10:19 a.m.

Elwood wasn’t fully awake when I tiptoed into his room, although the nurse had told me he soon would be. “Yesterday he took to raising his bed and waiting for his meals,” she said. “Then he eats like he hasn’t been fed for a week. And then he’s ready for another. Remarkable.”

Even more so, I thought, considering he’s eating hospital food.

She left me, probably to hurry along the food cart, and I sat down and listened to his rhythmic breathing. Such a strong man—I was grateful to him for passing on his genes to me. I’d been stabbed, shot, put into a coma, nearly drowned, and almost killed in a plane crash, but had eventually emerged from those situations reasonably unharmed.

I sat there listening to the early-morning hospital sounds: the scurrying of rubber-soled shoes, greetings and faint laughter from the nursing station, carts being wheeled back and forth, pagers and heart monitors beeping. All of this brought back memories that weren’t unpleasant in retrospect. I’d been reassured and well cared for on my long road to recovery.

Elwood mumbled something. I strained to hear, but he didn’t repeat it. I moved my chair closer to the bed and murmured his name.

“Wah…wah…wah…”

Nonsense syllables.

“Watch!” he said suddenly, emphatically.

Another silence. Was he waking up or just dreaming? After half a minute or so: “Daughter…”

At least half-awake, I thought. “I’m right here.”

“Blue green.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Cuff. No hair.”

“Who has no hair? One of the men who attacked you?”

More silence. His face twitched as if in frustration.

“What are you trying to tell me, Father?”

“Cuff…”

“Cuff?”

“Titanium. Expansion. Stomp…foot.”

Titanium?

“Too many dials.”

“What kind of dials?”

“Stomp foot. Crystal.”

I waited, but he didn’t say anything more. “Too many dials,” I prompted. “Stomp foot. Crystal.”

Still no response.

I tried the other phrase he’d spoken to Will Camphouse. “Special ops.”

Again no response. He’d fallen asleep.

I remained by his bed for quite a while, hoping he’d wake up. But he didn’t.

11:20 a.m.

The offices were quiet when I arrived, everyone going about their middle-of-the-week business. I waved to Jason Lieberman and Kendra, who were conferring at the reception desk, and went directly to my office. Then I sat down and tried to put meaning to my father’s seemingly meaningless mumblings.

Expansion.

Titanium.

Too many dials.

Blue green.

No hair.

Special ops.

Cuff.

Stomp foot.

Crystal.

An odd assortment of words and phrases. He’d said them to both Will and me, so they must connect somehow, have some meaning. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fit them together so they made any sense.

I gave it up for the time being, swiveled around, and booted up my computer.

Only nothing happened. The screen stayed dark.

“Come on, you wretched machine,” I said aloud and tried again. Still nothing. “Don’t tell me you’ve died,” I told it. “You’re top of the line, almost new. You can’t give up on me.”

A hubbub started in the hallway, people scurrying around. Seconds later Ted rushed in.

“Your computer working?” he said.

“No. What’s going on?”

“Nothing good.”

Now I heard excited voices babbling. Derek, Julia, the entire staff. And Mick, shouting, “Calm down! Everybody calm down!”

Now I was alarmed too. “What the hell’s going on?” I asked Ted.

“Don’t know. Try powering up again.”

Still nothing.

“Damn!” Ted said. “Major problem here—”

Derek burst in without bothering to knock. “We’ve been hacked,” he said angrily. “Malware’s locked up all of M&R’s computers. Not just here, across the nation; I just took a call from New York. Mick’s checking with the branch offices in other countries. They’re bound to have been affected too.”

“But why, for God’s sake?”

Mick entered my office. “That’s not clear yet, but whoever did it has some kind of agenda. Remember the Russian hackers and how they affected the last election? Whoever infected us with this virus has skills equal to theirs to get past the firewalls we installed. Probably used some sort of sophisticated pop-up device, or an e-mail that somebody in one of our offices opened, thinking it was genuine.”

“So what do we do about it? Call the cops?”

Mick snorted. “They couldn’t figure out what the problem is, much less solve it. We’ve got to contact the feds—Homeland Security, it’s their jurisdiction because of the threat to government systems. They—”

He broke off because now something else was happening. My computer was still switched on, and the screen suddenly lit up. Almost immediately I heard the familiar bonking noise that indicated an incoming message. I clicked the e-mail icon and the message appeared.

TO: Sharon McCone/personal & confidential

RE: Your files

They are locked. We will restore your acess to them when you agree with our terms. If you do not agree, we will step up our personal attacks on you, your family, and your asociates. We guaranty that at least one of these new attacks will be fatal.

$3,000,000 from your personal and corporate accounts you will wire-transfer to a bank of our choice in the Cayman Islands no later then 6:00 PST tomorrow. Instructions will follow.

WE WILL BE WATCHING YOU. OUR SPIES ARE EVERYWHERE.

Do not claim you cannot acess and give us this sum. We know the exact amount and location of your asets. Do not contact the police or feds. Do not try to trace this message, it will be beyond your capabilities. If you do not do exactly as we tell you, we will shut down negotiations and immediately give retaliation. FATAL RETALIATION.

