Germ

out of the shower, snatched a towel off a rung, ran into the bedroom, and grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring.

'Dr. Parker,' he announced.

'You're out of breath, sir. You all right?' It was a man with a heavy Southern accent.

'Who is this?' He patted his face with the towel.

'Name's Detective Fisher. I'm investigatin' the murder of Goodwin Donnelley—the man you worked on in the ER today—and the other man who was killed with him.'

The clock beside the bed glowed 11:18.

'Isn't it a little late to be calling, Detective Fisher? I'll be happy to talk with you in the morning, but I—'

'That's not why I'm callin'. I mean, not really. We've got ourselves a situation here, and we have reason to believe your life is in danger.'

'My life?'

'Two of the nurses who assisted you with Donnelley died tonight. They were murdered.'

'Murdered?' He sat heavily on the bed.

'As well as one of the EMTs who brought 'im in, I'm afraid. Tell ya the truth, Doctor, it wasn't until we got the call on him that we made the connection. We checked with the hospital, and they confirmed that the two women and the EMT assisted Donnelley after the shooting.'

'What are you saying, Detective?' He wanted to hear it outright.

'What I am tryin' to tell you, Dr. Parker, is that someone—or multiple someones—is killin' off everyone who came in contact with this Donnelley guy before he died.'

'Why?'

'Maybe you can help me with that one. I understand Donnelley spoke to you?'

'No.'

'Well, sir, that's different from what one of your nurses, Gail Wagner, told me not ten minutes ago. If you —'

'Four nurses assisted me,' Allen said, changing the subject. 'What about the other two?'

'Like I said, I talked with Ms. Wagner by phone just a few minutes ago. We're sendin' a car over to her apartment right now. We can't reach the other nurse or the other EMT. And nobody seems to know where that special agent woman went.'

'Julia Matheson?'

'Yeah, that's her. Even her own office in Atlanta's scratchin' their heads over her whereabouts. I hope that's not a bad sign. We've also picked up the bartender where they gunned down Donnelley and Vero, but I suspect nobody wants him. I think whoever's behind these killings is concerned about some kind of deathbed confession, somethin' Donnelley wouldn't have told just anyone unless he thought he was dyin'.' Fisher waited for him to comment. 'What's your take on that, Doctor?'

Allen said nothing.

'Dr. Parker, these murders all went down within the last two hours. Someone is moving mighty fast here, mighty fast. Now, sir, I'm sending over—'

A shadow flickered in the hallway outside his door, where the moonlight spilled in from the living room windows. For an instant, the dappled light was totally obscured—not the result of a passing bird or breeze-blown branch. Allen's stomach clenched tight, and his heart seemed to stop before kicking into high gear. The security system was not on. By habit, he set it right before climbing into bed. That way, he didn't have to disarm it to answer the door or wander outside. Some nights, he didn't use it at all.

'Okay?' Fisher was saying. 'Dr. Parker?'

'I'm sorry?' His head was swimming. He couldn't move. From his position he could see down the entire hall that bisected the home's front half from its back. All he saw was blackness, spattered as usual with diffused moonlight. He couldn't tell Fisher he thought someone was already in the house. That might encourage them to abandon all caution and hurry to kill him. He figured his best chance for survival lay in not being caught off guard.

'I said I'm sendin' a cruiser over to your house right now, for your own protection. Lock your doors and windows and stay inside till it gets there. Don't open the door unless you see it outside, okay?'

'Uh, yeah, okay.'

Could the intruder be listening in on an extension?

There was a moment of silence on the phone. Fisher obviously expected Allen to ask more questions, express more concern, protest this disruption of his life.

'Thank you, Doctor,' Fisher finally said and hung up.

twenty-one

Allen dropped the cordless phone onto the bed.

Keeping his attention on the doorway, he reached under the bed and pulled out an aluminum baseball bat. In college, a series of dorm room break-ins had taught him the emotional comfort of accessible weaponry.

He backed into the bathroom and punched the button that turned off the shower. As the last droplets fell to the tile floor, he heard a thin creak come from somewhere down the hall. His mind flashed through an inventory of the house: What in it creaked? Which hinges needed oil? Which floorboards were loose? None came to mind. He was still holding the towel in his left hand. He let it drop; what was pride next to survival?

He tiptoed to the bedroom doorway, bat held high in both hands. He stepped into the hall and stopped, listening intently while letting his vision adjust to the dark. The light from the bedroom spilled into the hall only a few feet before surrendering to shadows.

Murdered, the cop had said. But he hadn't said how. Shot? Stabbed? Bludgeoned? Torn apart?

Stop it! Doesn't matter. Dead—that's all that counts. Don't want to be dead. Don't want to be dead.

Slowly he began to distinguish subtle shades of gray: the darker area of the linen closet door; the place where the hall opened up to the big foyer and living room; the place farther along the black, black hall where the weak glow from the embers in the fireplace barely marked the opening to the den.

He lifted his foot and inched it forward with the slowness of a cat's yawn. He set it down carefully, then waited, listened. He repeated the process with the other foot. His breathing seemed extraordinarily loud. He tried to take slower, shallower breaths but managed only a few before his lungs cried out for more oxygen to fuel the surge of adrenaline in his bloodstream. He had to will his leg to start another step.

He jumped as a flash of movement down the hall caught his eye. Gone now. Black moving in black. Someone could stand in the darkest parts of the hall, he realized, without being seen. And to that person, he would be perfectly silhouetted in the lighted rectangle of the bedroom doorway. The image of a hideous dark figure running toward him filled his imagination for a split moment. This was too much. He backed into the bedroom and shut the door.

Murdered.

He felt the breeze on his bare back. He turned to see the sheers that covered the glass opposite the bed billowing away from an open sliding door. He'd been in the room to change clothes and then to shower, and neither time had he opened that door. His mind raced.

The door was open. He hadn't opened it.

He could see the whole room fairly well, except for behind and under the bed and in the bathroom and walk- in closet. He weighed his options: bolt for the front door and hide outside? or into the bathroom, and hope no one was lurking there? or shut and lock the sliding door, search the bedroom, and guard it until the cops arrived?

He didn't like any of them but opted to stay in the bedroom. Trying to leave no flank exposed, he shuffled sideways toward the sliding door. He held the bat high in his right fist, keeping his left hand open and up in a posture of defense. As he moved closer to the door, the far side of the bed came into view. No one there.

He shuffled past the open bathroom and closet doors, the blackness within each seeming to shift ominously, teasingly. He strained his eyes, expecting one of the shadows to peel itself free and flash toward him. The tips of his left fingers were now touching the fluttering sheers. To shut the door, he had to reach out and grab the handle. If someone was waiting on the deck outside, he wouldn't know it until they were face-to-face.