Was she serious? Had his actions helped her to see the light? Robert edged out of his cover of pines, the blue tarp trailing after him like a bridal train or a king’s robe. The poncho hood wouldn’t stay on his head. He was soaked, rain pouring down his face and neck, and the poison ivy and bug bites were driving him insane. He could feel his .38 tucked in his waistband and realized he didn’t much like toting a gun.

Visibility sucked with all the rain and wind. Dr. Winter and Superman Callahan couldn’t possibly see him.

“If I come in,” Robert yelled, “you and Callahan are my hostages!”

“We are, anyway. Robert, you can’t stay out there. You can’t!”

That last sounded like she was desperate to save him. Like she didn’t want his death on her conscience.

Did she care, now that she knew it was him out here, drowning, in danger of being swept into the ocean? Maybe Callahan didn’t look so good to her, now that Robert had taken him on, drawn a little of his blood.

But he fought back any sympathy for her. Who did she think she was, inviting him to join her inside? Offering up herself and her boyfriend as hostages? Like she had the upper hand. He had the fucking upper hand.

He paused, fighting the poncho and the tarp so he could get to his gun, get it and his hand out in the open where he could start shooting. Did she really think he was so stupid he wouldn’t use the advantage he had? Stay out here when he could shoot them both dead and make himself a nice cup of tea and ride out the hurricane in the cottage?

He could kill her and Superman Callahan without reloading. Just do it. Get it over with.

No more fooling around.

Robert had no intention of waiting out a hurricane with two hostages who’d be looking for any advantage, any opening to slit his throat. No way. Forget letting the storm kill them. Forget prolonging the pleasure of their misery. They had to die now. He had to do it.

Then he’d have the cottage to himself. After Hope, he’d find a way out of there before anyone found the two bodies he left behind.

He used the lack of visibility to his advantage and headed toward the cottage, gun drawn, ready to fire.

* * *

The wind grabbed the front door and almost ripped it off its hinges, but Hank was prepared and managed to latch it before it gave him away. He stayed low, out of Robert Prancer’s line of fire. He seemed to be in the line of trees off to the side of the cottage. A good position, one that he could hold indefinitely if not for the oncoming hurricane.