it, Sal.”

Crying out, Sal took the pillow and pressed it hard against what was left of Maggie’s mouth, putting his weight on it, trying to drown out her screams, her pain, her life.

She twitched under him, an oddly intimate sensation that reminded Sal of lovemaking. He sobbed and sobbed, and the twitching went on and on, and Sal couldn’t tell if it was her or him anymore, but he wasn’t going to stop, wasn’t going to check to see, had to make sure that she was safe, make absolutely sure that she didn’t hurt anymore.

“You killed her,” the man said. “You can get off her corpse now.”

Sal didn’t move. He felt a piercing grip on his shoulder and was tugged backward, the bloody pillow still held tight in his old hands.

Maggie’s ruined face was still, her remaining eye staring dully at Sal.

Then her chest shuddered and she gasped, sucking in air.

“Well,” the intruder said. “She’s a tough one.”

Sal squeezed his eyes closed, clamped his hands tight over his ears. He couldn’t take anymore. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. This isn’t how their lives together were supposed to end. He’d always pictured a quiet, peaceful death for them. Going to sleep and never waking up. Slipping in the shower and a quick bump on the head. Dying in a hospital bed, the morphine drowning out whatever killer lurked in their elderly bodies. Not like this. Not awful like this.

“Here.” The man handed Sal his knife. “Put it in her heart.”

Sal held the knife like he’d never seen one before. Maggie’s chest rose and fell, accompanied by a wet, rattling sound. He reached out tentatively, gently laying his fingers on her breastbone.

“Right there. Press down hard, so you get through the ribcage.”

Sal focused on the spot, trying to block out the reality of the act. This wasn’t his wife. He wasn’t killing her. This was a normal, routine task, like filleting a fish. A job that needed to get done. Unpleasant, but necessary.

Sal pushed down on the knife, forcing it in to the hilt, making himself stone for her sake. He held it until Maggie’s heart ceased to beat, until the vibrations in the knife’s handle stopped.

“That did the trick.” The intruder clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations, killer.”

The moment descended on Sal, pierced him. He cried out, an ineffectual curse at the universe for letting this happen, and then tried to pull the knife from his wife’s chest so he could plunge it into the monster who caused this. Sal tugged, but the knife stayed put.

“This knife is meant for more delicate work and has no blood groove,” the intruder said. “You have to twist it to break the suction.”

He demonstrated. There was a sound like an infant suckling. The man freed the blade and then wiped it clean on the bedsheets.

“Now let’s try to concentrate on answering my questions.”

Sal’s body shook, but he thrust out his chin at his tormentor.

“No. I won’t do it.”

Darkness seemed to spill out of the intruder’s eyes.

“Yes, you will. You think you know pain, old man? You know nothing of pain. You’ll answer every question I have and beg me to ask more of them.”

“No,” Sal said, folding his frail arms, silently swearing on Maggie’s head to not give this bastard the satisfaction. “You won’t get anything out of me.”

It took less than three minutes for the intruder to prove Sal wrong.

• • •

Fran Stauffer dumped the used coffee grounds into the garbage can beneath the cash register and wondered—not for the first time that night—why she had traded shifts with Jessie Lee.

Merv, whose name graced the marquee of the diner, had hired Jessie Lee back at the beginning of summer.

“She’s a kid, needs to work to help pay for her wedding,” Merv had said, winking in a way he thought was charming but Fran considered condescending. “Besides, it’ll give you some time off. You’ve been running this place solo for seven years.”

Fran could have objected, and Merv probably would have listened. But badly as Fran needed the money—and everyone in Safe Haven seemed to need money these days—fewer hours at Merv’s meant more time with Duncan. So Merv hired Jessie Lee, but more often than not Fran wound up working her shifts anyway.

Al, one of their regulars, had grown roots on the last counter stool. He held out an empty cup of coffee as if begging for change. Al was sixtyish, fat, and sported a walrus mustache that was waxed to little curls on either side. Nice guy, so-so tipper, a little too talky and a little too flirty.

The diner phone rang. Fran made no move to get it. Dollars to donuts it was a local, wanted to know if he could get a meal in before they closed for the night. Fran opened the top of the coffee machine, put in a cleaning tablet, and pressed the brew button. She took the practically empty carafe of leaded and gave Al another hit of caffeine. After five rings, the phone stopped.

“That was probably a customer,” Al said.

Fran smiled a waitress smile. “I’m not in it for the money. I’m in it because I love filling salt shakers.”

Al chuckled. “Well, you make a damn good cup of coffee.” He twisted the end of his mustache. “And you’re easy on the eyes, too.”

Fran knew she was tired because—for the briefest instant—she imagined herself romantically involved with Al. She squinted at him, marveling at how desperate she’d become.

While Fran didn’t consider herself beautiful, she had a full head of long, curly blond hair, and pale blue eyes, and a body that still fit nicely into a size six. Her late husband had told her, often, that she looked like Melanie Griffith. Fran could see the resemblance, when her makeup was on and she wore something flattering. She certainly didn’t lack for male attention. At one point or another, Fran had been propositioned by every eligible bachelor in town, and by countless others during the busy tourist season. But she hadn’t been on a date in months.

If she were in her twenties like Jessie Lee, she would have gone out more often. These days, romance came in the form of Lifetime on cable, books on tape borrowed from the library, and late-night baths with plenty of bubbles and a detachable oscillating shower head.

She’d given up hope on men. And though she didn’t mention it in therapy, Fran knew she’d also pretty much given up hope for happiness, as well.

A car horn snapped her out of her reverie. Fran glanced out the storefront window, saw a pickup truck motor past. Then a car. Then another car. Something was going on. Perhaps some kind of sports thing. A local team had apparently won, judging by the yells accompanying the horns. Fran didn’t follow sports, and she was in no mood for the diner to fill up with fans. She eyed the cat clock on the wall, its yellow eyes synchronized to its pendulum tail. Almost midnight. Merv had left an hour ago, trusting her to cook if any business walked in. None had. And none would. It was time to get home. She walked to the front door and flipped the hanging sign over to CLOSED.

Picking up a tray, Fran did a quick tour of the floor, pulling ketchup from the tables. She took the bottles back to the counter and unscrewed the caps, soaking them in some seltzer water from the soda fountain. Then she pulled a box of ketchup from under the counter and used the spigot to top off each bottle.

“This is kind of embarrassing.” Al held the check in his hand and a pained smile stretched across his hairy face. “I only have eight dollars on me.”

Fran sighed. Al’s bill was $8.32. Some shift. She wondered if she even made enough to cover groceries; she’d planned to stop at the Circle K on her way home.

“Don’t worry about it, Al. You’ll get me the next—”

Fran’s words caught in her throat when the lights went out. The darkness came fast and complete, as if someone had cinched a black bag over Fran’s head. She immediately shoved her hands out in front of her, banging her knuckles while reaching for the counter. Her fingers gripped the edge of the counter, tight, as if there were a chance it would be pulled away from her.

Since the accident Fran didn’t do well in the dark.

The silence carried weight. Along with the lights, the perpetual whir of the pie cooler had vanished, along with the white-noise buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights and the whoosh-whoosh of the dishwasher that Merv ran practically nonstop in the kitchen. Claustrophobia crawled up Fran’s shoulders and perched there like a gargoyle, ready to bite.

Something jingled—keys—and then a sliver of light came from where Al sat. He pointed the keychain’s beam in Fran’s direction. Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it.

“I … I guess we blew a fuse,” Fran managed, trying to keep the panic at bay.

“I don’t think so.”

Al directed the light away from Fran, toward the store-front window. The streetlights were out. So was the Schnell’s Hardware sign across the street.

A car honked and buzzed past, making Fran almost wet herself.

“Traffic signal’s out, too,” Al said. “Might be a power line. Might be the generator.”

Al’s light played across the stools along the counter, casting long, creepy shadows. The darkness smothered Fran. It clogged her nose and pushed into her lungs, making it hard to breathe.

“Can … I borrow that?” Fran swallowed what felt like a golf ball in her throat. “I need to find candles.”

The beam hit Fran in the eyes. She stood there, clutching the counter, afraid to move.

“Missy, you look scared out of your head. Afraid of the dark? Is—oh … I’m sorry … I forgot about …”

Fran couldn’t see Al, but she could guess at the expression of sympathy his face now wore. She tried to make her voice sound stronger.

“I just need it for a minute, Al.”

The silence stretched. Fran felt a scream kicking around in her belly, threatening to come up.

“You know what?” Al finally said. “I’ve been eating here for twenty years, never been in the kitchen. How about I go with you?”

The relief Fran felt was physical. She sighed, filled her lungs, and walked over to him in the darkness.

Josh VanCamp turned in time to see his firefighting partner and close friend, Erwin Luggs, run straight into him.

The tackle was high, off-center. Four years of high school varsity football practice instantly kicked in, muscle memory prompting Josh to roll away from the pouncing body, retaining his footing even as Erwin ate the ground.

Josh felt something warm and wet on his face, stinging his eyes, and he recognized it as blood just as he dropped his flashlight.

“Erwin, what the—”

Erwin rolled onto his back, illuminating Josh’s face with the light he still retained. This brought a burst of pain as Josh’s pupils constricted, and he held up his hands to shield the glare. Then, behind him, he heard the familiar sound of the fire truck starting. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the blue and red flashing lights pull away, down Gold Star Road.

Josh took two steps toward the truck, then stopped. He wasn’t sure he wanted to catch whoever was driving. Closer investigation of the headless men in the cockpit proved that a broken helicopter blade couldn’t have been responsible for their injuries. Josh hadn’t ever seen a decapitation, but he saw that the cuts were jagged, not clean, and the high seat backs were intact above the shoulder line. A spinning blade would have cut off the seats as well as the heads.

Someone had murdered them. And Josh had no desire to meet that someone.

He went to his flashlight and shone it at Erwin, who hadn’t yet gotten off the ground. Blood soaked his friend so completely he looked like a red monster. Josh ran over and knelt next to him, hands and eyes seeking out the spot that was bleeding.

“Deer.” Erwin stammered. “Something killed a deer.”

“You hurt? You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

Josh offered a hand, helped the larger man to his feet. Then he dug out the cell phone in his front pocket. No signal. He walked ten feet left, and ten feet back, the phone before him like a talisman. Nothing.

He stared back at the helicopter, wondering what to do next. In the bay of the chopper were four empty seats and a large gurney with thick leather straps that looked like something out of a Frankenstein movie. The distance from the neck restraint to the ankle restraint had to be near seven feet, and the chest strap was long enough to encircle a rain barrel. What could have possibly been strapped there?

“We need to call the state troopers,” Josh said.

Erwin was trying to find a clean patch on his shirt to wipe his face, but there were no clean patches and he only succeeded in smearing the blood around.

“What about Sheriff Streng?”

Josh knew that this was beyond Streng’s capabilities. He was a nice old guy, probably competent in his day, but whatever was happening was too big for him.

“You wait here for the sheriff, I’ll head over to Sal and Maggie’s place and use their phone.”

“Josh … that deer … it was almost cut it in half. Whatever killed it …”

Josh finished the sentence in his mind: Is out there in those woods. He took another look at the Frankenstein gurney, set his jaw, and headed into the trees.

Just before the electricity went out, the phones throughout Safe Haven began to ring. First one. Then five. Then twenty. Then several hundred, all within a five-minute period. Late-night phone calls usually didn’t mean good news, but every resident who received this one immediately shrugged off any sleepiness and began dialing other residents, per instructions.

Land lines and cells, from old-fashioned rotary ding-a-lings to the modern rock ringtones programmed in by teenagers, echoed out through the night, through the woods, carrying across Big Lake and Little Lake McDonald, fading out and finally mingling with the crickets and owls.

An exodus soon followed, whoops and hollers and horns accompanying vehicles as they headed into town. At long last, prosperity had found its way to Safe Haven, filling the heads of every man, woman, and child with dollar signs.

The celebration would be short-lived.

• • •

Sheriff Ace Streng pulled onto Gold Star Road, the Jeep’s four-wheel drive biting into the sand and gravel surface and leaving tire marks in its wake. His brights were on. So were his undercarriage beams and the hunting spots on the overhead roll bar. All of that wattage, and the light still couldn’t penetrate more than two feet into the forest. These trees were ancient, thick, and they lined the sides of the road, their tops bending over and obscuring the night sky. It was like traveling down a winding, high-arched tunnel.

Streng drove by a house almost entirely hidden by foliage, tried to recall the name of the owners. His mind gave up the answer a mile after he passed. The Kinsels. Snowbirds, gone someplace that didn’t have minus-thirty-degree winters and four feet of snow by January.

“Where are you hiding?” Streng asked himself, scanning ahead for the swirling red lights of Josh’s fire truck. Streng could imagine a whole fleet of helicopters lost in these woods. If daylight never came, they’d never be found. The forest liked to hide things. A plane went missing ten years back—one of those experimental one-seaters flown by some rich moron who hadn’t bothered filing a flight plan—and it had taken a week of continuous searching before they found the wreck, less than two hundred yards from Big Lake McDonald’s east shore. By that time, a family of raccoons had already moved into the cockpit, and an egret had built its nest on the tail section. The coyotes took care of the pilot.

He reached down and rubbed his right calf, then his left one. Shin splints. The pain sometimes acted up when he drove. Every so often he toyed with the notion of seeing a doctor about it but always dismissed that as weakness. As his late father liked to say, “It’s better to have two bad legs than a single healthy one.” And Dad knew that from experience.

His cell rang, and Streng peered down his nose at the number. Mayor Durlock, from Safe Haven. In a town of less than a thousand, a helicopter crash was headline news, and the mayor never missed an opportunity to speak to the press.

“Sheriff? Something wonderful has happened.”

“Not for the people in the helicopter.”

“Helicopter? What? Oh.” Durlock sounded sleepy. Or maybe he’d been drinking. “This is about the lottery.”

“Lottery?” Streng asked. But he was talking to a dead line. No signal. He tried redial, it didn’t work, and he tucked the phone away and concentrated on driving.

Still no sign of Josh, and the road dead-ended in maybe a thousand feet. Streng passed Sal’s property and was reaching for his cell to call the firefighter when he heard the sound.

Having grown up in the Northwoods, Streng knew animal calls. The warning hoot of owls. The howl of timber wolves. The crazy piccolo chorus of the loons. This didn’t sound like anything Streng had ever heard before. It was loud and shrill, but with a gurgling quality to it. Like a woman screaming underwater.

Streng brought the Jeep to a stop and rolled down the windows, his ear facing the forest.

“OOOOHOOOOOHOOOOHOOOOOGGGGGGGGHHH …”

This time it sounded less animalistic, more human. But what could cause a person to make a sound like that? Was it Josh and Erwin, screwing around? And where was it even coming from?

He pulled onto the grass alongside Sal’s house, put the Jeep in park, dug the flashlight out of the glove compartment, and stepped onto the scrub grass. The night was unusually quiet, as if the woods were collectively holding their breath. Streng adjusted the beam for maximum distance, unbuttoned the strap on his Kimber Compact Stainless .45, and walked in the direction of the sound.

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH NOOOOOOOOO …”

That was someone in agony, and you couldn’t fake agony like that. The fire truck was still nowhere to be found. All that lay ahead was Sal’s place.

Reflexively, Streng pulled his sidearm from his holster and thumbed off the safety. He’d been carrying it cocked and locked. Now it was ready to fire.

He moved at a brisk pace, minding his footing but intent on helping the screamer. Streng was old-school, military trained. He kept the flashlight at his hip in a sword grip and his gun before him at chest level. He’d been shown, years ago, a method of locking wrists so both flashlight and pistol were aiming at the same thing, a move favored by cops in the movies. What the movies didn’t show you was the sympathetic limb contractions and hand confusion that occurred while under fire, where combatants would often shine their gun and try to shoot their flashlight. The new moves weren’t always the best moves.

Another scream. Definitely coming from the house. Every light was off, making Sal’s two-story cabin look like the silhouette of a mountain among the trees. Streng directed his beam at the front door, and from a dozen yards away he saw the pry marks on the jamb, the splinters sticking out like witch’s fingers.

Streng tucked the flashlight under his armpit and touched the knob cautiously, as if it were hot. The door opened with a faint creak, and Streng again gripped the flashlight and moved in a crouch as low as his shin splints would allow. The air in the house radiated warmth, and it tingled against his cool skin. The acrid smell of burned popcorn filled his nostrils. The silence seemed total, complete. Not even the click of the furnace or the hum of the refrigerator.

“JEEEEEESUS CHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIST!”

