The lake is glassy and still. Our kayak slices through the water. It's overcast-it's been drizzling on and off all morning. To me, it's perfect.

"Look," says Elise, pointing skyward.

A bird wheels above, the only other living thing in sight, graceful on the air currents. It's a bird of prey. I can tell that much from the wingspan.

"Turkey vulture, maybe," Elise says.

It ignores us. We, the narrow human blemishes on an otherwise pristine landscape. It scans the waters in search of dinner.

Elise looks at me over her shoulder, throws me a wink. The weather's made a beautiful mess of her hair. It wreaths her cold-pinched cheeks like a corona. She laughs in abrupt delight, and it echoes across the lake.

I'm glad she talked me into coming. I'd balked at the idea of camping. To a city boy like me, the idea of pitching a tent under the stars with only a composting outhouse and a flashlight as my lifelines to civilization filled me with cliched fears of becoming a mountain lion's lunch or a hillbilly's new boyfriend.

But Elise had proclaimed it the perfect time to escape Manhattan. The summer houses were all closed up, the RVs in storage. Campsites were closing, except for the few that catered to the lunatic fringe, the polar bear dippers and the Jeremiah Johnsons. Campers would be scarce.

As usual, she'd been right. Out of the eighteen primitive sites in Connecticut's Pachaug State Forest, maybe five were currently occupied. And all by serious campers-no stoned, boom-boxing teens or wailing infants. We'd enjoyed two days of almost eerie quiet, hiking, eating simple campfire food, and snuggling within our double-wide sleeping bag.

At night, with that perfect black around us, I could almost forget the unsolved cases that waited for me back home. The primeval silence could almost blot out the voices whispering for retribution.

Almost.

I'd bought a hip flask at the corner store before leaving. My first. I filled it with Dewer's. In the evenings, before the crackling fire, I'd slip some into my coffee-quietly, to avoid Elise's contracting face.

Somewhere my mind said, hey, buddy, hidden drinking. Not good. Then it said, hell, just a little fortification in the wilderness. What would a campfire be without whiskey?

On the lake, she says: Look. An island.

I peer over her shoulder. The island is small, maybe a couple thousand yards square, dense with scrub and small trees, perfectly framed by the water and the hills of pine beyond.

I marvel at how we can be the only ones here. We could be pioneers in a virginal America of two hundred years ago. The allure of a simple, rustic life pulls at me for a moment, but even as I enjoy it I know it's just a fantasy. The people of that time lived brutal, short lives. Things haven't changed much.

Elise wants to explore the island. I match her strokes as we approach, then hold my oar flat against the current, just as she taught me. The boat turns in the right direction and I feel absurdly proud of myself. Paul Donner, outdoorsman. We glide to the far side. Lily pads with tiny white flowers cluster in granite alcoves.

Hey, I say, let's claim it. We'll move here. Live off the land. Me Tarzan, you Jane.

If I remember right, Jane did the hut work while Tarzan was off having adventures.

Jane big spoil-sport.

She responds by rocking the kayak a little.

Hey!

Dread arcs up my back. I can't swim. I'd never have agreed to join her out here in this plastic lozenge without the life vest around my chest.

What? she says, mock-innocent, and rocks the boat some more. Water splashes over the edge, wetting my jeans.

Not funny. My voice is strangled. The thought of that gray liquid closing over my face...

Then she issues a little yelp from up front and the landscape tilts wildly and suddenly we ARE in the water, really in the water, the kayak on top of us, the ice-shock of the lake instantly piercing clothes and skin.

This isn't happening, I think crazily.

Help me push it off us, she says, but I'm more concerned with keeping my head above water. The icy water grabs at me, looking for ways in, and I sputter out a mouthful. The lilies have complicated roots below the surface, and my kicking feet are tangling in them. Panic shoots through me.

Paul, she says more urgently, we have to get the boat off us.

Okay, I say, and push hard on my end. It flips over, right side up again on the water. I clutch its side, grappling for the raised lip of the seat, looking for anything to hold onto.

Damn, we lost the oars, I hear her say beyond the thundering of my heart. Sure enough, they've floated beyond our reach.

