“Say it,” the electronic voice demanded, and the muzzle dug into Hazard’s neck, grinding his face against the concrete.

“You won,” Hazard said. “You won, Mitchell.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

JULY 6

SATURDAY

5:44 AM

HAZARD WAITED FOR the bullet. The spotlights cut off. The only illumination came from an ancient security light, which projected a yellow, papery cone near the massive double doors that led outside. Hazard blinked, trying to adjust his vision to the darkness. The pistol jabbed him again.

“That was a guess,” Mitchell said.

“Not entirely. It was mostly a process of elimination, but you also got sloppy with the mailboxes. I should have put it together as soon as John told me someone was blowing up mailboxes. That was one of the first things you told him, all the way back when he was looking into Cynthia’s death. You told him that when you were a teenager, you blew them up when you got bored.”

“It was a fucking guess. You guessed.” Then, after a breath, “Those goddamn mailboxes. I knew I shouldn’t have done that again.”

“Let me sit up.”

“No. What did you tell me? You wanted to put a bullet in my brain or something like that. You can stay right there.”

“It was really smart,” Hazard said. “Really, really smart to make yourself one of the victims.”

Mitchell snorted. The rustle of clothing and the pop of a knee told Hazard the younger man had settled into a squat.

“We couldn’t figure out how the Keeper had escaped. We couldn’t figure out how he hadn’t left any physical evidence. It seemed impossible. Everybody leaves something. Everybody makes some kind of mistake. But not the Keeper. All we could find was evidence belonging to the victims.”

“I’m going to kill you, Emery. I’m impressed that you figured it out, but I’m going to kill you.”

“Because you won,” Hazard said. “I know. Let me sit up.”

A soft rasp came back, and Hazard visualized the sound as Mitchell’s finger worrying the composite grip of the pistol.

Without waiting for Mitchell to decide, Hazard held out his hands and very carefully rolled onto his side. Mitchell’s reaction was immediate: he brought the barrel of the pistol down hard, cracking it across Hazard’s face. The sight ripped open a line from Hazard’s temple to cheek, and blood ran down his face, touched the corner of his lip, the iron smell of it masking everything else.

But Mitchell didn’t shoot. He just stood and shuffled back, the gun still pointed at Hazard, and said, “You do what I tell you to do. Understand?”

Hazard nodded. Mitchell looked . . . alive. That was the only way Hazard could describe the flush in his cheeks, the glow in his eyes, the intensity of his expression. Nothing had really changed about Mitchell. He had the same watery blue gaze, the same fiery hair. But now he looked fully awake and alert, as though every other time Hazard had seen him, he had been half asleep. The gun, pointed at Hazard’s chest now, was a massive semi-automatic. This close, Mitchell wouldn’t have to worry about aiming; if he hit Hazard anywhere, a bullet that big would take care of the rest.