"You gonna turn me in, Tara? You can't do that. Tara? Come on, babe. You gonna do me in, then I ain't got nothin' to lose by havin' a little more fun."

A door slammed against a wall. Tara jerked as if the sound were a body slamming. He was in the guest room. He'd gone right and not left. Her bedroom would be next before the office. There was time. She could make it to the door. There had to be time.

"Tara?" He was half singing now, enjoying himself immensely. She imagined him standing spreadeagled in the door like a town sheriff waiting for the piano player to notice him and head for the hills. His gray eyes would be like night vision goggles, searching and searching for any movement.

He'd tire of the guest room; he knew it too well.

Tara counted to herself, counted the mother-may-Igo-slow steps it would take Bill to get to the master bedroom. When he reached that room, he would have to search the bathroom too. That would be her chance. Tara counted, forcing herself to get to ten. The door of that room already stood ajar so she wouldn't hear it open. Her best guess placed him at the doorway of the master bedroom by an eight count. Worst-case scenario, she'd meet him in the hall. Ten. Nothing to do but pray and go.

She dashed. He was quick and did the same a split second later. Tara's stomach lurched. So fast, so little effort, and he was on her. The trajectory of her flight was shorter than his, but Bill Hamil ton's legs and arms were long, his intent gleefully evil. That gave him the edge; he was having fun.

He grabbed for her the moment their paths crossed. Lunging, he managed a handful of hair.

Silky, it slipped through his fingers like water. His grunt of anger was the last thing Tara wanted to hear. She stumbled, crying out once, then dashed on, knowing her home better than he. But the doors and windows had been locked for so long now, the only sure escape would be where he had jimmied one to get in. She hoped he'd been bold and come in the front.

Tara slipped on the died floor but she recovered and hit the hall running. The Navajo rugs she loved were now a scourge, sliding beneath her. She fell.

Her shoulder slammed into the wall. The breath went out of her but Tara threw herself forward, colliding with the door, scrabbling up to find the k.n.o.b.

"Christ," she hollered, but the word came out garbled, half sob, half incantation. Everything was unfamiliar in her terror. But flight hadn't diminished her reason. Bill Hamilton should have shot her twice by now. She should be dead in the hall and she knew it. Clinging to the door, she glanced over her shoulder. The hall was empty. Her breath caught in little ticks of terror. How quiet it was. A prank? Another gaslight? Hide-and-seek when escape was so close, yet help incredibly far away, was cruel.

Sniffing. Blinking. A sob working its way up her throat only to be cut off by the need for breath, Tara forced herself to ease away from the door.

Fingers shaking, she concentrated on the k.n.o.b, knowing Bill Hamilton would be on her in a second.

He'd throw himself out of the dark just when she thought she'd mastered the lock. He'd slam the door shut just when she started to open it.

Hands sweating, blouse clinging between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and under her arms, Tara flushed hot then cold, then relief warmed her all over as she heard the click of the lock and the door was open. No one came to close it. She could breathe again.

Outside there was hope; there were options.

Then she heard it. A creak. Her ears p.r.i.c.ked, her frantic eyes widened. Had it come from behind?

Ahead? Was he crawling through the walls?

Whimpering, calling Ben's name under her breath, trying to silence herself even as she did, Tara stepped out into the night. She turned toward the drive, began her run for freedom, and stopped when Bill Hamilton stepped in front of her, raised his gun, and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening. It was the sound of death.

Tara's gut clutched. She stood her ground, unhurt, in shock. She bolted left, realized she didn't stand a chance of getting around him, then changed course so that she was running back toward the river. No. No. Shinin' was spooked and dancing.

She was running toward the corral where there was some defense. She didn't bother with the gate. Tara hurtled over the fence with more ease than she had since she was a kid. Behind her Bill Hamilton laughed. Close, but not on her heels. c.o.c.ksure, he ambled her way. Tara breathed hard and held on to the fence, looking at him between two slats. He was a shadow coming slowly, enjoying, perhaps savoring, every minute of the chase. Shinin' was behind her, nudging her with his knee only to dance away again. She took a chance, using the one weapon that had held her in good stead throughout this nightmare: her voice.

"Bill. Stay there. Stay where you are before you do something stupid."

"Aw, h.e.l.l, Tara, this is stupid," he hollered, throwing back his head to laugh. It was a sad sound, devoid of humor.

"My whole life has been stupid. Every minute since I was a kid has been stupid. Doctors and pills and my mother looking at me like she'd like to eat me up. My own mother." His head was down again and he was coming crisscross toward her as if he were stepping through a mine field. Tara didn't want him any closer. She called back.

"Your mother's out of the picture, Bill. You've got Donna. She loves you like a woman should, and now you're doing this? It won't do any good."

