Emily stares, understanding dawning. EMILY

Wow. And I thought a house had landed on the Wicked West of the West.

(a beat)

Wait, how do you—

MADDY

Jake called. He’s upset.

EMILY

So upset that he called you.

MADDY

Life is scary to some people.

EMILY

Then maybe they get what they deserve. (shakes her head)

Life is scary to me too. Doesn’t mean I hide from it.

MADDY He loves you.

EMILY

So why does he need you to tell me? Emily stalks off the porch.

MADDY

Wait—

Emily doesn’t.

5

As Emily Sweet walked away and the credits rolled, Daniel leaned back. His head throbbed, a wicked headache coming on.

The show meant something. It had to. Emily talking about life being scary, about the need to face things—it was exactly what he’d been wrestling with all day. Like she could read his mind.

Sure. You’re getting messages from the television. Tinfoil hat ready?

It was just his subconscious mind. Desperate for comfort, it was fixating on the first woman he’d seen. A mother/whore thing, sweet Emily Sweet promising to save him, promising to guide him. Daniel shook his head, then regretted it as pain ice-picked him. He eased himself flat, rubbed at his neck.

You’re losing it, man. If you even had it to begin with.

Daniel closed his eyes and imagined Emily beside him, putting cool rags on his forehead, whispering in his ear, telling him that this would pass. That he was a good guy whose sins weren’t worse than anyone else’s. That he had nothing to fear.

That it was all going to be okay.

5

A silver BMW M5, with California plates.

Could it be? Could it be the same car?

Chris stared through the windshield, willing himself to remember. It had been one of the Teletypes, he knew that much, came in a couple of days back. Doreen printed them all and put them in a wire basket in the break room, next to the coffee machine, the idea being that coppers could check them during downtime. Of course, no one but him did; after all, how many fugitives ended up in Washington County?

They got Teletypes from all over the country, and the details tended to blur, but this one he’d paid more attention to, coming as it had from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. Homicide if he recalled right, though mostly he’d noticed the car, a sweet ride, BMW M5, silver. Just like one parked here, sporting California plates.

What was the guy’s name? It had had an upscale ring to it, he remembered. A little German or Dutch sounding, maybe. He’d know it if he heard it.

So call Doreen, have her dig out the Teletype and read you the info. Yeah, and if he was wrong, endure a week of jokes, the others calling him Serpico, prank calls on the radio, no thanks. He could drive there himself and check it, but that meant half an hour to Machias, maybe twenty minutes if he ran on sirens the whole way, and likely find the guy gone.

You’d know the name if you heard it . . .

Chris grabbed his radio and climbed out of the cruiser. Northern darkness blanketed the world. He could see his breath as he walked for the door. It wasn’t much of a lobby, but the Pines wasn’t much of a motel. The desk was empty, and he rapped on it. “Hello?”

There was movement behind a beaded curtain, and a woman came out, her expression wary, the way he’d noticed a lot of people got when they saw a cop. “Yes? Help you?”

“I’m Deputy Chris Dundridge,” he said. “Washington County Sheriffs.”

She nodded.

“That BMW in the lot. Do you know who it belongs to?”

“What’s this about?”

“Police business.”

“Don’t you need a warrant?”

“You don’t want a dangerous guy staying here, do you?” He paused, then smiled, said, “Besides. No one needs to know you told me.”

She hesitated, then said, “He checked in yesterday. Paid cash.”

“What’s his name?”

The clicking of keys. “Hayes. Daniel Hayes.”

That was the name, Chris was sure of it. His blood sang. This was the lucky draw he’d been waiting for. Capturing a fugitive for the LASD would move his resume to the top of the pile. He forced himself to keep the joy off his face, nodded, said, “Room number?”

“Seven. But listen, I don’t want—”

Chris ignored her, started down the hall, unsnapping his weapon as he went. His fingers tingled. The numbers on the doors ran upward, one, two, three. The floor was linoleum, scuffed from a thousand pairs of hunting boots. Should he call it in? Four, five, six. Regulations were clear, but he didn’t want anyone else claiming credit. Here it was, lucky number seven. The light was on under the door, and he could hear the TV faintly.

The man was in his room. No need for backup.

5

The ice machine rattled like a spoon grinding in a disposal. Daniel leaned on the button, watching cubes drop one at a time, the racket doing nothing for his headache. But half an hour with an ice cloth wrapped on his eyeballs should. Then grab a last supper, turn in, and tomorrow, make some decisions.

The machine grudgingly hawked up a handful of cubes at once. Good enough. He yanked open the heavy metal door and stepped back into the hallway. Cradling the ice bucket, he rounded the corner. Twenty feet away, someone stood at the door of his room. A cop, broad-shouldered and tough-looking.

Daniel froze. What was a cop doing here?

Before he could think of an answer, the guy took a deep breath and drew his gun, Jesus, drew his gun, and with the other fist pounded hard enough to rattle the door in its frame and yelled, “Police! Open up.”

Daniel stood with one foot in the air and his mouth hanging open and his head pounding.

“Washington Country Sheriffs. Open the door!”

And in his head, her voice, whispering. They’re coming for you.

“Goddamnit,” the cop yelled, “open this door, Daniel!”

At the sound of his name, his knees went wobbly and his hand slipped on the ice bucket. It spun as it fell to the floor, the cubes tumbling out, pinging against the linoleum, skittering silver marbles.

The deputy whirled at the sound. He was just a kid, maybe twenty-four, face pale and pupils wide. For a fraction of a heartbeat their eyes locked. Then the gun started to come up.