The figure drew back, disappearing from view.

Adam saw it all, just as he’d seen it unfold from the backseat of Tom Conway’s Porsche on that deserted road in Bakersfield.  Intuition? Instinct? He didn’t know how he knew. He just knew.

He said urgently, “Rob, we’ve got to get to that house. He didn’t come from there. He’s after whoever is in there.”

Rob was already halfway up the slope, pistol in one hand, scrambling for a foothold. He threw over his shoulder, “Then find her. Or whoever it is in there. This guy is mine.”

They shouldn’t split up. But there wasn’t time to argue, and if by some chance Tiffany was hiding in that vacation rental, he had to get to her first. Why the hell hadn’t they brought a radio? These thoughts flooded Adam’s brain as he sprinted down the road, twice nearly losing his balance on patches of ice, racing for the dark and silent house.

God, be careful, he thought. There was light; icy, silvery light, more romantic than useful. That’s all he needed. A sprained or broken ankle. But the words were really meant for Rob. Did Rob realize what he was dealing with? Did he understand the danger?

He hit another frozen puddle, his foot slipped and he went with it, skating a couple of inches before regaining solid ground. He ran on. He reached the house at last and went quietly up the snow-piled steps to the front deck. He crossed the deck and tried the front door.

It was locked. It would have been surprising if it hadn’t been. He moved on to the sliders a few feet down. Also locked. With a wooden broom handle wedged in the tracks for good measure. He tried to peer through the glass. The drapes had been drawn across them.

He didn’t want to panic her, if it was Tiffany inside. And he didn’t want to get shot by some freaked-out homeowner. He went back down the stairs and went around the side, nearly falling over a metal fire pit concealed beneath the snow. The collision of his shins with the metal lid and the subsequent crash made a fair bit of racket. No lights came on, no draperies twitched open. The house stayed stubbornly still.

Maybe she’d already fled.

That was a disheartening thought.

He tried the two big windows on the first floor. Both were locked. He went to the back door and began searching amongst the weathered and peeling lawn ornament animals populating the built-in flower planters. He struck out a couple of times before he noticed a small, painted stone.

Score.

Why homeowners imagined these decorative hiding places were anything but an invitation to burglary, he would never understand. Tonight he was only grateful to hear the reassuring jingle of metal on resin. He opened the key box, rose, and went to unlock the back door.

The door swung silently open onto a long empty sun porch.

Adam softly closed the door, locked it, and drew his weapon. Carrying at low ready, he moved quietly across the outdoor carpeting and went up the narrow wooden staircase.

The house was cold and smelled of paint and new carpet. It smelled uninhabited, and he began to wonder if he had made a mistake.

He reached the next level and found himself in a kitchen. There were half shutters across the windows. Moonlight spilled over the tops, highlighting a can opener and an empty Campbell’s soup tin on the island in the center of the kitchen.

“Tiffany?” Adam called. “This is Special Agent Darling. I’m with the FBI and I’m armed. Please show yourself.”

Nothing.

He kept his voice calm, tried to sound reassuring. “We don’t want anyone getting hurt tonight.”

A floorboard squeaked. He brought up his weapon. The doorway was empty. Even so he could sense her presence, feel a pulsing, live element in the darkness. Close by.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Adam said. “No one wants to hurt you.”

Granted, the fact that he was pointing a Glock in what he surmised was her general direction was probably not reassuring. But he had no way of knowing whether she was also armed or not, whether she was another innocent victim or an accomplice, whether it was even Tiffany he was talking to.

“We can end this right now,” Adam said. “Put your hands up and step out slowly. I’m going to count to three. One. Two.”

Shrieking, she flew from the darkness like an apparition in a horror movie. Knife upraised, eyes wild in her white face, hair a matted mess.

“Jesus.” It happened so fast and the sound she made was so bloodcurdling, he wasn’t sure why he didn’t shoot her. Somehow he saw her terror for what it was and managed to shoulder his weapon and grab her wrist before she could slash him.

She was strong and wild. Not a match for him, though, and the butcher’s knife clattered to the tile floor. Unnervingly she continued to scream, over and over. If there were words, they were unintelligible.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Adam kept saying. He doubted she could hear him over her shrieks. “You’re all right now.”

She wasn’t all right though. She was crazed with whatever she had been through. She writhed in his grip and screamed at the top of her lungs, eyes staring at him but clearly seeing something else. Finally, in a mix of desperation and pity, he wrapped both arms around her and held her tight. Her screams choked off and she went limp.

For a moment he was afraid she’d literally died of fright, but no. When he lowered her to the floor, she was in a dead faint. Beneath the torn and bedraggled flannel sleep shirt her heart was still pounding.

“Adam?” Rob yelled from downstairs.

“Up here!” Relief washed through him. Until that instant, he hadn’t realized how worried he was about Rob, how much of his mind had been occupied with what might be happening to Rob.

Rob’s boots thudded up the stairs. “What the hell? I could hear screams clear across the ridge.”

“It’s Tiffany,” Adam said. “She’s in shock.”

Rob reached them. “It is Tiffany.” He sounded startled, though he too had guessed at the truth earlier. “I’ll phone for an ambulance.” He reached for his cell phone.

“I don’t know how she managed to get over here, but she’s been hiding in this house.”

“I guess it makes more sense that she’d run toward houses and people rather than the forest.”

Adam nodded absently. Given the opportunity, why hadn’t she run toward town? What was it in the village of Nearby that frightened her?

“I lost that birdman bastard in the woods. He had too much of a head start. Do you think she saw who killed Cynthia?”

“She sure as hell saw something,” Adam said.

Rob said grimly, “One thing we know for sure. Sandy Gibbs isn’t our guy.” He turned away to speak into his cell phone.

* * * * *

“Well, you boys had a busy night,” Frankie said when Adam arrived at the sheriff’s office much later Monday morning. He had waited with Rob until Tiffany had been transported to the hospital, then Rob had driven him back to the campground where he’d showered, shaved, checked his email, and returned phone calls before heading over to the sheriff’s office.

As he’d seen Rob only a couple of hours earlier, Adam was disconcerted at the way his pulse jumped when he spotted him over by the coffee machine. Rob held the pot up in inquiry. Adam nodded.

Watching him, Frankie said, “I guess I shouldn’t ask how you two managed to be working together at five o’clock in the morning.”

“Early to bed, early to rise,” Rob said. “And no, you shouldn’t ask.”

Frankie put her hands up. “It’s not like I want to know.”

“How’s Tiffany doing?” Adam asked. “Any change?”

“The doctors are saying she’s in deep emotional shock. She’s under heavy sedation,” Frankie replied. “And nobody is willing to commit as to when we’re going to be able to question her.”

That did not sound promising.

“And in other news,” Frankie continued, “Sandy Gibbs tells me he’s planning to sue you.”