The two of them started up the pathway to the front door, their footsteps loud in the still of the night. The sky was charcoal dust, lightening to ash gray at the eastern horizon. Marge felt her heart race, glanced over at Benko. His face was slack and serious. She checked her watch. Five thirty-five.

They reached the front door. Marge knocked loudly. The Gestapo knock, she called it. They both stood at the side of the door frame, neither one expecting shooting, but neither one wanting to be taken by surprise.

No response.

“You sure he’s in there?” Benko asked.

“Saw him go in myself.”

“He could have slipped out the back if you was only watching the front.”

“Could have,” Marge admitted. “But I don’t think so. More likely he’s just sleeping soundly.” She only had to knock one more time before she heard the rustle of activity inside.

“Someone’s home,” Benko whispered.

“Yeah?” a deep, husky voice asked from the other side.

“Police, Mr. Duralt!” Marge shouted. “Open up.”

No response, then the scuffling of footsteps.

“God, he’s gonna be a schmuck about it!” Marge swore.

“Let’s break it down!” Benko said, getting ready to charge.

“Wait a second!” Marge held his arm, radioed the situation, then took a credit card and caught the lock. The door opened. Benko stared at her.

Marge said, “Sometimes the easy way works. Cover me.”

The living room was dark and quiet.

“Where did the sunnabitch go?” Benko asked.

“We’ve got to get to the kids.” Marge radioed in for backup through the front door, then said, “I’m going down the hallway, Charlie. You stay on my ass.”

“Got it.”

The center hallway was pitch-black. Marge groped the side of the wall for the light switch, found it, and flipped it up. She counted five closed doors that fed off the passageway.

She opened the first, found the light. A thousand Marges stared back at her. A mirrored room. In the center was Nautilus equipment, a weight rack filled with barbells and dumbbells and an Exercycle. She pushed back a sliding mirrored closet door. It was filled with sports paraphernalia—basketballs, handballs, rackets, fishing rods, baseball mitts, and bats.

No Duralt!

She closed the door to the room, then cocked her head in the direction of the next door.

A tiny bathroom illuminated by a night-light. She popped the main switch. The shadowed grays turned into blue foil wallpaper. The sudden whoosh of a ventilator fan. Empty.