Gorrie thought of taking the umbrella near the corner of the closet and smashing her with it, but he couldn’t tell how far she was away from him. There was also Nan to consider. So he complied slowly.

“What sort of accident will you dress this up as?” he asked, still facing away from her.

“Something will occur to me, I’m sure,” she said. “Slide the bag on the floor.”

“And if I don’t?”

Instead of answering, she reached forward and grabbed it from his hand.

His chance—he’d missed it.

“There have been reports of gas in the neighborhood,” she said, sliding something from the bag and placing it on the floor. “I don’t suppose they’ve found the leak yet.”

“They’ve already checked here,” said Nan.

“Incompetence is rife,” said the American.

“I wouldn’t think even my detective constable would accept the coincidence of six accidents so close together,” said Gorrie. He turned halfway toward her, about six feet away in the small room.

Not quite enough for a lunge.

“Into the kitchen now, both of you.”

Gorrie glanced toward his wife. The teapot was near her; if she could just pick it up, it might catch the American off guard.

Surely the woman’s reflexes were quick enough to kill both of them before the water even scalded her.

She’d kill them soon anyway.

But she wouldn’t shoot them if she didn’t have to. She wanted this to look like an accident, and the bullets might be found.

“The kitchen, Inspector,” said the American, sidling past him toward the door.

She wanted to lock it. She could just barely reach it and still cover them.

Not both at the same time. He had to do something quickly.

“Nan, the kitchen!” he shouted.

As the killer jerked her head toward his wife, Gorrie twisted around and sprung at Plower. The gun went off near his face, but he heard it as if from a vast distance away, muffled by his surging adrenaline. She was stronger than he’d guessed, far stronger, and the bulk at her chest had come from a special vest; he felt the hard panel with the first punch. He slammed his skull against her chin, felt a sharp pang at the back of his neck, pushed himself against her with everything he had, hoping Nan had the sense to run and save herself.

She didn’t. But it was quite likely the smash she gave the American with the hammer from their tool drawer was the blow that rendered her unconscious.

TWELVE - ROSS DEPENDENCY, SOUTHERN OCEAN (66°25’ S, 162°50’ E) MARCH 13, 2002

TWELVE

ROSS DEPENDENCY, SOUTHERN OCEAN (66°25’ S, 162°50’ E) MARCH 13, 2002

A STORM WAS COMING, AND THE PETRELS AND SKUAS were its outriders, brawling up from the bare sea cliffs in wild sprays of gray-white wings.