Instructions for the wire transfer will be our final communication. Once we have received the $3,000,000, you will never hear from us again.

I gripped the arms of my chair, so furious I felt like screaming. I had to force myself to speak in a seminormal voice. “So that’s what that son of a bitch Rolle really wants. Money.”

“But why?” Mick asked. “He’s got plenty of his own.”

“Not three million in ready, tax-free cash.”

“Yeah, but are we sure he’s the one behind this?”

“Who the hell else?”

“Dean Abbot. If he was capable of breaching the security system on your house, he’s capable of shutting us down.”

“He may be a computer genius,” I said, “but I don’t see him devising a crazy scheme like this. He’s a follower, not a leader. And he’s not stupid or semiliterate. Read that extortion demand again. Unoriginal, trite, like something out of a bad TV movie. Words misused, misspelled. Just the sort of thing an out-of-control nutcase like Rolle Ferguson would dream up and write.”

A pause as Mick reread the message. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Can we raise that much?”

I calculated. “Not unless we want to go into chapter eleven. It’s an impossible amount. And we’re sure as hell not going to pay.”

“So we should let Homeland Security handle it?”

“Not entirely. Derek, you get in touch with them, tell them we’ll cooperate fully. Mick, round up everybody for a staff meeting in the conference room.”

After I’d finished telling everybody what had happened and what we were up against, I asked Roberta to check out the Divisidero Street condo on the chance that the bunch was holed up there now. Then I spoke with a Homeland Security agent Derek had on the phone. And then I took Mick aside.

“I’m going out,” I said. “Keep things here as organized as you can.”

“Where’re you going?”

“After Dean Abbot.”

“Not alone, Shar. He’s likely to be dangerous. Let me come along as backup.”

“No, I need you here.”

“Derek, then—”

“Dammit, no! Just do what I told you. And don’t worry, I won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“Famous last words.”

Mick meant well, but I was tired of people, especially men, being so solicitous of me. Was my age showing? Did I seem feeble? Forgetful? Unsure? I didn’t feel that way. I didn’t look that way either—not unless I had a very defective mirror. But sometimes I was afraid I was joining the ranks of women—and men too, I supposed—whom no one actually saw any more.

3:50 p.m.

Clouds were drifting in toward Piedmont from the north, indicating that the predicted storm or at least heavy fog were soon to follow. The little house on the hilltop looked battened down for the duration of the bad weather, but lights in the back of the first floor indicated someone was there. I rang the bell, keeping my finger on the buzzer longer than was necessary. My other hand was inside my purse, curled around the handle of the .38.

Heavy footsteps approached, the door opened partway, and Quentin Zane looked out.

“You again!” he exclaimed.

“Me again. Is Dean here?”

“No.”

“I need to talk to him right away. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He left early last night and he hasn’t come back.”

“Did he take a computer with him?”

“He had his laptop case, yes. And an overnight bag.”

“He didn’t give you any idea where he was going?”

“No.”

“You’d better not be lying to me, Quentin. Your roommate is involved in a scheme that can do harm to a number of highly placed individuals. If you’re in on it too, you’re looking at prison time.”

Quentin’s face turned white. “No! I didn’t have anything to do with the whole ugly thing.”

“But you know about it.”

“Go away, leave me alone.”

He started to close the door, but I stuck my foot in the way and then pushed inside. He backpedaled, his eyes wide and scared. “You can’t come in here—”

“I’m already in.”

I shut the door, looked around. The room was spacious, with yards and yards of white carpet that looked to be of good quality. On it sat an assortment of furnishings that reminded me of what young, affluent people had aspired to in the late twentieth century: Danish modern or Norwegian woods or Swedish something-of-that-sort; spoon-shaped chairs that swiveled and rocked; an orange-patterned couch that I knew would be impossibly hard because it had no springs, just a wooden platform with cushions tossed on top. And on the walls, framed displays consisting of collages of New Yorker covers. For a person who was supposed to be on the cutting edge of high tech, Dean Abbot was as retro as they come.

I said, “You know what Dean’s mixed up in, Quentin. Don’t try to deny it.”

“I’m not a racist.”

“No?”

“No. I swear I’m not. I grew up in a home where nigger and wop and chink and dirty Jap were common household terms. For a long time I didn’t realize there was anything wrong with them, but in fifth grade I called a little first-grade girl I liked a nigger, and she started crying, and my teacher set me straight. I never used any of those ugly words again. Or any of the ugly words men use against women.”

“Good for you, if you’re telling the truth.”

“I am, honest I am.”

“Dean is a racist, one of the worst kind.”

“I know that now,” Quentin said woefully. “I didn’t until after he moved in here; letting him in was the biggest mistake of my life.”

“You never read his blog?”

“No. I don’t read or create blogs. I work in the computer field, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend all my time at a keyboard.”

“All right. Dean breached the security system on my house. You know that too, don’t you?”

“I…”

“Sure you do. How did you find out?”

He shook his head.

