The footsteps were getting closer to the cabin, powerful footsteps, first through brush then on dirt then on the wooden steps leading up to the cabin. Moving slowly. To Rhyme they seemed more leisurely than cautious. Which meant they were confident too. And therefore dangerous.

Lincoln Rhyme struggled to lift his head from the couch but couldn’t see who was approaching.

A creak of floorboards, and Rich Culbeau, holding a long rifle, looked inside.

Rhyme felt another jolt of panic. Was Sachs all right? Had one of the dozens of shots he’d heard struck her? Was she lying somewhere injured in the dusty field? Or dead?

Culbeau looked at Rhyme and Thom and concluded they weren’t a threat. Still standing in the doorway, he asked Rhyme, “Where’s Mary Beth?”

Rhyme held the man’s eyes and said, “I don’t know. She ran outside to get help. Five minutes ago.”

Culbeau glanced around the room then his eyes settled on the root cellar door.

Rhyme said quickly, “Why’re you doing this? What’re you after?”

“Ran outside, did she? I didn’t see her do that.” Culbeau stepped farther into the cabin, his eyes on the root cellar door. Then he nodded behind him, toward the field. “They shouldn’t’ve left you here alone. That was their mistake.” He was studying Rhyme’s body. “What happened to you?”

“I was hurt in an accident.”

“You’re that fellow from New York everybody was talking ’bout. You’re the one figured out she was here. You really can’t move?”

“No.”

Culbeau gave a faint laugh of curiosity, as if he’d caught a kind of fish he’d never known existed.

Rhyme’s eyes slipped to the cellar door then back to Culbeau.

The big man said, “You sure got yourself into a mess here. More than you bargained for.”

Rhyme said nothing in response and finally Culbeau started forward, aiming his gun, one-handed, at the cellar door. “Mary Beth left, did she?”

“She ran out. Where are you going?” Rhyme asked.

Culbeau said, “She’s down there, ain’t she?” He pulled the door open fast and fired, worked the bolt, fired again. Three times more. Then he peered into the smoky darkness, reloading.

It was then that Mary Beth McConnell, brandishing her primitive club, stepped out from behind the front door, where she’d been waiting. Squinting with determination, she swung the weapon hard. It slammed into the side of Culbeau’s head, ripping part of his ear. The rifle fell from his hands and down the stairs into the darkness of the cellar. But he wasn’t badly hurt and lashed out with a huge fist, striking Mary Beth squarely in the chest. She gasped and dropped to the floor, the wind knocked out of her. She lay on her side, keening.