She had almost convinced herself she could take the risk of entering the shelter when the fancy silver-gray car pulled up to the curb and stopped.

Loring had climbed out from behind the wheel. He was wearing a jacket, dark glasses and a baseball cap, not his white lab coat, but she would have recognized him and his powerful aura anywhere.

Terrified that he might notice her in the doorway, she had pressed herself against the wall and looked down at her feet so that he would not catch her eye. Even regular people who lacked the second sight could sense when they were being watched. Loring was not a regular person. He was one of the monsters.

When he had disappeared inside the shelter she had known she was in serious danger. Someone would tell him that a street lady named Marge who matched her description always showed up on tuna fish casserole day.

She had grabbed the handle of the wheeled suitcase that held all her worldly possessions and lurched out of the doorway. She had managed to slip into the garage behind a car that had disobeyed the big sign instructing drivers to wait until the security gate had closed. Once inside it had been a simple matter to hide in the stairwell.

A couple of weeks back a man from the Foundation, Slater Arganbright, had given her a card. He’d told her that if she ever felt threatened by someone from Riverview she was supposed to call the number on the card.

She had escaped from Riverview a couple of months ago and she had been doing okay on the streets of Seattle ever since. Her ability to see auras made it possible for her to avoid the real crazies and the monsters. But she lived in fear that Delbridge Loring and the clones who worked for him would track her down, kidnap her and take her back to the locked ward at Riverview. If that happened they would shoot her full of drugs again. She didn’t think she could survive any more of their damned experiments.

At dawn, one thing had become crystal clear. It was time to call Las Vegas.

She waited until one of the day shelters opened at six thirty. It was a nice place that offered coffee and doughnuts. It also provided a telephone.

She called the number on the card. A man with a deep, reassuring voice answered on the first ring.

“This is Lucas Pine,” he said.

Marge gripped the phone very tightly. “My name is Marge. From Seattle. A man named Arganbright gave me this number a while back. He said I was supposed to call you if the damned doctor or his clones from Riverview came looking for me. Well, the monster is here so I’m calling.”

“Hang on, Marge. I think you should talk to Victor Arganbright.”

A couple of beats later another man came on the line. He didn’t sound as warm and polite as the one called Pine. Victor Arganbright was gruff but not mean. His voice was that of a man with a lot on his mind.