"Pascoe's been hit by glass and he's bleeding. His wife's in shock. I'm okay."

"I can't see anyone. Stay down until the police get here."

"If it's the Harbourns, it's me they're after."

The seconds seemed like hours as Anya tried to decide what to do. Adrenalin pumped through her arteries as she crawled to Mrs. Pascoe. "I need you to put pressure on Philip's leg, but not on the piece of glass. Don't touch it. Do you think you can do that for me?"

There was just enough moonlight to see her nod.

"Where's the back door?"

"There is one at the laundry at the side, through the kitchen, and another through the patio at the back." She held Anya's hand and pointed in the direction with it. "There's a flashlight under the sink in the laundry."

"Anya," she heard Brody call but had already headed for the kitchen.

She moved quickly, staying low, sliding her hand up to turn off lights as she went. She assumed whoever was shooting was out front. Even so, she doubled back and headed out the laundry exit. In the darkness of trees, she silently lifted an outdoor chair and scaled the neighboring fence. Working her way through that backyard, she looked into the street from two doors up.

She couldn't see anyone in the street. No signs of the police. The area had become deathly quiet. If the shooter had been in a car, he was long gone.

Pascoe needed medical care, and quickly. She headed back to the house, careful to stay away from the front doors, behind cover of trees and bushes, just in case the shooter was watching.

The front door was locked, but the inside light was on. No one was visible through the window.

She worked her way around to the back, and entered slowly through the laundry door. No other rooms, apart from the lounge room, had lights on.

The hairs on her arms and neck stood up. Something wasn't right. There had been no more gunshots. As quietly as possible, she found the cupboard under the sink and put her hands on a flashlight. The heavy maglite kind, just in case.

Then she felt the barrel in the back of her head.

"Get up slowly and put down whatever you're holding. And don't think of trying to be heroic. I have nothing to lose."

She implored for decency. "A man is bleeding, can I help him before you kill me?"

"No. Not this time."

Anya's mind raced. She'd heard the voice before. Who was it? Why did he say "not this time," as though she'd helped someone he knew before?

And if he were going to execute her, why didn't he do it near the sink from behind, quickly, without witnesses? The way he did with Natasha.

"The police will be here any second. You can still get away," she tried.

"I'm in no hurry. Everything I need is here."

He pushed her forward from behind, along a corridor, then down a spiral staircase. Her eyes darted sideways for a weapon or means to escape, but her captor made sure he had the advantage at all times.

What was here, and what did he need?

She still couldn't recognize the voice, which sounded muffled. He had something covering his mouth. Most frightening was his complete control and calmness about what he was doing. This was calculated, but she still had to try to talk him out of hurting her.

They stopped at a wooden door with a temperature gauge on the front. It read ten degrees Celsius. Too warm for a fridge room, it had to be a cellar.

"Open it, please. We're going to join the others."

Anya's heart drilled in her chest, but she dared not make a move with the gun still in the back of her head. Images of Natasha on the ground flashed through her mind, and she thought of Ben losing his mother. If there was a chance to survive, she had to take it. The only way out of here was the open spiral staircase, which made her too easy a target, even if she could overpower him. Now wasn't the moment.

Inside, Dan was standing straight and alert. Mrs. Pascoe was sitting with her husband on the ground, but without making contact. He put pressure on his own wound.

"God, Anya, why did you come back?"

"I thought the judge needed help," she said and moved forward. Behind her, the door closed. She turned around and saw her captor pull off a balaclava.

She gasped and knew she was about to die.

41.

Bevan Hart stood in front of them, eyes hollow.

Anya knew he was in pain, but he had seemed so in control in court. She should have seen something was wrong. He was a grieving father, and he had every right to be angry. Because of her, the Harbourns couldn't be charged with murder.

"I am so sorry about Giverny. I tried to save her, but it was just too late. I am so sorry."

"What the hell is this about?" Dan took a step toward Anya.

"SIT DOWN!" the gunman ordered. Dan complied. Mrs. Pascoe began to weep.

