Tracy heard a sound that had to be Beth collapsing beside her, onto the floor. She didn't dare open her eyes to look.

Would he approach? Thinking Tracy dead and Beth unconscious? Beth surely had that knife near her.

Unless she really had fainted.

Please let this work. Please God...

It was then that something hit Tracy, hard, in the back. It was all she could do not to move, to react, to flinch from the sudden pain.

It was water. From some sort of high-pressure hose.

Beth had warned her about this, back when Tracy thought she was talking crazy. Water will punch you...

He was testing her, testing them both.

She forced herself to remain limp, to let the water push her. And finally, after what seemed like minutes, but surely was mere seconds, he shut it off.

Tracy heard a clunk as he set down whatever it was-a tank?

She heard the steps creak as he descended the stairs, coming all the way into the basement. She heard his footsteps on the concrete.

And she braced herself, praying that Beth was bracing herself, too, ready to attack him-two against one-when he got close enough.

Ding-dong.

The man stopped.

What was that? Distant, from up the stairs...?

It rang again. Ding-dong.

A doorbell?

He turned, and went back upstairs, picking up whatever he'd left on the steps. He shut the door behind him, locking them into darkness.

Lindsey stood on the sagging porch of Serial Killer Central, and rang the bell again.

She had her .22 in her hand, in her left jacket pocket, her finger on the trigger as the door opened, and there he was. Tracy's hot guy-although in truth he looked more like Sean Bean than Ralph Fiennes.

He had GQ stubble-and eyes that reminded her of a chicken's. Or maybe a snake's. Or both. She was convinced that birds and reptiles were more closely related than one would think, considering the seemingly vast difference between feathers and scales and okay, a little focus would be nice.

"I am so sorry," Lindsey said, doing her best impression of a small, helpless female, "my car went off the road about a mile back. I've been walking and walking and thank God I found your house. Please, may I come inside?"

CHAPTER.

TWENTY-ONE.

Beth's head pounded.

When he'd sprayed her, the water had pushed her back into the wall, and she'd hit her head. As if she wasn't dizzy enough from being ill.

She sat up in the darkness-he'd turned off the light-touching her head. Her hand came away wet. Warmer than the water. Sticky.

Bloody.

"Beth?"

She heard the clank of the chain as Tracy shifted.

"I'm still here," Beth said. Like she'd be anywhere else. She started to laugh, except it came out sounding like sobs.

"Thank you for not killing me," Tracy whispered.

Lot of good that had done. Lord, they had been so close. For the first time in forever, Beth had had real hope. Two against one...They could kill him and end this nightmare. But the truth was that she'd never be free, never again.

"It's occurred to me," Tracy said, "that he may not have bullets for his gun. Or maybe it's not real. He had it-the gun-in the pharmacy, but he killed the clerk by bashing in his head. Have you ever heard or seen him use it?"

"Shhh!"

The floorboards creaked directly overhead as he moved into the kitchen. Beth could hear the murmur of his voice-he was talking to someone. A reply-the second voice was higher-pitched. Female. The person who'd rung the doorbell was a woman, God help her.

Another wave of dizziness swept through her.

God help them all.

Marky-Mark's cell phone beeped from the slot in the dash, where he'd left it before he did his little Mario Andretti exit-the-car-from-the-window trick.

They were moving about three times faster than they had been, but fucking slow times three was still fucking slow. Still it was better than nothing.

Izzy leaned over the front seat, taking the phone and looking at it. Jenk had a message. From Lindsey-whom Sophia had lost contact with. "What's Jenkins's cell phone code?"

No one answered him.

"I know you know it, Lopez," Izzy insisted. "Cough it up, this could be important. It's from Lindsey."

"Yoda," Lopez told him. "You know-nine six three two."

Yoda. Right. Jenkins was a Star Wars nerd. Izzy keyed in the numbers, brought the phone to his ear. And listened to Lindsey tell Jenk that she wasn't waiting for backup. She'd heard screams that might be Tracy-Christ-and she was going inside.

Izzy opened his window and climbed out of the still-moving car.

Lindsey sat at the kitchen table while a kettle heated on the gas stove.

"This is a wonderful house," she lied. "Perfect for a large family."

Richard Eulie-and it had to be him. She was 95 percent certain. But Eulie hadn't offered to take her jacket, so she'd kept it on. Even if he had, she would have made some excuse about being too chilled to take it off, so she could keep her hand on her weapon. She kept its barrel aimed at the suspect as he moved about the kitchen, getting mugs and a canister of tea bags from a creaky-doored pantry.

Not that she'd actually drink anything he gave her, but when he'd offered, she had told him that a cup of something hot would be nice. It gave him something to do instead of sitting silently across from her at the table. He was extremely taciturn-he'd said maybe three sentences to her since he'd let her inside.

The kitchen was large but as shabby as the outside of the house. It had ancient linoleum-complete with a faded but totally un-PC picture of a smiling, turban-clad African American woman a la Aunt Jemima, right in the center of the room.

