I couldn't budge it.

Shit!

It must be wedged against some rocks in the streambed.

Unable to see much, I reached down into the flowing water and felt around near the submerged front tire. Several small boulders the size of soccer balls were wedged against it. I worked at one near the periphery with my fingers and felt it loosen. But this would take time.

I'd also have to erase any tracks I'd left from dragging Garnet into position. Then I'd resume my act of being knocked unconscious but thrown clear.

I checked Garnet again- nothing too clinical, just a particularly savage kick to see if he responded to pain- and got not so much as a grunt.

Setting to work with the tire iron, I pried the first rock loose. About a dozen more remained.

While trying to dislodge the rest, I obsessed on the details of what I'd done, certain that something had gone wrong.

By the time I'd retreated to the doctor's lounge, hoping J.S. would say nothing that might give me away, I began to think and act more logically. Preparing a pot of tea, I added sufficient pills to top off Graceton's dose of misoprostol, knowing that what I had in mind would work best with an unusually violent and quick labor. I also sneaked into one of the nearby utility cupboards where I stole the syringes and vials of heparin. Its fast-acting anticoagulation effect would do the job immediately, unlike the slow-acting warfarin tablets that I'd slipped into J.S.'s lemonade over a period of three days.

No choice but to use the pills with her, not just to avoid the need for an injection, but because the antidote to warfarin took hours to work, time enough for the hemorrhage to do its worse. Heparin, on the other hand, could be neutralized in minutes. But in Graceton's case, that wouldn't matter. There'd be no heading to ER and receiving an antidote for her.

And every step of the crash had gone perfectly. Having cinched my seat belt extra tight, I emerged from the impact of hitting the tree with little more than a few bruises and a sore chest from the shoulder belt. Graceton, though still conscious, ended up severely dazed and was easy to knock out. A further push of the car sent it hurtling the rest of the way to the creek.

My plan with J.S. hadn't gone as well. She could still finger me. But with her sedated for the night, I'd have time to think of a way to dispose of the problem. Maybe I wouldn't have to. Maybe I could still have her. No- it would be so risky. Before long she would figure it out. And every day I would be waiting for it to happen. Oh, God. I'd grown so fond of her, and the release she provided in bed was fantastic. I didn't want to hurt her. But the danger of keeping her around would drive me crazy.

I pried what felt like the last rock free, the lurch of the tire iron snapping my thoughts back to the present. With Earl and Janet, maybe I hadn't made any mistakes after all. Could it be? If I could just finish this, I'd have fooled everybody about everything so far. The prospect gave me a surge of strength as I leaned my back against the underframe and pushed with my legs.

I still couldn't budge it.

A quick probe around the rear tire this time revealed more rocks. I went to work on them but couldn't find the right spot with the tire iron to dislodge the first one. I went to get the flashlight.

After checking Garnet again- still unresponsive to pain- I made my way back around the other side of the car, hoisted myself up to the broken side window, and froze.

Janet looked up at me, eyes black with hatred.

But that's not what had my attention.

At her breast she held a baby soaked in the bloody remains of its afterbirth, sucking at her nipple.

I shrank back from the sight.

"Save the boy," she ordered in a flat, cold voice. "I'm as good as dead. And I know you'll kill Earl if he isn't already gone. What would it cost you to spare the child?" Her stare penetrated mine with the icy stealth of needles.

I looked away, but the image of that infant had emblazoned itself on my brain, and she continued to speak with no more expression than a corpse.

"No matter what story you cook up, someone will doubt it, and you're doomed. But if you rescue my baby, you'd be a hero, and less likely to draw suspicion."

I tried to shut the words out, but they grated through me, permeating my head and scraping the inside of my skull.

"Please!" she persisted. "I'm begging. Save his life. Who'd question a hero?"

She continued to implore me to have mercy on her son.

Definitely not what I intended.

Even if I succeeded, got away now, a new nightmare would replace the old. Visions of a blood-covered newborn and Janet's accusing stare might await me every time I closed my eyes for the rest of my days. What the hell had I accomplished?

I recoiled from the thought, fought to deny it, but broke into a sweat. I'd already experienced how the power of a dead man could possess my mind, putrefy my subconscious, and roam my dreams. Against a haunting by a dying mother and child, I would have no defenses whatsoever, because this ghost would be fueled by my own guilt, not rage against the guilt of another. I may have been able to harden myself against relatively bloodless killings, but to have actually seen the baby, heard Janet plead for its life- that wouldn't succumb so readily.

Grabbing the flashlight, I retreated from the interior of the car, turning my back on that malignant scene, and attacked the stones with a frenzy.

As I worked, I shut out her pleas and desperately tried to force my wild emotions to order.

Feelings never flowed easily through me or came freely. They either surged out of control, having to be wrangled and herded like errant beasts, or died completely until I exhumed and reanimated them, as if forcing spiritless things to life. Clinical objectivity, on the other hand, was something I naturally excelled at. In addition to serving me well in my medical career, it concealed a terrible coldness. And I'd taken that objectivity to new heights recently. Several times over the past weeks I'd argued myself in or out of killing as if the matter were merely a question of logic. So why not now? It would just be a matter of hiking objectivity to yet another level.

And I had another talent: making everybody laugh or feel good about themselves. It deterred them from being too critical of me and protected my secret self. So I'd perfected the graces of charm and wit the way some people polished their golf game. I would only have to work the skill on a higher plane, and no one would ever begin to think I could do anything appalling to a baby.

But charm couldn't stop dreams. Even sparing the infant might not do that.

I adjusted the flashlight and reattacked the rocks with the desperation of a man digging for air.

"Thomas, I beg you, don't murder my son," Janet persisted, her voice nearly lost in the sounds of rain and the stream. Yet her words rang as clear and hard as if she'd whispered them in my ear.

At first Earl heard the rain.

Then felt it across his face like icy streamers.

He managed not to flinch when Thomas kicked him.

Let the bastard think the crack on the head still had him out cold. He needed time to subdue the twenty migraines that had set up residence in his brain.

But when he heard Janet's voice, he surfaced fast.

He cracked an eyelid just enough to catch a glimpse of Thomas off to his left hefting rocks like he was harvesting watermelons.

What was he doing?

No matter. He had to take him. Whatever his favorite resident had in mind for him and Janet, it would be terminal. He felt around with his right hand for a rock, found one the size of a five-pin bowling ball, and, with memories of Bible stories, got ready to heave it at the man's head.

But Thomas suddenly threw down the tire iron, walked around to the other side of the car, and leaned hard against the trunk, causing the whole vehicle to teeter over Earl's head.