"Andrea!" Chief Bradley calls, blundering through the brush not far behind them. "Andrea, stop!

Andrea, I see you --"

-- and there is a flat crack!, like a big branch breaking -- -- and Mouse and Andrew stand with their backs up against the bole of a tree. Andrew has a hand over Mouse's mouth to keep her from squeaking, which is a good thing, because Chief Bradley is directly in front of them, almost close enough to reach out and touch. He stands with his back to them, poised, listening; to Mouse, the sound of her own breath in her nostrils seems suddenly as loud as a jet engine.

Chief Bradley looks left, then right, then left again. It's full dark now, but this close, if he turns all the way around, he can't help but see them.

He doesn't turn around. He takes a step backwards. This brings him within arm's length, and Mouse feels Andrew tense up, preparing to push her aside and grapple the chief from behind.

Then something else moves, out in the dark; some animal. Chief Bradley fixes on the sound, starts moving towards it. The animal, whatever it is, hears him coming and bounds away; Chief Bradley gives chase. He vanishes in the gloom.

Andrew relaxes again. He removes his hand from Mouse's mouth.

Mouse slumps -- -- and she is crouching in a thicket of weeds alongside a footpath that is just barely visible in the moonlight. She can hear water somewhere close by; the lake, maybe, although it sounds more like the burbling of a river or a brook. Farther off, in the opposite direction, something is crashing around in the brush again. Chief Bradley, Mouse guesses, still chasing after wildlife; he's making a lot of noise but he doesn't seem to be getting any closer.

But where is Andrew? Keeping her voice below a whisper, Mouse speaks his name. A shadow on the other side of the footpath responds with a soft "Shhhh . . ."

Andrew crawls over to her. Cupping a hand to her ear, he murmurs, "Are you hurt?"

Actually, Mouse realizes, what he said was, "Are you hit?" as in shot.

"I don't think so," she murmurs back.

"Good," Andrew says, and raises his head for a moment. "I think Chief Bradley's far enough away now. We're going to go along this path -- stay low until it turns by the side of the brook, then stand up and start running."

"Where does the path go?" Mouse starts to ask, but Andrew puts a finger to her lips. The sound of crashing underbrush has suddenly gotten louder again.

"Move fast," Andrew whispers, and -- -- Mouse runs.

There was a moment's sting as I dipped my hand into Hansen's Brook. Then the cold water went to work, rinsing out and anesthetizing the cuts. I knelt at an angle on the edge of the bank, gripping a branch with my other hand so that I wouldn't fall in.

We'd come about a mile up the path. It probably wasn't smart to stop here, but Penny was out of breath, and I was starting to feel dangerously lightheaded; my hand was throbbing in time with my heartbeat, and I was worried I might be losing too much blood. Before kneeling beside the brook I'd listened carefully for sounds of pursuit, and because his hearing is better than mine, I'd called Seferis back out and had him listen too. Neither of us had heard anything.

After a couple of minutes I pulled my hand out of the water. I tried to examine it, but it was too dark to make out much detail; in starlight, blood and shadow are the same color. Shivering a little, I wrapped my hand up tight again in the dishcloth.

Penny was shivering too. She hugged herself, twisting back and forth in an attempt to stay warm.

"Hey," I said softly, "how are you doing?"

"Cold," came her answer. "Scared."

"Me too," I told her. "But I think we'll be all right. . ."

"All right?" Penny said, and had to struggle to keep her voice low. "Andrew, the chief of police is after us. You hit him -- I'm glad you hit him, but now if he doesn't just kill us, he'll probably put us in jail."

"No," I objected. "It isn't going to happen that way. He's the one who did wrong, not us!"

"That doesn't matter. He's the chief of police. He can do wrong, if he wants to."

"He confessed. To both of us! If we tell people --"

"They won't believe us. It's true, what he said: you're officially crazy in the state of Michigan, and I, I'm traveling with you. Both our words together won't measure up to his."

"Officer Cahill will believe us. Or at least he'll want to give me the benefit of the doubt. And when Mrs. Winslow gets here. . ."

"Mrs. Winslow?"

"Yes," I said, "she's coming here. Chief Bradley spoke to her this morning. She could be here already."

"Well even if that's helpful," Penny said, "how is she going to find us?"

"Well. . ." I had to think about that for a moment. "Well, this path we're on, it goes all the way to Quarry Lake, and from there, you know, we can get up to the cottage, and then. . ."

"Oh G.o.d," said Penny, making it clear that that was the last place she wanted to go back to.

"I know," I said, "I don't want to go there either, but. . . what else can we do? I mean you're right, if we stay out here Mrs. Winslow will never find us. What we really need to do is sneak back into town, and from the cottage I think we have some choices how to go."

"But won't Chief Bradley find us, if we go to the cottage? He must know where this path leads to." As the thought took hold, she looked away fearfully up the path in the direction of Quarry Lake, as if expecting the chief to already have outflanked us.