I took a step toward him. When I’m angry I can be menacing, even to the toughest of people. And the one I was dealing with here could charitably be called a wimp.

“Answer the question, dammit!” I demanded. “How did you find out?”

“I…I overheard you and Dean talking when you were here before. I asked him if it was true what you’d accused him of, and he admitted it. He…he even bragged about it. And then he told me to lie about it if you came back.”

“What else did he tell you?”

“Just that he and some friends of his were going to make a lot of money and use it to finance some plan they had, he wouldn’t say what the plan was. He tried to talk me into joining up with them, but I refused. I didn’t—don’t—want any part of something like that.”

“He didn’t say how they were planning to get the money?”

“No.”

“Or who these friends were?”

“No.”

“Why didn’t you report all this to the authorities?”

“Dean told me to keep my mouth shut or the same thing would happen to me that happened to your father.” Quentin’s already piteous expression crumpled, and for a moment I thought he might start to cry. “If he finds out I talked to you—”

“He won’t find it out from me.”

“I’m afraid of him and those friends of his, Ms. McCone. You should be too.”

“Wrong. They should be afraid of me.”

Quentin blinked at my response. To take advantage of his confusion, I said, “Before I leave, I want to take a look at Dean’s office or workstation.”

“Oh no. I couldn’t let you do that!”

“Who owns the house or is primary on the lease?”

“I own it.”

“Then you can allow me to check things out. It’s legal. I’m an investigator in the employ of a prominent criminal defense attorney.”

As it had many times before, the ploy worked. Quentin didn’t even ask who the attorney was; I would have given him Glenn Solomon’s name and number if he had. He just gestured in a distracted manner and said, “All right, I’ll show you.”

4:25 p.m.

The house had four bedrooms. The two at the rear, one with a deck that overlooked an untended backyard, were Abbot’s bedroom and office, connected by a full bathroom. Quentin followed me while I searched for anything that might tell me where I could find Rolle Ferguson and Jerzy Capp.

The office first. Computer equipment—a large Dell PC; small and large scanners; two Epson printers. The computer would be password protected, naturally. There was no point in asking Quentin if he could gain access to any of them; as skilled a hacker as Abbot was, he’d make sure no one could get into his files, especially his roommate. There were no paper files in the desk or workstation, nothing that even hinted at a connection with Rolle Ferguson, much less his present whereabouts.

The bedroom held no leads either. All it told me was that Abbot was fairly neat, had lousy taste in clothes, and didn’t use prescription drugs or the illegal kind.

When I was done and went back into the hall, Quentin said nervously, “Please leave now, Ms. McCone. If Dean comes back and finds you here, he’ll be furious.”

“You’re really afraid of him, aren’t you?”

He looked away.

“Well, you needn’t worry. I doubt he intends to come back for a while, if at all.”

“What…what makes you think that?”

“Call it an educated guess.”

“But what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not.”

He wrung his hands. “Oh, God, I don’t know what to do…”

“You’ve got three choices,” I said. “Move out of your own house for the time being and hole up someplace. Or if you’re really desperate, call one of those twenty-four-hour locksmiths and get all the locks changed, then consult with a lawyer and have him file a restraining order.”

“What’s the third choice?”

“Hope I find him and his racist buddies soon and have the lot of them locked up in jail where they belong.”

5:40 p.m.

On my way to the Bay Bridge I put on my Bluetooth and clicked on Mick’s cell number. He answered right away. I told him about my talk with Quentin Zane, the futile search of Abbot’s quarters.

“Did Roberta turn up anything about Ferguson and his bunch at the Divisidero condo?” I asked.

“No. The place is still closed up tight, neighbors haven’t seen any sign of them. You coming back here now?”

I couldn’t return to M&R and wait around doing nothing. Action was what I needed, now more than ever. Bellefleur was the only place I could think of where Ferguson and Capp and Abbot might be, or if not, where I might find something that would lead me to them.

“No. Atherton.”

“Shar, for God’s sake, don’t go down there alone, especially not tonight. There’s a big storm coming in—”

I knew that. I had checked aviation weather that morning, as I often do even when I’m not flying. “Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“Hy would if he were here.”

“But he isn’t, is he?” The words came out harshly, and I realized I was angry at my husband, angry at Mick and most people I knew.

“Shar, please—”

I turned the phone off.

Why so much anger? I asked myself. The attack on Elwood, the other racist outrages against me and my family, the hacking shutdown and the extortion demands…all of that, yes, sure. But there was another reason too.

I was tired of dealing with stupid crimes.

Extortion and blackmail. Kidnapping. Bank robbery. Embezzlement. Spousal and child abuse.

When you think about it, all crimes are stupid.

More people get away with murder than you’d suppose, but those are usually cases where the cops aren’t sure if it is murder or not. Child and spousal and elder abuse—they’re in the same category as murder. A lot of abusers get off because the victim refuses to testify against them, but as a society we’ve become more aware, lessened the stigma of being a victim, as we have with rape. As for extortion and blackmail, they wouldn’t exist if the victims refused to comply with the criminals’ demands.

