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might be waiting beyond. The absence of a scream suggested that he’d wasted ammunition.
    He pumped the last round into the breech, dug spare shells out of his pockets, and reloaded the magazine.
    His hands trembled, stomach acid scalded the back of his throat, and his bowels felt loose. But he neither vomited nor soiled his pants.
    In such a pressurized situation, with everything at risk, not losing control of bodily functions seemed to be a triumph. Henry gained confidence from the fact that his underwear remained dry.
    Killing unsuspecting people was far easier than defending your life against an armed enemy.
    That was a truth they didn’t teach you at Harvard. At least not in any of the classes that Henry had taken.
    The anticipation of violence before a murder was pleasurable, but the expectation of being shot in the head wasn’t in the least exhilarating, no matter what psychology professors said about death having a subconscious appeal similar to that of sex. A good-looking woman chained in a potato cellar had infinitely more appeal than stalking—and being stalked by—someone who perhaps wanted to blow your brains out.
    He opened the riddled door to the closet and found no one alive or dead. In the bathroom, buckshot had shattered the mirror.
    Having secured the residence, he felt safer but far from safe. The house was not a fortress. Anyway, sooner or later, he would have to go outside.

Fifteen

    S tanding in the dark, face to the kitchen window, looking south beyond the house, Grady saw lights in the garage windows. And the big roll-up door was raised.
    Getting into the garage would not have been difficult for an intruder. Neither of the two windows had a working latch. In a rural county with a crime rate almost as low as that in the Vatican, he’d never seen a need for garage security.
    For a minute, he watched for a silhouette of someone against the big rectangle of light. But then he returned to his chair and poured his first mug of coffee from the thermos.
    Sitting at the French door, Merlin issued a thin, inquisitive sound.
    “I don’t know,” Grady said, “but I think maybe the idea is to determine if we’re watching. If we’re watching, we’d be expected to go out to the garage to see what’s up.”
    The dog said nothing.
    “My feeling is,” Grady said, “it’s better if it looks like we’ve goneto bed. If no one thinks we’re watching, then there might be something to see.”
    Having been seasoned with cinnamon, the black coffee gave off a mellow aroma. The brew tasted as good as it smelled.
    Watchfulness and patient waiting were tasks for which Grady possessed the temperament and the skills, and with which he had years of deep experience.
    His friend Marcus Pipp had called him Iguana. Like that lizard, he could sit motionless for so long that his stillness became a kind of camouflage. You could see him, yet you forgot he was there.
    Marcus had been dead for ten years. Grady still thought of him more days than not.
    A United States senator killed Mrs. Pipp’s boy. Grady should have seen it coming and should have acted to prevent Marcus’s death; therefore, he was in part at fault.
    Some would not agree with that assessment. Present when Marcus died, Grady knew the truth. He would neither endorse the official lie nor make excuses for himself.
    His mother said the lies you told yourself were the worst lies of all. If you could not face every truth about yourself, you would not know who you really were. You could not redeem yourself if you failed to recognize the need for redemption.
    Grady recognized the need for redemption, all right, and he realized that to finish the task, he would have to live a long life.
    Having gotten to his feet again, Merlin padded through the gloom to his water bowl, which was wide and deep. In the stillness of the kitchen, he sounded like a Clydesdale drinking from a trough.
    Out in the yard, only the moon now relieved the darkness. The garage lights had gone