The scream brought Streng back in time, twenty years earlier, to a traffic accident scene. A pedestrian pinned under a trailer truck, his face pressed against the burning hot muffler. They couldn’t move the semi, couldn’t lift the semi, couldn’t do a damn thing until the tow truck came, and as the victim’s face cooked away the screaming became so intense that Streng had actually pulled his gun and considered shooting the poor bastard.

This scream conveyed the same thing; unimaginable pain.

He took the stairs two at a time, calves crying out, jaw set hard, gun steady and leading the charge. The top ended at a hallway. Streng went left, toward the scream, knowing he should announce himself as a police officer, but some instinct, some voice in his subconscious, told him it would be better to use the element of surprise.

Streng stuck his head though the bedroom door, shining his light, gripping his weapon, and he turned out to be the surprised one.

“Hello, Sheriff Streng.”

The intruder’s voice was high, breathy, with a foreign lisp. Streng’s beam spotlighted him, standing next to the bed with a gun to Sal’s head. Sal sat on the edge with his legs over the side, his chin and chest bobbing up and down as if he had an accelerated case of the hiccups. Streng glimpsed something on the mattress next to Sal, something bloody and naked and sprawled out—Jesus, is that Maggie?—and then Sal screamed again, the force of a foghorn, as the intruder twisted some sort of pink-handled knife into Sal’s arm.

No, not a knife. The intruder was manipulating Sal’s bone—either the radius or the ulna—which protruded through the split flesh.

Streng aimed his .45, centering it on the intruder’s face.

“Drop your weapon!” he yelled.

The intruder offered a humorless smile, continuing to jerk the bone back and forth. Sal’s entire body vibrated, his back arched in a scream that Streng felt in his fillings. It went on and on, briefly stopping for Sal to refill his lungs. Streng felt his stomach quiver and clench, the acid burning the back of his throat.

“Your hands are shaking, Sheriff. Are you sure you can hit me? I hope you don’t miss, for Sal’s sake.”

“Drop the weapon!”

In a blur the intruder switched aim from Sal to Streng.

“You drop yours first, Sheriff. I’m sure we can talk this out, like civilized men.”

Streng knew if he pulled the trigger it was likely he would die. This man was too fast, too cold. A pro. The best chance for survival was to diffuse the immediacy of the situation by retreating, calling for backup, even though his soul cried out to shoot this creature.

In an eye blink he made his choice: get help. Streng stumbled away, out the door, Sal’s screams sticking to him like a shadow. His radio and cell phone were in the car. He had to get down there, call the staties, get a hostage negotiation team here.

Noise. Behind him.

Streng spun, only to see something impossibly huge coming up the stairs.

Dr. Ralph Stubin scratched his dry, bald scalp, squinted at the algorithm on his computer screen, and reached for his cup of coffee. It was empty, and had been the last three times he’d picked it up. On this occasion, he actually raised it to his lips before he noticed.

“Mathison! How about some coffee?”

Alan Mathison Turing sat next to the coffee machine, his tail testing the warmth of the carafe by poking it. Mathison screeched. Stubin recognized it as capuchin monkey language for not done.

“If I don’t have caffeine in my mug in the next ten seconds, no beer for you tonight.”

Mathison screeched again, and Stubin knew he was being called the monkey equivalent of assface. But rather than pout, Mathison leapt over to the laboratory cabinets, grabbed a 60-cc bulb syringe, and stuck the pointy end into the still-percolating coffeepot. He extracted 30 ccs, walked on two legs over to Stubin, and injected it into the doctor’s cup.

“Thank you, Mathison.”

Mathison dropped the syringe and hopped up onto Stubin’s shoulder, his tail curling gently around his neck. He weighed less than five pounds and sat there so often Stubin barely felt him. The doctor kept his eyes on the computer but reached up to scratch Mathison on the belly. He missed, his fingers tracing the surgery scar along Mathison’s scalp.

The monkey screeched, tiny paws pushing him away. Mathison retained his sensitivity about the scar. Not the feel of it—it had healed over a year ago. But its appearance. Stubin had been to four plastic surgeons, but none were willing to work on a monkey for purely cosmetic reasons. They didn’t believe a primate could be vain.

Mathison was more than vain. Mathison was a grandiose narcissist. And even though he had a stellar success rate with the females and was universally loved by all who encountered him, both human and primate, the circular scar remained an issue for him.

“You’re too self-conscious,” Stubin said.

Mathison climbed off the doctor’s shoulder and pointed at the Lakers hat Stubin always wore when out in public to hide his baldness. Stubin had been losing hair since the sixties.

“Fair enough. I could get a hat for you, if you like.”

Mathison put the baseball cap on his own head. It was so big it covered him to the chest.

“Yours would be smaller, Mathison. I’d have it custom-made. It would be the same as mine but would fit you.”

Mathison used the assface screech again.

“It doesn’t have to be the Lakers. It could be whatever you’d like.”

Mathison picked an empty Budweiser can from the garbage and hooted, a sound not unlike a howling ghost. He used that hoot only for things he really liked, such as females and beer. Stubin wrote down Bud cap for Mathison on a dry erase board, since there wasn’t a scrap of paper in the lab.

Stubin’s cell phone rang.

“Can you grab that for me?”

Mathison held the can over his head and howled again. Stubin sighed, swiveled his chair over to the table, and picked up the cell.

“This is Dr. Stubin.”

“USAVOIP 6735,” said the computer voice in its usual soothing manner.

Unlike General Tope, Stubin immediately knew what the code meant. When he hung up the phone he whispered, “It’s happening, Mathison.”

Fran knew every inch of the kitchen at Merv’s and probably could have found the candles with her eyes closed. But Al and his keychain flashlight provided great comfort to her as they made their way to the storage area.

“Kind of snug back here.” Al pointed the tiny light down the aisle, showing the scant distance between the grill and the fryers. “I’m surprised Merv can fit.”

The kitchen was laid out like a long hallway, to allow for maximum customer space in the dining area. Oven, cooler, sink, storage, and finally a tiny desk at the end. Above the desk was a filthy window that they never opened; it led to the alley and their Dumpster, along with its accompanying smells.

Besides being the owner, Merv was the cook, and he didn’t put anything on the menu that he didn’t personally enjoy. As a result, Merv weighed well over three hundred pounds. It was a pretty tight squeeze. The darkness made the space seem even smaller, and Fran fought to keep her breathing under control. Thinking about her breathing made it worse, and she felt her palms go clammy and her chest tighten up.

Panic attack. Since the accident Fran had been having them on a weekly basis. The symptoms—hyperventilating, increased heartbeat, sweating, shaking—were trivial on their own but contributed to an overwhelming psychological response. During an episode, Fran felt as if she were dying.

She’d tried psychotherapy, medications, relaxation techniques, but nothing helped. When the attack came, it took over no matter what she was doing. Yet another reason she didn’t date. How awkward would it be during sex if she suddenly froze up and began to cry in terror?

Fran forced herself to talk, but it came out croaky. “The candles should be on one of the racks here.”

She took the last six steps to the storage area at a jog, her hands reaching out for the wire shelving. Fran looked past the large cans of tomato paste, past the containers of pasta, and shifted a box of paper napkins to reach for the candles.

Then the flashlight went out.

The darkness hit her like a slap. She uttered a small yelp, then gripped the steel support bars on the shelving unit and waited for Al to put the light back on.

Five seconds passed. Ten.

“Al?”

Fran’s voice was so faint she could barely hear it herself. She cleared her throat and tried again.

“Al? Did you drop the flashlight?”

A shuffling sound, from Al’s direction. Was he teasing her? If so, it wasn’t funny. The whole town knew about her tragedy. Al couldn’t possibly be that cruel.

The silence stretched. Fran heard scratching, like claws on the tile floor.

“Al?”

The power in her voice was surprising, considering how scared she was. But Al didn’t answer.

Fran went over some scenarios. Maybe he just dropped his keys. The keychain light probably worked by keeping pressure on the button. But Fran hadn’t heard the jingle of keys hitting the floor. The batteries? If they’d died, why wasn’t Al answering? Had he suddenly gone deaf?

Perhaps he’d fallen. Or had a heart attack. Or a stroke. That made more sense than Al playing games. Fran probably needed to get to him, to help him. He might be dying.

Fran tried to let go of the shelf, but her hands wouldn’t open. The bones in her legs turned into rubber, and she had a hard time keeping her balance.

Then the flashlight came back on.

A sound escaped Fran’s mouth that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. She squinted at the light, roughly ten feet away from her, and it brought her more pure joy than she’d felt as a child on Christmas morning.

“Al, what—”

The light went off again. Fran waited for an explanation, an apology.

None came.

“Al?” she squeaked.

He didn’t answer. And once again the darkness pressed down on Fran, suffocating her, making her feel trapped and alone and without any hope. Her breath came faster, shallower, and she felt the blood leaching out of her head, the edges of unconsciousness closing in.

And then the flashlight was on.

Then off.

Then on.

Off.

On.

What the hell was Al doing? The light hovered at chest level, so he hadn’t fallen. But he wasn’t making any attempt to come closer, wasn’t speaking, wasn’t doing anything but pointing the beam at her face.

Then the light began to move.

Off of her face. To the freezer. To the sink. To the dish rack. Slow, like a spotlight following an actor.

Then to the oven. Over to the fryer, lingering there.

And finally down to the floor, where Al lay on his stomach, one hand clutching the spurting slash in his neck, the other clawing at the tiles, trying to crawl through the growing puddle of his own blood.

The light went out again.

It was never a good time to have a panic attack. But in an actual situation that called for panic, or required immediate action, it was deadly. Fran had gone from hyperventilating to being unable to draw a breath. Her head pounded, and her lungs screamed, and her entire body became jelly except for her death grip on the shelving.

Fran knew about fear. She knew its power to incapacitate. She knew it affected a person physically, mentally, and emotionally and that it became so overwhelming it pushed away all thoughts other than survival. But in some cases fear didn’t precipitate fight or flight. Instead it induced the deer-in-the-headlights response. True fear could be an out-of-body experience, watching what was happening to you, yet unable to do anything about it.

Fran could picture herself in the darkness. She saw the terrified expression on her face, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. She saw her knees quiver and her shoulders shake. She saw the tears welling up, tears she couldn’t blink away because she was too afraid to even blink.

Then she heard a footstep on the tile floor.

Then another.

Whoever did that to Al was coming for her.

Fran gasped, managing to get some air into her lungs.

The light went on, focusing on Al. A black boot stepped on his neck, pinning his face to the floor, making the blood squirt from the wound in his throat. Then a hand in a black glove reached down to him—a hand holding a knife.

Fran couldn’t close her eyes, couldn’t turn away, as the knife went to work on Al.

When Al finally stopped moving, the light went off again.

The silence that followed was the loudest thing Fran had ever heard. Louder than the three hours she spent upside down in the car, her husband Charles dead in the driver’s seat beside her, hanging by his seat belt, his blood dripping onto her face—plop, plop, plop …

Something hit Fran in the chest, bringing her back to the present, making her flinch. It clung to her shirt. Warm and wet, like a towel. What was it? What had he thrown at her?

She shook her shoulders, but it didn’t move. Fran needed to let go of the shelf, needed to release her hands so she could knock off whatever—

The flashlight came on, pointing at her. Fran looked at her chest and saw something red and rubbery and shredded hanging there. Something wearing Al’s walrus mustache.

And then the light went off.

Fran screamed. She screamed and screamed and then her paralysis broke and her hands opened up and she batted Al’s face off herself, arms flailing out as if she were being attacked by a swarm of bees.

After five seconds of pure, explosive panic, Fran froze, the cry dying in her throat, her hands stretched out into the darkness surrounding her.

Another footstep.

Then a low chuckle.

Strangely, Fran no longer thought of herself or the horror of what was happening. Instead, she thought of Duncan. Her son was a miniature version of Charles, except he had Fran’s pale blue eyes—so pale they looked like ice. He had just turned ten, an age when it really wasn’t cool to hang out with Mom anymore. But Duncan still tolerated her attempts at playing catch and her lame efforts at video games. He even allowed her to pick the movies they saw together, occasionally sitting through something more serious than a Jim Carrey comedy.

She thought of the walks they took when he was younger, and the family vacations they’d gone on when Duncan’s father was still alive, and the day he was born, after sixteen grueling hours of labor, and how holding him for the first time made her cry with unrestrained joy. She thought of his teenage years, just around the corner, which he’d have to face without any parents if she died.

Fran couldn’t let that happen.

Reaching behind her, Fran felt along the shelves, her hands clasping around a five-pound can of tomato paste. She raised it over her head and waited.

The flashlight came on again, less than five feet away from her.

Fran threw the can as hard as she could. She didn’t wait to find out if she’d hit the killer or see what damage she’d done. She was already running away from him, climbing on the desk, seeking the window to the alley.

Her fingers met cool glass, covered in a film of grease and dirt and cobwebs. She found the latch, tried to turn it.

Painted over. Wouldn’t budge.

Frantic, she reached around on the desktop, found the phone, and cracked it hard against the window.

Glass shattered, letting in cool night air and the pungent smell of garbage. The window was small, and shards still jutted from the pane, but Fran forced her upper body into the hole. Her hair snagged, but she pushed forward, scooting her chest through the opening as glass cut at her palms and elbows. Then her hands touched the brick on the outside of the building, and she was dragging her hips out, thinking that she’d actually made it, thinking she’d actually gotten away, and her fear transformed into a crazy, almost hysterical sense of relief.

That’s when the killer grabbed her ankle.

• • •

Sheriff Ace Streng fired twice at the figure coming up the stairs, the muzzle flashes illuminating something black and enormous. The bullets didn’t slow it down, so Streng ran left, to the door on the other side of the hall.

A spare bedroom, unlit, with a musty odor that indicated it hadn’t been used in a while. Streng found the window, hurried to it, and fumbled for the lock.

He chanced a look behind him, saw the figure filling the doorway. A sharp, unpleasant smell filled the room, like cigarettes and body odor. Streng aimed and squeezed off three more shots. The thing didn’t fall. He turned his attention back to the window, jerked it open, and went face-first out onto the roof. It was steeper than he guessed, and he slipped onto his back and began to skid, the flashlight slipping from his hand and clattering down the incline, winking out when it went over the edge.

Streng spread out his arms, tried to keep from falling. His knuckles scraped against the cold, rough shingles, the skin tearing. He reflexively opened his hand, letting go of the .45, hearing it skitter to a stop above him while he kept sliding down, his momentum picking up.

The trees obscured the moon and stars, and Streng’s eyes couldn’t penetrate the inky night. But he knew there wasn’t much roof left, and if he went over at this speed he’d break his leg. Or his neck.

The sheriff turned onto his side as he slid, and then onto his belly, arms and legs outstretched, toes fighting for purchase. He began to slow down, and then his feet hit the gutter, dug into it, abruptly stopping his descent.

Streng didn’t have time to be relieved. He strained his eyes against the darkness, trying to see the ground beneath him.

All he saw was black. How far could it be? Ten feet? Fifteen? The ground would be hard from the cool weather, and there was the chance he’d land on a rock, or worse.

A cracking sound, then a crash. Streng was peppered with glass and bits of wood, and he could feel the whole house thump. Whatever was chasing him was on the roof.

Streng now had no choice. He guessed the man in Sal’s room was already making his way down the stairs, gun ready, and the steady thump thump thump of that thing’s footsteps was closing in fast. Streng swung his legs out over the edge, letting them dangle in the darkness. He gripped the gutter, not expecting it to support his weight, but maybe it would slow him down a bit as it broke.

Without dwelling on it, Streng scooted off the rooftop, ankles tight together, knees bent. The gutter held for a second, then the aluminum split. Streng lost his grip and fell.

He hit faster than expected, and then the ground slipped out from under him in an unnerving way, causing him to pitch forward and fall again, his hands unable to stop his chin from cracking against the dirt.

Streng’s vision lit up, sparkling motes swirling before him, and his jaw ached like he’d been hit with a bat. He reached around, felt the loose pieces of wood surrounding him, and realized he’d landed on Sal’s firewood cord, stacked up against the house for winter burning.

Streng forced himself to his hands and knees, spat out the blood that was filling his mouth, and tried to get his bearings. He was in the back of the house. The Jeep was parked on the side.

Streng ran for the car.

Aging, Streng often mused while lying in bed at night unable to sleep, is the body’s deliberate and systematic betrayal of the soul. First the appearance withered, gray hair replacing brown in every place hair grew and even a few where it had never grown before. Wrinkles began at the eyes and mouth, then sent out tributaries to the forehead, cheeks, neck, hands. Everything sagged, including memory. And then when self-esteem was something you could find only in old pictures, the aches and pains ensued. Eye strain. Arthritis. Insomnia. Constipation. Shin splints. Bad back. Receding gums. Poor appetite. Impotence. The heart and lungs and kidneys and prostate and liver and colon and bladder all sputtered like a car low on gas. And then the indignity of disrobing before a doctor one-third your age, only to be told that this is the just the aging process, completely natural, nothing can be done.

