“Cassie?” she said aloud. “Dear Lord, Cassie?”
And yet the evidence in her hand seemed irrefutable-one nightmare piled on top of another.
It was Cassie Lang who had strangled Mandy Barnett.
Adam Reese
He saw her crossing from the trees alongside the Lang woman’s house to the garage nearby.
The sight of her moving silhouette brought him up short, flattened his lips against his teeth. He was back in the trees maybe a hundred yards away, just about to come out of them, frustrated as hell because it seemed she’d got clean away after he’d chased her all that distance from the lighthouse-on foot, in the van once he’d pulled Hod out of it, on foot again, seeing her, losing her in the trees and fog, seeing her, losing her… Christ! Scared, too, by then, because what if she got to a phone or woke somebody up and told them?
But now… now he’d seen her again, knew right where she was: inside that garage, went right inside that garage. Hadn’t roused nobody at the house; it was still dark. Nobody home. Nobody around anywhere. Went into the garage to hide, maybe. Or look for a weapon or the Lang woman’s car. Well, she wouldn’t find nothing in there, least of all a place to hide. All she’d find, pretty soon, was him.
He left the woods, moving slow, watching the side door, thinking about what he was going to do when he got in there with her, feeling the excitement build again down low in his belly. Oh, he wanted her bad, real bad. And the queer thing was, he knew the Springfield did too, like it was telling him so, like it was something alive and hungry in his hands.
Jan
He was ready-the air hose connected to both the diaphone and the compressor, the cotton in one hand, the pillows and blankets in the other. All that remained was to swaddle and insulate himself against the noise and vibration, lie on the floor, reach out a hand to open the air valve on the compressor. He was ready.
And he couldn’t do it. No matter what happened here, he couldn’t do it. Not because of what it might do to him; because of what it would surely do to the light, the Fresnel lens.
A hell of a thing to be worrying about at a time like this, and yet the thought of destroying all those carefully cut and polished prisms and bull’s-eyes had been like a canker all along, paining him, filling him with revulsion. It would be like willfully destroying a rare painting or sculpture, something old and beautiful and virtually irreplaceable. In a fundamental way it would reduce him to the level of those animals down below. Fighting them, hurting them, wasn’t worth the price of the Fresnel, and it wasn’t worth the price of his own humanity. There had to be another way.
He threw the bedding down, turned to the window glass again. The pain behind his eyes was worsening, not to the critical point yet but not far from it either. He pressed his forehead against the chilled glass, squinting, blinking, trying to bring the grounds and the terrain beyond into focus.
Somebody was running on the road.
Not toward the lighthouse; away from it. A man. One of the invaders? He couldn’t tell, couldn’t see clearly enough. Running… why?
His vision cleared completely for a few seconds, the way it did at intervals, and he realized the van was gone. Reese’s van, the one they’d all come in. It had been parked out there beyond the fence; he’d seen it earlier. Now it was gone.
And the man was running… running away, was that it? One drunken vigilante giving up his act of terrorism?
Or was he running after something, someone?
Alix, he thought.
He peered harder through the glass. Couldn’t see anything in the distance; the clarity was gone as suddenly as it had come and the distance was just a blur. The running man had become part of the blur: gone.
Jan struggled to think logically. Alix had been gone at least half an hour, more like an hour; the running man couldn’t be chasing her, not after all this time. But the van… how long had it been gone? He didn’t know, couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it.
Maybe they’re not up to something, he thought. Maybe the running man is running because he’s running away.
The words chased themselves around inside his mind like a nonsense jingle. But they weren’t nonsense; they were a statement of fact. He wouldn’t let himself believe otherwise. The running man is running because he’s running away.
And somebody else drove the van away.
And there had only been four of them to begin with.
How many are still here?
He pushed away from the glass, went to the edge of the stairs. Bonner was still shouting obscenities below the trap, still pounding on it-but not so loudly or so often now, as if he were winding down. Jan listened. Bonner’s was the only voice, had been for some time. Hadn’t it? Yes, he was sure it had.
Just Bonner left, then? Or was somebody with him, somebody who didn’t make noise?
If it’s Bonner alone, he thought, I can handle him. There’s a way
… there’s a way. Have to do it quickly, though, before the pain and my vision get any worse. No time to waste-make a decision!
It’s just Bonner, he thought, and started quietly down the stairs.
Alix
Her mouth was dry now. When she tried to swallow her throat spasmed and she felt as if she were choking.
Why? she thought. What earthly reason would Cassie have had to kill Mandy Barnett? Or that other girl, that hitchhiker… she must have been responsible for that murder, too, because of the similarities of the crimes Never mind that now. Jan, think of Jan. You’ve got to get help for him.
Hastily, she felt under the dash for a spare-key case, found none, and tried the glove compartment. Nothing there, either. She backed out of the car, started to shut the door.
Something made a sound behind her-a shuffling movement.
She whirled, saw someone move in through the shadows from the open side door. Her pulse accelerated; a cry rose still-bom in her throat.
It’s Reese, he’s found me!
But it wasn’t Adam Reese. The figure stepped to one side just as Alix threw the door shut to cut off the dome light, and before she could move away from the car, find a place to hide, a single naked ceiling bulb burst into light. And she was facing the tall wiry figure of Cassie Lang.
The gallery owner stood flat-footed, wrapped in a dark bathrobe, a look of surprise and dismay on her face. In her right hand she was holding a long-barreled pistol. “Alix! What on earth… ”
Then, as Alix flattened back against the cold metal of the car, Cassie saw the beaded headband that was still clutched in her hand. The surprise vanished and a different look, one of grim despair, replaced it. She raised the pistol, pointed it at Alix, bringing her left hand up to steady the weapon.
“So you know,” she said.
Alix licked at papery lips, tried to speak. But no sound came out.
Cassie stared at her along the barrel of the gun. Her stance was that of someone familiar with handguns, the
