TWENTY-­EIGHT

Thursday, August 15, 10:00 P.M.

Faith clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. Luke had been right to insist they proceed with caution. They hadn’t been able to reach the Donovans on their landline, and with no cell coverage, they couldn’t call Torpedo to find out if help had been sent. Once they’d sighted the Donovan family’s farmhouse, Luke had pulled his Spitfire off the road, and they’d walked the remainder of the way just in case Scourge had already set his plan in motion. Just in case he’d arrived at the farmhouse before them, ready to do his worst. Just in case, while peering through a downstairs window, they spotted Scourge brandishing a shotgun.

Just in case had just turned into her worst nightmare.

She caught a glimpse of Scourge, shotgun slung over his shoulder, in the hallway. Then he disappeared into a room and closed the door.

He’s inside the house.

Luke’s arms came around her from behind, shoring her up even before her knees could think about wobbling. He spun her toward him, noiselessly pressed his finger to his lips. Like she needed a reminder to keep quiet. Her body shook from the effort of holding back a powerful scream—­a scream that pounded the inside of her chest like a fist demanding to be let out.

And it wasn’t just her body she was fighting but her mind as well.

We’re too late. Too late. Too late.

From inside the house, a male voice cried out, but she couldn’t make out the words.

At least one member of the family was still alive.

Whatever Scourge had planned, she was certain he’d be sticking to a strict schedule, and that might buy the family time.

Closing her eyes, she willed away the thoughts of helplessness, replacing them with a single empowering one.

Stop him.

Yes. That was much better. If her heart hammered any harder, she’d need a defibrillator, but that was fine by her.

Fuck fear.

She’d used all the extra oxygen her panicked heart provided to fuel her muscles and her brain. “We have to stop him before it’s too late.” She mouthed the words to Luke, not wanting to chance so much as a whisper this close to the downstairs windows.

Nodding, he took her by the hand, and together, they backed away from the house and into a copse of trees where they could quietly strategize.

Lucky for them, Faith had read the pertinent parts of In Cold Blood aloud to Luke on the trip, and that just might give them the edge over Scourge, who had no idea his master plan was about to be disrupted. Considering they were armed only with one Glock and the can of pink pepper spray clipped to Faith’s belt, they were going to need all the edge they could get. “If Scourge is carrying out the scenario described in the Clutter murders, the daughter will be bound with cord in her upstairs bedroom, and the mother will also be upstairs, bound in her own bedroom.”

“Bonnie Clutter slept separately from her husband, but no reason to think Mrs. Donovan does. I say the mother is most likely in the master bedroom.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Her gaze traced the upper story, looking for an open window. She’d studied the blueprint they’d found at Scourge’s place and knew the master bedroom was on the east side of the house. Which of the several smaller bedrooms on the west side would turn out to be the daughter’s room, they’d learn once they got inside the home.

“I’d like to proceed on your assumption—­that Scourge is following the book. Since the book is what led us here in the first place, I say we dance with the one who brought us.” Luke offered her a weak smile, but his expression was drawn.

“How are we going to get past Scourge to get to the women? He’s downstairs with a shotgun, and we’ll never be able to climb the stairs without his spotting us.” Her blood was rushing in her ears.

Fuck Fear.

Then it came to her. “I say we start at the top and work our way down.”

Luke cast a glance toward the farmhouse.

She followed his gaze to an object glinting against the side of the house—­a ladder. A ladder, a Glock, pepper spray, and each other. That was what they had, and they had better make the most of it.

“We’ll get the women out first.” Suddenly, he dropped his eyes, and she knew they were both wondering the same thing. Were all the family members inside? How many were still alive? “Let’s take this one step at a time and be ready to improvise,” he said, meeting her eyes again.

And just like that, she knew they’d made a silent pact to trust that the family was alive and to act to keep them that way. “Agreed. But improvisation starts now. No way that ladder will reach the upstairs windows.”

“Upstairs window second from the left is open. We’ll find a way to get to it.” Luke outlined the split-­level roof with his pointer finger. “We can get to the lower section of the roof with the ladder. From there, we’ll have to scramble to the next level. And then . . .”

Faith was already pulling him toward the ladder. They were on the same page. Whispering instructions, they positioned the ladder under the lowest section of the split-­level roof. Luke put a foot on the ladder’s bottom rung, testing its stability.

Scrape.

