Wait, wait, she hadn’t taken the puzzle box with the other ear. He was certain of that. He’d left after her, and the box had been on the fireplace mantel in the living room. He’d noticed because it was the only object on the mantel.

He looked at his watch: after seven. Naturally he’d checked out the trip time, and she should have been back midafternoon at the latest, even with the worst traffic streaming into Denver.

A cop hunch about trouble skittered along his spine. He’d just have to find her.

 • • •

Clare moved to the cot, sat with her feet together and her hands in her lap.

“Such a good, quiet girl you look,” Ted crooned. “Ready to reconsider?” he asked.

Through stiff lips she said, “What will you do to me if I do tell you whatever you want to know?”

“Let you go . . . if it’s soon. You don’t want to make me too mad.”

As far as she was concerned, he already was mad in the crazy sort of way.

“Let me go? That’s it?”

He chuckled. “You wouldn’t go to the police about this.”

“Yes, I would,” she shot back before she could think better of it.

Shaking his head, he said, “You’d sound crazy . . . some guy kidnaps you because he wants you to talk to ghosts?”

She swallowed. “I’m not the crazy one.”

His lips tightened and his hand holding the gun quivered a little bit. “Maybe not. But you’re getting a rep as a medium. The cops don’t care for frauds.”

“I’m not a fraud!” She jumped to her feet and the knife jerked as he followed her movement. She wrapped her arms around herself.

He waved the knife again and she couldn’t prevent a shudder. His smile widened to the crazy grin she distrusted. His creaky cackle of a laugh rasped her ears and her nerves. “Tsk, tsk, Ms. Cermak.” He shook his head. “Such a liar you are, about being a psychic medium, about being able to summon ghosts and talking to them, about everything!” He sliced air with the knife. “About not knowing of the gold robbery. Especially the gold robbery.”

Nothing she could say would make a dent in Ted’s obsession; she was doomed.

“I—”

A timer dinged. “Ah, my pizza is done,” Ted said.

Clare stared. “You used the oven in the house?”

“Yes, the heat is incredible; I thought it might add incentive.” With a glance around the bare room, he said, “This bedroom sure holds on to the heat, doesn’t it? But I think I’ll have some food and a nice cold drink now.” Smacking his lips, he shut and locked the door.

Instants later the smell of hot cheesy dough and pepperoni seeped through the cracks in the bedroom, making her mouth water, though she still felt queasy.

Clare got to work on trying to inch the window open; it moved about a sixteenth of an inch a shove. She’d become more and more aware of her bladder until she shifted from foot to foot. This bedroom shared a wall with the bathroom; so close and too far!

The cot had wooden legs. She could lift it and break the window glass, then set the cot down and try to climb out through a narrow window jagged with glass. But she believed it would take more than one jolt and neighbors wouldn’t notice the noise. Ted would hear it and run in with his knife and his gun and rope or chains or whatever else he might want to use on her.

So she grunted and pushed and pushed and . . .

A chain rattled. How could he eat so fast? Would he torture her with food and drink?

Yes, he would. He stood in the doorway, with the gun, snarfing down pizza and making yummy noises, all the while watching her.

If she’d had any outrage left she’d have spit at him.

Think and think again!

Her car was out front. He’d said so. All she had to do is get out, run away. She might be able to do it. Outrun a bullet? Her inner critic laughed and laughed. But Ted wanted something from her; he wouldn’t shoot to kill, would he? Any shot in this neighborhood would be heard and reported. She could run faster than he. She was younger and probably fitter. She hadn’t ever seen him move at more than a walk. And she didn’t know what kind of shot he was. Was it worth the risk?

Yes, said Enzo, materializing next to her. He sat and offered a paw as if to shake.

Where have you been!

With Jack Slade. There are problems, he is devolving.

I have effing problems, too!

Enzo cocked his head. Yes, you should leave. We should leave.

Can you help? Distract him somehow?

The Lab barked loudly, circling the room at a run. Ted showed no sign that he saw or heard the dog.

Maybe if I talk to you . . .

I don’t think that would be good, Clare.

She huffed a breath.

Enzo went up and sniffed Ted. He doesn’t smell sane, Clare.

And Enzo knew sane and insane, she reminded herself.

I can’t affect him. He believes in ghosts in his broken mind, but not in his gut. It’s the gut and instincts we can work with only.

Clare slid a glance at Ted. “You know, I dug up something. I didn’t have time to fully examine it.” A lure, a temptation . . .

He bit.

“What was it? I couldn’t see.” He sounded petulant.

She wet her lips. “A bottle.”

“A bottle?” His eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t decide whether that information was interesting.

“I couldn’t tell whether there was anything in it.” She widened her eyes, jerking a little as if she regretted her words, and shook her head. “No, nothing more than a bottle.”

“It didn’t look like a strongbox . . . but all reports said the strongbox was broken and the gold gone.”

“I’m sure the bottle came later. Nothing to see. Really.” She smiled too brightly, wondering if the simple reverse psychology she was using would actually work. She didn’t think it would on a non-obsessive normal person, but Ted wasn’t normal.

“Maybe I should go see,” he said.

“Oh. All right.” Just as she knew this house, she knew her car. The bottle was jammed under the seat and the seat didn’t move easily . . . a little back and forth manipulation of both automatic and manual levers would be necessary to retrieve it. She was sure getting the bottle out would frustrate Ted. Perhaps he’d want her to do it. Let her out to do it.

He pivoted in the doorway and she thought of jumping him since he held the gun loosely, but then he took another step into the hall and she’d missed her chance. Zach wouldn’t have. Zach wouldn’t have gotten kidnapped in the first place. Stop thinking of Zach and concentrate on herself.

The door slammed shut and the knob lock clicked.

Next time she had to be prepared. It would be so good if he’d let her pee.

Meanwhile her stomach pinched and the lingering smell of pizza didn’t sit so well with her.

His footsteps stomped back and he flung the door open, scowling, now holding the gun with some purpose. “I can’t get the damn bottle from under the seat.” Gesturing with the gun, he took a few steps back.

Clare scuttled forward, past the threshold, and all she could think of was getting out, forget the bathroom for now.

Near-suffocating heat wrapped around her, but fresh air came from the open front door, along with the last smudge of twilight before real night. That would make shooting harder, right?

I have a plan, she sent to Enzo.

THIRTY-FOUR

YES, YES, YES!

At the right minute, I’m going to run for it. And pray that she didn’t end up as a ghost herself. No, she wouldn’t. She had few regrets . . . even Zach . . . she’d said what had to be said. She put all thoughts but her plan aside.