A dog was howling two or three houses down the street — a small wimpy dog, from the sound of it. Then a larger dog joined in. They sensed death, didn’t they? They knew he was here.

Shafer knelt beside a maple tree at the edge of the backyard. He stood in shadows while the moon cast a soft white light across the yard.

He slid the twenty-sided dice out of his pocket, then let them fall on the tufts of lawn. Here we go. Playing by the rules. Let’s see what the night has to offer. He counted the numerals on the special dice. They appeared fuzzy in the dark.

Shafer couldn’t believe what he saw. He wanted to howl like the crazed and bewildered neighborhood dogs.

The dice count was five.

Death had to leave! This instant! There could be no murders tonight!

No! He wouldn’t do it! To hell with the dice. He wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t. He was losing all impulse control, wasn’t he? Well, so be it. Alea jacta est, he remembered from his schoolboy Latin classes—Julius Caesar before he crossed the Rubicon: “The die is cast.”

This was a monumental night. For the first time, he was breaking the rules. He was changing the game forever.

He needed to kill someone, and the urge was everything to him.

He hurried to the house before he changed his mind. He was nervous. Adrenaline punched through his system. He used his glass cutter at first, but then just smashed in a small window with a gloved hand.

Once inside, he moved quickly down the darkened hallway. He was sweating — so unlike him. He entered Deirdre’s bedroom. She was asleep, despite the breaking of the glass. Her bare arms were thrown up over her head, the surrender position.

“Lovely,” he whispered.

She was wearing white bikini panties and a matching bra. Her long legs were spread delicately, expectantly. In her dreams, she must have known he was coming. Shafer believed that dreams told you the truth, and you had better listen.

He was still hard, and so glad he’d chosen to disobey the rules.

“Who the hell are you?” he heard, suddenly. The voice came from behind.

Shafer whirled around.

It was Lindsay, the daughter. She wore nothing but coral-pink underwear, a brassiere and briefs. He calmly raised his gun until it pointed between her eyes.

“Shhh. You don’t want to know, Lindsay,” he said in the calmest voice, not bothering to disguise his English accent. “But I’ll tell you anyway.”

He fired the gun.

Chapter 54