"Doctor, this doesn't involve you. Sit down."

Anya lowered herself to the floor alongside Dan and shivered. The room suddenly felt much colder.

"I know all about your little boy, Doctor Crichton, and I don't want to hurt you, but if you get in my way, I'll do whatever has to be done-for Giverny."

Anya felt lightheaded. She didn't understand what was going on. She, like the police, had suspected the Harbourns were behind Natasha's death. But if Bevan Hart wanted to punish someone, it made sense to punish her.

"This is about justice. It's something my family used to believe in." He gestured to Judge Pascoe with the gun. "You and your friend are going to answer for what you have done to so many people. It can't be allowed to go on."

Anya spoke, struggling to stay calm. "You killed Natasha, didn't you? Why? She worked hard to convict the Harbourns responsible for your daughter's attack."

"That's a laugh," he said without any emotion. "She didn't hesitate to drop the charges against them for what they did to Giverny. It was as if she-we-never existed. My little girl went through a living hell and the people responsible think it's all one great joke. Those bastards were never going to face charges for what they did to her. And Ryder was considering a plea bargain, dropping the charges of sexual assault, as if that never happened, in return for admitting they killed Rachel Goodwin. Victims are just bargaining chips in some sort of game, only some lives are worth a lot less than others. People like Ryder, all you lawyers and judges, ruin more lives than the Harbourns ever could."

Anya turned to Judge Pascoe. Hart had been in court and heard him arguing against mentioning rape in front of a jury. Now she knew why. If anyone found out what he did to Dan's mother, Pascoe would be slaughtered.

Mrs. Pascoe wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked up. "I know what it's like to lose a daughter. Mine died from cancer."

Bevan seemed to freeze, as if he felt for the woman in front of him. "How did you hurt your eye?" he asked.

Judge Pascoe blustered, "We can't take back what happened to your child, but there are processes. We all have to follow them. Society will destroy itself if vigilantes take over. It's the only civilized way."

Dan Brody clenched his fists and his shoulders tightened. "That's bullshit, there's nothing civilized about what we do and you know it. It's all just one big game. The only goal is to win, and the best tricks and theatricals beat the truth every time. You personally know of instances in which a rapist has walked free."

Anya held her breath, hoping Brody knew enough to stop talking.

Pascoe, visibly shaken, said nothing.

"Doesn't take much for the cannibals to turn on each other," Bevan said. "If you did this to the Harbourns, my daughter would still be alive."

Penny Pascoe cleared her throat. "Can you tell me about her? What happened?"

Footsteps pounded upstairs. "Judge, you phone the police and tell them to get out of the house or I'll kill us all." He looked around the cellar. "There's enough drink in here to keep us for weeks."

He turned to Dan. "You look like you'd know how to spend someone else's money. Open something but don't smash the glass, I have enough ammunition to shoot all of us in less than three seconds."

Penny Pascoe didn't seem the least bit intimidated. "Tell me about your daughter. Giverny is such a pretty name. Is it French?"

"She was seventeen. We named her after Claude Monet's home in France."

"I've been there. It's beautiful."

Dan had chosen a wine and extracted the cork with a corkscrew lever attached to the wall. Before sitting down again, he offered it to Bevan, who took a sip and handed it back.

"They want to talk to you." Pascoe held up the phone.

Hart shook his head. "No." He reached over, took the phone and smashed it against the wall. The four on the ground recoiled at the sudden and loud noise.

Still, Hart remained unflustered. Even with the police above him, he was beyond panic. Anya knew he was prepared to die in the next few minutes.

She thought about Savannah's death, wondering if he was behind that as well. "What about Savannah?" she asked. "Savannah was not like the brothers. She's different."

"No. She's just as responsible for what they did to my daughter. She knew about other attacks and kept quiet to protect them. If she'd spoken up, those animals would have been locked up, not out on the streets the night they abducted Giverny."

"How did you know about that?" Anya needed to know. She had sworn secrecy to Violet and Savannah.