"This is fun, Tara," he whispered, and in the silence of the night it sounded as if he was beside her. He raised his voice again and it boomed through the cold night.

"But I don't know why."

He swung his gun hand, keeping time to a beat she didn't hear.

"I don't know why I'm here, or with Donna, or even botherin' with you.

I swear I don't.

Guess it was just a stoppin' place, huh? Just another town on the Rio Grande where I could get a shave and a beer. Whoee, I'd love to have been a cowboy.

Just a d.a.m.n cowboy." He twirled the gun above his head like a la.s.so.

"Come out here, Tara. Come out here, you little filly, and tell me what to do."

"I want you to put the gun down. Throw it this way, and we'll work it out," she called back, slipping into the dirt and sitting with her arms around the fence post, her eyes on the man coming closer.

Suddenly he was quiet and standing still. She wished she could see his face, and immediately knew that was stupid. She'd been looking at his face for weeks now and hadn't a clue who he was or what he was thinking.

"I don't want to, Tara. I'm tired. Why don't you just come right on out here and get it. That would be better. I've paid you. You work for me. Remember, Tara?" He sang in whispers and cadences that were ever changing.

"I'm all paid up and I want some action. Come on, little lady. Come right on out here to me."

He took a step and another, and Tara was sure his boots would be the last thing she saw on earth.

But behind him, in the distance, a quarter mile down the drive, she saw lights. Two distinct lights.

Yes. She half sat up, ignoring Bill Hamilton in favor of the slim hope of rescue. Woodrow had sent someone.

Let it be someone effectual. Not a sleepy detective on stakeout. Not Woodrow on his own.

Please, not that.

"Tara?" Her head snapped back toward Bill just as the lights winked out. She looked again They were gone.

Please no. They couldn't have left. It couldn't have been someone simply turning around. It would be too cruel.

"Tara?" he called again and behind her Shinin' reared. Tara had no choice but to pay attention.

She narrowed her eyes. Shinin' was telling her Bill was near. Tara breathed deep and let her eyes flit over the landscape. There. He'd gone right, heading to the gate. Bent, Tara half ran over the soft earth of the corral, toward the horse's stall. The pitchfork. Where had she put the pitchfork? Was it back where it should be? Still leaning against the wall in the guest house where Bill had last held it. Where? What other weapons could there be? Shinin'? Shinin' would keep him at bay for a while. He may have gotten close enough to whack off a hunk of tail once. Shinin' wouldn't let him again. No one was coming to help. The river lay between her and the open fields on the other bank. Neighbors were too far away to scream for help. It was up to her. He was near. She could smell him.

"I'm in, babe. I'm here."

Tara threw herself into Shinin's stall, rolled awkwardly, and came up on her hands and knees. Her hair grazed the dirt. Her face was wet with tears though she couldn't remember crying. Lifting one hand, she swiped at her eyes and muttered a curse.

Dirt and manure were swabbed in and immediately her eyes teared to wash it all away. Tara blinked, trying desperately to see where Bill Hamilton was through her reddened eyes. A shot rang out. Tara threw herself to the ground.

"Whooeee! Is that a noise, Tara? Is that a noise or what? Sounded like a d.a.m.n atomic explosion in that Circle K. when I did it. Thought for sure there'd be an army on my head, but n.o.body came.

Hey, Tara!" She sniffled, she flinched, fighting the desire to wipe her eyes. She needed to see but her tears wouldn't come. From the sound of his voice, Bill Hamilton was midway between the gate and her. She could hear Shinin' snorting and weaving, the ground shuddered beneath her. She pulled back into the shadows.

"Hey, Tara. Did I tell you I tried to clean up the mess in that store? d.a.m.n, that woman bled. Like a pig. I got a mop, ended up making a mess. Made me mad. I even mopped her. Jesus, it was a mess. Did I tell you that, Tara?"

Tara lay her face in the dirt, her hands over her ears. She didn't want to hear it again so she moved her lips, praying for the woman Bill Hamilton had painted with her own blood, praying for herself.

What had she been thinking all this while? Was her practice, her reputation, a promise, anything on this earth worth this terror?

Another shot. Her arms went over her head. Her face buried itself deeper into the earth. A chip of wood flew off the wall beside her. Shinin' screamed and ran the length of the corral.

"d.a.m.n. G.o.dd.a.m.n horse!" Bill Hamilton screamed and Tara looked up. Shinin' loomed in the center of the corral. He reared and his hoofs came down hard on the ground. He did it again, and this time she thought she heard Bill Hamilton scream.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n horse. I'm going to take out this G.o.dd.a.m.n horse, Tara."

