“That’s what I’ve been asking myself. I’d say they’ll be watching the doors and the windows down here. My better bet is upstairs.” He loosened the braid wound ceremoniously around the scabbard and used it to strap the sword across his back.

Deputy Bean propped himself on his good arm and called to Chris. “I still think it’s a damn fool plan,” he said, “and the whole thing leaves a dark brown taste in my mouth. But there ain’t much I can do to stop you. So what I can do is wish you luck. And if you come back in here with teeth to your knees, I promise to kill you proper.”

Stiles nodded and gave a thumbs-up, then left the parlor.

His mind was working, hatching a plan as he climbed the stairs to the darkened second floor. He’d surveyed the house while taking Mrs. Fleming around, and now used that knowledge to gauge his best avenue of escape. He couldn’t simply drop from a window, not in the open—it would be suicide. So that narrowed his choices to only two rooms, one in the front of the house and one in the back. Both had stout tree limbs within reach, and each had its advantages. The front window would be the riskier of the two, since the front yard was so well lit by the security lamp by the road. But it would put him out that much closer to the van. Perhaps it was worth the risk. He went there first.

The bedroom door opened to pitch darkness, thanks to the curtains that were still closed. But somehow Stiles sensed movement in there—the vibration in the air, or the whispery rustle of blanket and sheet. The bed. He turned and swept on the wall switch even as his other hand caught the hilt of the sword over his shoulder and drew it halfway from the scabbard. But the dim light of the overhead bulb showed the figure on the bed to be not some pasty cadaver but George Bailey. He was huddled back into the pillows and holding out a mason jar full of pee-colored liquid. In his other hand was a disposable lighter. The aroma of gasoline was heavy in the air and mixed with the stench of the garlic lining the window. The old man finally recognized Stiles and set the jar back on the nightstand, trying to slow his hyperventilating. The soldier just ignored him, went instead to the windows, and peeked past the curtains.

Through the limbs of the big elm out front, he could see the figures below, wandering around in the yard, calling out to the people in the house and mimicking what their dead minds recalled as enticing. A drunk offered a bottle he no longer drank from. A child held out his candy bar. A woman he recognized as Georgetta Stovall did a bump-and-grind just below the window in her jet black leather, rubbing her breasts and her crotch and moaning in monotone. Stiles found the scene distasteful and turned his attention to the van at the edge of the road, measuring the distance and the number of steps he would need, and the time. But then he noticed what he hadn’t before. Bailey’s window had been nailed shut. There was no way to break it loose without attracting attention. “Scratch one escape route,” he whispered to himself. “Only one left.” He started for the door.