"—Tish!"

With a strangled cry, she let the phone drop from her hand. It spun in mid-air and struck the pillow, tumbling over until it was aimed down the length of the bed, catching her lean, tanned body in profile.

A tall, slender man wearing a black Western shirt and the replica mirror mask straddled her, gripped the green bow in clenched fists and twisted it around her neck like a garrote.

Despite the mask, there was no doubt who it was.

"Barclay! Barclay, it's me you want, you fuck! Leave her out of this!"

Tish's eyes bugged toward the camera. Her face turning purple. Veins and cords in her neck standing out as she slapped weakly at the killer's arms.

Barclay turned his reflective face toward the phone, twisting the bow hard enough either the fabric would snap or the bow would cut right through her flesh.

Her trachea bulged. Her tongue rose from her mouth, wriggling in a soundless scream. Nipples rock hard now, and whether that was some psycho-sexual reaction or from the chill he didn't know and didn't care to pursue the thought.

"Let her go, goddamn it!"

She was helpless and he couldn't do anything about it, trapped bumper-to-bumper on the bridge. He tried pulling into a small gap between cars and the van beside him moved up, closing it. He slammed a fist against the steering wheel in impotent rage.

"Fuck!"

Tish stopped slapping the killer's arms, her hands falling limply to her sides. Her eyes were vacant, staring glassy at the ceiling.

Barclay let the fabric fall from his hands.

Her head rolled to the side. A tear spilled from each of her eyes, rolling over the bridge of her nose and down her cheek leaving black streaks of mascara.

The killer crawled over the mattress to the phone and picked it up. He peeled off the mask. The pieces of mirror tinkled lightly, reminding Martin of home—not Stratford but Barrows Bay, of the windchimes they'd had on the great big wraparound porch when he was so small the little island felt like the biggest place in the world.

Barclay grinned from ear to ear, breathing heavily. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, Marty. A trail of blood lies between you and me, mi amigo." The killer fumbled with the phone, looking dumbfounded by the technology.

Martin ended the call before Barclay could. Punched up Detective Lumsden's contact info and swiped.

The phone rang once, twice.

On the third ring, Lumdsen picked up. "Where the hell are you, Martin?"

"Where the hell were you? Where's your fucking police detail?"

"He called and said you shook him. I told him to go home. Another car's scheduled outside your building in—wait, has something happened?"

"He's at my condo, Lumsden. He's fucking inside my house, he just murdered my friend—"

"He...? Okay, I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't go up there without me, Martin. I'm serious."

Martin hung up.

Traffic thinned as he reached the exit.