Refused, like we were doing.

But what about kidnapping?

Now that was a tricky one. The risk to the victim’s life was an emotional powerhouse. But a fair amount of kidnappings are shams, or the victim is dead before the ransom demand has been made.

Bank robbery? How many retired bank robbers did I know?

Well, one, actually. Big, tough guy. Got caught, served his sentence. Tried to write a book, but he was semiliterate because he’d been too busy planning heists to pay attention in school. Finally he went to live with his sister—and ended up working as her gardener for minimum wage.

I was approaching the Bay Bridge now. I stopped playing pointless mind games and concentrated on my driving.

6:30 p.m.

The rain—not too heavy yet—had started by the time I reached the exit for Atherton. A thick overcast hung low over the Peninsula hills, making the night very dark. Visibility was poor. The narrow road I was following looked different than it had in the daylight and kept confronting me with curves and switchbacks that I didn’t remember. I couldn’t make out any lights in the big houses that I knew stood beyond the wind-whipped branches of the trees that surrounded them.

I tuned into a weather report on the car radio. This storm was going to be a biggie, the meteorologist said, coming down in icy blasts from Alaska. Travelers’ advisories were in force: stay off the roads. As I switched off the radio a downpour hit, pelting my car brutally. I could barely see the road, and my tires were slinging up mud against the undercarriage. I crept along and finally came to a wide place off the pavement and pulled into it. It wasn’t as large as I’d thought, and my car’s nose plowed into a thick stand of brush on the other side. The car stalled, and I turned its lights out, deciding this was as good a place as any to wait out the onslaught.

I sat still for a few moments, gathering my wits, which seemed widely scattered, then reached for my phone. But a banging sound made me fumble it, and pellets began to bounce off the hood.

Hail! What more would this horrible night bring?

More hail, descending harder. Larger pellets, and a freezing cold that penetrated the metal cocoon around me. I recovered my cell, but reception was spotty here. Finally, after several dropped connections, I reached into the cramped space behind the seat and pulled out a heavy blanket I kept there. It was zipped into a plastic cover, and at first my fingertips were too numb to open it. Once I did, I swaddled myself in it head to toe.

Dammit, the car needed a new paint job, but I’d planned on having it done in the spring. But with the cracks the hail was probably opening up, I’d better get to the repairs quickly before the salt air from the Bay irreparably corroded the body.

7:10 p.m.

Finally the hail stopped and the rain abated somewhat. I started the car. At first I feared I’d be mired in the thick mud, but I eased out gently and breathed a sigh of relief when I was on the road and once again on my way to Bellefleur.

Downed trees—mostly the fragile eucalypti—were confined to the brush to either side of the road. Branches of all sizes were strewn everywhere, making it difficult to navigate. Dripping water from the thick pine branches made it seem as though it were still raining heavily, and wind continued to rock the car.

At a place where the road split into two lanes around a huge, ancient sequoia tree, I paused again to consider my options. I could park somewhere near the entrance to Bellefleur, well out of sight, and try climbing the gate. But it was topped with spikes, and I doubted I could see enough of the house from the road to tell if it was occupied. Gaining access to the estate’s grounds would be easier and safer via the oak tree on the Hoffman property.

As I passed the gates to Bellefleur I slowed down and peered through its bars. Right. I couldn’t tell if there were any lights in the house. I went on to the Hoffmans’.

The gate there was open, as it had been on my last visit, and I drove through and up the drive. The house was completely dark except for amber nightlights. Nobody home. Suzy had said something about taking her aunt to a care facility, I remembered. Had that been scheduled for today?

I parked to the far side of the driveway, where the car would be partially obscured by the shadow of one of the eucalyptus trees. The rain had dwindled to a drizzle, but if the National Weather Service reports were accurate, this was only the calm before the biggie.

I had a sudden desire to give up this quest. Go to a phone booth—if I could even find one of the nearly extinct devices—and call the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office. Turn it over to them. Go home. Lie in a warm bathtub for twenty-four hours. Sleep in my own bed for a week.

Sure. You never have abandoned something like this. You never will.

I locked my purse inside the car, after removing my gun and the small, powerful pen flashlight I carried. Then, with the .38 in the pocket of my jacket, I zipped up and angled through the side yard to the stone boundary wall.

Climbing the oak tree was much more difficult in the rainy dark. My foot slipped as I eased out onto the branch above the wall, and I nearly fell before regaining my balance. When I’d crawled out far enough that I feared the branch might break, I dropped down, my rain boots sinking deep into mud. They made a sucking sound when I pulled them out.

I drew the hood of my parka up, but it seemed to have lost its waterproofing. Cold rain from the trees’ leaves rolled down my face as I made my way, the shielded beam of the penlight guiding me, through the shrubbery and bay laurel, the untended grass and tall weeds. Then, through the rain, I saw the main house looming ahead.

It was dark, and there were no vehicles, no signs of life anywhere in the vicinity.

On my earlier surveillance, I’d noticed that one of the windows near the rear corner of the house had a hole in it. I made my way there and held the light up close to the glass, moving it around so I could see inside. The glass was dirty, but I could make out that the room beyond was a kitchen.

