"How hard can that be?" Ben spat. "What's he like a moron or something?"

"Ben!" I admonished.

"He seemed like a nice enough guy," the paramedic shrugged. "A little weird, but hey, live and let live."

"Weird how?" Ben asked.

"You know," he returned. "One of those religious types. When I walked by, he was saying something about the Lord and consuming a fire or something like that."

The combination of words caused a twinge in my brain, so I mentally sifted through the various Bible verses I'd committed to memory over the years.

"Was it something like, 'For the Lord thy God is a consuming fire, even a jealous God,'" I said aloud. My words were slow and even. A slight note of fear rode in the crest of my voice as I finished.

"Yeah, that was it," the paramedic confirmed.

I looked across the aisle at Ben. "Deuteronomy four, twenty-four."

My friend was already rising as he spoke, "Tell me this asshole isn't tall with white hair."

"Yeah." He was nodding vigorously. "Did you see him out there or something?"

"You stay here, Rowan," Ben ordered as he started to push past the paramedic.

"Detective Storm, I think you should..." he began to object.

"Save it," Ben shot back.

I spoke up. "Ben, you're in no shape to do this."

He had already eased the ambulance door open and was peering out the narrow gap."Goddamit," he muttered. "I can't see 'im. You got a radio?"

"No, sorry," the paramedic answered.

"Shit!" Ben spat again, and then turned to him. "Okay. Get out there and tell the first coppers you see to stop that van. Tell 'em it's on my authority and that there might be an armed suspect in the vehicle. Got me?"

"Yeah, but what's going on?"

"I ain't got time to explain it," my friend returned with an impatient bite in his voice. "Now get out there and do what I told you to do."

The paramedic didn't argue, and Ben pressed himself back against the built-in cabinets of equipment and supplies to make room for him to exit. He caught the door with his hand and continued to hold it slightly open so he could watch what was happening.

"Do you really think that it's Porter?" I asked.

I had already stood up and moved over next to him, but I couldn't get any kind of a vantage point where I could see anything more than a small sliver of the street and the house next door to the one from which we'd escaped.

"Somebody torched that house while we were in it, Row," he offered. "The door at the top of the stairs was blocked by somethin', I'm sure of it. And besides, the friggin' place went up too quick. Way too quick. My money would be on Porter."

"But if it IS him then that would mean he had to have followed us here from Randy and Nancy's place." I tossed out the observation.

"Yeah, prob'ly," he agreed.

My voice began to ramp up in pitch, audibly noting my panic. "But that would mean he knows where Felicity is..."

"Calm down!" Ben shot back, stopping me before I could implode.

"Mandalay is with Felicity. She's safe. Besides, if the fucker followed us here then he's obviously leavin' her alone and comin' after you."

His logic headed off my sudden run toward hysteria and brought me back down to a controlled level of fear. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Okay. You're right."

"There they go," he muttered as he pushed the door open a few more inches and cocked his head to the side.

I winced as a sharp pain burrowed into my shoulder and culminated in a grating ache throughout the joint. It felt something akin to a knife blade being thrust directly into the bone-or perhaps an ice pick.

"It's him," I said aloud.

Ben glanced back at me, "Twilight Zone!"

I nodded. "Yeah. Twilight Zone. It's him."His lips formed a grim frown; he nodded at me, and then looked back out the gap in the door. "Jeezus H. Christ!" he exclaimed almost immediately, slamming the door completely open, and leaping out the back of the vehicle. "Stay here!"

I could hear the roar of an engine being gunned as I followed Ben out the opening, completely ignoring his command. My brain was beginning to adjust to my uncorrected vision, and while detail was still muddy, I could easily make out the white panel van as it backed toward us with a quick lurch. The rear corner of the vehicle slammed hard into the police cruiser that was sitting diagonally in the center of the street no more than forty feet away from us. The high-pitched tone of metal deeply creasing blended with the hard sound of the crash and the hailstorm rattle of broken glass as it spilled onto the street from the car's headlight.

Out of reflex I jumped backward as the patrol vehicle moved several feet toward us and rocked up at one corner. Toward the front of the sedan, a uniformed officer lay in a heap on the slush-covered pavement as if thoughtlessly tossed aside. I could only assume that he had been hit by the van and that was what had prompted Ben to reveal his presence.

The familiar sound of a handgun popping nearby, combined with the simultaneous metallic thump of the rounds impacting the side of the panel van. The handful of onlookers who had gathered on the perimeter were now screaming and scattering from the scene. The firefighters and paramedics in the immediate area ducked for cover near rescue vehicles.

