escape.
"Karl? Aaron? DJ got out!" she called from the foyer. Her
heels clacked against the marble flooring as she moved from
stone to carpet.
No one answered.
In turning to go down the hall toward the kitchen, Miranda noticed several reddish spots on the surface of the oriental rug that she'd purchased from a street vendor in Iran
before the shah lost power. Miranda had been a correspon dent for a network affiliate and the carpet, with its intricate
pattern of green, cream, and pink, was the one souvenir
she'd allowed herself.
"What?" she said softly. It looked like the dog had gotten
into something. She set the groceries on the floor and touched
the red spot with her fingertips. Wet. She rubbed the stain
between her fingers.
"Karl!" she screamed. "Aaron!" She stared at her hand.
The red liquid wasn't dye. It wasn't tomato sauce. She knew
in an instant that it had to be blood. "Guys! Where are you?"
Miranda started for the kitchen. Her heart threatened to
burst through her chest. She knew she was hyperventilating,
but in her horror and worry she did not know how to stop
herself. Slow down. Get a grip. The phrases meant to give
her strength and composure only got in the way of her real
thoughts. Her sense of smell picked up the odor of something that had burned. It was a wisp of a scent.
"What happened here?" she asked aloud. "Where are you?"
She turned in to the kitchen and gasped.
Then, as if a curtain had hurriedly been closed by the
cruelest of unseen hands, everything went completely dark.
Chapter Eight
Tuesday, 2:48 n.M., an abandoned mine office
near Cherrystone
The blood had dried on his hands by the time daylight
came through the Krueger-like slashes in the old roof over
the smelly nylon plaid couch in the abandoned mining office
where he'd spent a restless night. Or had it been longer than
a single night? Maybe two? In a second of frazzled introspection, he struggled to knit together all that had really happened. He gripped his hands tightly, and opened them to
reveal his lifelines, clear, clean. He almost smiled at the
irony. The blood had turned to powder. He faced his palms
downward and the fine dark particles snowed to his chest.
Blood had stiffened his T-shirt, the taut fabric now more
brown than green. He shuddered as he shifted his weight. If
he had always felt somewhat alone, somewhat alien, he felt it
no more so than then. His mouth was dry. His body ached.
And all he could think of was her. She alone would understand.
But how could he get to her? To find her, to talk to her, would be to risk everything. He sat up. God, he hurt. His
dark hooded eyes followed a rat as it skittered across the debris that blanketed the floor. It stood on its haunches and
started to climb a power cord to a broken vending machine.
As he watched the rodent, its scaly tail coiling around the
cord like a snake, made its way to its source of food as
hunger propelled him. He could feel tears push to the edge
of his eyelids, but he flatly refused to allow any to fall. He
knew he could be stronger. He had nothing left to lose.
No time for crying, he thought.
Chapter Nine
Tuesday, 3:10 n.M., Cherrystone, Washington
"Isn't this unbelievable, Detective?"
Dr. Sal Randazzo, the Cherrystone High School principal, was a small man with dark, flinty eyes and rounded
shoulders that sloped to such an unfortunate degree that he
looked more like an oversized bowling pin than a man. His
bald head didn't exactly assuage the visual connection. Neither did his pasty white complexion, which belied his Italian
heritage. Emily had never liked him much; he seemed high
strung and pompous.
She greeted him warmly and took a seat in one of two
metal-framed visitors' chairs across from his desk-a desk
that seemed to be nothing more than a platform for an array
of time-wasting toys. There was a collection of wind-up
plastic cars and a miniature Slinky. A pendulum with six
steel ball bearings was
"Karl? Aaron? DJ got out!" she called from the foyer. Her
heels clacked against the marble flooring as she moved from
stone to carpet.
No one answered.
In turning to go down the hall toward the kitchen, Miranda noticed several reddish spots on the surface of the oriental rug that she'd purchased from a street vendor in Iran
before the shah lost power. Miranda had been a correspon dent for a network affiliate and the carpet, with its intricate
pattern of green, cream, and pink, was the one souvenir
she'd allowed herself.
"What?" she said softly. It looked like the dog had gotten
into something. She set the groceries on the floor and touched
the red spot with her fingertips. Wet. She rubbed the stain
between her fingers.
"Karl!" she screamed. "Aaron!" She stared at her hand.
The red liquid wasn't dye. It wasn't tomato sauce. She knew
in an instant that it had to be blood. "Guys! Where are you?"
Miranda started for the kitchen. Her heart threatened to
burst through her chest. She knew she was hyperventilating,
but in her horror and worry she did not know how to stop
herself. Slow down. Get a grip. The phrases meant to give
her strength and composure only got in the way of her real
thoughts. Her sense of smell picked up the odor of something that had burned. It was a wisp of a scent.
"What happened here?" she asked aloud. "Where are you?"
She turned in to the kitchen and gasped.
Then, as if a curtain had hurriedly been closed by the
cruelest of unseen hands, everything went completely dark.
Chapter Eight
Tuesday, 2:48 n.M., an abandoned mine office
near Cherrystone
The blood had dried on his hands by the time daylight
came through the Krueger-like slashes in the old roof over
the smelly nylon plaid couch in the abandoned mining office
where he'd spent a restless night. Or had it been longer than
a single night? Maybe two? In a second of frazzled introspection, he struggled to knit together all that had really happened. He gripped his hands tightly, and opened them to
reveal his lifelines, clear, clean. He almost smiled at the
irony. The blood had turned to powder. He faced his palms
downward and the fine dark particles snowed to his chest.
Blood had stiffened his T-shirt, the taut fabric now more
brown than green. He shuddered as he shifted his weight. If
he had always felt somewhat alone, somewhat alien, he felt it
no more so than then. His mouth was dry. His body ached.
And all he could think of was her. She alone would understand.
But how could he get to her? To find her, to talk to her, would be to risk everything. He sat up. God, he hurt. His
dark hooded eyes followed a rat as it skittered across the debris that blanketed the floor. It stood on its haunches and
started to climb a power cord to a broken vending machine.
As he watched the rodent, its scaly tail coiling around the
cord like a snake, made its way to its source of food as
hunger propelled him. He could feel tears push to the edge
of his eyelids, but he flatly refused to allow any to fall. He
knew he could be stronger. He had nothing left to lose.
No time for crying, he thought.
Chapter Nine
Tuesday, 3:10 n.M., Cherrystone, Washington
"Isn't this unbelievable, Detective?"
Dr. Sal Randazzo, the Cherrystone High School principal, was a small man with dark, flinty eyes and rounded
shoulders that sloped to such an unfortunate degree that he
looked more like an oversized bowling pin than a man. His
bald head didn't exactly assuage the visual connection. Neither did his pasty white complexion, which belied his Italian
heritage. Emily had never liked him much; he seemed high
strung and pompous.
She greeted him warmly and took a seat in one of two
metal-framed visitors' chairs across from his desk-a desk
that seemed to be nothing more than a platform for an array
of time-wasting toys. There was a collection of wind-up
plastic cars and a miniature Slinky. A pendulum with six
steel ball bearings was
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