The inside catch was fastened, but the hole was down near the sash.

The cracks were spidery, with some of the glass missing, small pieces and larger ones starting to separate from the frame. I used the butt of my .38 to break out a few shards and widen the hole. Then I lifted the sash and climbed inside.

The kitchen was cold and musty. Once inside I flashed the light around to orient myself. The kitchen was old, evidently never remodeled: kitschy brown-and-yellow tiles with gingerbread men on them; black-and-white checkerboard floor. The paint on the yellow cabinets was peeling, and a few of their doors were missing. Inside one I could see a massive flour sifter, in another a set of canisters enameled in a plaid tartan pattern. The sink was porcelain with a drain board and a number of chips; the stove was a gas model probably dating back to the 1950s. The refrigerator—of the same era—was working but contained nothing but a jar of Skippy peanut butter.

Scattered about on the countertops were pizza boxes, Chinese takeout cartons, crumpled beer cans, and liquor bottles. A trash can overflowed with more beer cans and bags from fast-food outlets. The typical detritus of people who didn’t care about their surroundings.

I followed my light’s beam into the other downstairs rooms. It looked as though vandals had been at work in them: the damaged piano, smashed gilt-framed mirrors, ripped and slashed silk upholstery on the sofas, little side chairs with their legs broken off. The huge dining room table had scar lines as if someone had tried to ice-skate on it. I hated to think what I’d find upstairs.

Again I wondered why Rolle would have allowed such a valuable asset to deteriorate so badly. Or did someone besides him have control of the estate? Maybe our information was flawed; that could happen in the area of estates, trusts, and the like.

A marble-floored staircase that I could swear I’d seen in dozens of B movies curved to the second story from the tiled foyer. I moved up it, feeling the give of the risers and banister. Dry rot. A fixable problem, but costly, and the owner would have to care…

The faded red carpet of the second-floor hallway was threadbare. The walls were covered with similarly faded wallpaper in a maroon fleur-de-lis pattern that must have dated back to the sixties. Doors spread out along a gallery to either side of the staircase, some open, some slightly ajar. In spite of the empty silence, I kept a tight grip on the .38 as I moved along, nudging at each door until I could see the room beyond. Most were empty—stripped by vandals, I supposed. Two doors were closed.

I took hold of one of the knobs and eased the door open. The room here looked as if someone had been living in it: rumpled blankets and sheets and pillows on the double brass bed. A coverlet hung off onto the floor on one side. I checked the closet, found jeans and shirts and underwear in a heap on its floor. Men’s clothing: medium-size denim shirt; jeans, size thirty-six by thirty-eight; size thirty-six briefs. Smaller than the average man, as Rolle’s description and the photographs Mick had turned up indicated.

I checked the pockets of the shirt and jeans. Nothing in the shirt. Small change in the jeans, as well as an unused matchbook from the Twenty-Second Century. Circumstantial evidence at best; Charley Willingham hadn’t identified Rolle as one of the rowdy group in the bar the night of Elwood’s beating, and Rolle could have picked it up at any time.

A bureau stretched along the wall that backed on the gallery. Its drawers were full of more clothing, same sizes. A smaller central drawer had evidently been used as a catchall: scissors; baggies of extra buttons; souvenir key chains; obsolete tie tacks; a pair of those air freshener balls that are supposed to take the stink out of your athletic shoes; two Bic pens, both dry. The key chains were from standard places: Disneyland, Cal Expo, Marine World—probably childhood acquisitions. A key—a big old-fashioned gold-plated one—had been pushed to the rear, probably forgotten.

I took it out and examined it, then looked at the doorplate. A key to a room in this house, perhaps?

A second door led to a shared bathroom, a common feature in houses of this vintage. My flash showed blue-and-white tiles on the walls and floor: a whimsical Dutch pattern of windmills. The windmill pattern was repeated in the borders of the white window curtains.

I looked into the medicine chest above the pedestal sink. Pills. A lot of pills, most of their bottles without labels. The two with labels—benperidol and fluphenazine—showed Rolle’s name; the bottles were nearly full, their date from two years earlier.

Psychotropic drugs. I knew because at one time or other they’d both been prescribed for my half brother Darcy. They were used to treat aggressive and antisocial behavior, depression, and certain forms of psychosis. Rolle had been off his meds for quite a while.

I went out onto the gallery, looked along it at the closed door at its far end. When I tried the knob, it wouldn’t budge. I inserted the key I’d found. The lock clicked, the door swung inward.

There was something very wrong in this room. The windows were open in spite of the rain. Their curtains billowed out, their windmill borders dripping. The sink in the attached bathroom also dripped, but old fixtures often did. The stall shower curtain—more windmills—fluttered, but only at one end, as if the other was being held down with a heavy weight. My scalp rippled unpleasantly as I pulled the curtain away.

Crumpled in the far corner was the motionless figure of a man.

