"Yes," said Sophie, feeling Viola squeeze her hand, "I will."

39.

The moon rose, the crickets sang in a deafening choir, and night closed in around him. Tucked deep into the boughs at the base of a spruce tree about ten yards from Melvin DuCharme's cabin steps, Angelo waited. He'd spent the early part of the evening in Minneapolis, digging up a pair of night-vision goggles, handcuffs, and a bulletproof vest. Armed with a forty-five caliber Glock in a shoulder holster, Angelo had come prepared for a fight, one he intended to win.

Just before sunset, Cora and Angelo arrived at the cabin in her car. As Cora climbed out of the front seat, Angelo remained in the back seat covered by a blanket. He watched through the open door as Cora stuffed the envelope containing the letters underneath the steps. He wanted to make sure that once she'd stashed the goods, she got away safely.

On her way home, she let him off by the side of the road. He tramped a good mile through the woods, using a compass, and arrived back at the cabin just as the sun set over the Cottonwood River. Crawling slowly through the undergrowth toward the huge spruce, he took up his position, hoping he wouldn't have long to wait. Ever since he'd talked to Cora at the coffee shop, he'd been a man in motion, rushing from one place to the next. He hadn't had much time to think, only to act. But now the niggling worry he'd ignored earlier just about swallowed him whole. What if Bernice had put the bomb in Kirby Runbeck's truck? If she showed up here tonight, instead of Milton or Plato or even Mary Washburn, what would he do?

Angelo knew the answer. He'd wait for her to read the letters, then together they'd destroy them. He'd make her promise never to bother Cora again. Together, they'd wait it out. The police had no real proof that her father had murdered Kirby Runbeck. A confession given right after a major stroke would never hold up in court. Chances were, nothing legal would ever come of it and John would be free to live out the rest of his life in peace. The only matter that still bothered Angelo was the cold-blooded way Bernice had gone after Cora. That is, if she had. He still believed she had nothing to do with it. It was most likely Milton or Plato. Whatever the case, Angelo felt confident that whoever had stolen Cora's cat, demanding the letters as ransom, wouldn't wait long to pick them up.

By three A.M., Angelo was beginning to wonder if he'd been wrong about the blackmailer's impatience. It was possible that the letters could sit under the steps for days. Maybe the person he was waiting for was being ruthlessly careful, making sure no trap had been set. If so, Angelo would have to alter his plans accordingly. He'd been fighting sleep for the past two hours. Thank God for the mosquitoes. He couldn't believe an intelligent human being would willingly live in a place infested with such vile bugs.

Just before four in the morning, he heard grass rustle behind him. His body tensed and his senses switched to high alert. He turned his head carefully to the side, but saw nothing. Quiet returned. Except, this time, he could feel alien body heat right through the branches. At all costs, he couldn't give his position away. He waited for what seemed like an eternity, controlling his breathing, eliminating even the smallest twitch. A mosquito landed on his nose. He could feel it boring into his skin, making a meal of his blood. He had an overwhelming urge to smack the life out of it, but he couldn't move.

Suddenly, a dark form burst past the pine tree headed for the cabin steps. Angelo assumed the person must have been waiting in the dark for a long time, creeping ever closer to the target. Through his night-vision goggles, he could see a long, hooded raincoat. Whether the form was a man or a woman, he couldn't tell. But it definitely held a gun.

Crouching near the steps, the figure looked around cautiously, then transferred the gun from one hand to the other and pulled a small flashlight out of the raincoat pocket. Angelo had instructed Cora to place the letters in a zip-lock plastic bag, then insert the bag into a large white envelope. Once the envelope had been placed safely under the steps, she was to pour a jar of honey over it. Angelo figured this would slow the blackmailer down, giving him an opening to attack.

And that's just what happened.

"What the fuck," came a low, feral growl. The figure dropped everything, trying to smear off the sticky goo.

Angelo blasted into action. Pulling his gun, he spanned the ten yards to the cabin steps in a matter of seconds. "Stop right there."

The figured whirled around.

"You!" said Angelo.

Plato looked startled. But instead of stopping, he lunged forward, knocking the gun out of Angelo's hand and slamming him to the ground. They rolled around in the grass and the dirt, grunting and swearing, each struggling to reach the gun before the other. Just as Angelo's fingertips touched the metal handle, Plato's knee jammed hard into his groin. Angelo doubled up, howling in agony.

"Get up!" demanded Plato, sounding both furious and out of breath.