The noise amplified in Faith’s ears, and her heart jumped to her throat, but around them, all remained still. No door swung open, no shot rang out, and that’s when she realized the farm’s natural sounds would cover their small infractions. Unless they sent the ladder crashing to the ground, the night’s noises would absorb the sound track to their rescue mission. She let out the breath she’d been holding.

Luke’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her body against his. “Luke,” she whispered, her hands trailing down his arms, his back, his buttocks, trying to feel and hold as much of him as she could.

“Just in case,” he murmured in her ear, his breath hot and sweet. Then his mouth came down hard on hers. She opened for him, and in that brief moment, they shielded each other from the evil they were about to face, taking only strength, only good from one another.

They broke apart.

As noiselessly as possible, they stabilized the ladder and began the climb. Faith scampered up ahead of Luke. When she reached the top rung, the roof was just within her reach. Grateful for the upper-­body strength her workouts had provided and that extra jolt from adrenaline, she pressed her forearms on the slick tiles above and heaved her body onto the roof with a soft grunt.

Luke’s eyes came into view at the edge of the roof. “Nice ass, Clancy.” And then he hoisted himself up beside her without so much as a quickening of his breath. “Get on your belly.”

“What?”

He eased into a prone position and motioned ahead.

Oh. They were going to crawl over the roof. Less noise. Less chance of falling. They combat crawled a ways, then Luke clambered onto the second level of the roof and pulled her up behind him. More combat crawling.

They reached the window to the master bedroom.

Luke grabbed her hand. “Its not too late for you to climb back down, get in the car, and drive like hell to the police.”

She shook her head. It was an hour to the nearest town, and the first forty minutes were in a no-­cell-­ser­vice zone. She’d never make it back with help in time. “I’m not leaving these ­people here with him. I’m not leaving you here with him.”

He squeezed her hand. Opened his mouth, but then shut it again. Took a breath. An eternity later, he said, “Okay. So here’s the plan. I lower you by your arms through the window. You get the mom back to the window, and I’ll get her onto the roof and down to safety. Repeat with the girl. You strong enough?”

“Hell yes.” She sat up and flexed a biceps. “You see me flip up onto the roof?”

He winked, but his face was pulled tight. “On three.”

She pressed a kiss to his forehead and extended her arms.

“Wait.” He pulled something shiny out of his jeans and tucked it between her breasts. It felt cold against her skin. “Pocketknife. I’ve got another.”

“You could’ve just handed it to me.”

“My way’s more fun.”

The look he gave her was so full of tenderness, she thought her heart might burst in her chest. “Thanks,” she said.

“You’ll need the knife to cut their ropes.”

“I meant thanks for being here. I couldn’t do this alone.”

“Tell you what, Clancy, neither could I,” he said, his voice hitching. Then he took her by the wrists. Her arms jerked in their sockets as he lowered her from the roof. Her feet scrambled for purchase and found the bottom sill. The window was open halfway, but she had no way to open it more. After exhaling all her breath to make her body smaller, she squeezed feetfirst through the window and into the master bedroom.

“Easy darlin’, you okay?”

She heard Luke’s low voice but didn’t take time to answer. She’d found the mother. The full moon varnished the room in light, revealing a feminine form on the bed—­Mrs. Donovan. Midforties. Brown curls, eyes fixed on Faith, telegraphing the kind of desperate plea a mother sends when she knows her husband and children are about to die.

Not:

Help me.

But rather:

Help them.

The woman’s hands were bound together in front, as if in prayer, and more ropes connected her body to the footboard of the bed. Her mouth was covered in duct tape.

Just like Bonnie Clutter.

Now Faith was glad they’d not been able to give the family details by phone. Scourge was no doubt already here, and better Mrs. Donovan didn’t know what Scourge had planned for her loved ones. Faith lifted a rope, inspecting the elaborate knots. She’d definitely have to cut through, no way to quickly untie these. She pulled Luke’s knife from her bra, and the mother struggled, violently jerking her head toward the door.

Faith got the message loud and clear.

Help them.

But she couldn’t give in to the mother’s silent pleas. There was no time to rearrange the plan. Faith had no intention of leaving the mother bound in this room while she went off searching for others. She steeled her jaw. She couldn’t let her heart overrule her head, or else none of them would make it out alive.

No pity.

She shook the woman by the shoulders, and mouthed, “Don’t say a word.”

