When he was ready, he vaulted through the door, past the open stairwell and into the living room. From there he could lob the bottle down the stairs to the tiled floor at the bottom.

"Hey, Davenport," he yelled.

No answer. He lit the newspaper with a cigarette lighter, and it flamed up.

"Hey, Davenport, suck on this," he yelled, and threw the bomb down the stairs. It hit and smashed, the gasoline igniting in a fireball. Shadow Love braced himself against the living room wall, waiting.

"… suck on this," Shadow Love yelled, and a bottle came down the stairs. There was a crack and a whoosh and the gasoline went up in a fireball.

"Sonofabitch," Lucas said. He looked around wildly and spotted a gallon paint can. He pulled the main circuit breaker, throwing the house into darkness, except for the light from the fire. Dashing across the basement floor, he grabbed the paint can, vaulted the fire at the base of the stairs, fired one barrel of the shotgun up the stairs and went up them two at a time. Three steps from the top, he hurled the paint can through the door.

The sudden and virtually complete darkness disoriented Shadow Love for a moment, and then Davenport was on the stairs, coming, and Shadow Love, not waiting, fired a shot through the wall from the living room, then tracked the dimly seen movement out of the stairwell and fired once, the muzzle blast blinding him, firing again, seeing the can and thinking, No…

The first shot nearly took Lucas' head; it sprayed his face with plaster and blinded him in one eye. The second shattered the paint can. The third gave him a muzzle blast to follow. Lucas fired once with the shotgun, panning behind the blast; he dropped the long gun and pulled the.45.

Thinking, No, Shadow Love saw Davenport and dragged the muzzle of the M-15 around, the movement taking an eternity, then Davenport's face froze as though caught by a strobe light, but it was no strobe, it was the flash from a shotgun muzzle reaching out, and Shadow Love soaked up the impact as if he had been hit in the side with a baseball bat. He flattened back against the wall and rebounded, still desperately struggling to bring the muzzle around, still trying, his finger closing spasmodically on the trigger…

Lucas saw Shadow Love in the flash of the shotgun, just the pale eyes, saw the M-15 coming around, the muzzle flash, the bullet going somewhere, and then he was firing the.45, and Shadow Love went over, falling, tumbling. The M-15 stuttered again, three shots that went through the ceiling, and Lucas fired again and again and again, and then the pain and the smell hit him, and he turned, seeing the fire on his leg, and he rolled into the kitchen, rolling it out…

Shadow Love couldn't move. He didn't hurt, but he couldn't move. He couldn't sit up. He couldn't move the gun. I'm dying; why's my mind so clear? Why's it all so clear?

Lucas crawled across the kitchen floor in the dark and groped under the sink for the fire extinguisher, thinking that it was old and might not work. He pulled the seals and squeezed the trigger, and it worked, spraying a stinging foam on his leg, wiping out the small tongues of flame that crawled over the surface of his trousers. He took his hand off the trigger and dragged himself back to the stairs. The gasoline was still burning and the carpet had caught fire, but nothing else. He hosed the fire down, wiped it out, then crossed in the dark to the switch box and turned the lights on.

Jennifer: "Lucas?"

"We're all right," Lucas said, his voice creaking. The stench of gasoline, burnt carpet, gunpowder and fire-extinguisher fluid was almost overpowering. He had to hold on to the doorjamb to keep himself upright. "But I'm hurt."

He staggered back across the basement and pulled himself up the stairs and looked carefully around the corner. Shadow Love was lying on the rug like a pile of dirty clothing. Lucas stepped over to him, keeping the.45 centered on the man's chest, and kicked the M-15 across the room.

He felt Jennifer behind him.

"You're a mean sonofabitch," Shadow Love groaned. Nothing moved but his lips.

"Die, motherfucker," Lucas croaked.

"Is he dead?" Jennifer asked.

"In a few minutes," Lucas said.

"Lucas, we gotta call…"

Lucas grabbed Jennifer's coat and sank to the floor, pulling her down with him. She had the baby, who now looked almost sleepy.

"Lucas…"

"Give him a few minutes," Lucas said. He looked at Shadow Love. "Die, motherfucker," he said again.

"Lucas," Jennifer screamed, trying to pull away, "we got to call an ambulance."

Lucas looked at her and shook his head. "Not yet."

Jennifer tore at her coat, but Lucas wrapped her up and pinned her on the floor. "Lucas…" She beat at him with her free hand and the baby started to whimper again.

"Who told? Who gave us away?" Shadow Love coughed. Still no pain, only a growing cold. Davenport was a mean sonofabitch, Shadow Love thought.

"You did," Lucas snapped.

"I did?"

"Yeah. Your mom's grave. You had them send the bills to Barbara Gow."

"I?" Shadow Love asked again. As he exhaled, a blood bubble formed on his lips and then burst. The salty taste of the blood was his last sensation.

"Die, motherfucker," Lucas said.

He was talking to a dead man. After another moment, with no further movement from Shadow Love, Lucas released Jennifer. She was looking at him in horror.

"Call the cops," he said.

CHAPTER 29

"You got him?" Daniel asked.

"He's dead," Lucas said. "I'm looking at him," he explained, and told him that Jennifer and the baby had been injured, but the injuries didn't appear serious.

"How bad are you?"

"My leg's burned. I'm full of splinters. My house is fucked up," Lucas said.

"So take the day off," Daniel said. His voice was flat, not funny.

"Pretty fuckin' funny," Lucas said coldly.

"What do you want me to say? You're so fucked up I don't know why you're talking to me on the telephone."

"I needed to tell somebody," Lucas said. He looked out of the kitchen to the open front door. After Jennifer had called 911, she'd stalked past him, out the door and into the yard to wait. When he'd called after her, she'd refused to look at him.

"Get your ass to the hospital," Daniel said. "I'll see you there in ten minutes."

Jennifer had a sliver taken from her arm. The anchor from TV3 called her at the hospital and Jennifer told him to go fuck himself.

The baby had a half-dozen splinters in her back. The docs said that by the time she was old enough to be told about the fight, the scars would be virtually invisible.

Lucas spent the night, the next day and part of the following day at Ramsey Medical Center, first receiving treatment for the burns on his leg and the plaster particles in his right eye. He wouldn't need skin grafts, but it was a near thing. The plaster was washed out: the eye would heal. When the docs had finished with the eye, a physician's assistant went to work on the splinters. They weren't in deep, but there were dozens of them, from his thigh across his butt and up his back and his left arm.

He got out early the second afternoon, still wearing a massive gauze bandage that covered his eye, and went to look at his house. The insurance man, he decided, would jump out of his window twice when he saw it.

Late that night, after a number of calls to clear the way, he drove to Hennepin Medical Center and took a back elevator to the surgical floor. At ten minutes past midnight, he got out of the elevator and walked down a tiled corridor to a nursing station, where he found his friend.

"Lucas," she said, "I told her you were coming. She's still awake."

"Is she alone?"

"Do you mean, 'Has her husband gone?' Yeah, he's gone," the nurse said, grinning wryly.