Streng fought getting old. He fought it by exercising, and eating right, and supplementing with so many morning vitamins that his stomach rattled for two hours after breakfast. But as he ran for his car, half as quickly as he could run just fifteen years ago, he once again cursed his failing body and the laws of nature that allowed this to happen.

He cursed again when the man in black fell into step beside him.

“Where are you going?” the man said with his foreign lisp, his breath as easy as Streng’s was ragged.

Streng couldn’t outrun him. He slowed, stopped, and then faced the man, raising his fists. Though he was hardly the 195-pound slab of muscle he had been in his youth, a few of those muscles still functioned.

“So you want to fight?” the man asked.

The sheriff threw a roundhouse punch, aiming for the stranger’s neck. The man sidestepped it and in a single fluid motion grabbed Streng’s hand and began to squeeze it.

The pain was instant and excruciating. It felt like getting caught in a door, the bones grinding against each other. Streng yelped.

Then combat training kicked in. Streng grabbed the man’s shirt, swiveled his right hip behind the man’s right leg, and flipped him.

The move was executed perfectly. Too perfectly, and halfway into it Streng knew what was happening. The man didn’t let go of Streng and used the momentum of his fall to catapult Streng legs over head, slamming the sheriff onto his back.

Streng stared up at the black sky, his wind gone. He noticed many things at once: the cool grass tickling the back of his neck, the pain in his coccyx that shot down both legs, the spasm in his diaphragm that wouldn’t let him draw a breath, and the soft, effeminate laugh of the person about to kill him.

“You’ve had some training,” said the man. “So have I.”

Streng felt a hand clamp under his armpit. It squeezed. Fire exploded behind Streng’s eyes, and he screamed for perhaps the first time in his sixty-six years. It was like being pinched with pliers, and even though Streng tried to roll away, tried to push back the hand, the pressure went on and on, driving out every thought other than make it stop.

“That’s the brachial nerve,” the man whispered in Streng’s ear. “It’s one of many nerves in the body.”

The man released his grip, and Streng wept. And as he did, he hated himself for the tears, hated himself for being a frail old man that this psychopath could manhandle like a toy.

“I have some questions for you, Sheriff. Do you think you’ll be able to answer them for me?”

Streng wanted to be defiant, wanted to give this man nothing. But his lips formed the word before he could stop it: “Yes.”

“That’s good. That’s very good.” The man’s breath was warm, moist, on Streng’s ear. “But I think I’ll still loosen you up a bit first.”

The man grabbed Streng’s left side and squeezed, fingers digging hard into his kidney, prompting such intense, jaw-dropping pain that Streng passed out midscream.

Duncan Stauffer awoke to the sound of Woof barking. Woof was supposed to be a beagle, but Duncan had a lot of dog books and decided that Woof looked more like a basset hound. Woof was pudgy, with stubby legs and floppy ears and sad red eyes. It was funny because even though his eyes were sad, Woof played all the time. All the time. Duncan wondered how he could be so fat, since he ran around all day.

Woof barked again, and Duncan sat up. The dog normally slept on Duncan’s bed, sprawled out on his back with his legs in the air. He left only to get a drink of water, let himself out through the doggy door to poop (Mom called it “doing his dirty business”), or greet Mom when she came home from the diner.

Duncan looked over at his SpongeBob digital clock next to the bed, but it wasn’t on for some reason. Instead he checked his dad’s watch, which he wore all the time since Mom had the links removed so it could fit.

The watch told him it was twelve forty-three.

Woof barked once more, a deep, loud bark that sounded exactly like his name, which was the reason Duncan named him Woof. But this wasn’t the welcome-home bark that Woof used when Mom came home. This was Woof’s warning bark, the one he used for his fiercest enemies, like the squirrel who had a nest in the maple tree out front, or the Johnsons’ gray cat, who liked to hiss at Woof and scare him.

“Woof! Come here, boy!”

Duncan waited. Normally, Woof came running when Duncan called, jumping on him and bathing his face with a tongue that was longer than Duncan’s foot.

But Woof didn’t come.

“Mom!” Duncan called. “You home?”

No one answered.

Duncan didn’t mind being by himself while Mom worked late. He was ten years old, which was practically an adult. His mom used to insist that he have a babysitter, and the one she usually got was Mrs. Teller, who was all bent over because she was so old, and sometimes she smelled like pee. Duncan liked her okay, but she made him go to bed early and wouldn’t let him watch his favorite shows on TV, like South Park, because they said bad words, and she always wanted to talk about her husband, who died years ago.

Duncan didn’t like to talk about death.

After a long session with Dr. Walker, the therapist convinced Mom that Duncan was mature enough to stay home alone, if that’s what Duncan wanted. Which he did. Duncan knew what to do in the case of any emergency. He’d taken the Stranger Danger class in school. He had three planned escape routes if there was a fire. He knew not to let anyone in the house, and how to call 911, and to never cook on the stove or use the fireplace or take a bath while home alone. He thought Mom was being a little crazy about the bath thing, like Duncan would fall asleep in the tub and drown. But he listened to Mom anyway, and she trusted him, and for the three months he’d been without a babysitter it had worked out fine. Duncan hadn’t gotten scared once.

Until now.

“Woof!” Duncan yelled again.

Woof didn’t come.

It was possible his dog had gone outside, to do his dirty business. Or maybe he saw the Johnsons’ cat and went to chase him, even though the cat scared Woof a lot.

Or maybe something got him.

Duncan would never admit it to anyone, not even his best friend Jerry Halprin, but he sometimes believed monsters were real. He wasn’t scared of monsters, exactly. He loved watching monster movies, and reading R. L. Stine books with monsters in them, but deep down he thought maybe monsters really did exist.

He didn’t tell this to Dr. Walker, but when they had the car accident, and Mom thought Duncan was unconscious in the back seat, he wasn’t really unconscious. He saw what happened to Dad, how bloody he was. For weeks afterward, Duncan had horrible nightmares about monsters, biting and clawing and ripping up him and Mom, making them bleed and die. Since he got Woof, most of the nightmares had gone away.

But sitting in his bed, holding his breath and waiting for his dog to come, Duncan wondered if maybe a monster got Woof.

Then he heard it—the jingle of metal tags from Woof’s dog collar, just down the hallway.

“Woof!” he yelled happily. He tucked his legs under his butt so when Woof hopped on the bed he wouldn’t step on them, and he waited in the dark for his dog to come.

But Woof didn’t come.

Duncan listened hard, then called Woof’s name again. He heard jingling, in the hall.

“Come on, Woof,” Duncan urged.

The jingling got a little closer, then stopped. What was wrong with that dog?

“Speak, Woof!”

Woof, who didn’t really need to be told to speak because he spoke all the time, still loved to follow that command, because he usually got a treat afterward. But Woof stayed quiet. Duncan wondered if he was maybe hurt, which is why he stopped barking.

Duncan reached over to the light switch on the wall behind him. He flipped it up. It didn’t do anything. He tried flicking it up and down a few times, but his bedroom light didn’t come on. The electricity must be out, Duncan thought.

Or maybe a monster stole the light bulb.

“Woof!” Duncan said it hard, the way Mom did when Woof did his dirty business on the kitchen floor.

Woof’s collar jingled, and Duncan heard him pant. But the dog stayed in the hallway. Did Woof want him to come there for some reason? Or was he afraid of something in the bedroom?

Duncan peeled back the covers and climbed out of bed. The house was warm, but he shivered anyway. Mom made him wear pajamas when she was home, but on the nights she worked, Duncan liked to sleep in his underwear. He wished he had his pajamas on now. Being almost naked made him feel small and alone.

The room was too dark to see, and Duncan walked by memory, heading for the doorway to the hall, hands out in front of him like a zombie to stop him from bumping into walls. After some groping he found the door and stopped before walking through.

Woof’s collar jingled, only a few feet in front of him. The panting got louder.

“What’s the matter, boy?”

Duncan knelt down and held out his hands, waiting for the dog to approach. When Woof didn’t, Duncan felt goosebumps break out all over. He knew something was wrong, really wrong. Maybe Mom was right about leaving him home all alone. Maybe something bad happened to Woof, and Duncan wouldn’t be able to help him because he was just a kid.

Duncan stood up and reached for the hall light switch, but it didn’t go on. So he pressed the button on his dad’s watch and the blue bezel light came on, which was bright enough for him to see the man standing in the hallway, jingling Woof’s collar and panting.

• • •

Josh VanCamp moved through the woods at a quick pace, sweeping the flashlight before him like a blind man’s walking stick, navigating fallen trees and overhanging branches. He had no explanation for the events so far, but deep in his bones he knew something was terribly wrong.

The underbrush grabbed an ankle, and Josh pulled his foot free and paused, trying to get his bearings. There was less than a hundred yards between the crash spot and the Mortons’ house, but it was extremely easy to get lost in the forest, especially at night. He reached into the pocket of his khakis and took out a bubble compass on a leather swatch. Reorienting himself, he headed east, toward Gold Star Road.

Safe Haven didn’t have many emergencies. Even when the population tripled during the tourist season, Josh responded to only a handful of calls a week, and they usually amounted to overzealous campers with fire pits that exceeded safety standards or search-and-rescue operations for teenagers who snuck off into the woods to have a quickie. Though Josh became a firefighter because of a strong need to saves lives, he had never actually saved anyone.

Josh navigated through a copse of wrist-thin birch trees, and found his mind drifting to Annie, as it often did. He didn’t need grief therapy to realize she was the real reason for his vocation. Soon he would leave Safe Haven and move to Madison, or the Twin Cities, where firefighters actually did risk their lives and do real good for the world.

On his days off he took EMT classes in nearby Shell Lake, and he planned to take his National Registry Paramedic exam next year. Josh didn’t know if there was a statute of limitations on mourning, but if there were, his ran out at four years, three months, and eleven days. He had made a promise to Annie, but it was time to move on.

Josh set foot on the sand road and began walking south when he heard the scream. The Mortons were the only folks out here this time of year, and it came from the direction of their house. Josh sprinted toward the sound. Though the night had gone from cool to cold, sweat broke out on his forehead, neck, and underarms. The sand sucked at his shoes, and he almost lost his footing hurdling over a pile of scrap wood next to Sal Morton’s mailbox.

Josh jogged to the edge of Sal’s property just as the screaming stopped. Josh took a few gulps of air and then cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Hello!”

No one answered.

Josh wondered who was shrieking, and why. He had no doubt it had been a cry of pain. Had the person passed out? Died?

He looked to the house and saw the front door hanging open. That wasn’t right. Josh hurried to it and stuck his head in. Darkness and silence greeted him.

“Hello? It’s Josh VanCamp, from the firehouse! Does someone need help?”

The wall switch didn’t work. Josh went inside, his flashlight sweeping the living room. Empty. He’d been in the Mortons’ home before, for Sal’s sixtieth birthday, and could vaguely remember the layout. He navigated over to the laundry room, found the circuit-breaker panel open, and noticed the main had been tripped. He pressed it. Nothing happened. Not unusual; in northern Wisconsin, the power went out frequently.

Silence followed him into the kitchen, and then up the stairs. He knew Sal hunted, which meant he had at least one gun, so Josh again announced his presence.

“Sal! Maggie! It’s Josh from the fire department!”

He stopped at the top of the stairs and waited. Where were they? Why was the door open? Who had been screaming?

Josh felt wind on his cheek and turned the flashlight to see what could be causing it. A bedroom, the window shattered, white drapes dancing like specters. Then, from the room on the other side of the hallway, a cough.

Josh hurried over but couldn’t quite understand what he saw. The bed was soaked in blood. And sitting in the middle was Sal Morton, slack-jawed, staring into space, cradling a right arm that boasted the most horrible compound fracture Josh could have ever imagined. The bone jutted out five or six inches from the flesh.

“Mr. Morton, I’m here! We’re going to get you some help.”

Josh tried to recall his EMT training. He checked for a pulse in Sal’s carotid and found it to be strong, which surprised him considering the amount of blood on the bed. Sal’s skin was cool, clammy, and his eyes fixed on a point beyond Josh. Shock. Josh needed to get him to a doctor, which would be quite the trick since his tanker truck was stolen. Sal probably had a car. And Sheriff Streng should be here any minute. Josh pulled out his cell and hit redial, then looked for the upstairs bathroom.

Awful as the fracture appeared, it didn’t seem to be bleeding much. The immediate concern was for infection. Josh found a rag and soaked it with some hydrogen peroxide he found in the cabinet under the sink. He placed it over Sal’s mangled arm just as the line picked up.

“Hello?” came a strange voice. Whoever answered the sheriff’s phone wasn’t the sheriff.

“Can I speak to Sheriff Streng?”

“He’s indisposed at the moment.”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Santiago.” The man had a lisp and sounded Spanish, and Josh had the impression that he was smiling as he spoke.

“Are you with the sheriff?” Josh said.

“Yes. But you can’t speak to him.”

Josh didn’t have time for games like this. Why was Streng even lending out his cell phone? Didn’t cops have rules about that sort of thing?

“I need to speak with the sheriff. It’s an emergency.”

“I don’t think he can speak. I believe I just ruptured his kidney.”

“What?” What the hell is going on?

“Is this the man who just went into the Morton house? How’s Sal holding up? Still grieving for his dear, dead wife?”

“His wife? Where’s Maggie?”

“She’s not on the bed? Hmm. Interesting. I suppose Ajax has her, then.”

Josh stared at the huge bloodstain on the bed, and then his eyes climbed up Sal, who continued to stare, mouth agape, across the hall to the adjoining bedroom. Josh followed Sal’s stare with the flashlight.

It came to rest on the huge man standing next to the window, quietly slow dancing with the naked, mutilated corpse of Maggie Morton.

Fran’s upper body hung out of the diner’s broken kitchen window, Al’s murderer clutching the ankle of her right foot, preventing her from getting away. Glass shards dug into her chest, and the smell of rotten food from the alley Dumpster to her left made her eyes water. Fran kicked out with her free foot, connecting with the killer several times, but her rubber-soled shoes bounced off without apparent effect.

Her hands frantically sought something to grab on to, something to hold so she could pull herself out. The Dumpster, a foot away, might as well have been a mile. Her palms couldn’t get any kind of purchase on the brick wall. All Fran could do was lean forward, hooking her armpits around the window frame, and try to resist the inevitable yank back into the kitchen.

The yank didn’t come. In fact, the killer didn’t tug on her at all. He simply held her ankle—hard enough that she couldn’t twist away—but without pulling. Fran remembered being a child, getting a booster shot at the doctor’s office, and how waiting for it was just as bad as getting it. She wondered how being stabbed with a knife compared to an inoculation needle. Or would he prefer slicing to stabbing?

But seconds ticked away, and still he did nothing but hold her. The anticipation was torture.

Then his other hand touched her bare calf and began to knead it, rubbing up and down.

Fran screamed, this intimate gesture somehow ratcheting up her terror. A moment later, her shoe was pulled off. Then she felt her sock peeling down. What the hell was this guy doing?

She found out when something warm and wet enveloped her toes.

He was sucking them.

Fran squirmed and kicked, but she had no leverage, no way to bend her legs while she was on her stomach. She planted her free foot on the attacker’s forehead and pushed, trying to keep his face away. It had no effect. As his tongue squirmed between her toes, his free hand traveled up her leg and rubbed the inside of her thigh under her skirt.

If both hands were holding her, that meant he wasn’t holding the knife.

Fran tried to figure out how she could use this to her advantage. Had he dropped the knife? Set it down? Put it in a sheath?

His teeth scraped the knuckle of her little toe, then locked around it.

Oh, Jesus, no …

First pressure. Then pain. The killer sawed his teeth back and forth and shook his head like a dog, but apparently the toe didn’t want to come off no matter how violent the movement. The agony spiked to unbearable levels, going on and on and on, and Fran kicked his face and pushed against the outside brick wall and then suddenly she slipped free, spilling face-first onto the asphalt, hands out to break her fall.

Fran rolled onto her butt, her back against the wall, hands seeking out the unrelenting throb that now occupied her entire body and soul. She’d stubbed her toes many times in her life, once while she had an ingrown nail. That pain was a joke compared to this. She probed the wound, trying to judge the severity of the damage in the darkness, sobbing at what she discovered. Her toe was completely gone, a tiny sharp nub of bone sticking out where it used to be.

Fran howled, and then howled even louder when a hand reached through the window and snagged her hair, yanking back her head.