The woman struggled harder, talking incoherently beneath the duct tape.

“Shut up!” Faith gritted her teeth and slapped Mrs. Donovan’s face.

The woman whimpered again but then nodded.

Faith whispered in her ear, “If I take this gag off, you have to promise not to scream. If you make a sound, your whole family will pay the price. Do you understand?”

The woman nodded again, and Faith ripped the tape from the woman’s mouth. Blood from Mrs. Donovan’s raw lips dripped onto her chin.

No pity.

Faith sawed the ropes that bound the mother’s hands. The sawing rubbed Faith’s own hands raw, and the hemp she held turned pink.

Move on to the feet.

“Why?” The softest whimper from Mrs. Donovan. “Why us?”

Faith kept sawing rope. She couldn’t stop to think about what kind of a monster would inflict such terror on another human being because she had been helping that very monster every day. Supporting him, calming him, making him strong again so he could do . . . this.

She spit bile from her mouth.

“There. The ropes are gone. Get up slowly. I don’t want you to faint.”

The woman made it to her feet, and Faith stuck her hands beneath her armpits and walked her toward the window.

“No! Please, I can’t leave my children.”

Faith closed her heart to the woman’s desperate pleas.

“You’re going first. I’m not making any bargains with you. I won’t leave them. I’m going for your daughter next.”

“No. Please.” The woman was edging away from the window.

Faith threw both arms around her and dragged her back. “I won’t leave your family. I promise, but you have to go now. You’re wasting my time when I could be helping the others.”

Mrs. Donovan’s body went limp. “Okay.”

“Good. Now, I’m going to hand you up to a man on the roof. His name is Luke. He’s going to get you to safety. I don’t care if you’re scared. Your children need you alive, so you will do exactly what he tells you.”

Another nod. And then Mrs. Donovan leaned backward out the window. Luke’s muscular arms gripped on to her, and while Faith held her by the feet, Luke eased the mother onto the roof.

Three doors down, Faith found the daughter. Also hog-­tied, also terrified. But a certain resilience on the girl’s face told Faith she had a thinking partner on her hands, one who’d make the process a lot easier than her mother had. Sure enough, the girl sat quietly, positioning her hands and feet as best she could to make it easier for Faith to saw through the ropes.

Minutes later, they were back in the master bedroom. “Your mother’s already outside. Don’t worry about finding her, just run as far as you can and hide,” Faith said as she helped the teenager through the window.

The girl looked at her with misty eyes. “Thank you.”

“Go. Go. Go.” Faith ordered. And handed her off to Luke.

They’d been arguing in whispers ever since Luke had returned to lift Faith through the window to safety—­like he’d done with the Donovan mother and daughter. But Faith flat-­out refused to leave the house until the father and son were out safely. With no one to lower him, Luke couldn’t get down and in through the window himself, or else he’d drag her out of there by force. As matters stood, she’d left him with no choice. He clamped his jaw hard enough to crack a tooth and dangled his right arm over the edge of the roof, lowering his Glock down for her. “Take the gun.”

A beat passed in silence. Then, “I don’t know how to use a gun. You keep it.”

“Point center mass and pull the trigger.”

“Isn’t there a safety or something? You should keep it.”

A muscle spasm shot up his arm, and he nearly dropped his Glock. He’d felt something snap in his shoulder earlier, and now his hand tingled, his fingers had long since gone numb. “Either take the gun or get the hell out of the house. My vote is get out now.”

“I won’t leave them.”

“But you expect me to leave you,” his words hissed out.

“You’re not leaving me. You’re just attacking the problem from another angle. If for some reason, you can’t get to the men from below, I’ll still have a chance to sneak downstairs and free them. This is a team effort.”

As much as he hated to leave her, time was running out. The longer he stayed here arguing, the greater the chance he’d be too late to save the father and son, and the greater the chance Scourge would head upstairs for the women and find Faith instead. She wasn’t going to budge. She was too goddamn stubborn. “One condition—­take the gun and hide. Do not come downstairs. Leave the men to me. Then I’ll come back for you. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.” First her voice floated up, then her arm.

What the hell was that?

Pepper spray!

She was trading him her pink pepper spray for his Glock. He took it, and for a split second, smiled. As he handed the gun off to Faith, the world turned grim again. “Pull the trigger hard. That’s how you disengage the safety.” Then he was on his belly. Combat crawling back to the ladder, forcing his mind to focus only one step ahead.

