Suddenly, the music turned softer. The door opened. The kid’s eyes did a quick assessment; she decided that slamming the door shut was her best bet. But Decker had anticipated her actions. Positioned well, he leaned forward, taking the brunt of the force on his shoulder—the one without the bullet scar. At the same time, he threw his weight onto the swinging slab of solid wood, and the door flew back open.

He went inside. He could stand up straight, but barely so. At certain points, the cave-room ceiling brushed against his hair, making it not more than six-five or-six.

Decker concluded that Mr. Frammel must be a short man.

The niche was big enough—about two hundred square feet. The floor had been finished with cork tiles, but the walls had been blasted from the raw mountain, giving the room a primitive caveman-era look. Any wall that wasn’t rock was glass. At one point, the room had been constructed to look as if the floor dropped out from under one’s feet, giving one an off-balance feeling of floating or falling—disconcerting but original; he gave Mr. Frammel that much.

The space held a bed, a TV, and a desk with a computer, modem, phone, and fax. There was a bookshelf that held more videos than novels, but there were some paperbacks, almost all of them in the true-crime genre. Lurid cases. Decker remembered some of them. He wondered if Mr. Frammel had hidden whips and chains somewhere.

Erin had locked herself behind a door—presumably the bathroom.

Decker turned off the blaring stereo. “Come on out, Erin. I’m here to help you.”

“You’re part of it. Go away!”

“Part of what?”

“His worldwide alliance—the New World Order.”

“I’m not part of anything.”

Erin was silent.

Decker thought a moment. “All right. If you feel safer talking from behind the door, then that’s okay with me. Just talk to me, okay?”

Several moments passed, then a full minute.

“Aunt Doreen?” The voice from behind the door was tiny.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, darling. Come on out. He’s…” She glanced at Decker, her expression sour. “I think he’s here to help.”

“You think?” Decker whispered.

She snarled back, “I don’t know who the hell you are.”

“Aunt Doreen?” she bleated.

“Yes, Erin. What? Come out, okay?”

The woman was growing impatient.

Decker whispered, “Maybe you should call up your husband or your sister.”

“And leave you alone with her?”

Decker took a step forward until he was almost chest to chest with the woman. “And you really think that you could protect her against me?”

She swallowed hard.

Decker stepped back. “I’m on the right side. Go make some phone calls to the police if you don’t believe me.”

The woman hesitated.

“Aunt Doreen?”

“What, Erin?”

“Do you think it’s okay?”