Then she's next to me in the water, holding me.

It's okay, she says. You're doing okay. Let the vest do the work. Kick your legs a little.

That's what I AM doing, I reply, alarmed by the panic in my own voice. How do we get back in the boat?

We don't, she says.

She's right. Remounting the kayak would be impossible from the water. It'll be easier to just hang on and kick ourselves back to shore. I look at the shoreline, so far away, then back to her. She gives me a buoyant smile, but somewhere beneath, something else is going on.

Suddenly, I'm struck with the strangest thought.

Elise... you didn't capsize us on purpose, did you?

A laugh. Of course not. There was a rock.

I look deeper into her eyes for reassurance, but there's this passive-aggressive enjoyment of my panic bleeding from the corners of her face.

And now I'm aware of her arms around me, her hands on my chest, a moment before so supportive, now hovering too close to the Velcro straps of my life preserver. One tug and those straps will rip right open. I'll drop like a stone from within, down, down, into the black darkness, while the turkey vulture wheels above, watching me grow smaller and smaller until...

Elise's eyes are dark and shiny now, like a doll's eyes.

How long, she says, her breath misting over the water's surface, did you think I was going to wait for you to get your shit together?

I came out of one nightmare into another.

One of men dying.

A face loomed over me, an alien face of glass and plastic. It jerked backward as my eyes opened. The muzzle of a plasma rifled hurried around to point at my chest.

I grabbed the barrel out of instinct. We both froze. All he had to do was pull the trigger, but he didn't. He was green, surprised. It saved me. I torqued up out of my cot. My attacker struggled back to keep his rifle, which pulled me right to my feet. I twisted it in his hands. He cried out and it ripped free.

We stood like that, me in T-shirt and jeans, he in assault gear.

Small-arms fire rattled from the sanctuary above. Flashes of plasma strobed around the stairwell door. Splintering wood. Cursing. Screaming. Dying.

A raid. A Surazal raid, the worst of all worst-case scenarios.

My assailant grabbed for his sidearm. I fired point-blank at him. The shock wave drove him three feet back, down onto one knee. His suit glowed, managing somehow to absorb the energy. A neat trick. And bad news for me.

He cursed, smoke curling off him. He reached for his dropped pistol.

I jumped over the cot. My Beretta was on the milk crate I'd used as a bedside table. Before my assailant could sight his weapon I put three slugs into his chest. His body armor didn't absorb these nearly as well. He went down, permanently.

I popped the Beretta's clip, checked my rounds, snapped it back into place, and moved for the base of the stairs.

And hesitated.

Tactically, I was screwed. Running blind up those steps would be crazy without knowing what was beyond the door. But my only alternatives were to remain here and defend the room or retreat down the tunnel, past the power substation, to the other exit I knew existed.

I couldn't do either. Not while my friends were up there, fighting and dying.

It wasn't the first time I'd picked the crazy play.

I grabbed the extra clips from my milk crate, then gave the dead soldier another look. Maybe I could help my odds. I ripped off his cyberwear and wrestled the camo jacket on over my T-shirt. Shoved my feet into his largish boots. When I put the helmet on, voices crackled to life in my ear.

"Delta Foxtrot, check your nine!"

"Kitchen is clear." "Bathrooms are clear."

"Proceed to secondary targets."

I thought briefly about how, by sheltering me, Jonathan and his Enders had brought this down on themselves. Then I launched above into the house of God to do some killing.

The sanctuary was thick with the fog of phosphorous grenades. Forms moved through this blue-white landscape in crouched stances, tracking targets in their optics, firing controlled bursts. Most of the monks were already down, their bodies reduced to angular heaps. Some Cadre members had gotten to their weapons and were returning fire from behind overturned desks and pews. An eighteen-year-old kid who'd served me the best chili I'd ever tasted was torn in two when he raised himself too far over the barricade to fire.

Don't lose it. Tight, stay tight. Use the element of surprise.

A couple soldiers swung toward me, then turned back to their grisly work. My disguise was working. I scuttled over to the nearest heap of bodies. The first charred face I turned over was Jonathan's. His left eye was blue and full of wonder. His right eye was boiled in its socket.

