She heard a high wail, a wail that grew louder and shriller. “Aai… yee… devilll… devilll from the grave… Go away… Go away…”

A figure was stumbling from the woods. A figure holding a rifle. A figure draped in a dark green cape, with long black hair that the wind blew in matted tangles, a figure with staring eyes and a face caught in a grimace of fear…

Jenny stood up. The figure stopped, lifted the gun and aimed it.

“Erich, don’t shoot!” She stumbled to the door, turned the handle. The door was locked. It had snapped locked behind her. Lifting the army blanket, trying not to stumble over its trailing ends, she began to run, zigzagging down the porch steps, across the field, while she heard the sound of shots following her. A burning sensation bit into her shoulder… warmth flooded her arm. She staggered, but there was no place to run.

The strange screaming was behind her. “Devilll, devilll…” The dairy barn loomed to the right. Erich had never gone in there, not since Caroline died. Frantically she wrenched the door open, the door that led into the anteroom where the vats of milk were stored.

He was close behind her. She rushed into the inner area, the barn itself. The cows were in from the pastures, had already been milked. They stood in their stalls, watching with mild interest, grazing at the straw in the troughs before them. She could hear footsteps close behind her.

Blindly she ran to the end of the barn, as far as she could go. The stock tank was there, the pen for the new calves. The tank was dry. She turned to face Erich.

He was only ten feet away. He stopped and began to laugh. He lifted the gun to his shoulder and took aim with the same precision he had shown when he shot Joe’s puppy. They stared at each other, mirror images with the dark green capes, the long dark hair. His hair too had been clumsily pinned up in a knot; his own blond curls escaping from under the wig gave the impression of tendrils on the forehead.

“Devilll… devilll…”

She closed her eyes. “Oh, God…”

She heard the gun going off, then a shriek that gurgled into a moan. But not from her lips. She opened her eyes. It was Erich who was sinking to the ground, Erich who was bleeding from the nose and mouth, Erich whose eyes were glazing, whose wig was matted with blood.

Behind him Rooney lowered a shotgun. “That’s for Arden,” she said quietly.

Jenny sank on her knees. “Erich, the girls, are they alive?”

His eyes were dim but he nodded. “Yes… ”

“Is someone with them?”

“No… Alone…”

“Erich, where are they?”

His lips tried to form words. “They’re…” He reached up for her hand, twisted his fingers around her thumb… “I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m sorry, Mommy… I didn’t mean… to… hurt… you.”

His eyes closed. His body gave a last violent shudder and Jenny felt the pressure on her hand released.

38

The house was crowded but she saw everyone as vague shadows on a screen. Sheriff Gunderson, the people from the coroner’s office who chalked the outline of Erich’s body and took it away, the reporters who swarmed in after the news of the art forgery and stayed for the far bigger story. They’d arrived in time to snap pictures of Erich, the cape draped around him, the wig matted with blood, the curiously peaceful face of death.

They’d been allowed to go to the cabin, to photograph and film Caroline’s beautiful paintings, Erich’s tortured canvases. “The greater the sense of urgency we give to the search, the more people will try to help,” Wendell Gunderson said.

Mark was there. It was he who cut away the blanket and her blouse, bathed the wound, disinfected it, bandaged it. “That will hold it for the present. It’s only a flesh wound, thank God.”

She shivered at the touch of those long, gentle fingers through all the burning pain. If there was help possible it would come through Mark.

They found the car Erich had driven, found it hidden in one of the tractor paths on the farm. He’d rented the car in Duluth, six hours’ drive away. He’d left the children at least thirteen hours ago. Left them where?

All through the evening the driveway was filled with cars. Maude and Joe Ekers came. Maude, her strong, capable bulk bending over Jenny. “I’m so sorry.” A few minutes later Jenny heard her at the stove. And then the smell of perking coffee.

Pastor Barstrom came. “John Krueger worried so about Erich. But he never told me why. And then it seemed as though Erich was doing so well.”

The weather report. “A storm is moving into Minnesota and the Dakotas.” A storm. Oh, God, are the girls warm enough?

Clyde came to her. “Jenny, you gotta help me. They’re talking about committing Rooney to the hospital again.”

At last she was startled out of her lethargy. “She saved my life. If she hadn’t shot Erich, he would have killed me.”

“She told one of them reporters that she did it for Arden,” Clyde said. “Jenny, help me. If they lock her up, Rooney can’t take it. She needs me. I need her.”

Jenny got up from the couch, steadied herself against the wall, went looking for the sheriff. He was on the phone. “Get more flyers. Tack them up in every supermarket, every gas station. Go over the border into Canada.”

When he hung up, she said, “Sheriff, why are you trying to put Rooney in the hospital?”

His voice was soothing. “Jenny, try to understand. Rooney intended to kill Erich. She was out there with a gun waiting for him.”

“She was trying to protect me. She knew the danger I was in. She saved my life.”

“All right, Jenny. Let me see what I can do.”

Wordlessly, Jenny put her arms around Rooney. Rooney had loved Erich from the moment he’d been born. No matter what she said, she had not shot him because of Arden. She had shot him to save Jenny’s life. I couldn’t have killed him in cold blood, she thought. And neither could she.

The night wore on. All the properties were being searched again. Dozens of false reports were coming in. Snow was starting to fall, swift, biting flakes.

Maude made sandwiches. Jenny could not swallow. Finally she sipped consommé. At midnight Clyde took Rooney home. Maude and Joe left. The sheriff said, “I’ll be at my desk all night. I’ll call you if we hear anything.” Only Mark remained.

“You must be tired. Go on home.”

He didn’t answer her. Instead he went and got blankets and pillows. He made her lie down on the couch by the stove; he poked a new log on the fire. He stretched out on the big chair.

In the dim light she stared at the cradle filled with wood, beside the chair. She had refused to pray after the baby died. She didn’t realize how bitter she’d been. Now… I accept his loss. But please let me have my girls.

Could you strike a bargain with God?

Sometime during the night she began to doze. But the throbbing in her shoulder kept her on the edge of wakefulness. She felt herself stirring restlessly, making soft hurting sounds. And then it eased, the pain and the restless tossing. After a while when she opened her eyes, she found herself leaning against Mark, his arm around her, the quilt tucked over her.

Something was teasing her. Something in her sub conscious that kept trying to surface, something desperately important that was eluding her. It was something to do with that last canvas and Erich watching her, his face peering through the window at her.

At seven o’clock Mark said, “I’ll fix some toast and coffee.” Jenny went upstairs and showered, wincing as the stream of water struck the adhesive on her shoulder.

Rooney and Clyde were in the house when she came back down. They sipped coffee together as they watched the national news. The girls’ pictures would be shown on the Today show and on Good Morning America.