Ross finished off his drink and slammed the glass down hard on the counter. Fuck you, Marshall! He downed another half glass then went into his study and, using a key from the top drawer of his desk, unlocked the narrow closet on the east wall where he kept what Gloria snidely referred to as his “coon gun.” An old Winchester pump-action.22, less for raccoons than for squirrels and groundhogs, which seemed more plentiful in these parts. Ross wasn’t anything near a full-fledged hunter. Sometimes he liked sitting out on the patio with the rifle propped up on the banister. Point and shoot. Squeeze and kill. It was so easy. Anyway, there were more squirrels and groundhogs on the planet than necessary. Ross enjoyed the pump action. What normal, healthy guy doesn’t like the pump action?

Ross glanced out the window at the boathouse. No movement that he could see. He had to get back out there. If the detective did make it out of the water, he needed to be there waiting for her. Squeeze and kill. Ross went out into the front hall. What he saw there made him stop cold.

Rosemary Fox was descending the staircase. She was in a neck brace and was wearing one of Ross’s own bathrobes, the belt tied loosely. Her semi-wet hair fell down over her half-exposed breasts. Her face was horribly bruised. The expression on it was dreamy, serene. The corners of her mouth turned up in a smile. The eyes didn’t join in.

“Alan?”

Abruptly, the front door opened. A man was standing there holding a pistol in his hand. Ross swung about, his rifle hip-high, and fired.

54

THE BRASS MALLARD NEXT to my face tore off the door. The wood splintered, and I took a few shards on the face. I leaped to my left into the house, performing a complete-if clumsy-roll, then a second one. Anything so long as I was a moving target. I came to a stop on my elbows.

Alan Ross was standing at the foot of the stairs, pumping his rifle. Behind him on the stairs stood Rosemary Fox. She wore a green bathrobe, and the fingertips of her right hand rested lightly on the banister. A huge bruise dominated her face.

I brought my gun up. Ross fired before I could, but his shot sailed over my head. I sighted on him. Rosemary Fox screamed. “Alan!”

I held my shot. Ross darted to his left, disappearing into the next room. As I scrambled to my feet, Rosemary Fox took a poor step. Her feet came out from under her and she landed sideways on the stairs, bumping down to the bottom step. I dashed past her.

Ross was slamming through a swinging door at the far end of the room. The kitchen. I crossed quickly and caught the door as it was swinging closed. Ross knew the house. I didn’t. He wouldn’t knowingly trap himself. The kitchen led elsewhere. My guess? Outside.

Or the garage.

I retraced my steps at a dead run. Rosemary Fox was still on her fanny at the bottom of the staircase. Her robe had fallen open. She looked like a serious lush.

I ran out the front door and around to the driveway. As I did, I heard the sound of a car engine revving inside the garage. I knelt down on the snow at the edge of the driveway and readied myself. The garage door slid open, and for a moment, nothing. Then a cream Cadillac leaped forward. Holding my breath, I tracked and got off the shot, hitting the front right tire. The Caddy swerved toward me and straightened as it passed. I pivoted, locking my arms in place, and fired twice, the second shot hitting the right rear tire. The car skidded on the snow, sliding sideways into a standing lawn lamp.

I was up and running. Ross was gunning the engine, but the rear of the car slid slushily back and forth in the snowy driveway. I grabbed hold of the driver’s door handle and tugged, but the door was locked. I could see Ross through the smoked glass. It took two hits with the butt of my pistol to shatter the glass. Ross was reaching for his rifle, which was on the seat next to him. My pistol barrel went snugly against his left temple, as if the two pieces were made to fit.

“Let it go.”

He hesitated.

I didn’t.

I reared back and landed the gun butt sharply just above his left eye. His head lolled forward. I groped for the door lock on the driver’s armrest and pushed it, then I pulled back out of the window, yanked open the door and dragged Ross by the collar out onto the snow.

“Where’s Lamb?” When he didn’t answer, I gave him another taste of my gun butt. “Where is she?”

Blood was running into his eyes. He blinked it away and looked at me as if I were some sort of curious artifact. I dropped the gun and took a double grip on his coat.

“Where the hell is she?” My throat would hurt later from the strain.

He ran a tongue across his lips. “Dead in the water. How should I know?”

FOR A BRIEF INSTANT, I wasn’t sure what I was seeing. Two dark slick bodies, one of them stretched out flat on its back, the second one hunched over the other, looking for all the world like it was feeding on it. It was dark, but then I pieced it together. I was in the boathouse. In front of me were Megan and Tracy Jacobs. Megan was frantically performing mouth-to-mouth on the actress. Blowing into her mouth, pumping her hands on the woman’s chest. Blowing, pumping…She looked up at me. Her face was a shock mask. Her teeth were chattering so loudly I could hear them.

“Help.” Her voice was a plaintive croak. I pulled off my coat and wrapped it around her. She shook her head violently. “Her.”

Megan turned her head and vomited water onto the dock. I knelt down next to Tracy Jacobs. Even in the dark boathouse, the paleness of her face showed like a dull moon. I took over the mouth-to-mouth, spitting brackish salt water from my mouth every other breath. I pressed my hands to her sternum and pushed.

“She’s alive,” Megan said weakly behind me. “There’s a heartbeat.”

I kept at it, and after what was probably only a very long minute, the body under me spasmed. Her back arched involuntarily, and a rush of black water gushed out of her mouth. Her coughs were otherworldly. They were followed by a groan that built slowly but steadily, tightening until it reached a piercing siren shriek.

MEGAN COULD WALK. She followed me as I carried Tracy Jacobs across the large yard into the house. Tracy’s face and head were horribly beaten. I didn’t see the extent of it until I set her down on Ross’s living room couch. Rosemary Fox was seated in an armchair, looking dreamily amused.

Megan instructed her to go into the kitchen and boil some water. When the woman hesitated, Megan barked, “Now!”

Rosemary Fox rose from the chair and floated out of the room.

I asked, “Boil water?”

Megan was lightly touching one of Tracy Jacobs’s head wounds. She shrugged. “I just wanted her out of the fucking room.”

I had called 911 from my cell phone at the boathouse. Megan’s lips were blue, and her breathing was beginning to speed up. I took her cheeks between my hands and rubbed vigorously. Then I took her hands-they were ice-and rubbed them as well.

“Hold on,” I said. I ran up the stairs and found the master bedroom. There was a down quilt on the bed. In a second bedroom, I snared a blanket, then returned to the living room and wrapped the quilt around Megan. I placed the blanket over Tracy Jacobs. The actress’s eyes opened briefly. She blinked and looked right through me; then her eyes closed again.

Rosemary Fox came in from the kitchen. “The water’s boiling.”

“Make some coffee, Mrs. Fox,” I said.

She asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m the person asking you politely to please make some coffee. Very strong.”

“I would like to know what is going on here. Where’s Alan? Who are you? Who’s that girl?”

I stepped over to her. As I approached, she took a step backward. She also managed a haughty look, even with that nasty bruise. She crossed her arms defensively on her chest.