Not that George Bailey was spying on the deputy; he was far too busy using his new tools from the hardware store. A few more whacks of the hammer and the window was nailed completely shut.

Stiles snapped alert. It was even darker out now, fully night. He checked his watch—8:30 p.m.—as he reached for the scope and leaned it across the steering wheel.

No change at the culvert. Larry Hovi still waved from his hiding place. Then what had alerted him?

His eyes were drawn to the right, along the edge of the road. A shadow splashed across the shoulder and then it was gone. But a branch still swayed there.

The adrenaline began to pump, as suddenly as if he’d flipped a switch. He worked by rote: securing his combat vest, flipping the Uzi’s safety, making sure the Dome-Lite button was still taped down as he opened the door. He slid quietly into the night and glided through the trees toward the road.

Another veil of clouds was pulled across the moon. The countryside went almost pitch black.

Stiles crouched beside a tree and pressed his back to it and gave his eyes time to adjust. He was only a few feet from Sykes Road—the culvert was to his left, fifteen to twenty feet at the most. Hovi’s hand was beyond his view. He watched instead the other shoulder where the bushes had moved. It was still now.

Easy. Danner could be anywhere. Take it slow. Remember, he’s blind. You have the advantage.

He checked the clouds again to make sure they would cover him, then scrambled, low and spiderlike, across the road and into the underbrush on the far side.

He rolled to his feet, his ears perked like parabolic mikes, sweeping the darkness around him. There had been a footstep nearby but now there was no sound at all.

Listen.

There was something . . . breathing. Quick and raspy, either nervous or emphysemic or rattling through a shot-up windpipe. Did vampires actually breathe? He’d never thought about it. Alex was dead and he didn’t, but then again, since when did ghosts and vampires have to play by the same rules?

The breather took a step.

The bushes directly ahead parted. A hunched figure stepped past just as the clouds broke up and let the moon’s stunted glow spill through.

The soldier’s two quick steps crunched in the crepe-paper leaves as loud as gunshots. The stalker whirled about just as Stiles left the ground and the edge of his foot pistoned into its unprotected cheekbone with merciless force. The figure sprawled backward with a groan and the soldier was right on top of it, sweeping the Uzi across the prostrate form with a controlled, almost surgical burst.