He cursed, then stopped. There was nothing he could do about blind luck. He realized he’d have been sorry to see them go up in the blast like that nasty-eyed manager he’d stymied into setting off the bomb when he called him. He’d hurried him along to his just reward, whatever that was. Luck wouldn’t be enough for any of them in the end. He would have to kill them himself.

He watched the cops drive up, sirens blaring. They scrambled out of their cars and scattered around the motel, not knowing what else to do until their boss, probably the chief of police in this Podunk town, drove up and they grouped around him, his thick rooster tail of white hair a kind of beacon to them. He watched Savich and Sherlock speak to all of them, warning them, no doubt, to be careful, not that any of them would believe what he could do—no one ever did until it was too late. He smiled. He couldn’t wait to get up close and personal to some of them. The cops fanned out, and Blessed knew they were going to search through the neighborhood for him. But they wouldn’t find him unless he let them, not here, looking out at them from behind an old lady’s lace curtain, where everything was quiet and under his own control.

He smiled. Before the sun set, some of those cops would be shooting one another.

He watched Savich and Sherlock walk into the motel office with the big white-haired guy. Even in the fading afternoon light, Sherlock’s red hair glistened—so beautiful, her hair. When the time came, he’d make sure she didn’t shoot herself in the head. He’d dreamed of the guardian again last night, whispering to him to strangle her like he’d always wanted to. He could do it, he could.

He watched a couple more cars pull into the motel parking lot and four more men pile out. No mistaking they were FBI, all formal and tough and ready to take on the world. He saw Savich come out of the motel reception area, beckon them inside. Now they had backup, but it wouldn’t do them any good. Would Savich allow Sherlock to come out looking for him? He’d see soon enough. He flexed his fingers.

He saw two cops walking down the street, watched them check behind every tree, every bush. They knocked on the first door and he saw a young mother with a kid in her arms answer the door. One cop checked out the house while the other went into the garage and skirted around the yard. They were coming here next, the second house in the line of middle-class boxes, the one with the best view of the motel.

Blessed looked over at Mrs. Amity Ransom, ninety if she was a day, sitting placidly in a rocking chair, knitting needles clacking, an ancient Remington Army caplock revolver, her long dead husband’s, he supposed, loaded with bullets she’d readily showed him hidden beneath some yellowed doilies in a cabinet drawer. The old dear was ready. She sneezed, once, then again.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s allergies,” Amity said, not looking up from her knitting, and sneezed again.

“Amity,” Blessed said, bringing her face toward him, her expression as blank as her eyes. “There are two police officers at the door. I want you to invite them in to search, all right? Be nice to them. Hide the revolver under your knitting.”

She did, then walked slowly and carefully to the front door, and she sneezed again.

Washington Memorial Hospital

Hooley’s eyes were closed. He was breathing deeply and easily. Natalie was standing beside his hospital bed, thinking how much better he looked, comfortably asleep. She lightly touched her fingers to his large, strong hand, and gently stroked so as not to wake him. She looked up when Davis and Perry walked in, and smiled.

She said quietly, “Connie said he’s much better, off the morphine and on oral meds now, getting down clear liquids. He nodded off just now. How did it go at the condo?”

Perry shook her head, nodded toward Davis. “We got everything I need for now, Mom,” she said. “And the bozo here seems to be calming down, finally.”

Davis snorted but let it go. He searched Natalie’s face, saw the strain, thought she needed some rest as much as Hooley, but knew she wouldn’t want to hear that from him. He walked over to the opposite side of Hooley’s bed. “Where’s Connie?”

“She went to the nurse’s station to ask a question. She didn’t want to leave him, even with the DS agents outside, so I’d guess she’ll be back in three minutes, tops. She’s reading him a Dashiell Hammett mystery. Ah, he’s waking up.” Natalie leaned close. “I know your brain’s swimming around a bit with the drugs, but don’t worry about it, Mark. Can I do anything for you?”

He whispered, “I keep falling asleep. Some water would be nice, Mrs. Black.”