Another thunderous crack got the crowd running in all directions, ducking for cover, screaming, pushing each other. Diving behind parked cars and bolting down the sidewalks.

Sparks erupted from the statue of the little girl. The bronze gonged like a bell.

The bullet was closer that time. Close enough for Martin to feel the wind of it, for bits of shrapnel to pepper his lower legs.

He looked up to where he thought he'd heard the shot. A glint of light flashed on the bookstore roof. Not a muzzle flash but a brief reflection, likely from a scope. Two shadows lay huddled against the eaves.

Mavis caught his gaze and followed it. She blinked away tears and scowled at the shooter.

Ethel groaned softly. Her lips moved, as if she was trying to speak. A delicate bubble of blood formed between them and popped.

With her brains blown half out of her head and her eyes somewhere on the surrounding pavement, her mind was still alive. If any doubt lingered as to her supernatural origin, it was gone now.

Mavis leaned over her living corpse to listen.

Another blast cut through the night. The muzzle flash brightened the roof for a split second, making the shooter's partner visible. From the distance Martin still couldn't make out if it was a man or a woman.

The bullet struck Mavis's hat, launching it clean off her head, revealing the sparse white hair and pink scar tissue on her scalp.

Whoever it was had no intention of shooting either Sheila or Martin. They were after the Midwives. If Mavis hadn't lowered her head to listen to her friend, her brains would have painted the courtyard along with Ethel's.

She laid Ethel on the pedestal and stood. Stooped to pick up her hat, placing it on her head as she strode into the street.

"Big man with a gun!" she cried. Her voice was clear. Her stride straight and resolute. "Why don't you come down here and show us all how big you really—"

A bullet answered her taunt. It struck Mavis in the chest and exited through the back of her coat in a red spray.

The impact doubled her over. She spat a wad of blood between her patent leather shoes. Then she straightened, looking directly up at the shooter. Her gaze fierce. Her gait weaving slightly as she continued toward the bookstore, shouting despite the evident pain.

"Is that all you've got, Big Man? How brave, hiding behind a gun to put an old woman down like a dog in the street. How virile you must be—"

The next shot tore out her throat.

She spun on her heels, staggered two steps toward the monument, then dropped to her knees.

Her gaze fell on Sheila, then Martin. A gout of arterial blood splashed down the front of her coat. Her mouth opened as if she were about to speak.

Then she slumped forward. Her nose smashed against the asphalt, opening like an overripe fruit, but she was already dead.