"No!" Tara pushed off, half crouching, terrified he would make good on his promise. Shinin' reared, but this time it was away from the intruder as he tried to find his mistress. In that moment Bill Hamilton stood facing Tara Limey with nothing between them but the cold air and the gray light of a night that was leaving them.

"Tara," he murmured like a lover. He lifted his pistol, and pointed it at her. She heard the click of the hammer. She waited for it to fall. Bill Hamilton was brought to his knees at the same time Tara heard a click, a whirr, and the sound of an attack.

There were grunts and the thud of a body hitdng the ground and Tara, her eyes glazed with the view of death she'd just glimpsed, realized she'd been saved. Sweet Jesus, she was saved and the man who had done such an amazing thing was the man Bill Hamilton had laughed at, the man Bill Hamilton had held in such contempt.

Ben Crawford had Bill Hamilton's face in the dirt, one arm wrenched in the air. Ben's other hand pushed against Bill's windpipe. One move and Bill Hamilton would be no more.

Tara hesitated, tried to move again. She found her feet and scrambled up. Breathing hard, she stood in front of Ben, looking from him to Bill, and back again.

"I called the cops. They told me Bill wasn't there.

They told me they'd released him." Ben was out of breath too. There was fright and triumph and pride in his voice.

"You? You were the lights I saw?"

"Thought I better come quietly. Just in case you were entertaining."

"Good thought." Tara's voice shook and the words quivered.

"Tara," Ben said quietly.

"This isn't easy to do in kung fu cla.s.s, but it's a darn hard move to do in real life," Ben said.

"Could you please call for help?"

"Yes. Yes. Oh, yes." Tara almost skipped away but came back just as quickly. She leaned down, dirty and tired, cold now beyond belief She looked Bill Hamilton in the eye.

"You were wrong. Bill. There's no power in keeping secrets. The power is in telling them."

Ben tightened his hold for emphasis. Stunned, Bill grunted in pain.

Tara left, staying in the house long enough to call the police, load her shotgun, and thank her lucky stars that Ben Crawford was on her side.

Twenty-two.

"Don't you want me to drive you around back, Tara?"

Caroline kept her hand on the wheel but bent low enough to peer out the pa.s.senger side as they eased up on the courthouse. Tara sat quietly beside her, briefcase in hand, eyes forward, as she unbuckled her seat belt and wished Ben were beside her.

But it wouldn't do. She worried about his chair in an unruly crowd. Marvelous though he may be, there were some things he couldn't do for her.

"Nope. My head's up and there's no reason it shouldn't be. I'll defend my position until I'm blue in the face."

"You may have to if the media's going to write about you the way they did. People magazine wasn't exactly kind."

"Good picture, though, don't you think?" Tara laughed wryly. The belt retracted. She adjusted her jacket and looked at the magazine she had tossed at her feet. She retrieved it, took a good long look, and held it up for Caroline to see. Caroline took it and tossed it behind her.

"Yeah, great. But they made you sound like you were some money-grubbing weirdo who wouldn't turn Hamilton in so that you could keep milking him."

"There wouldn't have been enough money in the world," Tara sighed, then she laughed.

"Guess we couldn't expect anything less, huh? The gentlemen of the press don't have to promise to keep anyone's secrets or even tell them when they come out."

"Well, I'm sorry anyway. I know that was hard to read."

"No harder than what's coming up. Come on.

Might as well pull up a little closer, and I'll see if I can get through." Caroline stepped on the gas.

The car glided to a stop. It didn't take long for the crowd to zoom in on her. They smelled blood.

Tara put her hand on the door handle, pausing to identify the various groups that were so anxious to have a go at her. NOW women walked in circles chanting slogans and raising placards denouncing Tara. She had bought into a man's world, protecting those who would kill her sisters. The media, of course, was everywhere. Three cameras that Tara could identify, one a network. She was coming up in the world. A gaggle of men and women with notepads and microphones. Spectators were everywhere, their only agenda to see a spectacle.

And to the far right, the hot dog vendor. It was a big day in Albuquerque. The nation was waiting to hear what Tara had to say, to see what a morally corrupt attorney looked like, to try to find out why one woman would protect such a man when so many other women had suffered at his hand.

"I gotta do this, Caroline. Might as well do it now."

Caroline touched Tara's shoulder.

"You'll do great. I'll park and come in."

"No," Tara said.

"Go on home. I'm not going back to the office. I want to try and talk to Donna after the hearing. I may be a while. I'll be fine. I promise."

She opened the door and swung her long legs out. White blouse, blue blazer, gray skirt, and black heels. Power dressing. She felt right and she'd done right. No matter what they all said, no one could convince her that she hadn't.

"Ms. Limey .. ."