Hooking my arm around the couch, I fired the big black automatic blindly, trying to aim well above dog level. The recoil drove me backward. Something crashed.

Barks and growls and female screams.

I scuttled to the opposite side of the couch, squeezed the trigger, waited for return fire.

More screams. Footsteps. Human. Getting distant.

I hazarded a look around the couch, saw her heading for the front door, silver gun dangling like a purse.

Coburg still down.

Where was the dog?

Meredith was almost at the door now. The bolt was thrown—she was having trouble with it.

I rushed her, pointing the black gun, feeling the trigger's heavy action start to give.

Swift justice.

Screaming “Stop!” I fired into a wall.

She obeyed. Held onto the silver gun.

“Drop it, drop it!”

The gun fell to the floor and skidded away.

She said, “I'm sorry, I didn't want to—he made me.”

“Turn around.”

She did. I yanked off her mask.

Her face was trembling, but she tossed her hair in a gesture more suited for a teenager.

Blond hair.

My hand was still compressing the trigger. I forced myself not to move.

Jean Jeffers said, “He made me,” and glanced at Coburg. He remained openmouthed and inert, and her eyes died. She tried tears.

“You rescued me,” she said. “Thanks.”

“What'd you do with Robin?”

“She's fine—I promise. She's in there—go see.”

“Step out in front of me.”

“Sure, but this is silly, Alex. He made me—he's crazy—we're on the same side, Alex.”

Another look at Coburg.

His chest wasn't moving.

Keeping the black gun on Jeffers, I stooped and pocketed the silver one. Maintaining a clear view of her, I managed to pull a large, upholstered chair over the bottom half of Coburg's body. Not worth much, but it would have to do for the moment.

I walked Jeffers back to the bedroom. The door was closed. The dog stood on his hind legs, scratching at it, gouging the paint. An acetone stink came from the other side. Familiar . . .

“Open it,” I said.

She did.

Robin was spreadeagled on the bed, hands and feet tied to the posts with nylon fishing line, duct tape over her mouth, a bandana over her eyes. On the nightstand were the spool of line, scissors, nail polish, a box of tissues, and Robin's manicure set.

Nail polish remover—the acetone.

A used emery board. Jeffers had passed the time by doing her nails.

She said, “Let me free her, right now.”

I pocketed the scissors and let her, using her hands. She worked clumsily, the dog up on the bed, growling at her, circling Robin, licking Robin's face. Specks of blood dappled his fur. Diamond glints of broken glass . . . Robin sat up and rubbed her wrists and looked at me, stunned.

I motioned her off the bed and gave her the silver gun. Shoved Jeffers down on it, belly down, hands behind her back.