She managed to grab on to the side of the Dumpster, and a tug-of-war ensued. Her neck wrenched backward, but she fought it, felt some hair rip free, and then she was on her feet and hobbling down the alley as quickly as her injury allowed.

When she reached the street she turned left. The darkness covered town like a black blanket. There wasn’t a single light anywhere up and down Main Street. The hunter’s moon, full and orange, was partially obscured by clouds. No cars. No people. Just a long line of empty stores: Hutch’s Bakery, the Fudge Shoppe, York’s Books and Cards, Red Cross Pharmacy, Safe Haven Liquor. With their power off, the buildings looked abandoned, dead.

Fran limped to the parking lot, squinting to make out the silhouette of her Jetta, and five steps away from it she let out a cry of anguish.

Her keys were in her purse. Her purse was in the diner.

Fran tried the car door anyway, knowing it was locked, knowing that even if she got inside she couldn’t drive without keys. When the door didn’t open, she glanced over her shoulder to see if the killer was following her.

He stood directly behind her, and his hand reached out and grabbed her by the neck.

“Hello, Fran,” he said. “I’m Taylor. We need to talk.”

General Alton Tope didn’t believe in luck. Victories and defeats were decided by intelligence, firepower, and strategy. But he had to admit it was a fortuitous circumstance to have the Twenty-sixth Special Forces Group already in Wisconsin, training here at Fort McCoy. They had been putting a prototype tank armor through the paces—it was electrically charged and virtually impervious to rocket-propelled grenades—and were set to return to Fort Bragg tomorrow. Operation Angel Rescue changed their status.

The twelve Green Berets standing at attention in the war room were dressed for combat but hadn’t yet been issued weapons. Though they were called after only an hour of sleep, each man appeared alert and determined.

“Parade, rest,” Tope commanded, and his men put their hands behind their backs. “Operation Angel Rescue is classified top secret and shall not be discussed ever with anyone in possession of less than two stars. Understood?”

“Yes, General.” Unison, strong and loud.

Tope continued. “The town of Safe Haven, Wisconsin, two hundred and seventy clicks northwest, population nine hundred and seven, is under siege. Your job is to capture the insurgents. Dr. Ralph Stubin, a civvie, will be accompanying you on this mission and providing intel.”

Tope hit the power button on the remote control, and a TV in the corner of the room came on. The screen filled with a fish-eye close-up of Dr. Stubin, colored green due to the night-vision camera. The background was indistinct, but the sound was unmistakable; Stubin was in a chopper.

“Am I on? I am? Okay.”

The doctor focused on the camera, looking grim.

“My name is Ralph Stubin. I’m a brain surgeon. My specialty is behavior modification, specifically transhumanistic neuropathology. By stimulating portions of the brain electrically, it can be prompted to function more like a computer, with sequential input rather than parallel. In layman’s terms, you can download information directly into a person’s mind, and programs will automatically execute when certain conditions are met.”

Stubin looked right in response to someone speaking to him—probably a soldier telling him to stay on track. He nodded and again stared into the camera.

“Many nations, friend and foe, have experimented with behavior modification. The code name for units composed of modified soldiers is Red-ops. A Red-ops unit is a strike force, meant to be dropped behind enemy lines. Their goals are threefold: isolate, overpower, annihilate. They’re inserted into small towns, and they torture, rape, and murder everyone they encounter. Red-ops exist to demoralize, intimidate, and frighten the enemy. Basically, they’re government-sponsored terrorists. Unfortunately, because of some colossal mistake that we still don’t understand, a Red-ops unit is now operating on U.S. soil, and it seems they were accidentally sent by one of our allies.”

Stubin looked ready to throw up. Tope couldn’t tell if it was from the whirlybird or the situation.

The brain surgeon wiped the back of his hand across his mouth before going on. “The unit has infiltrated the small Wisconsin town of Safe Haven. We don’t know where they are or what they’re doing. Because of their transhuman behavior modification, we have to assume they’re following protocol. They’re treating Safe Haven like an enemy territory. If we don’t stop them, they’ll wipe out the entire town.”

Then Stubin bent over and commenced with the vomiting. Tope switched off the TV.

“The briefing will continue on the Huey. Keep in mind that the Red-ops unit will view us as enemy combatants, even though our countries are buddy-buddy at the United Nations. We want to take them alive, with minimal civilian casualties. This is going to be easier said than done. Red-ops commandos have all had the equivalent of Special Forces training. They’re experts in hand-to-hand and armed combat, munitions, stealth, tactics, interrogation, and communications. Plus, they’re cold-blooded bastards. I’ve seen what these men can do, and it isn’t pretty. Questions?”

The SF-A team captain raised his hand.

“Captain Haines.”

“Which country are they from, General?”

“Need-to-know basis, Captain. But they speak our language.”

“How about our weapons, General?”

“Nonlethal ordnance includes Blake impact shells, sponge grenades, electric net entanglers, lacrimators, Splatt-Thixotropic rounds, and iotechnical-injector batons. We need them alive.”

“And the enemy, General?”

“Bladed weapons and sidearms only.”

“Numbers, General?”

“This Red-ops unit has five team members.”

This provoked a smile from Captain Haines.

“Permission to speak freely, General?”

“Go ahead, Captain.”

“Five men, no rifles? Are you sure you need us? Can’t we just send a Girl Scout troop out after these jokers?”

Some chuckles. General Tope betrayed nothing. He certainly didn’t say he had two other Special Forces teams, as well as a Navy SEAL team and a Marine recon team, being flown in to assist.

Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I want you on the landing strip at oh one thirty. Heavy gear, rations for four days, bivouacs. Dismissed.”

The team dispersed, double-time. As he watched them go, General Tope had a strong feeling he’d never see any of them alive again. But he couldn’t dwell on that, not with so many other things to do.

Tope picked up the scramble phone and contacted the Pentagon to set up the quarantine.

Erwin Luggs heard the screams in the woods and wondered how everything had gone so bad so fast. The fallen helicopter, spread out around him like a giant broken egg, was damn near the creepiest thing he’d ever seen. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that he was soaked, head to toe, with deer blood. It exuded a gamey, metallic stench, and it had cooled and coagulated, clinging to him like jelly.

Another scream came from the trees. Erwin shivered, mostly from the cold, but partly from fear. The night had begun on a promising note. Just two hours ago he was in a hot shower, ready to slip into bed with Jessie Lee Sloan for snuggling and possible nookie. Jessie Lee had been spending too much money on the wedding preparations, and Erwin had been reaping the benefits of guilt sex. Guilt sex almost made up for the overtime hours he had to work to pay for all the extras Jessie Lee was planning, like the custom-made husband and wife figurines for the cake, and a stretch limo that could seat all sixteen members of the wedding party and provide each with champagne.

But it didn’t look like there would be any sex tonight, guilt-induced or otherwise. Erwin reeked of clammy animal blood, Sheriff Streng still hadn’t arrived, and something evil stalked the forest—something that made Erwin want to run and hide.

A third scream, the loudest of all, and then a punishing silence. Erwin turned away from the chopper and faced the tree line. He knew the sheriff wasn’t going to come. He knew because he was pretty certain that last scream came from the sheriff. Though distorted, the voice was semirecognizable. What could possibly be happening to him to make the man—a tough man who had seen combat in Vietnam—cry out like that?

Erwin took out his cell phone. He tried Josh. He tried the sheriff. He tried 911. He even tried his fiancée. Each time, he got the same unable to place your call recording.

Though a firefighter, Erwin knew he wasn’t a particularly brave man. Unlike his friend Josh, who wanted to leave Safe Haven for a bigger town with more danger, Erwin was perfectly fine here. He hadn’t risked his life once in six years on the job, and that suited him. But he knew that it was only a matter of time until he’d be forced to do something heroic.

Unfortunately, it looked like the time had come. Erwin took a deep, steadying breath and then headed into the woods, toward the screaming. He figured that Josh must have heard it, too. Maybe he was already there, taking control of the situation. Maybe Sheriff Streng had broken his leg and the screams were from Josh splinting it. Maybe the deer that had bled all over Erwin simply caught its fur on a sharp branch. Maybe those helicopter pilots got their heads cut off in a freak accident.

The maybes didn’t last long. As Erwin ventured deeper into the woods, his imagination ate away at his rationalization. Someone, or something, had killed those pilots, and the deer, and probably Josh, and was now killing the sheriff in some horrifying way.

Erwin slowed his pace. Each shadow became a monster. Each twig snap became a pursuit by demons. Jess popped into his mind, with that disapproving look she gave him when he said something stupid around her friends, and Erwin knew how pissed off she’d be if he died. She’d be upset at losing him, of course, but also because her storybook wedding would be canceled and she’d already sent out the invitations.

That settled it for him. Erwin decided he should just head in the other direction, back to the main road. Forget the sheriff. Forget Josh. Forget any possible acts of heroism. He might regret his cowardice for the rest of his life, but at least he’d be alive to regret it.

Erwin turned, then stopped. Which way was the road? He wasn’t sure. He took two steps forward, then five more to the right, then seven more in his original direction, and he realized he had no idea where he was.

The cardinal rule when a person got lost in the woods was simple: hug a tree. Staying put meant the search party could find you, rather than chase you in circles. But that rule didn’t apply when there was something in the woods trying to cut your head off.

Erwin picked up the pace. He might have been going deeper into the forest, but at least it distanced him from all the creepy stuff. Maybe he’d reach a road. Maybe he wouldn’t. At the very least, he could walk until sunrise and then figure out which direction to go.

This is for Jessie Lee, he told himself. She needs me.

Erwin focused so intently on escape that when he reached the Mortons’ yard he dropped his jaw in surprise. His flashlight beam landed upon Sheriff Streng and someone else—a man in a black outfit who wore a gun.

Erwin froze. He had known Mr. Streng since he was a kid. His dad was friends with the man, and Streng often stopped by the Luggs household. Erwin could remember throwing the baseball around with him on more than one occasion, and for a while Streng could be counted on to buy him birthday and Christmas gifts.

And now he was being attacked. The man straddled Streng, pinning him down, doing something with his hands. Erwin was about thirty yards away, and he knew he couldn’t cross that distance before the man drew his gun, especially since the light had alerted him to Erwin’s presence. If he tried to help, he might die.

It took Erwin all of a second to switch off his light and head back into the woods. The act shamed him, but the risk was too high. Erwin liked Mr. Streng, but he didn’t want to get shot for him. He hid behind a large pine tree and held his breath, listening for sounds that he was being followed.

“Hey!”

The voice made Erwin flinch. It wasn’t Mr. Streng calling him.

“Come out of the woods!”

That didn’t seem like a wise idea. Erwin chewed the inside of his cheek and closed his eyes.

“Come out of the woods, or I’ll kill the sheriff!”

A scream so raw, so filled with pure pain, shot through the trees, and Erwin wanted to stick his fingers in his ears to make it stop. If the man hoped to lure Erwin from hiding by hurting Mr. Streng, he had another think coming. All it made Erwin want to do was get as far away as possible.

Afraid to switch the flashlight back on, Erwin made his way through the woods by feel, each step taking him farther from the horrible sound that just wouldn’t stop.

Up to that point, the worst pain Sheriff Ace Streng had ever experienced was a kidney stone. He’d woken in the middle of the night from a nightmare of someone stabbing him in the side with a hot poker. Once he was awake, the pain didn’t abate. After two hours of side-clutching agony, he called 911. His ER nurse had been sympathetic.

“I’ve had three children, Sheriff. I’ve also had kidney stones. I’d rather have three more children than another stone.”

Having his kidney mauled by the psychopath straddling him felt like a kidney stone times ten. Streng bellowed until his throat burned. He had seen Erwin at the tree line and didn’t blame the boy for running off. Hell, Streng would have run away, too, had he known the pain this man was capable of causing.

Finally the terrible fingers quit squeezing, and Streng managed to catch his breath.

“I think you scared him off,” the man whispered. Streng had heard part of the phone call, knew he called himself Santiago. “Now, how about we get to those questions I promised, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Very good. First question. Where’s Warren?”

At first, Streng wasn’t sure he heard correctly. Warren? Did he mean Wiley? What could he possibly want with him?

A kidney pinch made him focus.

“I haven’t seen him in years,” he answered, sobbing.

“I’m not asking when you saw him. I’m asking where he is. Do you know?”

“Yes.”

Santiago leaned in close enough to kiss him. The intimacy of the gesture made Streng want to gag.

“Tell me. Where’s Warren?”

Streng opened his mouth to tell him, but nothing came out. This surprised Streng. He would have chewed off his own arm to get away from this lunatic, but he couldn’t say the address. Even though he knew it meant more torture.

Streng clenched his teeth. He didn’t know why he was keeping mum. Certainly Wiley could take care of himself. Hell, Wiley even deserved this hell to rain upon him. But Streng knew that he’d hold out as long as possible.

Perhaps, if he got lucky, his kidneys would fail and he’d die before the pain went on too long.

“Go to hell,” Streng said.

And that’s when Josh came running out of the Morton house, straight at them.

Santiago moved fast, incredibly fast. In one blurred motion he gained his footing and reached for his sidearm. Streng had anticipated the move and still almost missed it, but he managed to grab the killer’s wrist, preventing him from drawing the pistol. That one-second distraction was enough for Josh to catch Santiago in the neck with his forearm, toppling him over.

Josh was big, solid, formidable. But he didn’t have training. Streng had seen enough of Santiago to know he’d been taught by the military, probably an elite force. Josh didn’t have a chance going toe-to-toe with him. At least, not without help.

Even though movement brought a wave of nausea, Streng rolled onto his side and crawled onto Santiago, wrestling for his gun. The killer jabbed at Streng’s eyes, but Streng turned his head away. He chopped at Streng’s neck, but Streng tucked his chin into his chest. A blow to the side of his head made Streng see stars, but he refused to let go of that wrist.

And then Josh was behind Santiago, putting him in a choke hold. The killer reached around, grabbing Josh’s hair with both hands. Streng tugged at the holster, freed the pistol, and thumbed off the safety in the dark.

The man flipped Josh over his hip and raised a combat boot to bring down on his head. Streng aimed for the center body mass and fired three times.

The muzzle flashes hurt his eyes, a strobe effect producing snapshots of Santiago recoiling from the impact of the bullets and falling backward.

“Behind you,” Josh croaked.

Streng spun and saw the silhouette of an incredibly huge man—someone at least seven feet tall with the chunky body of a professional wrestler—only a few yards away.

The thing that had chased him out onto the roof.

Streng fired four shots, all four hitting home. The large man didn’t break stride. Streng fired two more in the direction of his head, and then Josh pulled him to his feet and they were rushing for the trees.

Streng had no idea how far they ran before they finally stopped to rest. Two hundred, perhaps three hundred yards. Streng’s breath came in ragged gasps, his hand pressed tight against his injured kidney. Josh clapped a hand on Streng’s shoulder, leaned in close to whisper.

“What the hell is going on, Sheriff?”

“I have no idea, son.”

But Streng did have an idea. And the idea scared him so badly his knees began to knock.

• • •

Duncan Stauffer stood in the hallway and watched the man in black play with a lighter. It was the biggest lighter Duncan had ever seen—about the size of a Coke can—and the flame shot out of the top like a torch.

At first, Duncan recoiled in terror and even cried a little. He knew about Stranger Danger and the awful things some men did to little boys. He couldn’t stop thinking that Mom was right, that he was too young to stay home alone, and it was his fault a bad man got in the house.

After a few minutes of crying, the man began to flick his lighter. That was scary, but it calmed Duncan down somehow, gave him something to focus on. The man hadn’t hurt him, hadn’t touched him, hadn’t said a single word. He just stood there, switching the flame on and off.

“Who are you?” Duncan finally asked.

“I’m—hehehe—Bernie.”

Bernie’s giggle sounded like a little girl’s.

“Where’s my dog?”

In the flickering orange, Duncan watched Bernie smile. He touched the flame to the dog collar he still held in his other hand. The nylon collar began to melt.

“Acrylic. This black black dark black smoke contains chlorine, chlorine, dioxins, and furans. Very very very bad to inhale. But I can’t help taking a little sniff, a little tiny sniff, because I really—hehehe—like it.”

Bernie stuffed his nose in a plume of oily smoke and made sniffing sounds.

“Did you … burn Woof?” Duncan asked, voice cracking.

“Smell it? Do you smell your dog, Duncan?” Duncan had no idea how the man knew his name. “When fur burns, it smells like hair. Have you—hehehe—smelled burning hair?”

Duncan shook his head. Bernie dropped the collar onto the hardwood floor, where it quickly went out, and reached for Duncan. The boy tried to duck away, but Bernie clamped a large hand around his neck.

