I'd almost forgotten about the sprinklers. I followed the sprinkler pipes along the ceiling to the place where they joined the main water system beneath the kitchen sink, and turned the valve all the way off.

Then I stood and opened the fridge. I was hungry, sure, but I had another thought nagging at me.

On the bottom shelf of the fridge, Charles had left three porter house steaks. I carried them along with the lighter and chimney to the tower.

I set the lighter and chimney on the landing inside the door. Then I sprinted up the stairs with the steaks in hand.

Annalise was still there. One look at her and I knew my idea was crazy and useless. I opened the first package and, with the ghost knife, cut a long strip from the steak. Annalise's mouth was wide open in a frozen scream. I stuffed the piece of meat into her throat.

I did it again and again. If I was crazy, I was crazy. Maybe they would put me in a nice, uncomfortable psych ward when they finally nabbed me.

As I finished the second piece of meat, I felt something in the back of Annalise's throat move.

She breathed on me.

She still looked dead. Her skin was charred and blackened, her face shriveled, her eyes empty sockets.

I put my hand back up to her mouth. I could swear I felt a faint breath. Unless I had lost my mind.

I cut up the third steak as quickly as I could, jamming it down her throat. When it was gone, I picked her up, getting greasy ash all over my ruined s.h.i.+rt, and carried her down the stairs and out of the house. I opened the back of the van and laid her down as gently as I could.

Then I ran back into the house, lit the charcoal chimney, and set it on the landing beside the stairs. Soon it would be hot enough to ignite the wood.

I ran into the kitchen and disabled the electric pilot light on the gas stove, then turned all the burners on full. In the front room, I tipped the overstuffed couch against the wall and lit a pile of magazines beneath it. The magazines would light the couch, which would ignite the wall, which would still be burning when the gas reached it.

All of this took three minutes at most, but it seemed like forever. I finally ran back to the van and raced out of the driveway. There was always the possibility that someone would go to the house and be hurt or killed when the gas main went, but that didn't seem likely. Hammer liked his privacy, and the town gave it to him.

I drove through town again, pulled into the supermarket lot and parked beside the Dumpster, where the van wouldn't be visible from the road. My clothes were a mess.

People in the supermarket gave me some strange stares, but I limped as quickly as I could and paid with Hammer's cash. I bought another leg of lamb and forty pounds of pot roast.

Once back in the van, I started the engine. I didn't have any capacity for planning left. All I had was a buzzing, jangling urge to flee town.

I heard a loud thoom as I pulled out of the parking lot. A quick glance toward the water showed a heavy black cloud where Hammer's tower was supposed to be. People around me screamed or jumped into their cars to race toward the fire.

I turned the other way and drove out of town.

Several miles down the road, I came to the same empty lot where Annalise and I had confronted the Benton family. I pulled in and parked behind the abandoned stall.

I climbed into the back. Annalise was still breathing, but more faintly than before. Feeling her breath gave me chills. It was like feeling the breath of a ghost.

I opened the first package of pot roast. Just a few days before, I would have left her to burn in the tower, or I would have pitched her into the woods behind me and been glad to be rid of her.

Not anymore.

For the next hour, I sliced off strips of meat and fed them to her. She lived.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

First, I'd like to thank Ted Elliott, Terry Rossio, and all the regulars at the [http://Wordplayer.com] Wordplayer.com forums, most especially Bill Martell. I would never have learned how to put a story together without that site.

And thanks also go to Caitlin Blasdell and Betsy Mitch.e.l.l for giving so much of their care, expertise, and precious, precious time to this book.

Finally, the largest share of my grat.i.tude goes to my wife, MaryAnn, who believed in me when believing in me didn't make a bit of sense. This book wouldn't exist without her.

end.