The image blurred. Tasting salt, Coltrane realized that he was crying. He wiped his shirt sleeve across his eyes, one of the most effortful things he had ever done. But not as hard as the effort his grandparents were making to stand on their toes. Their posture wasn’t exaggerated. They weren’t in the extreme stance of ballet dancers on their toes. The space between their heels and the bench they stood on was only about an inch and a half. Nonetheless, Coltrane inwardly cringed at the thought of the effort they would have to make to stand in that position for any length of time, especially because each had arthritis.

Wood creaked, but this time the sound grew louder, someone returning down the stairs. Coltrane’s grandfather and grandmother tensed.

“There,” the guttural voice said. “I hope you didn’t get into mischief while I was gone.”

Coltrane identified the sounds of a plate being set onto something, then a knife and fork scraping on it, food being cut.

“I can’t recall when I ate waffles this delicious,” the voice said. “You’re a lucky man to have a wife who’s such a good cook.”

From behind the duct tape on his mouth, Coltrane’s grandfather made a sound that might have been “Please.”

“Six hours of torturing them like this?” Coltrane’s emotions tore him apart.

“I’m afraid so,” Nolan said. “I told you this would be rough. I think it would be best if I turned it off.”

“Give me the remote control.”

Coltrane aimed it toward the video player and pushed a button that fast-forwarded the tape while still allowing him to see the image. The picture quality became more grainy. Streaks ran through it. But Coltrane was still able to see his grandparents. What disturbed him was that normally, when a tape was fast-forwarded, the motions of the people on the screen became frantic and jerky. In this case, there was virtually no movement at all. His grandparents were struggling to stand perfectly still on their toes.

The counter on the tape machine showed that the elapsed time was forty-six minutes. Coltrane released the button on the remote control. The picture returned to normal, if that word could possibly be applied to what Coltrane was seeing. At first, nothing seemed to have changed, but as he looked closer, concentrating on his grandparents’ feet, he could see that their heels were lower. The effort of standing in that position, combined with the pain of arthritis, had weakened his grandparents. They were lowering their weight, and as they did, the rope that stretched from their necks to the rafter became tighter. Not taut. Not yet. Ilkovic had made sure to leave enough slack that the process would be prolonged.

In dismay, Coltrane fast-forwarded the tape again. Except for the increased grain and the streaks, nothing seemed to change on the screen. At an elapsed time of one hour and forty-eight minutes, he again released the button.

Now his grandparents were standing flat on their feet and the rope was tighter and their breathing was more labored. But by comparison with the fast-forwarded image, everything seemed to be in torturous slow motion. Coltrane could barely imagine what the passage of time must have felt like to his grandparents. An eternity. The force of the rope made their eyes bulge. Their faces, which had been gray with fear, were now red from the pressure around their throats.

“Mr. Coltrane, I really think,” McCoy started to say.

“Shut up.” Coltrane pressed the fast-forward button. When the indicator on the tape machine showed two hours and fifty-one minutes, he returned the tape to normal speed and saw a urine stain on his grandfather’s pajamas.

McCoy left the room.

On the tape, the guttural voice said, “Well, accidents happen.”

Their knees began sagging.

After three more fast-forwards, Coltrane saw his grandmother’s chest stop moving at an elapsed time of 4:07. His grandfather managed to last until four forty-nine.

“Photographer,” the guttural voice said. “This is nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you.”

Coltrane’s scream brought McCoy rushing back into the room.

“I’m going to kill him!” Coltrane screamed. “I’m going to get my hands around his throat and-”

Other officers rushed in. By then, Coltrane had hurled the remote control at the television screen and was trying to pick up the TV so he could throw it across the room.

6

“HE’S GOING TO BE AT THE CEMETERY TODAY.” Coltrane quivered from the rage that consumed him. His voice was strained, his vocal cords raw. “He’ll need to check out the area before he risks showing up there to look for me tomorrow.”

Nolan and McCoy glanced at each other.

“Then we have a second chance to grab him,” McCoy said. “We have a team at the cemetery right now.”

“Now?” Coltrane said.

“They’re inspecting it so we know where to place our men tomorrow.”

“No! Get your men away from there.”

“What?”

“Don’t you understand? If Ilkovic sees your men there today, he’ll realize you’re anticipating him to be there tomorrow. He’ll back off and go to ground. God only knows when he’ll decide to make another move.”

“But there’s no other way for us to do this. We have to be able to protect you tomorrow,” Nolan said.

“Not tomorrow. It’s going to be today.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Call your men off,” Coltrane said. “What time is it? Jesus, one o’clock. It might be too late. When is Daniel’s funeral tomorrow?”

“The same time as now,” Nolan said.

“Which means the burial will be around two-thirty.” Nerves in turmoil, Coltrane rushed to stand. “If I hurry, I can get there by then.”

“I still don’t understand what you’re talking about,” McCoy said.

“Ilkovic will want to check out the area today at the same time the burial will happen tomorrow,” Coltrane said. “It doesn’t make any sense for him to see what it’s like at ten in the morning if the patterns in the area are likely to be different by midafternoon. If I can get there by two-thirty, there’s a good chance he’ll see me.”

“It’s still the same deal,” McCoy said. “When he tries to follow you, we grab him. Nothing’s changed, except that we’ve moved the schedule up twenty-four hours.”

“It’s not the same deal,” Coltrane said. “If you were Ilkovic, would you try to follow your target if you saw law-enforcement officers in the area?”

“But how’s Ilkovic going to know who they are?” Nolan raised his hands, frustrated. “They’re not wearing uniforms. They’re not going around staring at everybody. These men are trained to blend in. They look like they’re mourners. They look like they’re groundskeepers. Ilkovic isn’t going to spot them.”

“The way they look isn’t what bothers me,” Coltrane said.

“What do you mean?”

“Ilkovic is an electronics freak. He likes to play with microphones. He doesn’t need to see your men. All he needs to do is listen to them.”

“Listen?”

“Your men have to stay in contact with one another, right?” Coltrane asked. “They’re wearing miniature earphones. They’ve got button-sized microphones on their sleeves or their lapels.”

“Of course,” McCoy said.

“Well, how hard do you think it would be for someone as clever as Ilkovic to get his hands on one of those units, set it to the same frequency, and overhear what you’re planning?”

“He’s right,” Nolan murmured.

“Tell them to turn the damned things off and get out of there,” Coltrane said. “Now.”

“Then how are we going to protect you?” McCoy demanded.

“You’ll be waiting somewhere else. Where I lead him.”