“Smell this. Smell it.”

He giggled and touched the jumping flame to the side of Duncan’s head, above his right ear. Duncan heard a sizzling, snapping sound, like bacon frying, and then smelled the awful odor of his hair melting.

Just as he began to feel the heat, Bernie turned off the lighter. He slapped Duncan’s head, smothering the flame but almost knocking him over.

“Smell it. Smell. Bad smell. Did you smell your dog? Answer me! Answer—hehehe—answer me.”

“No, I didn’t smell that.” Duncan touched the side of his head. His hair there felt sticky and hard, like he had gum caught in it.

“After the fur burns, smells pretty good. Like hamburgers. Dogburgers. Hehehe. People smell like barbecue ribs when they burn. Hehe—and they taste like ribs. Smoky. Smoky and good. Have you ever been burned?”

Duncan was very close to wetting his underwear. He couldn’t answer but managed to shake his head.

“Pain. Lots of pain. See?”

Bernie lifted up his black shirt and showed his chest. His whole body was covered with shiny pink scars, and it looked a lot like the spiced ham Mom bought at the deli for his school lunch.

“Bad burn. Dead nerves. See?”

Bernie touched the fire to the scar tissue and held it there.

“Can’t feel it. But smell—hehehe—smells good. Good smell.”

A sickly sweet odor invaded Duncan’s head, pushing away the stench of burning hair. The fact that it smelled tasty made it even more disgusting.

Bernie pulled his shirt back down. “Hungry, hungry, makes me hungry. Hehehe. Give me your hand.”

Duncan put both of his hands behind him and backed away.

“You won’t die. I want to show you. First-degree burns, first degree, only affects the epidermis—the outer layer of skin. Causes redness, swelling. Hurts. Like a sunburn.”

Bernie walked after Duncan, trapping him in the corner of the bedroom. Duncan didn’t know if he could stand up anymore. His legs wanted to quit. He sobbed, and the sobs turned into hiccups. Where was Mom? How could this be happening?

“Second degree,” Bernie continued, “causes blisters. Very painful. They fill with fluid. Can be a few skin layers, layers deep. Papillary and reticular dermis affected— hehehe. These are the burns I use when I’m asking someone questions. Going too deep makes them third degree. Tissue damage. Skin and nerves burned away, so the pain isn’t as bad.”

Bernie reached around and grabbed Duncan’s arm. Duncan tried to pull away, but Bernie was too strong.

“Fourth fourth, fourth-degree burns are when the skin is completely gone, can’t ever heal. Fifth degree, the muscle is gone. Sixth degree, bone is charred. That takes a lot of heat. Fourteen hundred degrees. I can’t get that hot with my lighter. I need this.”

Bernie tucked his lighter into his belt and took out a tiny silver cylinder. He pressed a button and a blue flame shot out.

“A butane torch. Isn’t that pretty? See how thin the flame can get? I can use this to write. See?”

Bernie released Duncan and began to roll up his sleeve. Duncan tried to scoot around Bernie, but the man nudged his hip and pinned the boy against the wall.

“Isn’t this cool?” Bernie said, showing Duncan his forearm. The raised scar tissue formed the word BERNIE. “Maybe cool is wrong, the wrong word. This is hot. Very hot. You want your name on your arm, Duncan? Hehe. You want to be hot like Bernie?”

Bernie stretched Duncan’s arm over his head, and Duncan bawled. Then there was a buzzing sound. Bernie tugged something out of his pocket, something small with a screen that lit up. He peered at it, reading something. Then he pressed a button and spoke.

“Understood. Tell me when I can get rid of the kid.”

Bernie put the device away and smiled.

“My friend Taylor has your mother. We may not, may not need you—hehehe.”

At the mention of his mother, Duncan found his voice.

“Why … why do you have Mom?”

“We need to ask her some things, some questions. Taylor is good at asking. He doesn’t use fire. He bites. Taylor likes to bite. He’s killed over seventy people. Good at it. So when your mom tells Taylor what she knows, I won’t need you anymore.”

“You’ll let us go?”

“Hehehe—of course not. I’m going to build a really big fire, then cook you and eat you.”

The thought that this man wanted to eat him brought Duncan back from hysteria. He recalled from Stranger Danger class what to do if someone grabbed him. Bernie’s shoes were thick, so grinding his heel on the top of his foot probably wouldn’t work. And since Bernie dressed like a soldier, he probably wore one of those sports cups on his privates. But Bernie’s eyes—they were unprotected.

Duncan stuck out his pointer finger and jammed it, hard as he could, into Bernie’s eye.

Bernie flinched, crying out, and briefly backed away from Duncan. The boy slipped out of the man’s grasp and ran for the stairs fast as he could. He jumped down the last several, landing hard on his bare feet and almost tripping over something furry.

Woof!

Duncan knelt down, felt the rising and falling of his dog’s chest. He shook him, trying to get Woof to wake up.

“You little bastard!” Bernie, at the top of the stairs. “I’m going to burn your eyes out!”

Duncan knew he should run, but he couldn’t leave Woof. He shook the beagle even harder and felt a lump on the dog’s head. Bernie must have hit him or kicked him.

“Woof! Come on, boy! You have to get up!”

A growl, deep in Woof’s throat. He twitched, then rolled onto all fours.

“Thatta boy, Woof!”

Duncan felt Woof’s warm tongue on his face, and he wrapped his arms around the animal’s neck. Then Woof went rigid and began to bark.

“I’ll burn you, too, dog,” Bernie said, just before Woof lunged and dug his teeth into the man’s calf.

Bernie howled, falling onto his butt, and Duncan ran for the front door with Woof on his heels. The night was cold and dark. Duncan knew to go to his neighbor, Mrs. Teller, for help when Mom wasn’t home, but Mrs. Teller’s lights weren’t on. In fact, no one on the block had their lights on. Duncan figured the electricity was out all over. He and Woof ran to Mrs. Teller’s front door and he banged on it with both hands.

Something glowed behind him. Duncan turned around and saw orange fire flickering through the windows of his house. Bernie appeared in the doorway, lighter raised above his head, and spotted Duncan. He began to limp after him.

“Mrs. Teller!” Duncan banged harder on the door. “It’s Duncan!”

Woof began to bark like crazy. Bernie got closer, close enough for Duncan to hear his manic giggling. Behind Bernie, the fire had spread throughout Duncan’s house. He could now see flames in all four front windows, and smoke rose from the roof.

Bernie’s face stretched out in a grotesque smile. He came closer, and closer, and got within fifteen feet when Mrs. Teller’s door finally opened.

“Stop!” she commanded. Duncan looked at her. Mrs. Teller was close to eighty years old, and her back bent in the shape of a question mark, and Duncan had to help her open jars. But she looked totally scary standing there with Mr. Teller’s old shotgun.

Bernie must have thought so, too, because he didn’t come any closer.

“Shoot him!” Duncan cried. “He broke into my house and burned it down and hurt Woof and wants to kill me!”

Bernie giggled. “I saw the house on fire and tried to help.”

“He’s lying, Mrs. Teller!”

“The boy, the boy is obviously upset and confused. I saved his life.”

“You’re not from around here,” Mrs. Teller said.

“I was passing through. Good thing, good thing I did, or else he’d—the boy—would be dead.”

“Where’s your car?”

Bernie’s grin faltered. “What? Oh, there, on the street.”

“That’s the Chavezes’ car,” Mrs. Teller said and then aimed and pulled the trigger.

Santiago probed his chest and winced. The liquid body armor—Kevlar fibers soaked in a sheer thickening fluid suspension of nano-silica particles in polyethylene glycol—had done its job and stopped all four rounds. It not only repelled penetration, but the energy of the impacts had been diffused, preventing blunt force trauma. But it still hurt like a bitch. Santiago promised himself he would pay back in kind when he caught up with the sheriff again.

He sat up and stared at Ajax, who was palpating his own body armor, the usual blank expression on his face. Ajax never had any expression, even while he was ripping off a man’s arms.

Santiago turned to face the woods and squinted. The Red-ops team all had enhanced night vision. Santiago vaguely recalled it having something to do with increased rhodopsin stores in his rods, yet another benefit of the Chip. A quick survey of the area failed to reveal the sheriff or the firefighter who had saved him.

A brief swatch of memory clouded his mind, and Santiago thought back to an earlier time, to his home in Bolivia. He remembered the room where prisoners were taken to be broken. Sometimes for interrogation. Sometimes to use as examples. Santiago always had a talent for causing pain.

When he was fifteen years old his family had a small farm, eating some of the goats, cattle, and chickens they raised, selling the surplus at the marketplace in town. But something began killing their livestock, mutilating the animals in grotesque ways. The eyes and genitals were gouged out. The entrails removed and tied into knots and braids. So many bones broken they no longer had any form.

The villagers spoke in hushed tones of a chupacabra on the loose, an evil creature of legend.

Santiago knew better. He was the one who led the animals, with food and gentle coaxing, to a cave in the woods where he would tie them down and torture them for hours.

After several years of butchery, he made the easy transition from the village’s livestock to the villagers themselves. Abducting a particularly loud young girl led to his capture and imprisonment. But rather than rot in jail, he was recruited by the secret police, getting paid to indulge in his appetites.

He plied his trade for many years. Santiago grinned, recalling a particularly enjoyable interrogation involving a vise and a cheese grater. He could vividly see the man’s face, hear his screams …

The Chip sensed the increased electrical function in the amygdala and hippocampus prodded by the memory and instantly ordered a reboot.

“Charge,” he said.

Without thinking, Santiago reached into his pants and pulled out a capsule of Charge, breaking it under his nose. The fumes took away the pain, stepped up his heart rate, and dissipated the extraneous thoughts and memories, leaving only the next mission objective: Find Sheriff Streng. Santiago didn’t question his orders, any more than he questioned the fact that this was obviously American soil. The mission was the only thing that mattered.

Santiago stood up and faced Ajax. The giant was also sniffing a Charge capsule, his eyes rolled back into his skull. A moment later the two of them were sprinting through the woods with the speed and agility of pro athletes, Santiago ducking and dodging foliage, and Ajax knocking it out of the way. They didn’t become tired or winded, and their pulses remained under seventy beats per minute—resting heart rates for normal people. Ajax stopped once, to pick up the trail, and within fifty paces the sheriff and his friend were within their sights.

The Red-ops members switched to stealth mode, blending into the woods, silently flowing through the environment like liquid. The sheriff wouldn’t get away again.

• • •

Fran Stauffer, lying in the parking lot, her arms tied behind her with a plastic zip line, had never felt such hatred. Fran was a member of Amnesty International. She protested against capital punishment. She even forgave the unknown driver who caused the death of her husband.

But this man, Taylor, had completely shattered her faith in humanity. He did it with one short sentence: “We have Duncan, and we’re going to hurt him.”

Suddenly human rights no longer mattered. Neither did the sanctity of life. If Fran’s hands were free, she would have ripped Taylor’s throat out without a bit of guilt or regret.

“You seem angry,” Taylor said. He smiled. Taylor didn’t look like a monster. He had a strong, angular face that could be regarded as handsome. And his smile was deceptively charming. But Fran had seen what he’d done to Al, and had no doubt he’d do the same, or worse, to her. And to Duncan.

“Leave Duncan alone. He’s just a child.”

“I believe Bernie wants to eat him. I’ve seen him do it. In Bosnia he roasted a man’s leg and ate it while the fellow was still alive. Personally, I prefer mine raw.”

Taylor grinned again and snapped his teeth. Fran fought the revulsion and tried to keep her voice steady, even though it felt like her heart might explode from beating so fast.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know where Warren is.”

“Who’s Warren?”

Taylor smiled, as if he liked that answer, and lifted Fran’s injured foot up to his mouth. Fran tried to kick away, but the man had fingers like steel cables.

“This little piggy went to market,” Taylor sang, running his teeth over her big toe. “And this little piggy stayed home.”

Fran anticipated even more pain, and she wanted to vomit.

“Please, I don’t know anyone named Warren.”

“This little piggy had roast beef …”

“I really don’t know.”

“This little piggy had none …”

“You have to give me more information! I can’t tell you what you want to know unless you tell me what you want!”

Taylor’s tongue probed her injury, making her gasp.

“I said before,” his teeth knocked against her exposed bone, “I want Warren.”

“Who the fuck is Warren!”

“Warren Streng.”

“The sheriff’s brother? Why the hell would I know where—Jesus Christ!”

Taylor bit down just as Fran succumbed to another panic attack. But this time it was a blessing; she hyperventilated, became oxygen deprived, and blacked out.

The blessing didn’t last. The sharp odor of ammonia shot up Fran’s nostrils, making her eyes burn. She shook her head to escape the smelling salts, realized what was happening, and began to yell for help. As she screamed, Taylor stroked her hair and ran his fingertips over her lips, tracing the O of her mouth.

Then, like an answered prayer, red and blue flashing lights appeared. They became brighter, and Fran watched the emergency vehicle pull into the lot. A fire truck.

Josh!

Since her husband’s death, Josh had been the only man Fran had seen more than once, and she had actually developed feelings for him. Unfortunately, the feelings weren’t mutual, and after four terrific dates Josh had stopped calling. Fran had assumed it was because of Duncan—not too many men had the desire to become instant fathers. A shame, too, because Duncan seemed to like him as much as Fran had.

“Josh!” Fran bellowed, extending his name out into three syllables. “Help me!”

Taylor patted Fran on the cheek, then walked casually over to the tanker truck. Fran’s vision was blocked by her car, so she scooted up onto her butt. Taylor stood next to the driver’s door, speaking casually through the open window. She couldn’t see into the truck or hear any words.

“Josh!” Fran cried.

Taylor waved at her and smiled. Then the fire truck began to pull away.

A sob escaped Fran. This couldn’t be happening. Why would Josh leave her there? Didn’t he hear her?

Fran pushed back against her car door, got her legs under her, and stood up. Then she ran. Behind her she heard Taylor chide, “Don’t make me chase you.” She ignored him, focusing on catching Josh. If he saw her, he’d help. He had to help.

The truck didn’t seem to be in any hurry, cruising down Main Street at a languid pace. Fran’s injured foot seemed to catch fire every time it slapped against the pavement, and her balance was seriously threatened by the binding on her wrists. But slowly, agonizingly, she reached the rear of the tanker.

“Josh! Stop!”

Rather than stop, the truck picked up speed. Only a few miles per hour faster, but Fran couldn’t match it. She scraped her toe bone against the tarmac, and the spike of agony made her slow down. Miraculously, Josh also slowed down. Did he see her?

Energized, Fran pushed on. The truck was within twenty yards. Ten yards. Five. She made it!

Heaving, bleeding, Fran stumbled up to the passenger side as the door opened.

Sitting up in the passenger seat was Martin Durlock, the mayor of Safe Haven. He was naked, gray duct tape wrapped around his face and wrists slick with blood.

The mayor screamed behind his gag, his whole body shaking. He stretched his bound hands out to Fran, eyes wide and imploring, and then the truck sped up and continued down Main Street, turning left onto Conway, the blue and red strobe lights fading into darkness.

Already light-headed from the running, Fran began to hyperventilate. She cast a dizzy eye back at Taylor, who was shining the flashlight on his own face. He frowned in an exaggerated way, his free hand miming tears running down his cheeks.

Fran closed her eyes and bent over, putting her head between her knees, not allowing herself to pass out. A cool breeze blew across her with a faint whistle, and the river sounds helped her to calm down, to focus.

The river sounds.

Fran lifted her head, realizing she stood on an overpass. Beneath her was a choppy section of the Chippewa River. A summer day didn’t go by without her seeing at least one lonely fisherman propped up along the railing, line dragging the water.

She went to the edge and leaned over the short iron railing, smelling the water below. Fran couldn’t see in the dark, but she knew from memory the drop from overpass to water was about fifteen feet. But was it deep enough? If she jumped, would she break her legs? And if she survived the fall, could she stay afloat with her hands tied behind her back?

The flashlight hit her in the eyes.

“I bet that water is really cold.” Taylor would be on her in a few more steps. “And I’ve heard drowning is an awful way to go.”

Not as awful as being tortured to death by a madman, Fran thought. But even more important than that was getting to Duncan, making sure he was safe. She held her breath, closed her eyes, and flipped herself over the railing.

The fall lasted only seconds but seemed to take much longer. As she spun through the air she imagined rocks below, jagged steel, broken glass, or perhaps an island in the middle of the river—something other than water that would crack her bones and split her flesh.

But water, and only water, was what she hit, and that was shock enough. Fran entered the river face-first, a strong slap that made her ears ring, then her body plunged down, deeper and deeper, until Fran wondered if the river even had a bottom. The cold assaulted her from every angle, invading every pore and crevice of her body.