I stepped closer, bent down. The man’s eyes were wide open, staring at nothing but the dullness of death. His lean, middle-aged face was covered with blood-caked cuts and bruises, and blood spotted the front of his shirt. He’d been beaten to death.

I didn’t have to wonder why. He was Hispanic, might possibly have had Indian blood judging from his cheekbones and the jut of his nose.

Now Rolle and his racist gang had crossed the line into murder.

There was no identification in the victim’s jeans or shirt; I steeled myself long enough to check the pockets. Who was he? Not a homeless person—his clothing was old but clean, his hands calloused but free of dirt, and his fingernails trimmed. A person they’d kidnapped somewhere and brought here to torture?

Whoever he was, he hadn’t been dead long, probably less than two days. There was no odor yet, just the scent of rain. Rolle’s troops hadn’t bothered to bury the body, but were they crazy enough to just leave it here to decay? I didn’t think so. Wherever they’d gone, they intended to come back and dispose of it.

I closed the curtain and left the room without touching anything else. What I needed to do now was get out of this house and off Bellefleur as quickly as I could. Once I was back on the Hoffman property, I’d call the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office and report what I’d found. I’d have to admit committing a felony trespass, but given the circumstances, I doubted I’d be charged for it. And then I’d notify Mick and Sergeant Anders, if I could get hold of her.

That was the plan, but things didn’t work out that way.

I retraced my route to the gallery, and was halfway down the stairs when I heard the gates clang and saw lights flash beyond the rain-streaked foyer windows. Headlights, two sets of them.

Shit! Rolle and his band were back.

I could hear the cars now as they roared up in front and stopped. The only thing I could do was run back upstairs and away from the head of the stairs. I stood tensed in the shadows along the wall. If they came up here, I’d have to find a place to hide quickly, in one of the unused rooms.

Car doors slammed. Loud voices punctuated by laughter sounded before and after they trooped inside. There must have been half a dozen of them, all talking at once. I recognized one of the voices: Dean Abbot.

Another one said, “Okay, now we celebrate.”

“What about the spic?”

“No hurry. We’ll take him out later and bury him someplace.”

Somebody else said, “Jerz, you shouldn’t’ve offed him. He was only looking for a gardening job.”

“Shut up about that. So I lost my cool, so what? One less spic in the world.”

“Suppose somebody knows he was gonna come here?”

“How? We got rid of his truck, didn’t we?”

“Why didn’t you just leave him in it? Or stuff him in one of the outbuildings?”

“Oh, quit your whining and let’s crack those brewskis and do some coke. It’s party time.”

Party time! My God, partying with a battered corpse upstairs in the bathroom. What kind of people were we harboring in our society, so full of hate, so lacking in empathy, so soulless? I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to live in their skins.

Heavy footsteps as they trooped out of the foyer. Heading for the kitchen, I thought. There hadn’t been any beer in the refrigerator, so they must’ve brought it with them.

My first thought was to tiptoe down the stairs, get out through the front door. But the dry-rotted steps creaked and the kitchen wasn’t far away. If they heard me, they’d all come in a rush. I couldn’t hope to hold them at bay with my .38, or shoot them all if they attacked me. And some of them might be armed too. The smart thing was to stay concealed until the law could be gotten out here.

I went down the hall, away from the kitchen, into one of the empty rooms, leaving the door slightly ajar. Then I took out my cell with the intention of calling Mick, having him contact the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office.

But my luck was really running bad tonight. The signal was weak, and all I got when I tapped out his number was static. I tried again, over by the window. Same thing.

Now I had no choice but to wait for the bunch of them to leave or else find a safe means of escape.

But meanwhile there might be something more proactive to do, rather than simply hide. I left the room, walked softly back along the gallery to another that I calculated was above the kitchen. Inside, I located the heat register. It was open, probably had been frozen that way for years. There’d be one in the kitchen too, and from long experience with old houses, I knew that open registers acted as intercoms.

When I knelt down and put my ear close to this one, I could hear their loud voices. They were almost as distinct as if the gang had been in the room with me.

Unfamiliar voice: “Man, you guys sure lucked into a good thing when you jumped that old Indian. Who’d’ve thought he was the father of that bitch Sharon McCone.”

“Wasn’t luck.” Jerzy’s voice. “I knew who he was and I’d been following him for two days.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted to hurt the bitch where she lives. She sent a buddy of mine to San Quentin a few years ago. Ever since then I been reading about her and that Ripinsky and all the other lives they’ve ruined. Was time to take action. Too bad you weren’t with us that night, Rolle.”

“I wish I had been. But beating up Indians and spics is minor league, like all those protest rallies. Now we’re headed for the big time.”

“I’m not so sure a full-scale race war’s a good idea, at least not right away. Look what happened to Charlie Manson and his big plans.”

“Manson was an idiot. All that shit about his people living in some hole in the ground until all the niggers and spics had done each other in and then crawling out and taking over the world—that was just plain crazy.”

“Right. You ask me, all he wanted was to get laid and have his girls do murders for him.”

“Point is, you have to have long-range planning and plenty of money. Then you can recruit an army, gather enough ordnance to start things rolling.”