"I have a police contact who kept me informed when no one else would."

"Did he tell you that Savannah was regularly beaten by Gary Harbourn, had bones broken and lived in constant fear of what they'd do if she ever told a soul? If she ever even saw a doctor? The mother didn't do a thing to stop it."

"I didn't know that, but she could have received help. She had choices. The other victims didn't. Judge, and Mr. Defense Lawyer, do you have any idea what Sophie Goodwin suffered while her sister was being murdered? The fourteen-year-old listened while her sister was repeatedly raped and stabbed to death. She heard her sister's final scream. Knowing her sister was dead, she was then raped and left for dead, but not before she had her head pulled back and her throat cut. A fourteen-year-old girl, for godsake. She spent the night crawling to the road to get help. You tell me she'll ever get justice when you argue over painful sex being normal or nonconsensual. Doctor Crichton told you they were the worst injuries she had ever seen and you just played word games about rough sex being what some women want."

"God, Philip, surely not?"

"You tell me those two innocent young girls would agree to have sex, be beaten up and stabbed by the Harbourn brothers. Strangers who barged into their home wielding a baseball bat?"

Mrs. Pascoe began to cry again.

"And another thing. Who do you think cleans the blood all over the floors and walls of the Goodwin family home once the police have come and gone? Imagine facing your dead child's blood-soaked mattress and trying to scrub away her bloodstains off the ceiling, walls, floor. Even her favorite stuffed toys. That's what Goodwin faces while you play word games about consent. Can you hear yourselves? You're destroying lives that are hanging by a thread already."

Dan put down the bottle and moved to stand. "You're right. I've never thought about that and I should have," he said. "I want to be shot standing up, not cowering on the floor."

Anya rose, both hands out in front of her, to buy even a few seconds. "I understand, I've been a victim as well. In my own home. A rapist broke in and I was lucky not to be killed. But I still trust the people who really are trying hard to help victims." She needed desperately to get through to him.

"Savannah could have helped Giverny's case. But did you kill her, too?"

He shook his head and aimed his gun at Dan. "That was an accident. All I wanted was to talk to her. I stole the Jeep thinking she'd stop if she knew the car, but she didn't. I wanted answers. I nudged her rear taillight at the traffic lights to get her out of the car. But instead of stopping she drove off like a maniac. I didn't know about her arm. I didn't imagine she'd have an accident."

Hart suddenly changed aim. "It's over, there's nothing I can do to bring anyone back." He pointed the gun at Philip Pascoe. "But you deserve this more than anyone."

Brody grabbed and threw the bottle at Bevan's hand, making contact as the gun went off. The shot missed, but Hart held onto the weapon. Anya moved in front of the Pascoes as the door smashed open. An armed police officer burst in.

Bevan Hart swung around, gun in his hand and moved toward Anya.

"NO!"

She stood and saw the flame as the crack rang out.

She reeled backward with Bevan, and felt pain in her stomach, warm liquid oozing across her abdomen.

42.

Bevan Hart was on top of her, and would not move. She felt pain around her stomach. Brody and a police officer rushed to pull him off her, and he didn't resist. They laid him to the side while two others pointed weapons, ready to fire.

Anya's pain eased as she clutched Bevan's gun against herself, relieved it was no longer digging into her from the owner's weight. She slowly sat up. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Dan peeling off his tie to use as a tourniquet for the judge's leg.

To her side Bevan Hart struggled to breathe.

"Get the paramedics," she yelled, desperate to help.

Blood poured from a gaping wound in the middle of his abdomen. Penny Pascoe knelt on his other side. "I was a nurse. What can I do to help?"

Anya glanced across. From the degree of blood loss, there was little anyone could do without fluids and intravenous access. "Do you have any towels, something to put pressure on with?"

The judge's wife immediately pulled off her skirt, exposing a half-slip. "Will this help?"

"Thanks," Anya pushed hard into the wound. "An ambulance is coming. Just hang on, Bevan."

He was agitated and tried to push her hands away.

"This will help stop the bleeding," she said.