In the fourth, he found Dulac.

The room was nominally a bedroom, although it had no egress window, so Hazard was fairly sure Rasmussen was violating at least one building code. Two twin beds took up most of the space; Dulac was asleep on one of them.

Hazard drew the Blackhawk and leveled it at the sleeping man. “Get up.”

Dulac drew slow, even breaths.

“Dulac,” Hazard said more loudly. “Get the fuck up!”

Those same slow breaths were the only sound in the room.

Hazard could only see one of Dulac’s hands; the other was hidden by the angle of his body. If Dulac were faking, he was doing a fantastic job, but Hazard couldn’t believe the man had slept through his shouting. Hazard moved into the room, sliding along the wall, his gun trained on Dulac. One step. Then another. Then another. If Dulac were faking, would he move now? Would he twist, bringing up a Beretta, and squeeze off a couple of rounds? Or would he wait until Hazard got closer?

On the next step, Hazard could see Dulac’s other hand. It was empty too.

“Don’t move,” Hazard said, forcing himself away from the wall and taking the first step toward the bed. “Don’t so much as fucking twitch.”

Nothing.

A hot, prickling flush moved into Hazard’s face. He’d never had a perp play this kind of game before. He closed the distance in a few quick steps, ready for Dulac to spring a surprise, but nothing happened. When Hazard reached the bed, he dug the muzzle of the Blackhawk into Dulac’s temple.

Dulac’s head rolled to the side.

“For the love of fuck,” Hazard muttered. He studied Dulac for another moment, and then he holstered the Blackhawk and patted Dulac down. No weapons; nothing hidden on him. The younger man was wearing athletic shorts and a tee. Low on his neck, almost where it joined his shoulder, Hazard found a nasty puncture wound.

Realizations came in like a flood:

Dulac wasn’t asleep; he was drugged.

Dulac hadn’t abducted Mitchell and Nico and disappeared; Dulac had been kidnapped himself.

Dulac wasn’t the Keeper.

The disappointment was mixed with a shocking amount of relief.

For a moment, Hazard did the mental equivalent of a doggie paddle, just trying to stay afloat as his assumptions about the case shifted again. He tried to think back to the video footage, tried to remember if there had been any hint that Nico or Mitchell might have been in Rasmussen’s car too. Then he realized he was wasting precious time. He rolled Dulac onto his side, squatted, and dragged Dulac’s weight forward. He was adjusting the younger man over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry when he heard steps upstairs.

Rasmussen was home.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

JULY 5

FRIDAY

3:11 PM

A FOOTSTEP SOUNDED above Hazard, and then another. Regular, even steps as Rasmussen moved through the house. Then the noises stopped, and he knew she had realized something was wrong. Hazard rolled Dulac back onto the bed, unholstered the Blackhawk, and dragged out his phone. It was still off, so he powered it back on: the dull illumination of the screen, then the manufacturer’s logo, then, finally, the lock screen. From upstairs, he still heard nothing. He called 911, set the call to speaker, and tossed the phone on the bed. When the dispatcher came on the line, Hazard said someone was in the house trying to shoot him, gave Rasmussen’s address, and lowered the volume on the call. He hoped the dispatcher would stay on the line, in case Rasmussen said anything incriminating, but he didn’t want the dispatcher’s voice to give him away.