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pale blue angry eyes, skin too white. Harry Griffin squeezed the trigger and rode the exhilarating crash of the bullet out of this life.

Shank stamped up the stairs, and the kitchen exploded in his face. He spun back, clawing at the handrail. The power of the needle pile driver that hit him promised a lot of pain to come. Hit him low in the left hip, it felt like…He touched the wound. There was a lot of blood. Not the hip. High inside the thigh.

He gathered himself, pulling on the rail, and staggered up into the kitchen. Saw the deer rifle on the floor next to the dead guy. Fucker had his eyes wide open, head contorted toward the stairs. Sonofabitch looked…happy. Shoulda shot him again…made sure…

The kid.

The kid had seen his face.

He lurched out the door into the garage, then into the driveway. Saw the open basement window, the scrambled snow where she’d crawled out. Different. Looking around, he realized the snow had stopped. Had stopped before he even got into the house. Just this huge white silence and the kid’s tracks leading through it. Looking across the yard, he saw her standing at the edge of the woods, looking back at the house. A lump of shadow against the white trees. Maybe eighty yards. Too far, but he took a shot anyway. She disappeared into the trees.

Now I’m really pissed.

He dug through his parka pockets. Found his bandanna, tied it around his screaming thigh, knotted it, and limped along the trail of small boot prints, leaking blood.

Chapter Forty-seven

“We’ll use the Jeep, Griffin needs the truck,” Broker said, guiding Nina. His thoughts mirrored the flurries driving at his eyes. His mind seemed erased, full of white noise. Never been to this numb hopeless place before.

They got in the Jeep, and as he turned it around, they glimpsed Griffin and Kit appearing and disappearing, climbing into the Tundra. Broker drove to the end of the driveway and stopped. At a loss for which way to turn.

He turned left, made it maybe four hundred yards down the road, pulled over, stopped, and put the shift in neutral. They sat, eyes fixed straight ahead, and listened to the heater fan grind cold air.

Nina stared at the webbed maze of the dream catcher hanging from the rearview mirror. Then down the headlight beams pushing into the snow. The electricity struggled out maybe twenty yards and fizzled. White or black. What’s the difference. She had lost the light.

She snuck at a look at him, slouched back, chest caved, snow shadows fluttering over his face, the muscles rippling in his cheeks. He grimaced, rose up, reached behind, removed the bolt for the AR-15 from his back pocket, and placed it on the dashboard like a compact steel indictment.

Still didn’t look at each other. No words left. And no moves either. Cratered.

Someone had to make a start. “I got scared,” she said.

He turned, looked at her, and brought up his right hand, palm up, fingers curled, like he’d packed it all-their whole history, all his hoarded resentments-down into an ice ball he could grip in his hand. The hand shook. “You got scared? What about Kit? What about-” He was yelling now. More out of control than she’d ever seen him.

“You?” she yelled back, grabbing his shaking fist and yanking it hard. “Listen. I got scared, goddammit!”

Their hands parted, and they both took a breath. “Jesus, Nina, you stuck an AR in my face, in Kit’s,” he blurted, his voice still shaking, but lower, reeling in.

“I thought I saw-” She stopped, began again. “The reason I got scared is because I knew I had to tell you something, and when I did, I’d have to face it myself. Really face it.”

They both looked up as a set of low beams materialized out of the gloom and a car slowly slipped past, this gray silent shadow.

She fluttered her hand, an explosion of nerves, and reached for her cigarettes. Clicked her lighter. “Christ,” she said, blowing a stream of smoke, making a bitter laughing sound, “look at me, just talk about it and I start to panic…” Nina shook her head. “Must have tripped something. Call it what you want, post-traumatic whatever…scary how real it seems.” She jerked her head back toward the house. Then tossed her hair, worrying her fingers through the sweaty ponytail. Turning back, she saw she had his full attention now. So she just said it. “Broker, this whole ugly thing we’ve been through. It’s not about Janey and Holly. Oh, it’s about loss, all right. A selfish, small loss. It’s about me, goddammit.” Her voice started to shake. “It’s about losing me.”

“Okay, okay; take it easy,” he said, his eyes deeply engaged in the sudden fury of emotion on her face. As Nina steadied herself, puffing on the cigarette, the windshield cleared, the world returned. The wind collapsed, the snow vanished. A pristine winter road stretched before them; spruce, balsam, and cedar decked in white. The low clouds unwound, almost electric with saffron light.

“See,” Nina said. “When I call them at Bragg, I have to tell them it’s over. They know. Just waiting for me to accept it.”

“Over? What’s over?” He drew himself up, like the jury was in and the verdict was about to be read.

Nina bit down on the cigarette between her teeth and slammed her left fist into her right shoulder. Then she thumped the fist on the black logo type across the front of her sweat-suit jacket. “The fucking Army. That’s what’s over. I’m coming home, Broker. There, you happy now?”

“Jesus, Nina, hey-”

“It’s my shoulder, I got the shoulder of a fifty-year-old woman. It’s wrecked. Irreversible tissue damage. I been faking it with steroids and narcotics for years.”

Broker blinked, trying to take it in. Then he turned his head, squinted at her, like…

They both jerked their heads alert, “You hear that?” Nina wondered, looking around.

“Yeah,” Broker said, gritting his teeth, sitting up. “Sometimes you can get this thunder snow-”

“There it is again,” Nina said.

Broker waved his hand at the smoke filling the interior of the Jeep. “Crank down the window.” As she did, he opened the one on his side. They listened, straining…the silence almost creaked, like this wishbone…

The snap carried through the icy air, pointed and resonant. Their eyes locked. Instantly, Broker jammed the gearshift, popped the clutch, and spun the Jeep in a giddy fishtailing turn, mashed on the gas.

“Small-caliber, about four hundred yards. Pistol; back by the house,” Nina’s voice rose, she flipped the cigarette. “Give it to me!” she shouted.

Broker never took his eyes off the road as he yanked up his coat and handed over the Colt. She was the handgun expert in the family.

Chapter Forty-eight

Kit Broker stood shaking at the edge of the woods, looking back across a field of new snow that glistened like a million sequins. She could see her boot prints stamped in that clean snow like a line of huge black ants.

She saw the bad man who shot Uncle Harry stagger into the driveway, inspect the basement window where’d she’d escaped the house. Then he started across the yard, following her tracks, and saw her. He yelled something and raised his hand. His hand twinkled, and then she heard a sharp crack. Branches snapped farther down in the trees.

Shooting at her.

People kept getting shot in her young world. Auntie Jane. Uncle Harry. She knew she should move. Get out of here. But she kept looking down the road, her eyes pleading for headlights, for her mom and dad. Go in the woods, and she’d lose the road. The cell phone Uncle Harry gave her made a lump in her jacket pocket.

The man was coming. With his gun.