I drove up to the white gate. It took a long time to find the card key, even longer to slip it in the slot. Moving the truck up the drive, I counted cypress trees in an effort to settle my mind on something.

I parked next to the Seville and we got out.

The dog didn't rush out to greet us.

I fumbled with the key to the front door. Turned it. As I walked through the door, something cold and hard pressed against my left temple and a hand reached around and clapped me hard on the right side of my head.

Immobilizing my skull.

“Hello, doctor,” said a voice from a chant. “Welcome to Bad Love.”

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER

32

He said, “Don't move or speak, pardon the cliché.”

The pressure on my temple was intense. Strong fingers dug into my cheek.

“Good,” he said. “Obedient. You must have been a good student.”

Dig.

“Were you?”

“I was okay.”

“Such modesty—you were a lot better than okay. Your fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Lyndon, said you were one of the best students she ever had—do you remember Mrs. Lyndon?”

Squeeze and shake.

“Yes.”

“She remembers you . . . such a good little boy . . . keep being good: hands on head.”

As my fingers touched my hair, the lights went on.

One of the couches was out of place, pushed closer to the coffee table. There were drinks and plates on the coffee table. A glass of something brown. The bag of taco chips Robin had bought a couple of days ago was open, crumbs scattered on the table.

Making himself comfortable.

Knowing we'd be gone for a while but would come back, nowhere else to go.

Because he'd used the fire to flush me out. Used the time to prepare the scene.

The ritual.

Choreographing death.

Firesetters and felons . . .

I considered how to get at him. Felt the pressure, saw only dark sleeve. Where was Robin?

“Forward march,” he said, but he continued to hold me still.

Footsteps on marble. Someone walked into my line of sight, holding Robin the same way.

Tall. Bulky black sweater. Baggy black slacks. Black ski mask with eye holes. Shiny eyes, the color indeterminate at this distance. He towered over Robin, gripping her face and forcing her eyes up at the ceiling. Her neck was stretched, exposed.

I gave an involuntary start, and the hand gripped my head harder.

Imprisoning it.

I knew where they'd learned that.

Bumping and scratching from the back of the house. The dog tied out there, behind drapes that had been drawn over the French doors.

Something else at Robin's head besides a hand. Automatic pistol, small, chrome plated.

Bump, scratch.

The voice behind me laughed.

“Great attack dog . . . some tight security you've got here. Alarm system with an obvious home run, one snip and bye-bye. Fancy electric gate a dwarf could climb over, and a cute little closed-circuit TV to announce your arrival.”