Sean wasn’t upset there would be no Cheerios in the morning, since Sherlock promised to make him his favorite pecan pancakes. Only after Sean was down and out for the night and they were alone in their bedroom, Savich unbuttoning his shirt, was there mention of the world outside. “Ben got back to me. Sure enough, there was a report of a murdered homeless man in Columbia Heights. His name was Ernest Tubbs, age sixty-six, and he was found dead from a knife wound through his heart. According to the fellow in the crib next to his, all that was missing was his only valuable possession, his coat.”

“The coat, I’d wager, was a camel wool coat, good and warm. Blessed was wearing that coat today over his old-lady clothes.”

He stepped into their closet, punched a combination into their safe, and brought out a Stoeger Cougar Compact, a sidepiece that had belonged to his father. “Dad never liked the company SIG. I bet he’d be pleased the Bureau’s switched over to the Glock. He handed her the pistol. “Use the Stoeger until they issue you a replacement. It’s got lots of mileage on it, but I’ve kept it in good shape. You shouldn’t have any problem.” He handed her a couple magazines. “Nine-millimeter, thirteen plus one rounds.”

She hefted the Stoeger, got the feel of it. “I’ll bet it doesn’t have much kick. I can’t wait to try it out at the range. Thank you, Dillon.”

He grinned at her. “I might as well give you an early birthday present.” He picked another gun out of the safe and handed it to her. “It’s an S-and-W 380. Feel how light it is, lighter and smaller on your ankle than the Lady Colt.”

She took the pistol from him and nestled it into her hand, felt the small grip. “Oh, goodness, it’s a beauty.” She jumped to her feet, cupped his face between her hands. “First the loan of your dad’s Stoeger and now this baby for my birthday. Thank you, Dillon. I can’t wait to try both of them out on the range. Maybe if I really like the Stoeger I can talk Mr. Maitland into keeping it,” and she gave him a loud smacking kiss.

“Hold that thought,” he said. He took both guns from her and put them back in the safe along with his Glock, and locked it. He turned back to Sherlock, smiling. “How about a hot shower? Do you want to scrub my back?”

She looked up into the face of one of the people she’d willingly give her life for. She put her fear of Blessed away, and felt the familiar leap of her pulse as she watched him unzip his pants. “Among other things,” she said. They were out of their clothes and under the shower in thirty seconds.

•   •   •

Outside, hunkered down in a pile of box hedges close to the house, Blessed thought he heard laughter. But how could that be? That woman almost died today. They had no right to laugh when his mama was dead, when Grace was dead, when he was all alone. His niece, Autumn, was a little kid. There was no way to make her understand, no way to make her forgive him, particularly since he knew he’d have to kill her mother and that damned sheriff. He’d do what his mother said; he’d find himself a woman, maybe have kids and become the Father. Why not? A man had to have a reason to live, a reason to make his feet move in the morning.

He was cold, despite the warm coat. He was tired, too, and angry with himself that he’d failed again. He’d let her get the better of him with those tall storage racks. Who’d have thought she’d be strong enough to shove one over? And she’d been lucky when she’d hurled that can at him, really lucky. He touched his fingers to the knot on his forehead. That can had dazed him pretty good.

Blessed rose, all stiff and frozen, and stretched. They were in for the night, no chance to get at them now. It was stupid to try to get past the alarm system; he’d get himself shot.

He walked one block over to the stolen Toyota he’d left on the street, started it up, and turned on the heat. He drove toward Virginia and didn’t stop until he reached Mama Taco, right next to the Cranford Motel, and ordered a beef burrito with extra hot sauce.

Back in his room, he turned on the local news and lay back on his bed, shoving the two skinny pillows behind his head. Whoa, what was this? He couldn’t believe it. They had the story about the old varmint he’d killed for his coat, the coat now lying over the back of the only chair in his motel room. Why would that be news? It had been days ago and the old guy was homeless. Who cared? Then, to his shock, his photo appeared on the screen along with his name, asking for information about him, calling him the suspect. How did they know? There’d been no one around, he was sure of it. He felt fear swirl in his belly. No, it’d be all right. They didn’t know where he was, but he knew he’d really have to watch himself now. They said the old man’s name was Ernest Tubbs. Blessed said the name out loud. He saw Ernest Tubbs’s seamed old face in his mind, not saying anything. Then he saw the old man’s finger pointing at his heart.