He came up on his knees and looked across the street, using his night-vision goggles. He saw perfect stillness. There was another yap—a puppy’s yap—and they both realized it was Gladys, Mr. MacPherson’s new puppy. “If he’s backing away, it’s probably because of Gladys’s barking.”

Gladys was barking louder now, short, high, piercing yaps. Savich said, “Blessed has either made it inside the house or he’s holding perfectly still. I’ll bet he was about to make his move, but with Gladys yapping her head off, he doesn’t know what to do. Can you run with that cramp in your leg?”

She rubbed her knotted muscle furiously and nodded.

Suddenly, Mr. Morgan shouted at the top of his lungs, “Lindy, you get in here now!” and the Mustang door opened and the interior light flashed on to spotlight Lindy looking mad and her date looking embarrassed. The car light flashed on Blessed, pressed frozen against the wall of MacPherson’s house, looking wildly around him and back to where they crouched behind the bushes. He raised a gun quickly, lowered it again, and took off around the back of the house.

Savich jumped to his feet, tossed aside his night-vision goggles, and ran toward him, shouting over his shoulder, “Stay put, get that cramp out.” He juked around to the back of Mr. MacPherson’s house.

When he reached the backyard, he paused, crouched low, still and listening, but he didn’t hear anything. He found the back door open and pushed it slowly open. The kitchen was dark. As far as he could tell, the whole house was dark. He heard Gladys, but she wasn’t running at him—no, she was in another part of the house.

“Mr. MacPherson?”

There was no answer.

Gladys was growling now. Was she coming closer? Why?

Savich pressed his back against the wall and eased down the hall toward the living room, Glock raised.

He saw a man’s shadow coming out of the living room, then he saw Gladys run out, leaping and barking wildly. The man’s arm was shaking as he raised a gun and fired at Savich, once, twice, three times. Wild shots, nowhere near him, but he’d already dropped and rolled back into the kitchen and hugged the refrigerator.

He heard deep, steady breathing and Gladys still yipping, sounding like she was still jumping up and down, again and again.

He heard the front door open. Sherlock. He felt his blood freeze. He wanted to yell at her to leave, but he knew she’d heard the gunshots, knew she’d be ready. Still, he rolled up onto his knees, saw the man’s shadow again. He was standing perfectly still, Gladys jumping up and down against his leg. Savich raised his Glock, shouted, “Blessed!”

The man didn’t move at the sound of Savich’s yell, simply stood there.

It was Sherlock who first realized what was happening. She yelled from the front hall, “Mr. MacPherson!”

A familiar old voice said softly, “Who is that?”

In the next instant, the man went down, a light switch went on, and Savich saw Sherlock fall to her knees beside Mr. MacPherson. Gladys was no longer barking, she was wildly licking Mr. MacPherson’s face, whimpering. Sherlock looked up. “He’ll be okay, Dillon. Blessed got to him. I knocked him out, and he won’t remember anything about this. Look at this. Blessed gave him my Glock so he could shoot us. I’ll see to Mr. MacPherson. Go get Blessed. He’s got to be close.”

Savich had almost shot the precious old man who’d lived in this house since before Savich was born. He ran out the front door, looking for Blessed.

Blessed didn’t slow until he’d run the four blocks to where he’d parked the Ford he’d stolen in Alexandria that afternoon. He had a violent stitch in his side, and his lungs were aching something fierce when he finally reached it. All the houses were quiet. Hadn’t anyone heard the gunshots? They’d sounded like cannon shots to him. Had the old man managed to shoot them? Even as he thought it he knew Savich wasn’t lying dead; the old man was no match for him. No, Savich was after him, even now that Porsche of his was screeching out of his driveway, but it wouldn’t do him any good. He had no idea which direction Blessed had run.

He got himself together enough to climb into the car, still panting. He had to go now. Savich could get lucky enough to come his way. He coasted quietly forward without turning on the lights, happy for the bit of incline. He looked into his rearview mirror and saw only streetlights. He heard the roar of the Porsche in the distance, but it was moving away. He smiled.

He heard the sirens approaching, and he smiled once more. He’d gotten away yet again. Then he saw his dying mother’s face, all gray, fanatic old eyes filming over, and her face was twisted in disappointment. At him, because he’d failed yet again? Didn’t Mama want him to live? He tasted something rancid and nasty in the back of his throat. He swallowed, wishing he had some water.