"Courage?" Jamie looked confused. "You sound almost as if you admire him."

"Admire him? I hate him more than I've ever hated anybody in my life."

The weight of Cavanaugh's statement made them go quiet for a moment.

"The house is just around the corner," he said.

Jamie turned onto another street with big yards, stately trees, and majestic old homes. A lawn mower droned.

"There," Cavanaugh said. "That Victorian."

It had two and a half stories, with peaks, gables, and a long, wide porch, painted white, the trim gray.

"Park down the street." Cavanaugh eased down so he wouldn't be noticed. "Far enough away that if Prescott's in there, he won't see the car."

"Why is there a ramp next to the porch steps?" Jamie asked as she passed the house.

"Karen's in a wheelchair. She's crippled from a car accident."

"And yet she chooses to live in a two-and-a-half-story Victorian?"

"Actually, the house suits Karen fine. It has a reconditioned elevator that dates back to the 1920s. She gets from floor to floor with no trouble. She's even able to use the toilet and climb in and out of the bathtub by herself, which is why the answering machine bothered me-normally, she's able to answer the phone." "Unless she's out of the house." "A possibility. But what if she isn't?"

"Call the police. Tell them you think a neighbor's in danger."

"The police have a sophisticated caller ID system. They'd trace the call to your cell phone, even though you've got the number blocked. If something's wrong in there, they'd link you to it."

"Then use a pay phone."

"How seriously would the police treat that?" Cavanaugh asked. "Would they decide the call was a prank? Would they hurry over, or would they wait until a patrol car was in the neighborhood? If they didn't get an answer, would they barge inside to make sure everything was okay? And if everything was okay but they got a look around, they might start wondering what Karen did with the high-tech printing equipment and the blank documents. No. Karen might be in danger right now. There's no time to try to convince the police. I have to do this."

"You make her sound more important to you than just someone you work with."

"She's the sister of a friend I had in Delta Force."

Jamie looked as if that wasn't a compelling reason.

"His name was Ben," Cavanaugh said. "He bled to death while I carried him back from a mission."

Jamie studied him.

"Karen was his only family. I promised I'd take care of her."

"Then we'd better make good on your promise." Jamie executed a U-turn at the end of the block and parked facing the house.

She and Cavanaugh got out of the car.

"You can't come with me." His Kevlar vest felt heavy under his shirt and sport coat.

"But…"

"If Prescott's in there things could turn ugly fast."

"I can help."

"If we had a pistol for you"-Cavanaugh had taught Jamie how to use one-"maybe you could. But I can't let you risk your life when you don't have a way to protect yourself. I'll be so preoccupied that I can't protect you, either. The best thing you can do is stay in the car with the cell phone in your hand. If I call and yell for help…"

"I'll floor the accelerator and get to the house. If I have to, I'll drive up onto the porch."

"Good." Cavanaugh smiled and held her, careful with his shoulder.

"You were talking about bravery a minute ago. I don't understand how… Aren't you afraid going in there?"

"Afraid for Karen. She's all I'm thinking about."

9

The sun cast long shadows. Cavanaugh's concentration made Karen's house seem bigger than the others-more so, the closer he came. There wasn't a lane behind it, only the backs of other houses-no place for him to try to sneak up from behind without attracting suspicion from the neighbors, who would probably phone the police about him. Thus his only choice was to go in through the front, as if visiting.

He noticed that despite the approaching dusk, there weren't any lights in the house. That could be a bad sign, or it could mean Karen wasn't at home, that a friend had come to drive her somewhere, to a movie perhaps. That would explain why Karen hadn't answered the phone.

But then, wouldn't Karen have left some lights on or have put them on timers so that the house wouldn't be dark when she returned? he wondered.

He reached the front of the house and proceeded up the sidewalk, passing the carefully mowed lawn on his way to the wide porch. At the sight of any suspicious movement beyond the front windows, he was prepared to draw his weapon and take cover.

Mounting the porch steps, he felt naked, but because he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't honor his promise to his dead friend, he forced himself to keep going. Putting his right hand under his sport coat, resting it on his pistol, he peered through the glass that formed the top third of the front door.

All he saw were the shadows of a corridor. On impulse, he turned the knob and pushed, surprised to find that the door swung open. Did it make sense that a woman in a wheelchair would leave her door unlocked?

He drew his pistol and eased inside. His wounded shoulder hurt as he raised his weapon with two hands and sighted along it, checking the dusky corridor, the stairs that flanked it, a room on the right and a room on the left.

Careful to minimize noise, he reached behind him and closed the door. Holding his breath, he listened but heard only silence. The house felt empty, but that impression meant nothing.

Where to start? Cavanaugh needed to think for only a moment before knowing the room he had to check first. He started slowly along the corridor, taking small steps that allowed him to be sure of his balance, all the while aiming with both hands. He focused his vision so that the wide notch in the sight over the pistol's hammer framed the post on top of the barrel. That post had a luminous tritium dot that glowed green in the dark. Invisible from in front of the weapon, the dot was vivid to Cavanaugh, and without hampering his night vision, it helped him line up the sights in the deepening shadows.

He passed a closed door on his right-the entrance to the elevator he'd told Jamie about-reached the end of the corridor, and scanned a kitchen that included a brick fireplace and a modern stove that imitated an old-fashioned cast-iron one. Turning to a door on his left, he stayed out of the line of fire, twisted the knob (hating the slight scrape of metal), and pulled.

The house became quiet again.

Remaining to the side, Cavanaugh inhaled-one, two, three-held his breath-one, two, three-and exhaled-one, two, three-working to control his heartbeat and his breath rate.

At once, he pivoted into view and pointed his weapon down the stairs to the basement. The shadows below were darker than in the kitchen but seemed to remain constant.

Knowing that Karen kept a flashlight in a drawer to the right of the corridor, Cavanaugh quietly pulled it out. He crouched and used his left hand to raise the flashlight above his head, pointing it down the stairs. When he turned on the light, anyone down there would be tempted to fire at its beam, assuming it was center of mass. Meanwhile, Cavanaugh would be able to shoot at the muzzle flash.

But no one fired.

Again, he listened. Again, the house became silent.

When he started down, he made a step creak. The sound sent a spark along his nerves. Inhale-one, two, three. Hold it-one, two, three. Exhale-one, two, three.

He continued down.

Unexpectedly, Cavanaugh's leg felt unsteady. Then his stomach began to feel jittery. Just athletic reflexes, getting ready for action, he told himself. Just my heart pounding out more blood.