She followed him into the dark and held his penlight for him as he tried a succession of keys. The fifth one fit. The solid clack of the retracting dead bolt hit her like a punch.

Alicia began to shake. She felt the tremor begin in the pit of her stomach and spread outward to her limbs. She wanted to turn and bolt for the street.

No! she told herself. You will not run.

Bricks and lumber… bricks and lumber…

Jack pulled out a larger flashlight and stepped through the door. Bathed in a cold sweat, Alicia clenched her jaw and followed him. She had a bad moment—a trapped, clawing, let-me-out moment—when the door clicked closed behind her, but she fought it off.

Then Jack's flashlight beam found a wall switch, and he flicked it. Light flooded the room.

"Well, isn't that considerate," he said. "They left the power on."

Alicia stood blinking in the unexpected light. The carnage came into focus as her eyes adjusted.

"Oh, my God. Look what they've done."

When she'd lived here, the rear door had led into a narrow utility room that housed the washer and dryer, and a pantry. The washer and dryer were still here, but in pieces—they'd been thoroughly dismantled, and their components lay in piles on the floor. The pantry shelves had been emptied, and their contents scattered among the appliance parts.

"Now this," Jack said, "is what I call tossing a room. And they didn't have to hurry. With the power on, they had plenty of light. And with the windows boarded up, no one would know they were here."

He stepped through the debris and headed for the adjoining room.

"Let's see what's in here."

"Should be the kitchen," Alicia said as Jack turned on the light.

It was… in a way.

The kitchen had been as thoroughly "tossed"—to use Jack's term—as the utility room. Not only had the cabinets been emptied, they'd been ripped off the walls and broken apart. The dishwasher had suffered the same fate as the washer and dryer. The sink had been removed, leaving its pipes jutting from the wall like copper carotids. All the pieces had been piled in the center of the floor.

In shock, Alicia stumbled after Jack, who was still on the move, skirting the debris and moving into the dining room. Same story there, except that the rug had been torn up and the strips of its remains were in the pile with the remnants of the furniture and china.

In a way she was glad. All this destruction made it easier for her to be here. It turned the house into a different place, nothing like she remembered. But still, the degree of devastation was astonishing.

"I knew Thomas didn't want me to have the place," Alicia said softly, "but I never realized he was this angry."

"This isn't anger," Jack said, nudging the pile with the toe of his sneaker. "This is methodical as hell. They started in the center of the room, then worked outward, dumping everything in the center after they'd checked it. These guys know what they're doing."

"But how could they expect to get away with it?"

Jack shrugged. "I guess they figured you didn't have a chance of ever taking possession of the place. So what did it matter what they did to it? And I suspect that once they find what they're looking for, they'll just disappear."

"But what—what could they be looking for?"

"Something metal, I'd say."

Jack had moved to a corner where a contraption that looked like a vacuum cleaner handle attached to a frying pan leaned against the wall.

"How do you know?"

He lifted the contraption. "Metal detector."

"A key," Alicia said, remembering the Greenpeace line from the will: " 'This house holds the key that points the way to all you wish to achieve.' They're looking for a key."

Jack nodded. "Got to be. Your half brother's Arab friend quoted the same line yesterday. Obviously they haven't found it yet." He looked around. "Did your father have a workshop?"

It was cold in here—Alicia could see her breath misting in the air—but now she felt a deeper chill. "Workshop?"

"Yeah. You know, where he puttered around with his hobbies or whatever."

Jagged shards of ice needled the lining of her arteries. She forced the words past her teeth. "The basement… if anywhere."

"How do we find it?"

"Through the kitchen."

"All right," he said, moving past her. "Let's go."

"No. You go. I can't."

"Come on, Alicia. This is no time to—"

"No," she said, and once again heard her voice climbing the scale. "Didn't you hear me? I CAN'T!"

He stared at her a moment, then turned away. "Okay. You can't. I'll check it out alone. Don't go away."

"I'm sorry," she said softly after he was gone. "But I just can't go there."

5.

As Jack reached the bottom of the steps, he wondered if whatever abuse Alicia had suffered had been committed in the basement. Good chance, judging from her reaction.

He found the light switch and checked out the place.

Maybe Ronald Clayton once had a basement workshop. Sure as hell couldn't tell from the look of the place now. The Arab's wrecking crew had done their thing down here too—maybe they'd started here. They'd torn out the dropped ceiling, ripped the paneling from the walls, dismantled the furniture, and sliced up the cushions. He saw what looked like a disemboweled mattress and box spring, so he guessed there must have been a bed down here too.

Jack kicked through the debris and found miscellaneous electronic equipment—circuit boards, memory chips, and the like—but if they'd found a working computer, he was sure they'd carried it off to where they could inspect its hard drive down to the last byte.

He also came across some old, rusted-looking track lighting fixtures and noticed the oversize bulb holders. Doc Clayton must have liked it bright down here.

Jack poked around a little longer, then went back upstairs. He found Alicia in the dining room where he'd left her, standing by the pile of debris, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, looking ready to jump out of her skin.

"Find anything?" she said.

"Just another pile like this."

"I… I'm sorry I couldn't go down with you," she said, not looking at him. "It's just…"

"You don't have to explain."

"I wasn't going to. I'm just telling you that this is the way I am right now, and there's not a lot I can do about it."

"Okay." Just as well, he thought. This wasn't the time or place for an explanation. "Then we'll have to work around it."

She spread her hands toward the carnage. "Are we wasting our time?"

"Maybe," Jack said. "But I know some things about hiding stuff, maybe a thing or two they don't. One thing I do know is that you tend to hide your most valuable stuff close to you, where you can keep an eye on the hiding place, and get to it quick if you need it." He looked at her. "Where was your father's bedroom?"

"Upstairs."

"Any problem with going upstairs?"

"No. My room used to be up there."

Jack led the way, with Alicia directing him. A left at the top of the stairs took them to the master bedroom.

Maybe it had been masculine-looking, maybe it had still retained feminine touches from the days when Alicia's mother had lived here. All guesswork now. The room had been stripped to the walls; whatever once might have lent it character or personality now lay in a heap in the center of the floor.

He spotted a sledgehammer and a couple of crowbars leaning near a particularly damaged area of the wall in the far corner. He crossed the room for a closer look.

"Look at this," he said as he fingered the shattered edges of the wallboard. "They opened up the wall here."

Beyond the ragged opening was a tiny room—a converted closet, really—lined with shelves—empty shelves.