The Jeep was wonderfully close. I felt a surge of hope. We'd get out of here, into town, to the little Corinth hospital.

Then I noticed that the Jeep was canted oddly to one side. My heart did something painful inside my chest when I realized that two of the tires were flat, the two on the side away from the door.

I shut the front door, ran in a crouch to the stairs. They weren't visible from any windows, or at least the angle would be quite acute. I sprinted up as fast as I could, reached the top safely. I stood and panted for a few seconds, trying to get my breathing rate down to something approximately normal, then scurried into Hayden's room, which was over the kitchen. It was safest for him right where he was, I made myself admit, though my every instinct was to pick him up and take him with me. But I couldn't stand the crying. I tried popping his pacifier in his mouth. That would hold him, I hoped. I didn't want to tell Martin about the Jeep's being disabled, but I had to. He looked even worse than he had three minutes ago, and Karl, I thought, was unconscious.

Martin was still thinking clearly, though.

"Check to see if the phone's still in the Jeep," he told me, though he clearly hadn't much hope. This silent admission that he was not capable of action was more terrifying than anything to me in that horrible kitchen. Martin, strong, dangerous, and brave, had been like a rock at my back for three years. I felt exposed and anguished. "If the phone's not in the Jeep, Karl's pickup is parked behind that clump of trees down in the south field. He went out there to check to see what kind of vehicle whoever was looking in our windows had driven. Then he walked up to the house, following the tracks." "Okay," I whispered, half distracted by the continuous sound of Hayden's renewed complaining. "So?"

"You'll have to go get Karl's pickup."

"How do we know someone's not out there?" I asked, thinking Martin was nuts. I wasn't about to leave him.

"No more shots," Martin said succinctly.

"Unless they're waiting for us to stand up so they can shoot again," I protested.

"He would've come closer by now and picked us off, if he was still out there.

I'm assuming he just wanted Rory."

I glanced over at Karl, whose face was a waxy color I associated with Madame Tussaud's. He was covered with sweat, and blood, and bits of stuff. He looked very bad. Martin had spots of blood on his shirt, mostly on the back where glass slivers had pierced the material as he lay covering me. There was one long cut over his right eye that looked particularly bad, hut I reminded myself that head cuts bleed worse than anything. I couldn't give myself any comfort over his color, though, and I knew that something worse than a few cuts was wrong with Martin. I found myself too scared to ask him.

"Take the baby," Martin said.

"What?" This was crazy. It had begun to snow again.

"Take the baby."

"Are you serious?" I said savagely, because I was terrified. "Out in the cold, and I don't know who's out there? I'll drive back here, we'll load Karl in the pickup bed so he can keep his leg stretched out. I'll get the baby then." "I'm thinking you should drive straight to town. Don't stop." "Martin, I can't leave you," I began, unhappy all over again to hear how distraught I sounded.

"Go!" he said harshly. "For once, don't think about it!"

He knew something I didn't.

"Okay," I said, trying to sound less tearful than I felt. I accepted the keys he handed me, the ones he'd taken from Karl's pocket. I ran back up the stairs, bundled and wrapped up Hayden. Then I stood by the front door, terrified of stepping out. I looked into the kitchen at Martin sitting by his friend on the floor. From somewhere, Martin dredged up the strength to give me an encouraging nod.

In retrospect, my agreeing to leave him sounds crazy; but at the time I was so seriously upset that Martin's request made some kind of sense to me. Though I was absolutely terrified, I stepped out into the snow holding the baby. The cold hit me in the face. But no bullet. I was at the Jeep in four steps, looking through the windows. No phone. It had been taken. There were footprints, sure, but in the gray dim light and falling snow they were surprisingly hard to follow, and there were many other footprints in the parking area now. So I began my trek through the falling snow clasping Hayden, who at least at this moment was quiet. I scanned the whiteness, looking for some sign of life out here in the bleak fields, but I saw nothing. A bone-scraping wind sprang up and scoured my face, and flakes clung to the knit cap I'd pulled over my hair. Hayden snuffled against my chest. I clutched him closer. It was no great distance to the copse, perhaps not even a half mile, but the ground was uneven and the contours concealed by the snow. Halfway there I became aware that I was crying, and I nuzzled the baby's cheek as if he could comfort me. I knew something was wrong with my husband, and yet he had told me to leave him. Did Martin think the shooter would come around the house to make sure of Rory, and therefore invent some reasoning to make sure I left? And then I realized why Martin had told me to take Hayden.

Hayden was my insurance.

Martin knew the shooter wouldn't try for me if I was holding the baby. Hayden was the whole point of this. I wasn't even sure what "this" was, but Hayden was the center. Now I had the protection of Hayden's presence: and Martin didn't. I nearly decided to turn back twice, even stopped and physically began to reverse, but I couldn't seem to figure out anything. I was shocked and freezing and desperate, and the remembered urgency of Martin's tone kept me on my course. The snow and the baby and the rough ground made the walk seem twice as long as it actually was, but finally I was among the trees. There was Karl's black pickup, carefully parked so it was unobtrusive. I got the keys from my pocket and climbed in awkwardly, the baby making an upset choky noise in protest at the continued cold.

I laid Hayden on the floor on the passenger side. That was the best I could do. Then I scooted the seat up so my feet could reach the pedals. The pickup started on the first turn of the key just like the Jeep had, which was a real blessing, and it had an automatic shift, which was another blessing. The heater roared into life, and after a few minutes I felt a sheer, pathetic gratitude for the onset of warmth. I began backing out of the trees. When I'd turned the truck to face the road, I saw a little track at least two vehicles had made. Under those tracks must be the dirt road Margaret had told me about. I followed them up the gentle slope to the county road, figuring the smoothest ground would lie that way, and though the pickup lurched a couple of times, we reached the road in one piece.

I started to turn the wheel left, toward town. Then I thought longingly of the Granberrys to the right, so much closer.

But Martin had said to go to town, and Martin always had a reason for making a decision. So I prepared to turn left, and I peered both ways to see if anything was coming.

It surprised me that something was.

And to compound the surprise, the traveler was Margaret Granberry, in her Dodge pickup. She stopped when she saw me by the side of the road and lowered her window.

"What are you doing?" she called. "Isn't that Karl's truck?" "Margaret, you should get home and lock the doors!" I yelled. "Someone came up to the house and shot him!"

"Shot Karl?" Margaret's pale face looked even whiter, and she jumped out of her truck, which she left running in the middle of the road, and made her way swiftly over the packed snow to my window, her hands shoved in her pockets. "He's bad," I told her. "I have to get to town to get help."

"What about Martin? And Rory?" Margaret asked.