Back in the motel, I drank half the orange juice with two aspirins: that would do me as much good as another six hours in bed. The rest I put in

my day pack along with the small knife and the headlamp. I left a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door in case I wanted to use the room again, but I put all my stuff in the car: if my luck-and stamina-held, I wanted to drive straight home when I finished.

I was in one of the peaks of alertness that you sometimes reach when you’re basically exhausted. At the entrance to Coverdale Lane, I pulled the Mustang behind a bush. I wanted to approach Larchmont on foot-1 didn’t want the noise of my car to alert anyone who might be hanging around.

Five nights ago the trip had spooked me; the road had seemed endless, the night animals major menaces. Now I knew the area well enough that I jogged along. I was wearing my diver’s headlamp, but the moon outlined the road in enough ghostly light that I didn’t have to switch it on.

Movement loosened my muscles, helping the aspirin kick in. I stretched my arms. Some muscle between my shoulder blades gave me a stab of pain sharp enough that I winced. I hoped it was a muscle I wasn’t going to want again tonight.

Twice, cars went past and I ducked into the shrubbery. I thought about cutting across the fields, but I’d make less noise on the tarmac. I was betting Renee Bayard would wait until morning to call the sheriff, but I couldn’t be sure of it-the Wabash Cannonball moved fast, and if she thought her granddaughter was sheltering a murderer, she’d act at once. I was also betting Catherine wouldn’t try to slide out past her grandmother again tonight, but I couldn’t be sure of that, either.

When I turned up the Larchmont carriageway, I slowed down, stopping periodically to listen to the night sounds. Jogging had warmed me up; now I could feel the late-winter air against my back. A wind had come up, rustling the leaves and dead grasses, making me stop more often-in my nervous state, every noise sounded like someone moving through the underbrush.

When I reached the house, I first made a tour of the outbuildings, looking for any signs of other people. I had uneasy visions of Renee Bayard or the DuPage sheriff leaping out at me, but I didn’t see anyone. A loud crashing near the pond sent me to the ground, my heart hammering, but it was only a couple of white-tailed deer, startled into flight by my approach.

At last I crossed the yard to the big house, to the main entrance on the

west side, where white columns supported a domed porch. Without giving myself time to think it over, I ran the last twenty feet, jumped and grabbed the crossbar between the column capitals. The sore muscle in my shoulder protested, but I moved fast, bending my arms, pulling my body up, hooking my legs around one of the columns so my thighs were bearing my weight. I stuck an arm up to the edge of the dome, found a stone knob that I could hang on to, and heaved myself up, landing like a dying fish on the curved surface.