was going to be sick.

“What?”

“She is only sleeping. I’ve given her only a small amount of midazolam. Drill her hands and I’ll let her live.” He took a rubber band out of his

pocket and put it around Sophie’s wrists. He placed a rosary between her

fingers. A rosary with no decades. “If you don’t do it, I will. Then I will

send her to God right in front of you.”

“I...I can’t...”

“You have thirty seconds.” He leaned forward, depressed Jessica’s

right forefinger on the trigger of the drill, testing it. The battery was fully

charged. The sound of the steel twisting in the air was nauseating. “Do it

now and she will live.”

Sophie looked at Jessica.

“She’s my daughter,” Jessica managed.

Chase’s face remained implacable, unreadable. The dancing candlelight drew long shadows over his features. He took the Glock from his

waistband, drew back the hammer, and placed the gun to Sophie’s head.

“You have twenty seconds.”

“Wait!”

Jessica felt her strength recede, return. Her fingers trembled. “Think of Abraham,” Chase said. “Think of the determination that

compelled him to the altar.You can do it.”

“I...I can’t.”

“We all must sacrifice.”

Jessica had to stall.

Had to.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She closed her hand around the grip of the

drill. It felt heavy and cold. She tested the trigger a few times. The drill

responded, the carbon bit whirring.

“Bring her closer,” Jessica said weakly. “I can’t reach her.” Chase walked over, lifted Sophie. He put her down just a few inches

from Jessica. With her wrists banded together, Sophie’s hands were

steepled in prayer.

Jessica lifted the drill, slowly, resting it for a moment on her lap. She recalled her first medicine-ball training session at the gym. After

two or three reps, she wanted to quit. She was on her back, on a mat, the

heavy ball in her hands, completely spent. She couldn’t do it. Not one

more rep. She would never be a boxer. But before she could give up, a

wizened old heavyweight who had been sitting there, watching her—a

longtime fixture in Frazier’s Gym, a man who had once taken Sonny Liston the distance—told her that most people who fail don’t lack strength,

they lack will.

She had never forgotten him.

As Andrew Chase turned to step away, Jessica summoned all of her

will, all of her resolve, all of her strength. She would have one chance to

save her daughter, and the time to take that chance was now. She pressed

the trigger, locking it in the on position, then thrust the drill upward,

hard and fast and strong. The long drill bit dug deep into the left side of

Chase’s groin, puncturing skin and muscle and flesh, roaring far into his

body, finding and shredding his femoral artery. A warm gush of arterial

blood erupted into Jessica’s face, blinding her momentarily, making her

gag. Chase shrieked in pain as he reeled back, spinning, his legs starting to

give, his left hand jammed against the tear in his trousers, trying to stanch

the flow. Blood pumped between his fingers, silken and black in the dim

light. Reflexively he fired the Glock into the ceiling, the roar of the

weapon huge in the confined space.

Jessica fought her way to her knees, her ears ringing, fueled now by

adrenaline. She had to get in between Chase and Sophie. Had to move.

Had to get to her feet somehow and plunge the drill into his heart. Through the scarlet film of blood over her eyes, she saw Chase slam

to the floor, dropping the gun. He was halfway across the basement. He

screamed as he removed his belt and slipped it around the top of his left

thigh, the blood now covering his legs, pooling on the floor. He tightened

the tourniquet with a shrill, feral howl.

Could she drag herself to the weapon?

Jessica tried to crawl toward him, her hands slipping in the blood,

fighting for each inch. But before she could close the distance, Chase picked up the blood-slicked Glock, and slowly rose to his feet. He stumbled forward, manic now, a mortally wounded animal. Just a few feet away. He waved the gun in front of him, his face a tortured death

mask of agony.

Jessica tried to rise. She couldn’t. She had to hope that Chase would

get closer. She raised the drill with two hands.

Chase stumbled in.

Stopped.

He was not close enough.

She couldn’t reach him. He would kill them both.

Chase looked heavenward in that moment and screamed, the

unearthly sound filling the room, the house, the world, just as that world

came back to life, a bright and raucous coil suddenly sprung. The power had returned.

Upstairs, the television blared. Next to them, the furnace clicked on.

Above them, the light fixtures blazed.

Time ceased.

Jessica wiped the blood from her eyes, found her attacker in the

miasma of crimson. Crazily, the effects of the drug played havoc with her

eyes, splitting Andrew Chase into two images, blurring them both. Jessica closed her eyes, opened them, adjusting to the sudden clarity. It wasn’t two images. It was two men. Somehow Kevin Byrne was