The pressure in his head increased, and he opened his eyes. He knew Alice was close, probably out in the waiting room. He’d seen her earlier, hadn’t he? Then he remembered that he’d also heard John’s voice in the background. Why was John there, at the hospital? It wasn’t totally surprising, but it was a little odd. It was so late at night. Had she gone to get him after she’d heard word that Harry was in the hospital? Why hadn’t she called Chrissie Herrick instead?

He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the hospital, the undercurrent of humming machines, the distant chatter from the nurses’ station. Then he heard rushed footsteps along the linoleum floor, a progressive clack-clack-clack, some nurse in clogs hurrying toward a patient in need.

His eyes suddenly opened on their own, the sound of the footsteps bringing back the woolly memory of the man running away the night before. Something had been strange about it. What had it been? Then Harry remembered. The man he’d chased had looked like he’d been flapping his wings, and there was something else . . . Yes, it was the flat slaps of dress shoes hitting the asphalt. The man must have been in a suit, unbuttoned, and it was the suit jacket that was flapping as he ran. A too-big suit jacket. And he’d been wearing dress shoes, as well.

And Harry suddenly was sure that the man watching Caitlin’s motel had been John. He knew it. And it wasn’t just the suit, John’s constant uniform, it was also the size of him, the slope of one shoulder in the dim light. There was no doubt.

But why? If John was the one watching Caitlin, then he was the one who’d killed Grace, and also maybe his own father. It didn’t make sense. John was an old man. Would he have been strong enough to overcome Bill, and also Grace, a young woman? If he’d had a weapon, sure. Harry, in and out of fuzzy consciousness, kept imagining John’s strong hands and wiry frame, his body concealed by the loose-fitting suits.

A nurse came in to check on him. “Awake, I see?” he said.

“On and off.”

“How’s the head?”

“A little fuzzy, but getting better.”

“You’ll be glad to know your mother’s still here. We told her to go home, but she insisted.”

“My stepmother,” Harry said.

“Oh, right. She’s very concerned.”

“She’s awake?”

“No, she’s sleeping now. There’s a couch in the waiting room.”