Pain consumed him. He couldn't answer.

"Who do you think you are? This is none of your business!"

Angelo felt a heavy boot slam into his side.

"What am I going to do with you? Huh? Answer me!"

"Let's . . . talk," rasped Angelo.

"Right. Communication. The all-purpose emotional band aid. As long as we're communicating, all is well. What a load of bullshit. What if I don't want to talk? What if I don't feel like communicating?"

Angelo swallowed back his nausea and tried to clear his head. "You're so angry."

"Damn right I am."

"Why?" He propped himself up on one elbow, then hauled himself up off the ground.

"You changed the subject."

"Where's the cat?"

He snorted. "I ate it with some fava beans."

"Don't be so melodramatic. You're not Hannibal Lecter."

"Of course I am! Don't you get it? That's the whole goddamn point!" He was screaming now. "You have no idea what I've done in my sleepy, obscure little life. Nobody does. I'm the quiet guy who lives next door. The pervert who was such a good son and a sweet child. I'm fucking invisible!"

"If you kill me, you'll go to prison."

"I don't care. It's all over anyway." He raised the gun and fired three bullets into Angelo's chest. They didn't penetrate his vest, but the force propelled him backward into the tall grass. As he lay motionless, Plato fired three more shots, two into his upper body and a vindictive afterthought into his right thigh. Even though he was hit, Angelo had the presence of mind to play dead. With six gunshot wounds to his vital organs, Plato must have figured Angelo was a goner. From what Cora said, his pattern was to shoot, but not to look at his handiwork.

Plato kicked some sand into Angelo's face just for spite, then left him alone and sat down on the steps, looking up at the stars.

Angelo could feel the blood oozing from his leg. He might not be mortally wounded, but if he didn't get help soon, he could bleed to death. The cell phone was in his pants pocket, mere inches from his hand. But he couldn't use it as long as Plato hung around. He had to play another waiting game. And this time, the stakes were his own life.

40.

Sophie was startled awake by the sound of her cell phone. Checking the clock she saw that it was a quarter to five. Still dark out. The last thing she remembered was switching on the TV to catch a little of Conan O'Brien's show. She'd settled herself on the lumpy motel bed, dressed in jeans and a University of Minnesota T-shirt, anticipating that Angelo would call when the culprit had been handcuffed and immobilized, ready for transport back to town.

Instead, after clicking the phone on, she heard a raspy voice say, "Sophie, I've been shot. Send paramedics. You've got the directions, right?" He sounded weak.

"Yes . . . but how bad is it?"

"Bad. I've lost a lot of blood. I'm lying in front of the cabin. Call Bernice. I want you to meet me at the hospital. Hurry!"

Sophie was so rattled, she forgot to ask who'd shot him. Using the motel phone, she punched in 911. She rushed through the information. The woman on the other end promised to send a police car and a paramedic van right away. After Sophie hung up, she called Bernice. She crossed her fingers and sent up a silent prayer that Milton wouldn't answer. He could easily be the one who shot Angelo. Closing her eyes, she heard the line pick up. It was Bernice's voice.

"This is Sophie. Don't react, okay? Don't say my name or repeat anything I tell you. Is that clear? If it is, just say yes."

After a long moment, Bernice said, "Yes."

"Angelo's been hurt. He's all right, but he's being brought to the hospital by a paramedic van. He wants us to meet him at the emergency room. I'm in town, at the River Inn. I'll stop by the house in a few minutes to pick you up. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

She sounded uncertain, but Sophie didn't want to get into any more of it now. "Meet me on the front steps. Is Milton there?"

Hesitation. "Yes."

"Is he still asleep?"

"No."

"The phone woke him?"

"I think so."

"Damn. What can you tell him?"

"It's all right, Angelo. Let's just drive around and talk. It was a silly lover's quarrel. I'm sorry for what I said. I still love you."

Sophie hoped that would work. "Tell Milton to go back to bed. It's a private matter between you and your boyfriend. And I'll meet you downstairs in ten minutes."

"Yes. Good-bye."

Sophie dropped the phone back in its cradle, grabbed her purse, and hit the pavement outside the motel door running.

An hour and ten minutes later, Angelo was in the emergency room. The paramedics had already examined the wound and found that the bullet had pierced through the flesh of his thigh. He also had deep bruises on his chest where the bullets had struck the bulletproof vest. As soon as the emergency room doctor had cleaned the leg wound and bandaged it, Sophie and Bernice were allowed into the cubicle.