I welcomed the fury, letting it cloak me, its icicles shattering my indecision and fear. I passed more bodies, the bodies of people I had eaten with, shared laughs with, made plans with...

Mourn them later.

I didn't bother to crouch. I moved steadily, sighting, firing. I dropped three, then four men. They all shared the same perplexed look as tiny holes in their armor spurted their life's blood. After my fifth, the voices in my head let me know they'd figured out that one of their own had gone rogue.

I leapt up to the main platform where Jonathan had held services. Behind the toppled lectern, there was an baptismal pool cut into the floor, framed by a thick oak balustrade. I threw myself behind it just as shots blasted past and set a row of drapes on fire. More plasma fire hit the balustrade, singing and cracking the thick wood. Miraculously, it held.

Someone moved in my peripherals. I turned too late. A leg lashed out, catching me in the face. I hit back hard, but a forearm like iron deflected the blow. Another leg swept me from my feet and I tumbled down into the empty baptismal. My gun clattered away down the drain. Knees came down hard on either side of my chest, pinning my arms. A rifle butt cracked me across the jaw. The pain was unholy, threatening to take me all the way to black. I heard a growl of murderous rage.

A familiar growl.

"Max!" I cried through blood. I tried to flip my visor up with furious shakes of my head. "It's Donner-don't cook me, pal!"

Max grunted in recognition. He slid off me. "Their body armor-"

"I know."

I snatched up my Beretta, saying a little prayer of thanks that the drain's grill had been in place. We heard more screams, more thuds as flesh hit the ground. Four or five soldiers fired from behind two doorframes leading into the main corridor.

"We can't win this," I said.

"Downstairs, the tunnel," Max said. "The hidden exit, past the substation."

Past the power juncture that Armitage had converted into his anachronistic little office, the Cadre had extended the original tunnel through to the next building, an accountant's office. It led to a hidden trap door in a utility closet. That meant going back to the basement. But the cellar door was fifteen feet across the sanctuary with nothing between it and us except folding chairs.

Max pointed to a ten-foot bureau that held racks of devotional candles. "Some of our people are behind that thing."

"Maggie?" I said.

"Don't know," he said. He put fingers in his mouth and whistled at them. "Firing cover, my direction," he barked to me. "I'll take the right door, you take the left."

We threw lead and plasma across the sanctuary at the hallway. The soldiers retreated. "Now!" Max screamed. I saw forms launch themselves out from behind the bureau into the mist.

A moment later, Maggie and Tippit were at our sides behind the balustrade. I was never so happy in my entire life.

"Hey," I said.

"Thank god," she breathed.

"Time to leave," I said. Max and I laid down a second volley of cover fire, forcing the soldiers back again. Then we all got up and ran for the basement door.

It was the longest four seconds of my life.

Maggie, Max and I went through the basement door, with Tippit pulling up the rear. I was allowing myself to be amazed that we'd made it out clean when Tippit caught one. His right side dissolved into a brilliant swarm of fireflies. Maggie froze as what remained of him dropped into the stairwell. She started screaming. I pushed her down the steps, slamming the door shut behind us. As I threw the door's pathetic little sliding bolt, I realized what I was doing and let out a hysterical laugh.

We had maybe two minutes. One for them to realize we weren't in the sanctuary anymore and another to tactically clear the room before coming after us.

I grabbed the dead soldier's plasma rifle and incinerated the staircase. In my headset, I could hear organizing commands. We ran to the metal cabinet that opened onto the tunnel.

There was a surreal sense of deja vu as we ran that tunnel, the lights strobing on and off as they had during my first visit a millennia ago.

We reached Crandall's cell and paused. I pushed the door open with a finger.

He lay on his cot, fried to a crisp.

"Jesus," said Maggie.

"Someone's been down here already," said Max.

Which meant our exit was probably blown. But we couldn't go back.

"Oh no." Foreboding contorted Maggie's face. She pushed past us and ran pell-mell down the tunnel.

"Maggie!"