She had a point: Chief Bradley was sure to be familiar with the hiking trails in the area, especially one that led up the back way to a house he coveted. But Adam, chiming in from the pulpit, argued that the chief didn't necessarily know we'd gone this way, and that even if he suspected, he would resist the conclusion as long as possible. "He wants to find us by the lake," Adam said, "so even if he guesses we aren't there anymore, he'll keep beating the bushes a while anyway, hoping he's wrong."

"But why. . .?"

"Chief Bradley doesn't want to shoot us. He wants us to have an accident -- something that even he can think of as an accident. The cottage doesn't have a swimming pool."

"Quarry Lake," I pointed out.

"He can't roll his car into Quarry Lake. . . Look, I'm not saying he won't go to the cottage, but we've probably got some time before he does. Don't waste it."

Penny, following her own internal discussion, had come to a similar conclusion. Saying, "Oh G.o.d, let's just get it over with," she started walking again. I went with her.

I thought of Xavier, coming along this same path six years ago. Gideon had left him a map and written instructions specifying that he was to sneak up on the cottage from behind, slip through the back gate around sunset, and bang on the kitchen door after first making sure that there were no visitors in the house. The rest of the plan, which involved threatening to expose Horace Rollins as a child molester unless he wrote out a check for ten thousand dollars, struck me as improbable on a number of levels, but the stepfather never got a chance to laugh in Xavier's face. Reaching Quarry Lake at dusk, Xavier had missed the path to the cottage and gone up the Mount Idyll trail instead. By the time he realized his error -- by the time Gideon got him turned around -- the sun had set completely, and if not for the almost-full moon that night, he might never have found the right way. And then it was too late: coming through the gate at last, he heard shouts from inside the cottage. . .

I stopped short; the brookside path had just come to an abrupt end, and Quarry Lake was before us. Caught by surprise, I turned to look back the way we'd come.

"What is it?" Penny whispered, misinterpreting the gesture. "Do you hear something?"

"No," I said. "It's just. . ." Hadn't there been a forest of brambles here, only this morning? No, I thought, that was twenty years ago. . . and the evil conjurer was dead now, having met up with the wrong prince. "It's nothing," I told her, shaking my head. "Ghosts."

"Come on," Penny said. She took my hand, and led me along the lake-bank to the start of the cottage path. Then, huddling close together, we stepped into the woods.

It's pitch-black beneath the trees. They climb slowly, stopping often to make sure they have not left the path. They listen for suspicious sounds ahead, and the woods oblige them with all manner of strange noises: at one point they hear a weird sc.r.a.ping that reminds Mouse of a manhole cover being dragged open. They wait to see if the sc.r.a.ping will be repeated, but it isn't, and so they continue on.

The ground levels out, and the quality of the darkness changes, becoming less total; up ahead, Mouse sees an irregular line of shadow interrupted by a gate.

The gate is closed; it does not beckon them inside. Mouse takes this as a good sign. Still, they don't rush through it. They stand just outside, looking for monsters. After the dark of the woods, the faint moonlight shining down on the cottage's backyard is like a searchlamp; Mouse doesn't see Chief Bradley, or anything that looks like it might turn into Chief Bradley. No sound or sign of movement comes from the cottage itself, and while they can't see the front yard from here, if a car came up the drive right now, they'd know it.

Mouse, afraid to speak even in a whisper, gives a light tug on Andrew's hand to see if he's ready to proceed. He isn't; Mouse, thinking he's noticed something she hasn't, makes another scan of the backyard.

"It's the f.u.c.king toolshed," Maledicta advises, from the cave mouth. "He's petrified of it."

The toolshed: Chief Bradley could be hiding behind it, or inside it, but Mouse doesn't think so; this close, listening this hard, she thinks she'd hear him. Andrew has more experience here, though. Still holding his hand, she makes a sideways gesture: does he want to avoid the backyard entirely, and go around?

He hesitates long enough that she knows he is tempted, but finally he shakes his head. If they go around, they will probably blunder into a thorn-bush; and they will make noise. Bracing himself, Andrew reaches out; he lifts the latch and pulls the gate open.

The latch clanks. The gate hinges shriek.

Nothing jumps out at them.

"All right," Andrew whispers, "straight through here, on tiptoe around the side of the cottage, and as soon as we see there's no one in the front yard we start running. Adam says there's another footpath that starts about two hundred yards down the road; it should take us most of the way back to town.

They pa.s.s through the gate, Andrew jigging sideways to give the tool-shed a wide berth, pivoting to keep it in sight. Chief Bradley is not hiding behind it, and he does not come bursting out from inside.

They cross the backyard without incident.

Then, as they reach the rear of the cottage and start to go round the side, Mouse is suddenly wary. She senses that something is wrong, something is different, but she can't figure out what it is until her foot strikes a hard object, and then it comes to her.

The bracing planks: they have all been taken down again. The telephone pole is still in place, but the planks that Gideon rearranged this afternoon have been pulled down and laid flat on the ground.

Mouse is tripping over one of them.

She hits the ground and a flashlight comes on, pinning both her and Andrew in its beam. Mouse looks up into it and is blinded.

From behind the blinding light, Chief Bradley's voice: "Stop right there, Andrea."