Make it to the ladder.

He reached the bottom rung, stepped nice and easy, nice and quiet onto the ground. He secured the ladder against the side of the house, just in case Faith came to her senses. Meanwhile, the best he could do was get to the men, who, according to the book, would be in the basement. The only way to stop Faith from confronting Scourge would be to get the father and son out before she changed her mind and tried to free them herself.

Find the son.

From the roof, he’d had the advantage of distance to distort and cover his noise. But on the ground, he needed to be even more stealthy in his approach. Scourge might be anywhere—­doing God knew what to anyone. His stomach clenched. He wiped his palms on his thighs.

Find the boy.

Back pressed against the wall, he sidestepped to the nearest window, closed his eyes, and prayed to whoever was up there for a little help. Please let the book be wrong. Please let the boy be on the first floor and not in the basement. He darted his head in front of the window. The room was lit up inside, and it only took a split second to process what he’d seen—­the boy.

And the boy had seen him.

Thanks. I owe you one.

He stuck his head in front of the window again, this time pausing long enough to search the room for signs of Scourge. The kid shook his head violently. His eyes pleaded for help, and in that moment, Luke understood Faith completely.

Impossible to leave this family at the mercy of a sadistic maniac.

The son’s hands and feet were hog-­tied. His body stretched on the couch, head elevated by a pillow.

Kenyon Clutter’s head had also been elevated by a pillow. The Kansas Bureau of Investigation had speculated Perry Smith had propped the boy’s head to make it an easier target for his shotgun.

Luke’s whole body tensed. His hands fisted so hard, his knuckles popped. A wave of sheer hatred for the man who’d done this threatened to swamp him. He rolled with that hate one second, then pushed it aside before it could disable him.

Focus.

The chances of the window being locked—­he couldn’t guess. Under normal circumstances, ­people keep their downstairs windows secured. But out here in the middle of just-­good-­folks country, families often neglected to lock their homes. He leaned his weight against the bottom ledge of the window and felt it give, heard a creak. Another break. The window was unlocked.

Opening it fast, like ripping off a Band-­Aid, would make the least noise, or at least make noise for the shortest amount of time. Either way . . . he shoved hard, the window screeched open. In a heartbeat, he was inside the den, sawing at ropes, watching with rising alarm as the boy’s chest heaved in an unnatural rhythm. Luke heard wheezing seep out from under the duct tape that covered the kid’s mouth.

Fuck.

The kid had asthma.

“Don’t scream. I’ve got you,” he whispered in the boy’s ear, still sawing at ropes with one hand as he ripped the gag from the boy’s mouth with the other.

A gasp, a violent coughing attack, and finally a wheezy cry. “Help!”

The ropes were almost off.

“Quiet!” Luke grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him hard. “Your father’s still inside. What’s your name, son?” he asked, keeping his voice as low as possible.

“Carl.”

“You’re going to be okay, Carl. But you gotta run, fast as you can, find someplace to hide.”

“My dad. He can’t—­”

“Your mom and sister are already out of the house. I won’t leave anyone behind. I promise, Carl. So when I say run, you run and do not look back. My job is to get your dad out. Your job is to run and hide. What’s your job, Carl?”

“Run.” Carl wheezed out the word.

“That’s right.” Luke cut the last bit of rope. The boy had been tied like an animal waiting for the slaughter. Luke climbed out the window, took a fast look around to make sure the area was clear, and helped Carl out behind him. “Now, Carl! Run!”

Carl took off, coughing and gasping. He made it under fifty yards before tripping and landing flat on his face.

Get up. Get up.

Luke had one foot back in the window already. He hesitated.

Carl bolted to his feet, but he didn’t run. Instead, he looked back at the house, searching the high windows, trying to glimpse his family.

Boom!

A gunshot split the air. Carl turned and ran. The shadow of a male figure emerged from behind a tree, short, and stocky, a long gun in his hand.

Scourge.

Scourge loped after the boy.

Goddamnit!

Luke’s foot caught on the windowsill as he scrambled back out. He yanked it free and took off after Scourge and Carl. Faster and faster his legs pumped, but the boy and Scourge had a head start. He lost sight of them for a few seconds, then rounded a corner and saw a barn door swinging open.

Boom!

Luke crashed through the barn door in time to see a dark shadow disappear atop a ladder and into the hayloft.