An old-style, stand-alone gas range with a griddle in the middle, was across from the door to the hallway. Its white ceramic sides were rounded, same as the ancient icebox over on the other side of the kitchen, but both were grimy and discolored. The sink, positioned in front of a window, had similar ceramic cabinets beneath it. Someone had attempted to build a counter in the corner between the sink and the stove, but their lack of skill left it crooked, like a badly constructed workbench. Its surface had at one time been covered with colorful Mexican tiles, many of which were missing. The rest were cracked and chipped.

Something definitely didn't smell right in here. Not as bad as if there were a body stuffed under the sink or in the pantry, but something was definitely funky.

And this table, at which she was sitting, had had its finish completely scoured off. It had been cleaned recently-she could feel the residue of the cleanser, gritty beneath her fingers.

The lights flickered but didn't go out. "Maybe we should light some candles," she said. "You know, before the power goes? It's probably better to find them now, rather than crashing around in the dark-"

"I don't have candles," he said.

Of course not. Serial killers thrived in the darkness. "Not even birthday cake candles?" she asked. "Everyone has birthday cake candles."

A can of Campbell's Chicken and Rice soup sat on the tiled counter, along with a handcrank opener. A two-liter bottle of ginger ale was next to a pill bottle-its label that of the pharmacy that had been robbed.

"I don't. Besides, the power's already out. The generator's on. It won't fail." He smiled. "Unless I want it to."

Okay. Lindsey wasn't close enough to check the name on that pill bottle, but she did gesture toward it. "Looks like someone in your house has been fighting a bug," she said, herself fighting the urge to just plug him. Right there. Pump him full of bullets until he was dead. Of course, if she turned out to be wrong about his identity, she'd never forgive herself. "I had such a sinus infection last month-it just would not go away. I had to have a double dose of the antibiotic. What a pain in the butt."

There was a door with a window next to the sink-it was that back door that she'd peered through when she'd heard those screams. All was silent now, but she'd definitely heard something. She hadn't imagined it.

What had he done to the woman who'd screamed?

A door, hanging half-open, knob gone, led to the dimness of the pantry. Another door, right next to it, was closed and locked with a series of dead bolts. Its hinges were shiny, as if they'd been replaced far more recently than the other renovations to the kitchen, which probably dated back to 1939.

"And of course the stomach flu's going around," Lindsey continued, "it's that time of year. You know I heard there's this new anti-nausea medication that really works and...Is it your wife who's sick?"

He made a sound that might've been yes, might've been no, as the kettle began to whistle. He turned off the gas, poured the water into the mugs. Tall and lean, he was one of those men who looked really good in faded jeans, especially from the rear. Yes, he had an attractive back-of-the-head, in a plaid hunting jacket and hiking boots kind of way. And his face would have been handsome, too, if not for those eyes.

No doubt about it, from the distance in particular, he might've been mistaken by Tracy as a very hot guy.

But up close...Brrrr.

"I'm so sorry," Lindsey told him. "And then for me to come barging in..."

It was then that she saw it. Hanging in the window, over the kitchen sink. Drying on what looked like an embroidery hoop.

He saw her see it-long golden hair. Human hair-Connie Smith's? Still attached to a scalp.

She considered bluffing-what an interesting dream catcher-but really, why bother? He'd seen her eyes widen.

"I'm armed, Mr. Eulie," she told him. "Keep your hands up, in sight, or I'll shoot you, right here, right now."

"I haven't been called that in a long time." He'd turned back to get the mugs, and now he froze, his better side to her, his hands on the counter. "Your hair's not long enough," he said. "It won't look as good. But you'll scream as I slip the knife between your scalp and your skull-"

"Don't talk," she ordered him, taking out her phone. "Don't move, don't talk."

"I'll miss this place," he said. "I liked it here."

"Shut. Up." She dialed Jenk's number. Nothing. Sophia. Tom. Dave. No one answered, damn it. How long was she going to have to sit here with him, like this?

He turned his head slightly to look at her reproachfully. "Be polite, and I'll kill you quick."

To hell with that. Lindsey pulled the trigger and shot him, right through the pocket of her jacket.

Jenk ran even faster.

"Mark," Izzy said, running alongside him. "Let me do this for a while. Go back to the car."

"How much farther?" he asked.

"I don't know exactly," Izzy told him. "Somewhere between three and five miles."

Lindsey should have waited. But he wouldn't have waited if he'd heard screaming.

"Go call her," Izzy persisted. "Maybe you'll get through. Maybe it's all over. Maybe she shot him when he answered the door."

And maybe she hadn't. Maybe he'd overpowered her. Maybe he was with her right now, cutting her.

"Call her," Izzy said. "Take five minutes, get warm, then get back out here. My ass is already freezing off."

Eulie didn't fall.

He dove for the doorway leading into the hall.

Lindsey fired again, but he was through it and gone.

There was no blood, no spatter, no spray. She'd hit him with that first shot-she'd seen his body jerk from the impact-so there should have been blood.

Unless he was wearing some kind of body armor beneath that jacket.

Weapon held at ready, in her right hand now, with her left steadying her grip, Lindsey stood with her back pressed against the kitchen wall, next to that door to the hall.

She looked-just a quick peek, leading with her handgun.

The hall to the right ended at the doorway to a small bathroom.