“Stay here,” he commanded Ana, putting her behind the wheel and making her slide down in the seat. “Keep your eyes on the road and the woods, and if anyone looks curious, drive the hell out of here. Don’t stop to talk. Don’t get out of the car for any reason.” He patted her shoulder. “You did right to call me.” Then he vanished among the trees.

She waited five minutes, then followed. She was frightened, but more frightened at the idea of sitting in that car and wondering what was happening up in the house. And she was angry; a slow, smoldering rage had been growing for days. The image of del Carros’ smirking face hung in her mind, taunting her. The trees had not yet acquired their full complement of leaves, but there was a distinct haze of green, and the small trunks were clustered closely enough that she could not see very far ahead. About thirty yards in she passed carefully through a great rip in an old chain-link fence. A little gully rose swiftly to level out behind a small stand of pine, beyond which she could make out the house, about a hundred feet away. She flinched violently when several sharp bangs issued from somewhere within the walls. So much for everybody talking this through, but who was shooting at whom?

Ana made her way behind the pines to the front of the house. Two cars sat in the long drive, and the front door stood half open. She moved quickly, in a long curve that would let her use the vehicles as cover. As she went from one to the next, her eye caught a figure slumped in the backseat of the black Marquis. An old man in a raincoat, with a blanket across his lap and a fedora pulled down over his eyes. His head lay still against the seat. Was he dead? She lifted the silver handle and the door popped open. Then she crawled over the seat to him. Ana had met Andreas only once, but she recognized him easily as she slipped back the fedora. Straight-nosed and sunken-eyed. Two days before he had seemed too young to be Matthew’s grandfather, but now he looked very old indeed. His dark eyes opened slowly and tried to take her in, but then closed again. He was ill, wounded, or drugged. She pulled the blanket aside and saw that his hands were bound, the fingers white from the loss of circulation. There was no obvious sign of harm.

She needed to get inside and find Matthew but didn’t feel she could leave Andreas alone. On the car floor was a bottle of spring water, and Ana snatched it up and wrenched off the white cap, putting a few drops on Andreas’ dry lips. His licked at them and coughed.

“Mr. Spyridis, try to wake up.”

She applied cool handfuls to both sides of his face, and he murmured some complaint. She shook him gently, then more vigorously. When she slapped his cheeks with more cool water, his hands sprang up out of his lap, fingers laced together in one strong fist, and just missed striking her under the chin. She slid back several feet.

“Mr. Spyridis, listen to me. It’s Ana, Matthew’s Ana. Matthew is in the house. Do you understand?”

He was looking at her now, confused and suspicious, but nearly awake.

“Matthew’s in the house,” she continued. “And Benny. There’s been shooting. What? What did you say?”

“Where is Müller?” he rasped.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Del Carros.”

“I’m not sure. Did he bring you here? Is Jan with him?”

“Yes.”

“Can you stand?”

Andreas shrugged. She moved swiftly around the car and dragged him out by the door facing the house. He could not keep his feet without assistance, and slumped against the vehicle. What the hell good was he in this condition? She grew impatient trying to understand him.

“What are you saying?”

“Weapons,” he snapped.

“I don’t have any.”

The old man sighed, taking great mouthfuls of cool spring air, blinking.

“Search the car,” he commanded.

But there was nothing to find, no gun under the seat or in the glove compartment, no keys to open the trunk. Ana worked for several minutes to free the cord from the old man’s wrists, feeling fear claw its way back to the top of her emotional free-for-all.

Andreas massaged his liberated hands and looked to the open front door.

“Wait here,” he whispered, then moved toward the steps, stumbling, ridiculous. She nearly let him go, then ran after him, sliding her shoulder under his left arm for support, and they went purposely toward the door, until their progress was abruptly halted.

Ioannes stood against a bank of budding mountain laurel at the rear of the house and watched the burly, surefooted man slip in the back door. He had seen the man come out of the tree line and move swiftly and silently across the lawn, looking in all directions and yet never seeing the priest. More men had pulled up in front of the house some minutes before, just as Ioannes had gotten out of the car to stretch, and he had thought it wise to get out of sight. How many were in the house now, or who they all were, he could not guess, though there were at least two factions, since they were shooting at each other. Either no one had seen him yet, or nobody cared that he was there. Just a priest, after all.

The boy had probably been killed, Ioannes considered, sadly. These were dangerous men, and young Matthew was an innocent. His chances in the midst of this deadly cross fire did not seem good. It was all happening again, yet again. Ioannes would have to pursue his own solution. As quietly as he was able, he followed the big man into the house.

Instantly, before he even passed through the kitchen door, he heard two more loud shots, close together, to his right. The big, bearded man backed into the room from that direction, looking before and behind in quick succession, a large pistol in his hand. His gaze fixed Ioannes for a moment, but then slid past. He turned quickly and moved across the large kitchen, slipping through another door and into the dining room beyond.

Ioannes considered whether he might have become invisible to his enemies. This had happened before, during times of great need, and it would seem to reaffirm the necessity of his mission. Such power was not granted for no reason, certainly not to preserve the life of a weak, sinning priest. No, he had been delivered to this place, quite unexpectedly, for some purpose. He was an instrument. They were all of them instruments, poor blind fools.

His mind and spirit began to hum in a sweet unison. His feet moved him across the kitchen, stopping before the huge gas range. There was a smell of gas in the air, and he noticed that one of the dials was not in the off position. This kind of carelessness offended his sense of order. The voice in his head spoke just as his hand reached the dial, and he paused a moment to absorb the message. Yet only a moment; thought was the destroyer of action. He turned the dial to the high setting, without igniting the gas. Then he turned the other three dials as well, all four silver burners throwing invisible fumes. He waited a minute or so until the odor was strong, then stepped back. Was it enough? He went around and squeezed his arm into the space behind the stove, pulling hard on the narrow tube he guessed was the gas line, loosening it-did it hiss?-but not breaking it clean. He removed his arm. By the sink was a large bottle of industrial cleaner, which Ioannes emptied over the counters and floor. The noxious smell was now making him quite dizzy. What next? On impulse he followed the bearded fellow into the dining room.

The man was crouched by the long, dark table, gazing fixedly into the hallway beyond. He had clearly been there for some time, listening, waiting. He must be warned of what was about to happen, and Ioannes took a step forward, the floor beneath him groaning softly. The big man came out of his crouch and turned, finger to his lips and gun hand fiercely gesturing the priest back into the kitchen.