Angelo was a sight to behold. His face was scratched and bruised, and he had blood all over his clothing, but he smiled when he saw Bernice.

She kissed him tenderly. "Who did this to you?"

Sophie had filled her in on some of the details in the car driving over, but she'd left out the part about her father being a bigamist. Sophie wanted to talk to Angelo about it first, decide what was the best way to handle it.

Angelo coughed, then winced.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" asked Sophie.

"Some. I may have a cracked rib. Once they're done giving me blood, they're sending me to X-ray." His eyes rose to Bernice. "God, but you look like a million bucks."

"Flattery will get you anything you want. But tell us what happened first."

A nurse zipped in to check the bag of blood hanging next to the bed. "The doctor's ordered another unit. I'll bring it in when this is done." She glanced at the IV in his hand, then left.

Sophie asked her question again. "Who shot you?"

Still looking at Bernice, Angelo said, "Plato."

Bernice covered her mouth with her hand.

"He's behind everything. Kirby Runbeck's murder. The attempt on Cora Runbeck's life. And now tonight, he tried to kill me."

"But why?" demanded Bernice, horrified. "I don't understand."

"He knew I'd discovered what he'd done. Yesterday afternoon, he broke into Cora Runbeck's house and swiped her cat. He left a note telling her that if she wanted to see it again, she was to hand over the information her husband had discovered on your father. He told her to leave it under the steps of an old cabin out by the Cottonwood River. I tried to catch him, talk some sense into him. I wanted to convince him to turn himself into the police, but he refused. He lost it, Bernice. He's a sick man."

"You mean he shot you? Just like that?"

Angelo nodded. "I was wearing a bulletproof vest. Without it, I'd be a dead man."

"But I can't believe this," she said, pulling away from him. "What you're describing is a thug. A cold-blooded killer. My brother is a businessman, a good citizen, a father. Plato is a thinker, not a doer. Everyone in the family knows that."

"Not this time," said Angelo.

"But what was the incriminating evidence?"

He glanced at Sophie, then back at Bernice. "I don't know. I never saw it."

So that was the way he wanted to play it, thought Sophie. He hoped to protect Bernice from the truth. But with Plato on the loose, it might not be possible. Plato must have read the letters by now. That meant he knew what his father had done. What he decided to do next was anyone's guess.

Suddenly, an alarm went off. A nurse rushed into the room. "We've been ordered to evacuate the building."

"What?" said Angelo, his head rising off the pillow.

"There's a man on the fourth floor with a bomb." As she unlocked the gurney, she glanced up at Bernice. "Say, aren't you Bernice Washburn? You're his sister!"

Bernice's jaw dropped. "Plato's here? He's the one with the bomb?"

"He's in your father's room. The police couldn't stop him. He's got dynamite strapped to his chest. That's why we've all got to get out of here."

"Do what the nurse says," ordered Angelo. He grabbed Bernice's hand as the nurse began to wheel him out into the crowded hallway.

Pandemonium reigned. Sophie was nearly knocked down by a man pushing a cart. She had to struggle to stay close to Angelo's gurney.

"Don't try to be a hero," said Angelo. "Whatever your brother's about to do, you can't stop him. Believe me, I know."

"But I'm his sister," said Bernice. "He'll listen to me." She looked up at the clock on the wall as they sped past it. "It's just seven. My mother's still up there!"

"Your brother threw her out of the room," said the nurse. "He wants to talk to your father alone. He gave instructions not to be disturbed-or else."

"See?" said Angelo, looking desperate. He wouldn't let go of Bernice's hand. "We've all got to get out. Now!"

Plato stood in the far corner of the room, watching his father. It felt like he was seeing him for the first time. This was a rare moment: two bastards recognizing each other in the forest of life. Watching his father stare back at him with those sharp evaluating eyes of his made Plato glance down at his clothing. He looked like a rumpled park-bench drunk. He smiled for a moment, remembering his old theory. To be truly evil, he would have to dress better and lose weight. So much for the musings of a fat, middle-aged failure.

Plato wondered what his father was thinking. Was he frightened? He didn't look it. If anything, he radiated a kind of peaceful calm. Perhaps he knew this was it: High Noon. The moment of truth. Blastoff!

Plato kicked a chair away from the wall and sat down.

"How are you this morning, son?" asked John conversationally, his speech slow and halting.

"I've been better."