Fran twisted around, but disorientation and darkness prevented her from knowing where the surface was. A strong underwater current pulled her sideways, flipped her over. Fran stopped moving, letting the river control her, until the undertow passed and she felt herself being buoyed upward from the air in her lungs. She scissor-kicked in that direction, kicked until her head pounded, her shoulders and neck straining.

And then Fran breached the surface, coughing and sputtering and surprised to still be alive. She floated onto her back and continued to kick, going with the flow, unable to see anything but knowing that she distanced herself from Taylor with each passing second.

Just as Fran got her breathing under control and settled into a steady rhythm, she heard a sound like distant applause. The noise continued to build, and by the time it had grown into a dull roar she realized where it was coming from and what it was.

Fran turned to face forward, the full moon illuminating the rapidly approaching waterfall.

Josh pointed his light into the trees. He couldn’t see their attackers, but he knew they were there.

“Who are they?” Josh asked Streng.

The sheriff had both hands pressed to his side, the gun tucked into his holster. “I have no idea. Their uniforms are bulletproof, look military, but don’t have insignias. The smaller one had an accent, sounded Spanish.”

“What do they want?”

“He kept asking me about Wiley.”

Josh turned the beam in the other direction. He could feel their eyes on him, but he saw and heard nothing. “Who’s Wiley?”

“He said Warren. That’s his given name, but he only goes by Wiley. He’s my brother.”

Josh looked at Streng. The older man leaned against a tree and winced.

“Does your brother still live in the area?”

“Probably. I don’t know. We don’t talk.” Streng pushed off from the tree, hitched up his pants, and stared into the woods. “We have to go back for Sal.”

Josh felt the bile rise.

“We … uh … don’t have to go back for Sal. I tried. I’m sorry, Sheriff. There was nothing I could do.”

Josh’s mind took him back to the Mortons’ house, that huge man holding Sal’s dead wife. Josh tried to grab Sal, to get him to run away. Sal refused to move. Then the giant walked over, calmly put his hands on Sal’s neck. Josh threw himself at the larger man, but it had no more effect than wrestling a tree. What happened next was something so horrible, so terrifying …

“You’re sure he’s dead?” Streng asked.

“Yeah.” Josh would never be able to erase the image, or the sound. “He’s dead. Where’s your car?”

“Gold Star.” Streng pointed in the direction they just came from. “Maybe we could sneak past them.”

“No way.”

“How about the fire truck?”

“Someone stole it.”

“We’re batting a thousand, aren’t we?” Streng said it without smiling.

Josh pulled out his compass, found east.

“County Road H shouldn’t be too far. We have to get moving. Can you run?”

“I’ll manage.”

Streng didn’t look like he could take another step, but they didn’t have a choice. Josh headed east as fast as he could push himself, setting the pace, willing the sheriff to keep up with him.

After twenty yards, Streng fell behind.

Josh stopped, flashed the woods, saw a blur of movement in the distance. The killers were almost upon them. And when they caught up, Josh wouldn’t be able to protect the sheriff any more than he had protected Sal. Or Annie.

When Anne was diagnosed with leukemia, he promised he would take care of her. He promised she’d get better. He promised they would get married and have kids and live out their lives just as they’d planned.

Fate made him break all of those promises. After she died, Josh vowed he would help others. So he became a volunteer firefighter, then a full-time firefighter, and soon a paramedic. Josh didn’t want to let anyone else down.

He motioned for Streng to hurry. Streng lumbered over, breathing heavy.

“Go on without me, son.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“They don’t want you. Just me. Go on.”

Josh put Streng’s arm over his shoulders and grabbed him on the side, by the belt. They shuffled through the forest for another hundred yards, until Josh’s breath was as ragged as the sheriff’s.

“Leave me,” Streng said between gasps. “We both don’t have to die.”

“Stop talking. Run faster.”

Streng grunted with effort, but the old guy didn’t have anything left in the tank. After a dozen more paces, Josh was practically carrying him. They stopped, panting and wobbly, next to a fallen pine tree, and Josh whipped out his compass.

“Do you have any weapons on you?” Streng rasped.

“Just a pocketknife.”

“Take it out and be ready to use it. Flash the light over here.”

Josh pointed the beam at Streng’s trembling hands. The sheriff ejected the clip, counted bullets.

“Four, plus one in the pipe. They’re going to come at us from two different directions. The big one, Ajax, will draw the fire, fast and loud. Santiago will come in sideways, sneaky. I need you to get hid, jump Santiago when he comes out. Know where a man’s jugular is?”

Josh nodded, automatically picturing it in his anatomy book.

“Go in at an angle, to get under his clothing. Stab deep and twist.”

“What about Ajax?”

“I’ll keep the big guy busy.”

Josh put his hands on Streng’s shoulders, looked deep into his eyes.

“You can’t handle him. What he did to Sal … it was inhuman.”

“Sal wasn’t armed. I don’t care how tall a man is, he takes a few hits to the oil pan, he leaks. Lemme see your knife.”

Josh handed him the slim Swiss Army Explorer, the blade extended.

“That’s your knife? You win that in Cub Scouts?”

Josh didn’t find Streng’s lame attempt at humor amusing. “Fighting isn’t going to work,” Josh said. “We should run. The road is less than a mile away.”

“You go.”

“We’ll both go.”

“Son … I’m all runned out.”

“You can make it.”

“I can’t make it.”

Streng gripped the flashlight, directed it downward. The front of his pants was soaked pink.

“That Santiago, he busted up something inside. The only thing keeping me on my feet is adrenaline, and that’s wearing off.”

Josh felt sick.

“I couldn’t save Sal. I hit Ajax with a chair, and he tossed me aside like I was a stuffed toy.”

“Not your fault, son.”

“I could have done something else.”

“We don’t have time for a breakdown now, Josh. Head for the road or hide in the bushes, but make your decision quick.”

Josh closed his eyes, let the words come out.

“He twisted off Sal’s head, Sheriff. Like a bottle cap.”

Josh felt the sting of the slap a millisecond after he heard it. Then Sheriff Streng grabbed Josh’s collar.

“That Ajax guy stands damn near over seven feet and has to weigh close to four hundred pounds. God only knows what kind of steroids he’s on. You couldn’t have stopped him if you had a bazooka. Now forgive yourself and move your ass, or we’re both going to die here.”

The heat rose on Josh’s cheek where Streng had hit him, and he nodded and lumbered into the woods to look for a hiding spot, his Swiss Army Explorer clenched tightly in his fist.

The phone lines are having some trouble,” Mrs. Teller told Duncan. “I can call people in town, but anything outside of Safe Haven gets a busy signal. The same for 911. Maybe it has something to do with the electricity being out.”

“What’s going on?” Duncan asked.

The old woman racked another shell into the shotgun. “Mr. Teller used to talk about this when he was still alive. Help me with these locks.”

Duncan helped her twist the three deadbolts on the front door, but his eyes were on the window.

“Don’t worry none about the windows. That glass is shatterproof. Mr. Teller redid them a few years ago, when he was getting nutty from the dementia. There’s plastic sandwiched between the two panes. You could hit it with a bat, still can’t break through.”

Duncan aimed Mrs. Teller’s flashlight through the window. He watched Bernie sit up, sniff something he held under his nose, and then pick up his big lighter. He attached a piece of metal to it, and the lighter could shoot like a flamethrower.

“Mrs. Teller. I don’t think he’s trying to break in.”

Mrs. Teller peered out the window and frowned.

“That buckshot didn’t seem to slow him down much. Next time I’ll aim higher.”

“Who is he?”

“I dunno, Duncan. Mr. Teller used to rant on about being invaded by the communists, but he went funny in the head before he died. Ain’t no communists left, ’cept for the Chinese. And this fella don’t look Oriental.”

“He wants to kill me and Woof.”

Mrs. Teller put her hand on Duncan’s head.

“Child, that ain’t gonna happen.”

Duncan saw what Bernie was doing and shrank away from the window.

“He’s starting the house on fire.”

“Looks like that’s what he’s aiming to do.”

Woof nudged up against Duncan, and he knelt down and hugged his dog, tight. He didn’t want Woof to be as scared as he was.

The room became orange, as the flames leapt from one window to the next. Duncan smelled smoke.

“I think,” Mrs. Teller said, “we had better get into the basement.”

The waterfall wasn’t any taller than five or six feet, but Fran felt like she’d been dropped from an airplane onto concrete. Though she’d tried to go over feetfirst, she’d gotten turned around and landed full force onto her chest. Every particle of oxygen in her lungs got expelled, and then the current pulled her under, dragging her this way and that way, and her diaphragm refused to follow orders and took in a big gulp of water.

Real panic trumped any psychosomatic panic attack she’d ever experienced. Fran had no time to contemplate her health, or her safety, or if she’d live or die. She didn’t think about Duncan or her husband. Her life didn’t flash before her eyes. She didn’t mourn the future she’d never have.

Her whole body and soul, every nerve, every pore, wanted only one thing—air. Fran became a primal animal, not thinking, just existing, and to keep existing she had to breathe.

She thrashed and kicked and strained and coughed, the blackness of unconsciousness mingling with the darkness of the surrounding night, and when she broke the surface gagging and coughing and vomiting water, her throat felt like it had been scoured with steel wool, and she was no longer cold and, strangely, no longer afraid.

The current slowed, and Fran floated on her back, taking in air, letting the burn in her lungs recede. She began to plan.

First she needed to get out of the river. The raw panic of almost drowning had kicked up her body temperature a few degrees, but it was falling again. Fran needed to warm up or she’d die.

Freeing her hands was also important. She tried to flex her fists but didn’t feel anything. The cold, and the loss of circulation, had made her arms numb.

Then she needed to find Duncan. She had no idea if Taylor was telling the truth, if they had Duncan, or if it was just something he said to hurt her. But she felt in her heart that Duncan was okay. And she intended to keep it that way.

Fran kicked slowly to shore. When she made it close enough, she stood on the river bottom, the sand sucking at her feet, and half walked/half slithered onto land.

Ahead, a small retaining hill paralleled the riverbank, protecting the road from floods. Fran began to climb. Her dripping body made the earth muddy, slippery. Dirt dug into her wounded foot, and rocks and branches tore at her knees as she crawled up the embankment, but she soldiered on, inch by inch, until she finally reached the top, her heart practically stopping when she saw the large man in the dark uniform standing on the road, staring at her.

Sheriff Streng liked Josh, and for a brief moment he considered eating the gun, which would give the younger man a chance to run, to get away, without the burden of dragging Streng along.

Streng dismissed the notion almost as quickly as it entered his head. While he didn’t consider himself beyond heroism or self-sacrifice, Streng knew that Josh had no knowledge of combat, no survival skills. As sad a shape as Streng was in, it would be better for both of them if he stayed alive a while longer. At least until they could find help.

Josh’s flashlight winked out five yards east. Streng held his breath, listened to the firefighter climb a tree. Good. Even well-trained soldiers sometimes forgot to look up, especially when facing an inferior enemy. Santiago and Ajax were incredibly well trained, but they also seemed cocky.

Who were they? Streng knew they must be connected to the helicopter crash. He needed to ask Josh about it, see if they could figure out where these guys came from. They wanted Wiley, and Streng knew there could be only one reason someone would bother tracking down that old bastard.

They knew. Somehow they knew.

On one hand, Streng shouldn’t have had any problem giving Wiley up. He owed him nothing. And Wiley could take care of himself.

But even though he hadn’t spoken to him in thirty years, blood was blood. Streng couldn’t forgive Wiley. But he couldn’t let anything happen to him, either.

Streng held the pistol in a two-handed grip, pointing at the ground, and waited for the bad men to come.

It didn’t take long. As predicted, Ajax came into the clearing with the subtlety of a rampaging bull. He paused, stared directly at Streng, and then ran straight at him.

Streng held his ground, trying to listen for the sneak attack, checking his peripheral vision. There. On the left. Santiago, crouched next to a bush. Unfortunately, Josh’s tree was in the opposite direction. Streng would have to lure them over.

Streng ran right, yelling, “Leave me alone, you bastards!” so Josh would know it was him. Then he stopped, turned, and fired twice at Ajax.

The muzzle flash showed Santiago was closer than he’d guessed, practically on top of him. Josh must have seen it, too, because he dropped on Santiago like an avalanche, smashing the man into the ground.

Streng went to him, grabbing at clothing and flailing limbs, trying to put a bullet into Santiago’s head.

And then, suddenly, he was no longer on his feet.

Ajax had grabbed Streng’s gun arm, his massive fingers encircling his entire biceps. He lifted him up like he was a child. Streng’s legs kicked feebly, and he lashed out with his left hand, trying to scratch out the giant’s eyes. His fingers met flesh, and two of them disappeared inside a massive nostril. Streng pulled, and something tore.

Ajax bellowed, and then Streng was airborne, branches and leaves whipping at his face.

He blacked out when he hit the tree.

Josh stretched his arm back and brought it down like he was throwing a punch, jabbing the knife into Santiago’s neck with everything he had.

The dark, and Santiago struggling against him, made Josh miss. Instead, the knife blade connected with the man’s breastbone. It felt like stabbing cement. Josh’s wrist twisted, and the blade snapped off.

Santiago grabbed the back of Josh’s head, wrapped his fingers in his hair, and yanked him to the side. Josh rolled, and then the monster was on top of him.

“I am going to hurt you,” Santiago said. Though Josh’s heart hammered like an Olympic sprinter’s, Santiago didn’t even seem out of breath.

Josh tried to bring up a leg, but Santiago pinned them down with his own. He placed his left hand on Santiago’s chest, pushing against it, but he might have been pushing against a wall. The man didn’t budge.

Josh felt Santiago’s hand travel down his side, over his belly, creeping lower and lower until he cupped Josh’s testicles.

Josh tried to jackknife into a sitting position, but Santiago held him immobile. Though they seemed to be the same body weight, the soldier was disproportionably strong.

Santiago brought his face to within an inch of Josh’s. “I’ll pop them like grapes.”

If asked which was worse, a tooth drilled without anesthetic or getting kicked in the balls, any man would choose the former. Knowing that the pain was coming terrified Josh to a degree he didn’t know was possible. He put even more effort into his shove, bucked and turned, and then remembered that he still held the Swiss Army Explorer in his right hand. Streng had been right; Josh had owned it since Boy Scouts. He’d used it so many times it had become like an extra appendage. Working by feel, Josh flicked open the corkscrew and held the knife in his fist, so the pointed end protruded up through his clenched fingers.

Santiago squeezed. Josh screamed in pain and horror and then punched Santiago in the side of the head. The corkscrew embedded itself in Santiago’s ear, but the man didn’t budge, didn’t release Josh.

The pain in Josh’s groin became so bad his vision actually went red. Hand still on the knife, he began to twist the corkscrew. He punctured something—probably the eardrum—and Santiago howled. He released Josh’s balls and brought both hands up to his neck. His thumbs quickly found Josh’s carotid arteries and pressed down. Josh’s vision went from red to black, but before losing consciousness he brought his hand back and slapped at the side of Santiago’s head, forcing the knife in deeper.

Santiago went rigid, then collapsed onto Josh, dead weight.

Josh coughed, disentangling himself from the stronger man, pushing him off. He began to crawl, trying to put as much distance between him and Santiago as possible. His testicles glowed with pain, and like most testicular pain it lingered like a gong being struck, refusing to fade away even though the damage had already been done. Josh felt his stomach flutter, and then he threw up between his hands onto a bed of fallen leaves.

He paused for a moment, trembling, and then felt something large on his back.

Ajax.

Josh’s jacket bunched up around his shoulders and chest as the giant clenched a handful of material and lifted Josh into the air. Josh’s arms and legs untangled beneath him, and he kicked out but found only air.

Josh felt his head become wrapped in something, and he realized it was the huge man’s fist, his enormous fingers encircling it like a baseball.

He knew what came next. The twisting. The popping. The pulling. Josh clenched his teeth and made his neck stiff. When the wrenching began, he fought it with his whole body, refusing to let this happen.

His efforts weren’t enough. Ajax’s strength was inhuman, and slowly, inexorably, Josh’s head began to turn. He strained against it, so hard it felt like his temples would explode, straining even as his chin touched his shoulder and the hyperextension began. Josh couldn’t imagine a sound more terrifying than hearing his own spine cracking. He screamed in his throat. He shut his eyes, and tears squeezed out of their ducts.

“Ajax!” Sheriff Streng’s voice. “That pressure you feel in the back of your neck is a .45. Even someone as big as you wouldn’t be able to handle a few slugs in the vertebrae. Put him down, or I’ll fire.”

Ajax continued to hold Josh, but the twisting stopped.

