I'm in the tunnel, he realized. The door blew open. The water's flooding into… The chaos spun and tossed him. Banging against a wall, he inhaled more water and found that his face was above the surface. The green-tinted roof of the tunnel sped over him. Rats surrounded him. Two were on his chest.

He saw a swiftly approaching corner. His shoes rammed into it. The flood twisted him, propelling him down the continuation of the tunnel. Underwater again, he banged against a wall and strained not to breathe. At once, the feeling of weightlessness returned. He arced into a wide space, arms flying.

An impact jolted him. He rolled, stopping on his back, and struggled to clear his lungs as water sprayed behind him. Rats scrambled over him.

Boards. Somehow boards were above him. He lay on wet sand. A broken, rusted grate was next to him.

My God, he realized, the force of the water rammed the screen off a drain tunnel. It threw me onto the beach. I'm under the boardwalk.

62

Clang.

Clang.

The wind carried the noise of the sheet metal flapping in the abandoned condominium. Balenger recalled the unease he'd felt when he heard it tolling seven hours earlier.

Clang.

Rain came through cracks in the boardwalk, falling on his face. He groped for his gun, which remained in his holster. But the darkness was no longer green. His night-vision goggles had been torn away, and yet he could see a little. Lightning. The flames in the upper stories of the hotel. Balenger forced himself to sit up. Diane. Vinnie. He searched among the debris. More rats scurried away. The five-legged cat lay motionless, its neck at an unnatural angle. A shape was sprawled near water spewing from the tunnel. Balenger dug his hands and knees into the sand, crawling toward it, only to stop in horror when he realized it was a mummified corpse. Again, something in his mind seemed to tilt, like ball bearings shifting weight.

To his left, he saw two other sprawled shapes. One of them was blonde. Fearful that this too was a corpse, he approached.

The shape moved. He increased speed, reaching it, turning it.

"Diane."

"No," the shape whispered.

Next to her, Vinnie lay unmoving. Balenger checked his mouth to make sure nothing blocked it. He turned him onto his stomach, pressing his back, trying to push water from his lungs.

Vinnie coughed, expelling fluid. Balenger kept pressing.

"Diane, we can't stay," Balenger said.

"But I'm not-"

"Ronnie will come. We need to get out of here." Balenger tugged Vinnie to his feet. "Help me, Diane."

As lightning flashed, she and Balenger held Vinnie between them. They did their best to hurry, but Vinnie's shoes kept dragging in the sand. Balenger stumbled and dropped to one knee. He gathered the strength to stand. Ten steps later, all three of them fell, exhausted.

Balenger looked around. "Ronnie'll soon be here. Need to hide. We need to… That trough in the sand ahead. Diane, do you see it?"

No response.

Rain poured through holes in the boardwalk.

"Help me drag Vinnie," Balenger said.

With the last of their energy, they pulled him into the trough.

"Lie down next to him," Balenger said.

"But-"

"I'll cover you. The beach'll seem flat. Maybe he won't see you."

"Our tracks."

"The rain's washing sand into them, hiding them."

"What about you?"

"I'll make him follow me in a different direction. Diane…"

"I'm not Diane."

"I love you."

"I wish I were Diane." She kissed his cheek.

He made her lie in the trough, then covered her and Vinnie with sand, just enough to hide them, a fake grave to prevent a real one.

He left their faces exposed.

"Cold," she said.

"I'll lead him away. Count to three hundred," Balenger said. "Then try to find help. If it isn't safe for you to crawl out by then, I failed, and it'll never be safe."

"Diane was lucky to have you."

"Was? I don't understand. You've still got me."

He turned, somehow mustering the resolve to go back the way he had come-toward the drain tunnel. The debris. The rats. The mummified bodies. The rain was indeed shifting sand into the footprints. He summoned all his will and stepped onto the beach, walking toward the violent waves. Lightning cracked, but he no longer flinched.

63

A few yards from the surf, he turned and faced the boardwalk. Beyond it, flames burst from the Paragon's upper stories. The fire and the storm struggled with each other. In this deserted area, at this late hour, with the storm hiding the fire from the rest of the city, it would take time for firefighters and police to be alerted and arrive. Balenger couldn't depend on anyone for help.

To the right, lightning silhouetted the skeleton of the abandoned condominium. He heard the clang of the sheet metal.

He unholstered his gun and stuck it behind his belt at his spine. Then he spread his arms, making himself as visible as he could. His aggressive posture said everything. Come for me, Ronnie. See if you can take me.

Thunder rumbled as Ronnie appeared at the top of the boardwalk. Flames silhouetted him, making it seem that he stepped from hell. He stood at the collapsed rail, staring down toward the surf. His night-vision goggles were like hatches over his soul, making him look monstrous. Slowly, steadily, he came down the stairs, his shotgun in his hands.

The thunder reminded Balenger of a giant's steps. Murderous resolve made tall, thin, fifty-seven-year-old Ronnie assume a Titan's stature. The darkness of his Kevlar vest was emblematic of the terrible power he exuded. He strode with the weight of robbed innocence and a stolen childhood, of a lifetime of pain and anger, of terror and death. As he neared Balenger, his blank face communicated an emptiness that could never be filled.

"I'm sorry for what was done to you, Ronnie!" Balenger knew that he couldn't be heard in the storm. He wanted to keep Ronnie coming nearer, to make Ronnie curious about what he yelled. "I hate you, but I'm sorry for that little boy!"

Ronnie kept approaching, relentless, implacable: an executioner.

"Is this where Carlisle died?" Balenger shouted, rain pelting him. Ronnie was probably still too far away to hear. That didn't matter. He wanted Ronnie to see his lips moving, to wonder what he was saying, to keep approaching.

Come closer! Balenger thought. Most gunfights occurred within five yards. Even then, adrenaline unsteadied the shooters' hands and often made them miss. Balenger's hands were shaking and numb from the cold. He couldn't possibly hope to shoot Ronnie from any distance. In contrast, Ronnie's shotgun could finish him at forty yards.

Closer!

"Is this where the old man blew his brains out? After he realized the extent of what you did, he became more terrified of you than he was of going outside! He escaped from the hotel! Did he find your shotgun? Did he take it with him? He hoped to protect himself on the beach! But as he stood here shaking, as he saw you coming in the rain, he realized he was damned! So he shot himself!"

Silhouetted by lightning, Ronnie narrowed the distance between them.

"The shotgun in your hand! Is that the one Carlisle used to blow his brains out?"

Thirty yards away, Ronnie stopped.

No! I need you closer!

"Is this where it happened? Is this where he did it? The father you always wanted! 7s this where you scared him into killing himself?"

Thunder overwhelmed his words.

A flash of lightning paralyzed Ronnie for a moment. Then he stepped nearer, wanting to hear what Balenger said.

"What a wonderful son you were!" Balenger shouted. "He gave you a chance for a new life, and you paid him back by filling his life with terror!"