The driver's side of the large van was angled toward me, and I stood there mesmerized by sudden slow motion that affected the scene. I could hear my own measured breathing echoing in my ears as the cacophony surrounding me became a muted background roar. There was a tingle in the back of my head, and my face felt hot and flushed. I looked up from the prone officer and turned my head to stare coldly at the open sliding door on the cab of the van. I didn't need my glasses to recognize the face staring back at me nor to see the hatred burning in his eyes.

The underlying roar rose in volume and was lacerated by the high-pitched grind of manual transmission gears as the extended moment fast-forwarded into real time. I heard Ben screaming my name as he crossed in front of me and pushed me back toward the waiting door of the ambulance. The wrenching groan of metal tearing apart scraped through the air once more.

I stumbled and slid on the icy pavement, catching the door to steady myself as I continued to watch the action play out. The van was already moving forward as Ben's arm whipped up from underneath his coat, his bandaged hand wrapped around his Beretta. Eldon Porter was still glaring at us from the open door of the vehicle, and I stared back with morbid fascination as my friend took aim.

An ye harm none. The snippet of the Wiccan Rede passed through my mind as I watched. It was the simplest of instructions and a covenant by which I endeavored to live my life. But now, it was something I was unable to embrace. I wanted Eldon Porter to be dead. I wanted Ben to empty his handgun into the bastard just as he had done with the lock on the basement door. I wanted him eradicated from existence,and the hatred I felt for him burned inside me hotter with each passing second.

From where I stood, the shot was clear. Ben was even closer. I started to breathe a heavy sigh of relief because I knew that at this distance my friend could not miss. It was all about to be over. The nightmare was coming to an end.

I jerked my head quickly to the right as several shots sounded from the opposite side. I saw the uninjured Wood Dell officer firing once again into the panel van as it lurched forward, allowing the patrol car to drop back down on the front corner.

I heard an almost anguished expletive to my left and whipped my gaze back.

When my eyes fell on Ben, he was standing there slapping a fresh magazine into his weapon and jacking the slide back without having fired a single round.

I screamed, "What happened?!"

The tires on the panel van had bit through the slush and were now making a wet squeal against the pavement as the vehicle sped away.

"Goddammit!" my friend exclaimed once again, as he centered the muzzle of his weapon on the van and tracked it. However, the immediate opportunity for a clear shot had passed as it was already rounding the corner. "Goddammit!"

He lowered the handgun and then slipped it back into the shoulder rig as he turned. "Empty!" he shouted. "I never fuckin' reloaded after we got out of the basement!" His face was contorted in a painful mask of self-loathing.

I didn't blame him for what had happened, but I was infuriated. Porter was getting away, and we had missed a prime opportunity to stop him.

"Jeezus I don't believe this!" my friend screamed as he ran toward the disabled police cruiser.

I released my grip on the ambulance door and chased after him, dodging a paramedic who was racing for the downed officer. I fought for steady footing on the grey slop that covered the street and slipped several times before making it the thirty-odd feet to where he was standing. He had cranked the passenger door open on the patrol car and was speaking into the microphone of the police radio.

I listened as he identified himself and then began describing the van. The last thing I heard him tell the dispatcher was the direction the vehicle had been headed and the street on which it was traveling.

I didn't hear anything else because I was lying on my side in the icy slush with the metallic tang of electricity coating my tongue and my body tensed in a violent seizure.

Chapter 19:.

It's dark.

It's cold.

I try to move, and then I remember that I cannot.

How long have I been here ? I can't remember. It seems like forever. A day? A week? A month?

I'm confused.

I'm trying to think. Where am I?

Where am I? Hell, who am I?

My head hurts. My whole body aches.

Fear grips me, and I don't know why.

What is it?

Why am I afraid?

The feeling passes, and I just forget. It seems easier than trying to remember. It doesn't hurt as much.

I'm uncomfortable sitting here.

I try to move again.

That's right, I can't move. I wonder why.

My hands wriggle but when they do, my wrists hurt. They are sore.

I can move my feet. Not much, just a little. My ankles hurt just like my wrists.

I hear water splash, and I can feel it on my feet.

Why are my feet in water?

Good question. Where am I again?

I listen.

It is quiet here in the dark.

Almost too quiet.

I don't like it.

I wait.

I listen.

Footsteps.

I hear footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.

I keep listening and try to remember who I am.

T...Tee?...

Tuh?...

Tay?...

Two?...

Two times two is four.

Two times three is six.

Two times four is twelve.

Twelve?

That's right isn't it?

Two times four is twelve.

Two times twelve is sixteen.

Sixteen?