“The only thing stopping me from killing you is that I have some questions I want to ask. Now stop fucking around and put down the firefighter!”

Ajax’s hands opened and Josh fell onto all fours. He took in a gulp of air, let it out as a brief cry of relief.

“Now get down on your knees, big boy. I’m getting a neck strain staring up at you.”

Ajax complied. Josh scrambled around behind him, next to Streng. It was difficult to make out in the dark, but Josh saw the sheriff raise a hand up, then bring it down hard against the side of Ajax’s head. Ajax flopped over.

“Shoot them,” Josh said, a sob still caught in his throat. “Shoot them both.”

“I lost the gun. All I’ve got is a rock and a tree branch, and I just dropped the rock.”

Josh considered their options. Their best chance would be to kill them while they were incapacitated. They could grope around in the dark for the gun. Or maybe find his knife. Josh didn’t know if he could stomach the actual killing, but he could leave that up to the sheriff.

“We need to run,” Streng said.

“But—”

“I know what you’re thinking. But what if one of them wakes up before we find a weapon? Then we’re both dead. These guys are too skilled, too strong.”

“Maybe Ajax has a gun or a knife on him.”

“You want to frisk him?”

“We have to try.”

Josh’s spirit was willing, but his feet did not want to go anywhere near Ajax. Santiago scared him in a bullying, sadistic way, but Josh considered him still human. Ajax was like a creature from a bad dream, a monstrous force of nature. He didn’t seem to be the same species, or even to belong on the same planet.

But the only way to stop being afraid was to kill him, and the only way to do that was to search him for weapons.

Josh quickly dismissed using his flashlight, as it might wake his tormentors up. He put his hands out before him and walked cautiously through the darkness, trying not to smack into any trees. His knees bumped into Ajax and he drew in a sharp breath. He reached down, amazed that he could touch his chest without bending over. This guy was freakishly huge. Time became measured in heartbeats, only a finite number remaining before the creature woke up.

Josh screwed up his courage and felt around for the giant’s belt. He found a Velcro pouch, ripped it open. It held a smooth metal container, and some kind of electronic gizmo, but no weapons. Josh pocketed the box and continued around the perimeter of his hips. A canteen. Josh took it, attached it to his own belt.

Ajax moved, shifting away. Josh stood absolutely still, fighting the impulse to flee. He needed to finish this up fast.

He patted down the rest of Ajax’s waistline but found nothing else. Josh wondered why Ajax didn’t have a gun and then realized that the man’s enormous fingers probably would be too big to squeeze a trigger. Then why not a knife, or some other weapon? Maybe in his vest.

Josh reached up, fingers exploring. The material was soft, pliable. It amazed Josh that it was actually bulletproof. He found an empty pocket, and then a zipper that was stuck. Ajax’s chest rose and fell beneath his hands, so huge that Josh felt like he was frisking a fallen horse.

“I found matches, and some capsules.” The sheriff’s voice startled Josh. He must have been searching Santiago. “You?”

“A container, some sort of electric thing, and water.”

Josh reached up higher, touched Ajax’s throat. Any thought of breaking the man’s spine while he slept vanished when Josh realized how large it was. It would be easier to snap a log in half.

“My knife should be in his ear,” Josh told Streng.

“Not there. Maybe he pulled it … umph.”

A gentle rustling sound. Then the forest went quiet.

“Sheriff?”

Streng didn’t answer. Josh strained to hear but heard only the steady rasp of Ajax’s breathing.

“Sheriff Streng? You okay?”

He felt foolish the instant it left his lips. Of course he wasn’t okay. Santiago must have woken up. Maybe Streng was already dead. Why hadn’t they run away like the sheriff suggested?

Ajax shifted, emitting a low growl. Josh jumped back. He considered taking off, finding County Road H, following that into town. Maybe he’d be able to flag down a car. Once he got to Safe Haven he could call the state cops. He faced the woods, his legs itching to bolt.

Not without the sheriff, he told himself.

Then he turned, clenched his fists, and headed toward Santiago.

• • •

Fran had never been so cold. Her whole body—not just her bound hands—felt numb, and her teeth chattered. But when she saw the large uniformed figure standing on the dark road, Fran turned and started down the embankment, back into the river.

“Hey! You okay?”

Fran didn’t stop. The voice didn’t belong to Taylor, but she didn’t trust anyone walking alone at night. She tried to keep her balance, to plant her feet firmly after every step, but the slope was steep and she was still dripping. Her damp heel slid on a patch of weeds and she fell onto her back. Before she could move again a flashlight beam hit her face, prompting a wince.

“Fran? Is that you?”

Fran squinted into the light, couldn’t make out anyone behind it. But the voice didn’t seem threatening, and it was oddly familiar.

She managed to swallow the lump in her throat and said, “Who’s there?”

“Erwin Luggs. You work with my fiancée, Jessie Lee, at Merv’s Diner. I also teach Duncan.”

Erwin. He was one of Safe Haven’s firemen, and he taught gym at the junior high. Her son liked him. Jessie Lee complained about him all the time, to the point where Fran wondered why she had agreed to marry him.

Before Fran answered, Erwin had his big hands on her arm and helped her up.

“Jesus, Fran, what happened?”

Fran’s eyes widened in fear when she realized Erwin was covered in blood. Erwin seemed to read her reaction.

“It’s from a deer,” he said.

Fran recovered from the shock. “My hands. Do you have a knife or something that cuts?”

“I’ve got some fingernail clippers.”

“See if they work on this plastic.”

Erwin disappeared behind her, and Fran could barely feel his touch as he manipulated her hands and arms.

And then, agony.

Her hands fell at her sides, and the blood rushing back in burned like acid. Her arms, and especially her fingers, were being stabbed with thousands of pins while simultaneously being dunked in lava.

Fran began to cry, and Erwin took his bloody jacket off to drape over her shoulders. It smelled rank, but she welcomed the warmth. Fran opened and closed her fists, trying to make it stop, and Erwin must have mistaken her pain for distress because he put his arms around her in a protective, brotherly way.

“What happened, Fran? Who did this to you?”

Fran sniffled, then went rigid, as if someone had stuck a pole up her spine.

“Duncan. We need to get to my son. Do you have a phone?”

“I’ve been trying for half an hour. No signal.”

“Let me borrow it.”

Erwin fished it out of his pocket, handed it over.

“Where’s your car?”

“Back at the station.”

Fran dialed, but her fingers hit the wrong buttons. She kept trying, getting the same results. Frustrated, she handed the phone back to Erwin.

“Dial for me.”

“There are no bars. We’re in the middle of the woods.”

“Dial!”

Fran stated her phone number, and Erwin dutifully punched in the digits. Then he held the phone up so she could hear the we’re sorry recording.

“We need to get to my house, Erwin. Right now.”

“I need to get to town. Something’s happened to Josh and Sheriff Streng.”

“Josh?”

“There was a helicopter crash in the woods, and someone stole our truck. Then I saw the sheriff get attacked by some guy in a black uniform.”

Taylor wore a black uniform. And though Fran hadn’t seen his face, whoever was driving the fire truck with the mayor also wore black.

“Something’s going on,” Fran said. “Something bad. Which way is town?”

“About two miles south. This is Harris Street.”

Fran knew Harris Street. She hadn’t recognized it in the dark. Her neighborhood was less than a mile away.

“Duncan might be in trouble, Erwin. I think one of those men in the black uniforms has him.”

Erwin stepped away from her, spreading his hands. “I need to get to town, Fran. I need to—”

She grabbed Erwin by his shirt, the motion bringing fresh tears to her eyes.

“I need your help, dammit! Help me get my son!”

“These men—we need some help. We can’t do this alone …”

Fran pushed Erwin away, then began to run down the road. Away from town. Toward home.

“Fran!”

Fran ignored him, ignored the pain in her arms, ignored the throb in her injured foot that ignited every time it hit the pavement. Nothing would stop her from getting to her son. Nothing.

Mathison let out a screech of displeasure and hung on to the back of Dr. Stubin’s collar. That was how he hid. Stubin also felt like hiding. The helmet and fatigues made him feel like a child playing dress-up, and the fact he hadn’t been given a gun hammered home the point; he wasn’t a soldier.

Of course he wasn’t. Stubin was a scientist. Perhaps the premier brain specialist on the planet, a fact he would someday prove. Traipsing around through the forest playing commando wasn’t the best use of his time and skills. But he had to be here, much as he loathed it.

The helicopter had dropped him and Mathison off at the crash site. A sergeant and two privates were also deposited there—for babysitting duty—until the Green Berets arrived. His minders were humorless, no-nonsense, and though they weren’t openly hostile Stubin could feel their disdain for his presence.

The three didn’t approach the wreck of the chopper; they were probably under orders not to. But Stubin had no such orders, and he spent a few minutes examining the site, with a monkey literally on his back.

The decapitations in the cockpit were a surprise, but Stubin wasn’t shocked. Being a brain surgeon, he’d witnessed more than his fair share of gore. He looked closer, the flares and field lighting set up around the perimeter allowing him to do so without needing a flashlight.

The cuts were clean, almost surgically so. Cutting off a human head wasn’t easy, and Stubin felt strangely impressed.

Next he poked around in the back of the wreckage and found a large footlocker. It couldn’t be opened without a key, but next to it was an electronic panel with buttons and switches.

In the distance, Stubin heard another helicopter. He took it to be the Special Forces team. Stubin checked his watch, did a quick equation in his head, and estimated they’d be here within two minutes.

A moment later Mathison abandoned his hiding place on Stubin’s back and leapt out the side door, bounding off into the woods.

“Mathison! Dammit, come back!”

Stubin bounded after him, tripping over some debris on the ground. The soldiers didn’t laugh. Nor did they try to stop him when he picked himself up and headed into the woods after his monkey.

The light seemed to reduce by half every five steps, and after walking for less than a minute Stubin was surrounded by the dark. He stared at the helicopter coming in low overhead, holding on to his helmet as it passed. Stubin made an OK sign with his thumb and index, then stuck it into his mouth and blew. The shrill whistle could be heard above the din of the Huey, and Mathison came running out of the trees and stopped to stare at him.

“Don’t be afraid, Mathison. It’s just another helicopter. Come on.”

Stubin crouched down, smiling. He patted his thighs, and then a tremendous explosion shocked his ears, causing the ground to shake and momentarily turning night into day.

The fingers that locked around Streng’s throat were cutting off his air, preventing him from answering Josh. The darkness of the woods, and his inability to make a sound, meant he was going to die less than five feet away from his young friend.

Streng knelt next to the killer’s prostrate body and struggled against the grip, his efforts no more effective than when Santiago had been on top of him, mauling his kidney. The man had preternatural strength, and Streng felt like he had a noose around his neck rather than flesh and bone.

He reached down, trying to find Santiago’s face. The killer’s arms were longer, keeping Streng away. But they weren’t longer than Streng’s legs. Though on his knees, Streng managed to tilt left and get one of his feet in front of him. He kicked Santiago in the side, fiercely. Again. And again.

The killer held on. Streng’s balance faltered and he fell onto his side. Still, Santiago squeezed his neck, hands tightening, Streng’s vision blurring and going black.

Streng planted both feet under Santiago’s chin, using it as a fulcrum. Then he pulled back as hard as he could, using the muscles in his legs and his back, straining and pushing until the claws released him, allowing in sweet, sweet oxygen.

“Josh …” he croaked.

The flashlight came on, and then Josh hooked a hand around his belt and bullied him through the woods as fast as they both could move. Streng didn’t have a chance to catch his breath, and he kept tripping over things, but Josh never let him fall, never let the pace slacken.

The road appeared suddenly, rising out of the trees like a fever dream, and as the sheriff doubled over and sucked in air he barely noticed Josh yelling. A screeching sound cut the silence of the night, accompanied by the smell of rubber, and then Streng had a hand over his eyes, protecting them from the blinding light coming from—

“Sheriff? Josh? What in the high hell are you doing out here?”

—Olen Porrell’s Honey Wagon, a large tanker truck with a cartoon skunk painted on the side. The skunk wore big smile on its face and a clothespin on its nose, and the cartoon balloon next to its head said “Septic and Plumbing!”

Olen climbed out of his truck and hurried over to them. He wore the typical Olen outfit of stained bib overalls, stained T-shirt, and the world’s filthiest Brewers baseball cap. In the headlights Streng could see Olen’s face clearly but still couldn’t make out where the beard ended and the grime began.

Josh clasped the plumber on the shoulder. “We need to get to a hospital, Olen.”

Streng righted himself and shook his head. “First I need to get to my office outside of town.”

“You need a doctor.”

“I need a gun, a telephone, and a new pair of pants. The doctor can wait.”

“Someone want to tell me what’s going … Jesus H. Christmas, what the hell is that?”

Fifty yards ahead of them Ajax stepped onto the road.

“We have to go,” Streng said. “Now.”

He pulled Olen and Josh back to the Honey Wagon, which was every bit as filthy as Olen. It smelled like the sewage Olen spent his days pumping.

“Who is that guy? What’s going on, Sheriff?”

Streng jerked open the cab door and climbed up.

“Olen, where do you stash that twenty-two Long Rifle you use to hunt white-tail out of season?”

“Sheriff, deer season don’t start until November seventeenth, and—”

“Give me the damn gun, Olen, or we’re all going to die.”

Olen reached behind the driver’s seat and handed Streng a lever-action Marlin.

“Get in,” Streng told Josh and Olen. Then he cranked open the passenger-side window, chambered a round, and aimed at Ajax, who sprinted at them with astonishing speed.

Streng fired five times, fast as he could work the action. Then he checked the rearview. As expected, Santiago was coming up fast.

“Drive! There’s another one behind us!”

Olen didn’t need any more prodding. He stomped on the gas and the Honey Wagon lurched forward. Ajax hadn’t been stopped by Streng’s shots and continued to come at them, a charging rhino. Streng switched his grip on the rifle.

“Pull up to him, on my side!”

Olen complied. Streng leaned out the window, feeling Josh’s hand on his belt. As the truck passed Ajax, he swung the rifle like a baseball bat. The impact sent a shock of pain through Streng’s palms, vibrations traveling up both arms and shaking his shoulders. The walnut stock split in half on Ajax’s head, cracking along the pistol grip. But Streng managed to keep hold of the gun, and Josh yanked him back inside. Olen cruised into second gear and Streng dared to hope that they might actually live for a bit longer.

“Olen, you just saved our bacon.”

“Happy to oblige, Sheriff. Now one of you wanna tell me what just happened?”

“A helicopter crashed near the big lake,” Josh said. “I think it was hauling some kind of military prisoners. They escaped, killed Sal and Maggie Porter, and almost killed us.”

“I’ll be damned. Never saw a man that big before. Your shots hit him in the chest—I was watching. He didn’t even flinch. Think they know about the lottery?”

“Lottery?”

“Mayor called a town meeting, half hour ago. Safe Haven won the Powerball. Everyone is meeting at the junior high, because we all get a share. The phone lines have been burning up with folks sharing the news. I called ten people myself. Didn’t anyone call you?”

Streng remembered the mayor’s phone call earlier. He wondered if this was connected to the soldiers somehow.

“Turn on Harris, Olen.”

“But the junior high is—”

“It can wait. I need to get to my office first.”

Then the horizon lit up, accompanied by the BOOM of a massive explosion.

Santiago watched the truck speed off, then turned to see the mushroom cloud rising in the distance. It blended into the black sky as the fire died down.

The Special Forces have arrived, he thought and reached for a Charge capsule on his utility belt. His pack wasn’t there.

Santiago’s upper lip twitched, and a small jolt of panic worked its way through his central nervous system. He jogged over to Ajax, who seemed unaffected by the long gash spilling blood down the side of his head.

“They took my Charge.”

Ajax felt around his own belt, then wailed like a sick cow. He was out, too.

“Putas,” Santiago said. He touched his wounded ear and snapped his fingers. He didn’t hear it. Ruptured eardrum. Then he pulled the communicator out of his front pocket, slid back the cover, and held it to his mouth. “This is Santiago. The bird has flown. What’s your position?”

The reply came on the text screen, backlit by a faint green glow.

Gymnasium at the junior high. Running the winner’s circle.

“We’ll meet you there.”

Negative. Remain on target.

“We’re …”—the words seemed to stick in Santiago’s throat—“… out of Charge.”

You’re on your own. We’re not sharing. Out.

Santiago clicked off, teeth grinding teeth. The mission remained a top priority, but without Charge how long could they keep on track?

Ajax poked stupidly at the wound in his forehead, making it worse.

“I’ll fix it,” Santiago said, unclipping a propane torch from his belt.