Quiet. All was quiet now . . . and dark.

The scents of hay and manure and sweat mingled with something more disturbing. Luke wouldn’t have believed it if someone else had told him, but evil has a smell—­dank and putrid and saturated with hate. The sickly-­sweet odor in the barn made his eyes water. He covered his mouth with his sleeve. And then a scraping sound made him forget all about the smell.

He pressed his back against the wall and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. Long moments passed. Seconds seemed like hours. Time stretched and strained, helping him milk every nanosecond out of the time he had left on this earth. Like the barn, his brain had quieted, allowing instinct to take over. He was all muscle and nerve now. No emotion. No doubt. Just a crystalline understanding that this was the moment that would determine everything. What he chose, right now, would make him into either the man he wished he could be or the man he feared he might become. His father’s face flashed before his eyes. His chin came up, and he swiped moisture from his cheeks.

I won’t let you die, Carl. Not by this monster’s hand.

He edged forward, the ambient light illuminating shapes and forms but not defining them.

Not tonight, Carl. You’re not going to die tonight.

Luke’s muscles coiled into tight ropes of energy. His eyes searched the barn.

There, in the corner, he spotted a long shape with spiked shadows sticking up like a crown.

Pitchfork.

Keeping to the walls, he crept to the corner, all the while willing the night to creak its natural sounds alongside his footsteps. Let a coyote howl, a mouse scamper, branches scrape. He was almost there.

His senses sharpened to the point he could practically feel his pupils widening in the dark, and he focused all his energy on his eyes. It crossed his mind that if he survived, he should try to remember how to do this, how to control his body so completely.

He blinked. Imagined himself with night-­vision goggles and damn if he couldn’t see clearly now. The pitchfork. His hand darted out and clamped on. The splintered wooden handle scraped his skin. He gripped his weapon tighter, until it became an extension of his arm.

More noises from the loft.

How long had he been in this barn? A minute, an hour? He had no idea. He crept forward, making his way to the bottom of the ladder, not knowing for certain if Carl was in the hayloft, too. The figure he’d seen on the ladder he believed to be Scourge.

“Come out come out wherever you are, little buddy. Come out with your hands up, or I’ll make Mommy and Daddy pay.”

And there was his confirmation. Scourge had chased Carl into the barn.

Don’t do it, kid. Don’t look back.

“Don’t make me angry, Carl. I’m going back to the house with or without you, and you really don’t want me to be angry when I get back there. Come out now, and I promise not to hurt you or your family.”

Silence.

The kid was too smart to be fooled.

One hand clutching the pitchfork, Luke placed a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. It groaned beneath his weight.

Boom!

His body jumped in response to the blast, and the ladder jerked up and back down with a crack. He covered his ears. Hay and bits of wood rained down from above. The barn filled with smell of gunpowder. He swung his body behind the ladder and climbed the rungs, gripping the wood with one hand, the weight of his pitchfork, a comfort in the other.

Boom! Hard to localize the gunshot in the dark. Scourge could be shooting at Carl, or at him. Either way, it didn’t change the plan. He kept climbing the backside of the ladder until he felt the floor of the loft bump the top of his head. In a nonstop series of movements, he pushed his body to the front of the ladder and leapt into the hayloft, pitchfork sweeping out in front of him. “Stay down, Carl!”

Boom!

He heard mostly ringing now. But the flash of light had come from behind him.

He whirled, and there, standing a yard in front of him was the devil himself. Shotgun in hand, aimed just to the side of him. He jumped the opposite direction just as the shotgun swung and fired. Heat from the blast singed the air. Rage rose inside him fueling his muscles, overriding his fear.

He charged.

Straight for the shotgun, straight for the devil himself. Pitchfork to the leg, and the devil howled, yet with nearly superhuman strength, wrenched it from his leg and tossed it aside.

It was like fighting a machine. This devil was made of steel and hate. Luke kicked him in shin and grabbed for the long barrel of his gun. The gun pulled back, blasted into the air, and hay and bits of barn battered his body.

Whoosh.

The gun fell from the loft and landed on the floor below with a thud.

Luke grabbed Scourge by the throat, and a fist slammed into his face. His nose cracked. Pain shot all the way to his eye sockets. Scourge slipped from his grip, and Luke’s hand brushed against his side, closed around a cool canister.