“We’ll have plenty of cash pretty soon if the McCone bitch forks over the three mil.”

“She will. What choice does she have? Dean saw to that.”

“Yeah, he did. Even if he did get caught hiding in a broom closet.”

Laughter.

“But what if they call in the feds in spite of the warning? The government’s computer people can reverse the lockdown.”

“Not right away. It’d take time, right, Dean?”

“The way I set it up, it will.”

“So if they don’t pay the three mil by six o’clock tomorrow night, we carry out our threat. Off one of their employees. The spic girl, the one whose car we blew up, or the Jap or the fag office manager. They’ll pay up then, damn quick.”

I clamped my teeth so tightly together pain shot through my jaw. The sick, cold-blooded bastards! Standing around sucking down beer and snorting coke, and calmly talking about murdering Julia or Derek or Ted if they didn’t get their goddamn three million dollars.

“A killing means even stronger heat from the feds.” Dean Abbot.

“So what, as long as we collect?”

“McCone already knows who I am, figures I’m the one hacked her home security system.”

“Don’t sweat it, Dean. If they ever do make the connection with us, we’ll be forted up in some new digs by then. And before we go, I’m gonna burn this place to the ground. I hate it that much.”

Where did they plan to go? Some desert hidey-hole like the Manson Family had in Death Valley? I hoped one of them would say or drop a hint, but none did. They went on to discuss the kind of ordnance they’d need to accumulate, then clinked bottles in a toast—

“Here’s to the revolution!”

“And white power!”

11:35 p.m.

The luminous dial of my watch told me it was almost tomorrow. I unfastened it and put it in my pocket. Just as I did that, the gang began trooping out of the kitchen without saying where they were headed. Coming upstairs to fetch the dead gardener for burial?

I got to my feet, went to stand tensed and listening by the door with my fingers tight around the handle of the 38. No sounds came from the stairs, or anywhere else I could make out. Minutes passed in silence. They were still somewhere in the house; I would have heard them if they’d left. But where?

Easing the door open, I stepped out onto the gallery and over to the head of the stairs. Then I could hear rap music and their muted, drunken voices and hoots of laughter, coming from the other end of the house. Still partying. In a room where more coke had been stashed, probably.

I couldn’t stand to stay here any longer. It was icy cold in the house—probably no central heating, and Rolle and the rest so fueled by alcohol and drugs that they didn’t need it—and my joints had begun to ache. With the racists clustered at a distance, I might never have a better chance to sneak out than right now.

Slowly I started down the stairs, pausing on each riser to listen. The creaking and groaning of the old wood that came with each step seemed loud in my ears, but either the sounds of my exit didn’t carry or the thugs were making too much noise to hear them. Their whooping celebration continued unabated.

I finally reached the bottom of the stairs, tiptoed across the foyer to the front door. I held my breath as I turned the knob, but Rolle hadn’t bothered to lock it. I eased it open, slipped through, closed it quietly behind me. And then I was out into the chill, wet night.

Rain was falling again, driven by gusts of wind. The night had grown colder. The storm front would bring more heavy downpours before too much longer. I had to get out of here before that happened. But navigating the grounds in the dark would be far more difficult than coming in had been. I didn’t dare use my flashlight until I was well out of sight of the house.

Light coming through blurred windows at the house’s far end helped guide me past the parked cars and across the muddy, rain-puddled driveway. Ahead, the darkness was thickly clotted. I couldn’t even make out the outlines of the massive fountain.

I dodged through dripping vegetation and around the wishing well. The gazebo was wrapped in shadow, but the faint putrid smell remained in spite of the rain, warning me away. Another victim of Jerzy’s savagery? No. Judging from what I’d overheard, the Hispanic gardener had been the first. Probably what was in the gazebo was just a small animal that had crawled inside the gazebo and died there.

I groped my way toward the fountain and the copse of bay laurel trees beyond. As I neared the fountain, I pivoted to look behind me at the house. A vine or something snagged my foot, sent me sprawling headlong into a trough of mud. Something that turned out to be a fallen tree limb stopped my forward slide—with a sharp blow to my forehead that jarred the .38 out of my hand.

I pushed up on hands and knees, shaking my head to clear it, and fumbled around until I found the gun. Extricating myself from the mud was a struggle. It clung like Gorilla Glue.

Jesus, it was as if this place were trying to claim me! People had described the Wellands, the supposedly haunted estate on the nearby road, in those terms. At the time I’d heard the rumors, I assumed that those spreading them were aficionados of such films as House on Haunted Hill, but now I could feel the grasping pull of Bellefleur. A place without ghosts, but made evil by the man who now owned it and his followers.

I managed to stand up, then to wipe as much ooze as I could off the .38 before stuffing it into my jacket pocket. The rain and wind had slackened again, a lull before the main force of the storm hit. I looked toward the house. All that was visible of it from here was parts of the darkened second floor and roof. I could use the flashlight now if I kept the beam shielded with my hand—

What was that?

Sounds behind me, faint but unmistakable—somebody moving over the muddy ground in my direction.