He flicked the flame on. Ajax didn’t flinch, didn’t moan, as Santiago cauterized the gash. The sizzling sounded a lot like bacon frying.

Santiago kept the flame on for several seconds longer than needed, then touched it to the giant’s ripped nostril. He watch, fascinated, as the hairs glowed orange and burned away, and then turned his attention to the new set of headlights coming up the road.

“Hide,” he ordered Ajax.

The giant lumbered into the woods, and Santiago stood in the center of the street, waving his hands above his head. The car, a boxy SUV, slowed down and stopped a few yards in front of him. Santiago fixed a placid smile on his face and approached.

“Help you?” the driver asked.

Santiago reached in through the open window, seizing the driver by the throat.

“Yes, you can. But before I take your vehicle, I have a question. Do you know anyone named Warren Streng?”

• • •

Duncan’s dog glowed green. So did Mrs. Teller. She and Duncan had opened a box of bend-and-shake light sticks and placed them around the room like candles. They weren’t very bright but lit up enough of the basement for Duncan to see around him.

Mrs. Teller had called this room a shelter and said Mr. Teller built it during one of his paranoid delusions. Shelves lined all four walls, each stocked with canned food, bottles of water, and other supplies like batteries, toilet paper, and boxes of foil-wrapped glow sticks. Duncan loved glow sticks on Halloween and at the state fair. But in this little room the lights were creepy. Mrs. Teller had given him a white undershirt that was too big on him, hanging past his knees. It also glowed green.

Pounding, on the door at the top of the stairs. Bernie had gotten in the house. Though the basement door looked very strong and had a big lock on it, Duncan worried that he’d be able to get in.

“We’re safe,” Mrs. Teller said. “That’s a steel door. Mr. Teller bought only the best. It will hold.”

The pounding continued. It sounded like Bernie was hitting the door with something big. Duncan could feel his bones shake with every impact. Woof barked, and Duncan wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck, burying his face in his fur.

BAAAAAAAAAM!

BAAAAAAAAAM!

“Oh, dear. It sounds like he’s found Mr. Teller’s tools.”

BAAAAAAAAAM!

“Don’t be scared, Woof,” Duncan whispered. The dog trembled.

BAAAAAAAAAM!

“We’re going to be okay.”

BAAAAAAAAAM!

The last sound was followed by a creaking noise, like wood splitting.

“It will hold,” Mrs. Teller said again. But this time she didn’t sound so sure.

The pain in her arms faded as her circulation returned, and Fran concentrated on the road ahead—left foot right foot left foot right foot. She used to love running, and years ago her tracks graced every trail, road, and highway in Ashburn County. Since the accident Fran had restricted her jogging to the treadmill in the basement. She told herself it was because she didn’t want to leave Duncan alone any longer than necessary, but deep down she knew the real truth: running alone scared her. Fran remembered what it was like when something happened and there was no one around to help. She wouldn’t put herself in that situation again.

And yet, she’d put Duncan in that situation.

Their therapist, Dr. Walker, had told Fran that it would be good for Duncan to be left alone at night. It would help build his self-esteem. Fran had resisted, and Walker had broken her down her with jargon like enabling and transference. The next time she saw Dr. Walker he was going to learn some of her jargon, like broken nose.

Sound, behind her, and Fran glanced back and saw a figure pounding the pavement in her wake. Erwin. He seemed to have located his spine. Not that she could blame him. Less than an hour ago, Fran had been paralyzed with fear, unable to move. People handled crisis situations in different ways. Hopefully Erwin wouldn’t panic; she needed him.

The Pine Village sign at the entrance to her subdivision—framed in pine logs and set into a grass knoll surrounded by decorative stones and violets—was strangely dark. Ground lights normally illuminated it, but along with the streetlamps, they were out.

Fran veered onto Montrose Street, and every house on the block, every house in the development, lacked electricity. Except for the moon, the only light in the area came from over the hill, a disturbing orange flicker that made Fran push herself even harder.

When she reached the crest, her fears were confirmed. Her house, and Mrs. Teller’s, burned big and bright.

“Oh, no, oh, God, no …”

Fran sprinted down the hill, pain, exhaustion, and fear all pushed aside by the overwhelming need to find Duncan. She ran up to her house, but she couldn’t get close. The heat that came off it was like opening a five-hundred-degree oven, and a wave of hot air wicked away the water from her clothes and hair and sucked the moisture from her panting mouth. She tried to take another step closer, the temperature making her skin hurt, and Erwin held her back.

“It’s gone!” he yelled, Fran barely able hear him over the crackling, spitting blaze. She watched, horrified, as the roof collapsed, the flames reaching into the sky and doubling the height of her home. A plume of smoke billowed out through the front door, covering them with hot soot.

The front door. It was open. Duncan and Woof must have gotten out.

Fran spun, looking at Mrs. Teller’s house. Hers was in much better shape, fire on the porch and climbing up the west wall, but the house still intact. Duncan knew to go there if something happened. That’s where he had to be.

Fran rushed across the expanse of lawn, saw Mrs. Teller’s front door yawning open through the wreath of flame. She faintly heard Erwin yelling in protest as she dashed through the doorway and into the smoke-filled foyer, running directly into the man dressed in black who pounded on the basement door with a sledgehammer.

Erwin Luggs watched Fran dash into the burning building and knew he should go in after her, but his feet didn’t want to move.

Do it! You’re a firefighter, for chrissakes.

But Josh wasn’t here, he didn’t have any of his equipment, and he had a strong feeling that there was someone in that house, someone bad.

He felt something vibrate in his pocket and almost slapped at it in surprise before he remembered his cell phone.

His cell phone. He was getting a signal. Erwin dug it out and put it to his face.

“Erwin? It’s Jessie Lee. Where the heck have you been?”

“Jessie Lee! Baby, it’s great to hear your voice!”

“Erwin, I’m at the junior high and I put your name down on the lottery list. They’re going to call us any minute. You have to get over here.”

Erwin wasn’t sure what his fiancée was talking about, and normally when Jessie Lee told him to do something he was on it immediately, but while he had a cell phone signal he needed to call someone about this fire.

“Look, honey, I’ll call you right back.” He hit disconnect and then speed dial for Josh. Though the fire made it hard to hear, his effort was rewarded with a ringing sound. When Josh answered he almost whooped for joy.

“Josh! It’s Erwin! I’m at Fran Stauffer’s house in Pine Village! Her house is burning down and I need your help!”

“Erwin? I’m with Sheriff Streng. We’ll be there soon.”

This time, Erwin did whoop. Streng was still alive. Erwin’s chest swelled. His cowardice hadn’t killed anyone, and this information, along with the reassurance that Josh would be here soon, spurred him to action.

Erwin ran to the side of Mrs. Teller’s house and turned on the faucet for the garden hose. He dragged the hose to the front porch and aimed at the foot of the fire. The water vaporized on contact, hissing and steaming, but the flames began to slowly recede. Erwin waved away some smoke and called to Fran.

She screamed in reply.

Josh will be here soon, he thought. Josh always knew what to do.

Fran screamed again. Through the haze, Erwin saw her fighting with a man dressed in black.

Erwin’s bowels churned, and he felt like his legs wouldn’t support him. This was just like what happened with Sheriff Streng. He wanted to make this all go away, to turn back time and not pick up the phone when Josh called and told him about the helicopter crash. Everything would work out better if he wasn’t a part of it.

The man in black hit Fran across the face, and she fell to the floor. Erwin watched him lift something—it looked like a sledgehammer—and hold it over Fran’s head.

I shouldn’t be here, Erwin thought.

Then he surprised himself by running into the burning house.

Jessie Lee Sloan tried to dial Erwin again and got that annoying message about the cell phone customer not being available. She threw the phone in her purse, annoyed. Why did anyone in Safe Haven even bother with cell phones? They were a cruel joke.

“Is Erwin coming?”

Mrs. Melody Montague, whom Jessie Lee had as a second-grade teacher and who still taught second grade all these years later, leaned into Jessie Lee’s personal space. Her breath smelled like mentholated cough drops, and Jessie Lee didn’t like her any more now than she did at age seven when Mrs. Montague taught them how to draw Thanksgiving turkeys by tracing their hands. The drawings didn’t look like birds—they looked like palm prints—and when Jessie Lee said so she was given a time-out in the corner.

“He’s coming,” Jessie Lee answered without facing the elderly woman.

“Isn’t this exciting? I suppose we should all be mad at Mayor Durlock for using the Safe Haven coffers to buy Powerball tickets, but what a treat that he’s sharing it with the whole town. What are you going to do with your forty-thousand dollars?”

“Eighty thousand,” Jessie Lee corrected. “After the wedding.”

“Of course. I’m sure it will make the wedding even more spectacular.”

Indeed it would. Sometimes it seemed to Jessie Lee that she’d been dreaming of her wedding day since her birth. Though Erwin wasn’t rich, he’d been working tirelessly to give her all that she wanted, which was one of the reasons she loved him. She had diamond earrings, and a thick gold Omega necklace with matching anklet, and was the only woman in Safe Haven with a Gucci handbag. Erwin treated her like a princess.

Even so, budgetary constraints had forced her to cut back on some of the more extravagant expenditures. But with this money the whole storybook fairy tale could come true. There would be ice sculptures, and a full orchestra, and a gourmet seven-course banquet, and a designer dress rather than one she found at the outlet mall. Her ceremony would be the talk of Safe Haven for years to come.

“Will the next person please come up for their check,” the lottery commissioner announced into the gymnasium’s PA system. He was a tall, roguishly handsome man who wore a strange black uniform. Mayor Durlock sat next to him, looking oddly depressed considering all of the excitement. Jessie Lee could guess that he was annoyed, having to share the money with the whole town. She certainly would be.

“Melody Montague.”

Mrs. Montague squealed and clapped her hands together. As with everyone else, the late hour and long line hadn’t depressed her in the least. She scurried up to the podium, shook the lottery commissioner’s hand, and he escorted her out of the gym, into the boys’ locker room.

A few seconds passed, and another, louder, squeal came from Mrs. Montague. The crowd on the bleachers chuckled, then resumed their conversations.

Jessie Lee looked at her watch, then surveyed the gym. Most of Safe Haven had shown up for this impromptu town meeting. In small towns, bad news traveled fast, but good news spread like lightning. The mayor’s initial phone call to his staff had ballooned into everyone calling everyone within fifteen minutes. And people still kept coming. As they entered the gym, the town treasurer, a wisp of a man named Rick Hortach, explained that they’d be cut a check and then added their name to the list. No one seemed bothered by the fact that it was almost one in the morning. Everywhere she looked, Jessie Lee saw big smiles and laughter.

So where the heck is Erwin?

Jessie Lee located her boss, Merv Johnson, in the crowd, spotting the glare of his bald head in the overhead lights. The entire town—Jessie’s apartment included—had been without electricity for the past hour, but the junior high boasted two huge gas-powered generators. Jessie Lee stood up and bleacher-walked down two flights, putting her hand on his large shoulder.

“Merv, you came in just before me, right?”

Merv shrugged, all three of his chins jiggling. “I dunno. Wasn’t paying attention. You think Corvettes are sexy?”

“Very sexy. Look, I saw the list, and you were one ahead of me. I need to run outside, have a smoke. If you get called next, tell them I’ll be right back.”

“Sure. What’s sexier, black or red?”

“Red, Merv. You’ll tell the commissioner?”

“No problem, Jessie Lee. Automatic or manual?”

“Automatic. That leaves your hand free for other things.”

Merv slapped his massive thigh and laughed. “Good call, Jessie Lee. I’ll make sure you don’t get skipped.”

Jessie Lee gave him a decidedly unsexy pat on the head, then made her way down the bleachers to the gym floor. A few people waved at her, giddy as children on Christmas morning. She waved back, grinning. Free money brought out the best in people.

Jessie Lee headed for the side door to access the parking lot. Locked. She sighed and walked to the next door down. Also locked. Odd. These were emergency doors, with the long bar across the middle that you pushed on. They weren’t supposed to be locked. She had to walk back the way she came in. Rick Hortach eyed her as she walked to the entrance and pushed at the door lever. It didn’t budge.

“Rick, what’s up with the doors?”

His voice matched his appearance, thin and reedy. “The mayor wants them locked. If anyone leaves, there won’t be an accurate head count.”

“Next up is John Kramer,” the PA system boomed. John gave a hoot, then made his way down the bleachers.

“It’s a fire hazard, Rick.”

“The mayor said—”

“Does the mayor want me to smoke inside?”

“There’s no smoking in—”

“Look, Rick.” Jessie Lee leaned in close. “If I don’t get my nicotine fix I’m going to bite someone’s head off. Now open the door before I start screaming that you touched me inappropriately.”

Rick blinked with sad basset hound eyes and then fished around for his keychain and opened the door. Jessie Lee smiled sweetly before leaving the gym and stepping out into the cool, dark night. It took a lot of fumbling through her purse to locate her cigarettes and lighter. She lit up, and the hot smoke saturating her lungs was a gift from God.

After a few puffs she began to get chilly—it was much cooler outside than in the gym. The sleeveless top she wore didn’t provide much in the way of coverage. Neither did the denim mini. But the outfit showed off her figure, and it was damn cute.

She rubbed her arms and took a brisk walk across the parking lot to kick-start her circulation. When she reached the end, she spotted the distinct shape of a Ford Fairlane. Seamus Dailey’s car. A 1955 Skyliner Crown Victoria, completely restored. Seamus had taken just about everyone in town for a ride at one time or another. Jessie Lee didn’t understand why the car was still here, because Seamus had been one of the first people on the list and must have gotten his check a while ago.

Jessie Lee sucked in more smoke and continued to walk. An aisle over was another car she recognized, Mary Porter’s beat-up Pontiac. Mary had been driving on the undersized temporary spare for over two years. This also seemed strange. Jessie Lee could have sworn she heard Mary’s name called by the lottery commissioner a half an hour ago at least.

Maybe they’re together, Jessie Lee thought. She smirked, imagining Mrs. Porter and Mr. Dailey, both well into their sixties, having a quickie somewhere. Jessie Lee leaned closer to the Pontiac, checking to see if the windows were foggy or the chassis was rocking. The car looked empty.

She finished the smoke, ground it out under the toe of her pumps, and tried Erwin again on the cell. No signal. When she turned to head back in she bumped into a man.

Jessie Lee let out a cry of surprise and stepped backward. It was the lottery commissioner.

“Why aren’t you inside?” he asked.

“I stepped out for a smoke. One of my many bad habits.”

Jessie Lee smiled brightly. He didn’t smile back. Up close, he didn’t look as handsome as she originally thought. And something about him struck a chord.

“If you want to get what’s coming to you, you need to get back inside.”

He flashed a humorless grin, and Jessie Lee realized why he looked familiar. She was a Court TV junkie, and this guy was the spitting image of Marshal Otis Taylor. Taylor was a serial killer and murdered more than twenty women back in the 1990s. He did some really twisted things to them, too, like bite off their fingers and toes.

Jessie Lee didn’t like biters. She had a terrible experience with one once.

This guy certainly had the Taylor cold stare down pat. If memory served, Taylor had died by lethal injection about five years ago, so there was no way he could be the real deal. Still, it was kind of creepy. Jessie Lee wondered if she should tell him who he resembled. She decided there wasn’t any point—who would like knowing they looked like one of the world’s most notorious psychos? Besides, it wasn’t a wise idea to annoy the guy cutting forty-grand checks.

“Let’s get back, then,” Jessie Lee said, offering the commissioner her arm. He took it, roughly, and walked her back to the gym. Once the door closed behind them he headed back to the locker room. Jessie Lee decided he was kind of a dick. Maybe he was pissed off at having to work so late.

She rubbed her arms again and felt something sticky on her shoulder. There, where the commissioner had touched her, was a smear of blood.

Fran’s eye fixed on the sledgehammer poised above her head, but rather than fear she felt rage.

“Where’s Duncan?” she yelled.

The man in black paused. Smoke swirled up around his shoulders, but Fran could still make out his smile. He bent down, his free hand squeezing her right breast.

“Are you, are you his, Duncan’s, mother?”

Fran recoiled from his revolting touch and she tried to push away his hand, but for a thin man he possessed unbelievable strength. The harder she shoved, the harder he squeezed, until Fran could almost feel his fingers touch each other.

“Leave us alone!”

“Yes, yes, you’re the mother. Fran. The pictures match. Tell me where—”

And then the man was off her, rolling to the side, the sledgehammer thrown up into the air. Fran watched it arc upward—so clear and detailed it seemed like slow motion—and then crash into the floor just a few inches from her head, cracking the tile and peppering her with broken bits.

She twisted to the side and saw the stranger roll across the foyer with … Erwin! He’d come through, after all.