Pepper spray.

Scourge leapt on him, and as they rolled through the damp hay, Scourge yanked the canister from Luke’s hand. Then a strobe flashed, blinding him. An alarm rang out, and he covered his burning eyes. For a split second, Luke’s lungs seized, and he couldn’t move, only watch as Scourge raced down the ladder.

Recovering his breath, he bolted to his feet, but the devil just laughed and tossed the ladder across the barn like a toy. Now Luke had no way down from the loft. Through blurry eyes, Luke saw Scourge hobble across the barn, dragging one leg behind him. Luke had gotten him good with the pitchfork.

Without looking behind him, Scourge found his gun and limped outside. The door to the barn slammed shut, then Luke heard the screech of metal against metal as the latch engaged. Scourge had locked them inside.

Suddenly, the room was filled with the sound of coughing and gasping. “Help me. Please help me.”

“It’s okay, Carl. He’s gone.”

“I-­I can’t breathe.”

Fuck.

The fallout from the pepper spray had triggered Carl’s asthma again. The boy rose out of the hay, then fell back flat.

Luke raced to Carl and lifted him in his arms.

“Can’t.” He wheezed and wheezed. “Breathe.”

And then the wheezing stopped altogether. The kid was barely moving air. Luke dropped to his knees and ripped open Carl’s shirt. His chest heaved and retracted, the outline of his ribs exaggerating with every shallow breath. Luke cleared the hay from the boy’s mouth and nose and felt for a pulse.

Strong.

Carl’s chest stopped moving. He was no longer struggling to breathe—­he wasn’t breathing at all. Pinching Carl’s nose, Luke blew air into his lungs and watched for the rise and fall of the chest. He gave another breath, then another.

Carl’s head jerked, and he coughed, spewing warm liquid down his shirt . . . and the wheezing started again.

Good!

At least he was breathing. Luke lifted Carl in his arms and looked for a way out of the loft. He couldn’t risk jumping with the boy in this condition. There, to the left, he saw a way—­crates stacked clear to the loft. “Stay with me, kid. I need you to put your arms around my waist. Can you hold on?”

Carl couldn’t speak, but he nodded.

Luke’s vision was starting to clear after the pepper spray. His skin stung, and his lungs ached, but that was of little interest to him at the moment. He had to get Carl out of this barn.

With the boy clinging to him, he hopped onto the highest crate. It wobbled slightly beneath his feet, but luck was with him. Whatever was in that crate must’ve been heavy, because it held the weight of both men. The crates were staggered just enough to allow Luke to find purchase with his feet and use them like a staircase.

At the bottom, Luke propped Carl against the barn wall. “Keep breathing, Carl. I’m going to get us out of here.”

Behind the crates, he found a sledgehammer and used it to bust up the door’s planks. Then he dragged Carl out into the fresh night air. “Stay quiet.” He almost laughed, then. There was no need to tell Carl not to talk. He couldn’t cry out if he wanted to. Not to mention they’d sledgehammered the barn door. “You did your job, Carl. You ran. Now you’ve got a new job, and that’s to keep breathing. Let me worry about everything else.”

Carl’s hand reached up, and Luke squeezed it. Then Carl’s arm went limp.

Don’t you dare die, Carl. Don’t you dare die.

And then Luke was carrying the boy again. By now, his right shoulder had gone completely numb, and about a hundred yards from the barn, his left arm started to cramp, but he had to get Carl out of sight. At last, he found a good hiding place, a metal toolshed.

He kicked open the door and choked back a grateful cry.

Inside the shed, on her knees, with her hands clasped in prayer, was Mrs. Donovan. Wordlessly, Luke lay Carl on the ground and checked his pulse—­still strong. The boy’s chest heaved, but no breath came out. He looked to Carl’s mother. “Asthma?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she fished something shiny out of her pocket and stuck it in Carl’s mouth. Two soft whooshes sounded.

Nothing.

She squeezed the inhaler again and waited. A loud cough followed a wheeze, and Carl’s chest started to lift higher. He was breathing—­not exactly with ease, but nice and steady. It seemed Mrs. Donovan had been thinking of her children throughout her ordeal. And despite the risk, she’d managed to find Carl’s inhaler and stuff it into her pocket sometime between the moment Scourge entered her home and the time Luke and Faith had dragged her out of that window.

Luke let out a soft, admiring whistle.

Mothers.