Sounds of pursuit that the rain had kept me from hearing before.

I strained to see through the darkness. Couldn’t pinpoint the exact source of the sounds, but could tell that they were coming closer. Dammit, I must have been seen leaving the house or crossing the driveway.

But it didn’t sound like more than one man out there. One of them must have left the others for some reason, maybe to go out to the cars for something. Whichever of the bastards, he was too drunk or too sure of himself to have raised an alarm—thank God for that. And that he didn’t have a flashlight with him. But did he have a weapon?

No sense in trying to outrun or outmaneuver him in this swampy darkness. I couldn’t let him catch me, but neither did I want to ambush and shoot him unless it was absolutely necessary; the sound of even one shot was liable to alert the others. Hide, then, at least temporarily. If he gave up the chase and went back to the house, it might give me just enough time to get to the stone boundary wall and over it to my car.

The nearest place of concealment was the fountain, its massive hulk looming off to my right. There must be plenty of places to hide among the three ornate tiers—among the large fish with their vicious-looking teeth, the grinning gargoyles, or even the capering angels.

I made my way to its near side, trying to be as quiet as I could, and crouched in the shadows to listen. My fingers around the handle of the .38 were numb from the cold, but that wouldn’t keep me from using it if I could. If it would fire after being immersed in water and mud.

Now I could no longer hear the sounds of pursuit. Had he stopped too? Yes, but not for long. Then I heard him again—close, so close I had a glimpse of his dark shape. He must have heard me in spite of my caution, he must know where I was headed.

I had just enough time to climb over the fountain’s wall, flatten myself against the side of its puddled basin, before he came stumbling up not a dozen feet away.

“You can’t get away from me, bitch,” he called, the words slurred by all the beer he’d drunk, and harsh with the arrogance that had sent him chasing after me alone. “Come on outta there.”

Jerzy Capp.

The deadliest of the bunch, with blood already on his hands.

“You hear me? I know you’re in there.”

Had he seen me slither inside? Or he was he just guessing?

“Make me come in there after you, you’ll regret it. I’ll beat the living shit out of you.”

He must not be armed. If he were, he’d have said so instead of making the beating threat.

Misdirection.

There were pebbles on the basin floor, I could feel them underfoot. I reached down, gathered up a handful, and flung them toward the copse of bay laurel.

Capp’s shadowy shape whirled toward the trees. I used the opportunity to boost myself up between two of the nasty-looking fish. One of their sharp marble teeth opened a gash in my cheek.

But Capp hadn’t been fooled, damn him. He turned back toward the fountain, barking a harsh laugh.

“All right, you asked for it. I’m coming in.”

I waited, perfectly still, not even wiping off the blood that was trickling down my neck. His head appeared over the lip of the basin, then he clambered over and I heard him drop down and start groping around near the center column.

He said in a nasty drunken singsong, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

I’d been holding my breath, but I couldn’t hold it indefinitely. I tried to exhale and then inhale without making a sound, but his hearing must have been acute. He let loose an animallike growl and started pawing the column right below me.

I couldn’t remain silent any longer. “Stay back,” I snapped. “I’ve got a gun.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m warning you, Jerzy—”

“Oh, so you know who I am, huh?”

“I’ll shoot if you come any closer.”

“Like hell you will.”

He lunged upward, caught hold of my leg, and tried to drag me down toward him. I clung tightly to one of the stone fish with my left arm, trying and failing to kick free.

He fumbled for a grip on my other leg. I could have shot him then, or tried to, but I was still afraid of the noise carrying to the house. Even high, Rolle and the rest would know a gunshot when they heard one. Instead I reversed the .38 and smashed the butt against the hand clutching at my ankle.

He yowled in pain and let go. I pulled both legs up and back, then pistoned them toward where I thought his head was. Lucky aim in the darkness: the heels of my boots caught him smack in the middle of his forehead.

The impact knocked him backward onto the floor of the bowl. His grunting cry of pain was cut off by a loud cracking sound. The back of his head slamming into the concrete?

I stayed where I was between the two marble fish, holding the .38 as steady as I could, but there were no more sounds from Capp. No reaction from the house at all.

The pain in my cheek throbbed, and a new, stabbing one radiated from my ribs. I breathed shallowly for a bit until it eased some, then exchanged the gun for the flashlight in my coat pocket. I switched it on, aimed the thin beam downward.

The sound I’d heard had been Capp’s head hitting the concrete. He lay crumpled and unmoving, his eyes half-open and shining in the light. I couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive, and I didn’t care. All that mattered right now was that he wouldn’t be chasing me any more.

I turned off the flashlight, climbed out of the fountain. There was no sign of anybody else in the darkness; the rest of them were still partying back at the house and had the music up to a high decibel level, probably hadn’t even missed Capp. Once I got into the bay laurel, I put the flash on again, shielded the beam, and followed it the rest of the way to the boundary wall.

It turned out that I didn’t have to waste time trying to charge and use my cell. There was a light on in the Hoffman house now; Suzy was home. Five minutes later I was talking on her phone to the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office.