And Andrew's voice, once more unbelievably calm, answering: "h.e.l.lo, Chief Bradley."

Chief Bradley's right hand moves into the light beam, holding the gun, pointing it. "Right there, Andrea," he says. "Now listen carefully. You and your friend are going to turn around, and you're going to walk slowly to the back door of the cottage. And then we're all going to go inside."

"Why?" says Andrew. "So we can have an accident?"

"Andrea. . ."

"I'm surprised you're willing to sacrifice the cottage. But I guess Adam was right, you have no choice: there's no swimming pool."

"Andrea, I'm serious." Chief Bradley's thumb c.o.c.ks the hammer of the gun back. Mouse, hearing the click, lets out a squeak and starts to crawl backwards. The gun's aim shifts, Chief Bradley saying: "Don't."

Andrew sidesteps, interposing himself between Mouse and the gun. "Do you think my mother would be impressed by this?" he says. "Do you think it would make her fall in love with you?"

"Andrea, G.o.dd.a.m.nit. . ."

"You're being very selfish, Chief Bradley," Andrew says. "I'm sorry you didn't get what you wanted; I'm sorry too you're afraid to face the consequences of the things you've done. But if you put that gun down, then whatever else happens, you'll have the consolation of knowing that you made at least one right decision. . ."

"Andrea. . ." Chief Bradley's tone is unreadable. He might be wavering, or he might be preparing to pull the trigger.

"But if you won't put the gun down," Andrew continues, "if you aren't going to let us go, then I'm not going to help you pretend that you aren't doing a really bad thing. You're going to have to shoot me; and when you do, I'm going to scream my mother's name, so that for the rest of your life, whenever you think of her, you're going to remember this moment, remember choosing to do what you know is wrong.

"Andrea. . . Andrea, G.o.dd.a.m.nit. . ."

"Althea," Andrew says. "Althea. Beloved Althea. . ."

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit. . ." The chiefs voice cracks, and Mouse claps her hands to her head, antic.i.p.ating the shot, but even as she goes to bury her face in the gra.s.s, she sees the light move.

Chief Bradley has lowered his arms. The gun and the flashlight are pointed at the ground now, and the chiefs shoulders are shaking. He is sobbing: Mouse sees Chief Bradley's tears gleaming on his cheeks.

Gleaming. . . but it isn't the moon or the stars, or the reflected light of the flash, that makes his tears shine like that. A new glow fills the air, and with it a new sound: the roar of an engine.

A car is coming. Chief Bradley realizes it at the same time Mouse does. He turns towards the front yard, even as headlights sweep around the last curve in the road.

There is a squeal of brakes: the car is coming too fast, the driver not expecting the cottage so soon. The light damps down again, and then goes out completely, as the new car slams into the back of Chief Bradley's cruiser. The cruiser leaps forward in chain reaction, and smashes into the front of the cottage.

The whole cottage shudders with the shock of the impact. Timbers groan and windows shatter; there is a shriek of tearing wood.

And Mouse, rearing up, feels Andrew's hand on her shoulder, dragging her backwards out of harm's way. Chief Bradley tries to get clear too, but his heel catches on one of the bracing planks, and with no one to steady him he stumbles over backwards.

"Oh h.e.l.l," Chief Bradley says, flinging his arms up over his face.

The cottage falls on him.

LAST BOOK:.

EPILOGUE.

29.

Later that night, after the rescue team had dug him out from under the cottage, Chief Bradley confessed.

He wasn't too badly hurt, though that wasn't obvious at first. He'd broken his arm and a few ribs, and a four-inch wooden splinter had pierced the shoulder of his broken arm; he was bruised and in shock. The doctor who examined him at the Seven Lakes clinic didn't find any evidence of a head injury or damage to his internal organs, but just to be safe, it was decided to transfer him to a hospital in Muskegon. Officer Jimmy Cahill rode along in the ambulance, and on the way asked Chief Bradley questions about some disturbing things we had told him. Chief Bradley, his tongue loosened by painkillers (and maybe by the fear of dying with a guilty conscience), told Officer Cahill everything: what he had done to Horace Rollins, and what he had thought of doing to us.

Then the next day, when the painkillers wore off and it became clear that he wasn't going to die of a broken arm, he recanted his confession. He told the detectives who came to see him that he had been confused the night before, and that Officer Cahill had twisted his words. He said that he was the victim of a conspiracy, orchestrated by a mentally disturbed young woman who for some reason had decided to blame him for her stepfather's accidental death. He suggested that Officer Cahill's affection for this mentally disturbed young woman was being used to manipulate him.

Things might have gone badly from there, but at this point, Mrs. Winslow intervened. Hobbling on crutches -- she'd broken her foot when her airport rental car rammed into the back of Chief Bradley's police cruiser -- she paid a visit to the chief in his hospital room. She was alone with him for more than an hour. What pa.s.sed between them remains their secret, but when they were done, Chief Bradley called the detectives back in, admitted he'd been lying, and reaffirmed his original confession.

That wasn't quite the end of it. We still had to stay in Michigan while an official inquiry was held.