Patrick Corley—or whoever this might be—following him, boldly watching him, represented a threat that suddenly seemed intolerable.

Through sunlight and tree shadows, along avenues of the dead, up mortal slopes, across the considerable acreage, Corley moved as quickly as a young man. He disappeared over the top of a hill.

When David reached the crest, beyond the last graves, he came to a gate in a chain-link fence. A sign identified the property beyond as being Future Development for the memorial park.

Groundskeeping equipment occupied a corrugated-metal building where two double-wide garage doors were raised. At a larger, similar structure, a man-size door stood open. Neither Corley nor anyone else was in sight.

David went to the second building and peered inside. Pale light revealed metal racks of landscaping supplies on both sides. Toward the back of the room, a door stood ajar, a brighter space beyond it, luring him.

He passed bags of fertilizer, boxes of grass seed, cans of insecticide and fungicide. Eased open the second door. An office. Maybe that of the head groundskeeper. Nobody. A door to a bathroom was open wide. No one in there.

When David turned from the threshold to leave, he came face-to-face with Patrick Corley, who crowded him backward into the office. “Stay away from her.”

“Hey, hey, back off,” David warned.

Estella Rosewater had described Corley as gentle, kind; but the contractor’s face was wrenched by demonic anger, his teeth bared as though to bite. If he’d died in that supermarket, which he obviously had not, he was alive now, energized by rage, his eyes glinting like eviscerating blades. “You don’t know who she is, what she is. You don’t know anything.”

“And you don’t own her. My God, you’re old enough to be her grandfather.”

Corley shoved hard, and David staggered backward, almost fell, grabbed at the desk to steady himself. The guy was strong.

“This isn’t about sex, shithead. This isn’t about that at all. This is something bigger than you’ll ever understand, Thorne. Stay away from her or you’re finished, I’m finished, she’s finished. If she doesn’t stay focused on her work, we’re all dead.”

As he loomed closer, Corley withdrew something from beneath his jacket and thrust it at David.

Knife!

No. Evidently it was some kind of Taser. Every nerve fascicle in David’s body short-circuited. Bright pain scissored through him, and he collapsed. As he thought, The sonofabitch isn’t wearing a watch, darkness washed over him.

When he woke, he tasted blood. He had bitten his tongue.

He was alone in the office.

His strength returned. He got onto his hands and knees, rose to his feet, and stood swaying until a brief dizziness passed.

Warily, he made his way out of the office, through the storage room, outside. He went to the chain-link fence. No sign of Corley.