"I'll get it."

"Good."

Harrison gathered up his laptop and belongings while she, grudgingly, packed an overnight bag. Then they drove to a restaurant in Cannon Beach, where they ate chowder served in hollowed-out sourdough bowls and watched the sun play tag with the clouds. She told him more about the meeting at Siren Song and that she had to work a couple of shifts, but he felt that she was holding back, that there was something more, a secret, behind the sadness in her gaze and the determined set of her jaw.

Once back at her house, they split up. She headed to Ocean Park, and he, though he didn't like it, drove on to Seaside to put in some hours at the Breeze, then to stop by his apartment for his pistol. All the while he was nervous and on edge. He told himself that Laura was safe at the hospital, that Justice wouldn't risk an attack where there were so many people around, so many cameras, a place the police would be monitoring.

He pulled into the lot of the Breeze. He'd been kidding, of course, when he'd told Laura that he'd been playing video games online. He'd really been working on the Justice Turnbull story, for two reasons: one, because he wanted to write it, but also two, because it was a puzzle that needed solving and Justice was a killer who needed catching. He wanted to be a part of that.

Currently, there was one piece of the puzzle that was nagging him. Justice's escape had been because he'd complained of some ailment that the staff at Halo Valley wasn't able to diagnose or treat. So he was being transferred to Ocean Park Hospital on Dr. Zellman's orders. Justice's illness now seemed more of a ruse than a reality. But how had he fooled the staff, and especially Zellman?

That conundrum was on his mind as he made his way to his desk, walking by the newsroom, where a television was mounted and Pauline Kirby's face was plastered all over the flat screen. Looking seriously into the camera, she was talking about the band of Seven Deadly Sinners and their crimes.

"She's really running with this," Buddy said from his cubicle.

"Whatever." Harrison wasn't really interested.

"Y'know, you really punched Noah Vernon's old man's buttons. The guy is going berserk! He's called and complained but Connolly loves it. Likes all the attention the Breeze is getting! Believes any publicity is good publicity. And Pauline hasn't let up an inch. Your story about Envy is just the beginning. She'll probably feature each of the kids involved, stretch it out, and get up close and personal, the whole human interest angle."

"Let her," he said, glad he was done with that particular article.

"Maybe she'll take some of the heat from the leader's old man. Bryce Vernon is threatening a lawsuit."

"Sounds just like him."

Harrison found himself wishing the Turnbull story would come together and, more importantly, the whack job would be caught and put behind bars forever. Until then, Harrison felt that Laura wouldn't be safe.

As Buddy took a call on his cell phone, Harrison tried to work, but he couldn't get Laura off his mind. He wondered how she was doing at the hospital.

She's fine, he told himself but couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Really wrong. She'd been so different today.

Then again, her life was totally out of control.

He put in a couple of hours on the computer, adding information to Justice Turnbull's file, printing out articles and blogs about the killer from his earlier spree, then drove to his apartment.

Traffic was thick and the sun was just setting over the western horizon, streaking the sky in shades of orange and magenta, leaving deep ribbons of color on the calm Pacific. He pulled into his parking space, between two faded yellow lines in the worn asphalt, grabbed his laptop, and hurried to his unit. From the long porch, the building offered a peekaboo glimpse of the sea, but he was so lost in thought, he made only a cursory note of nature's brilliant display.

Once through the front door, he realized he'd barely been in this-his home-in almost a week. In that time, his situation hadn't improved. In fact, more dust had settled, and the leaking kitchen faucet was still keeping up its slow dripping tattoo. The unopened boxes and crates seemed to mock him; the camping chairs with their cup holders were a joke. He compared his place to Laura's cozy little bungalow, and this cold, empty space that couldn't even come close to a bachelor pad came up short. Cream-colored walls with not a picture upon them, only nail holes left over from the previous tenant; a beige rug that showed wear down the hall; a bathroom so white, it was hard on the eyes, the strip of bulbs over the mirror and sink nearly blinding; his travel shaving kit and a faded green towel hung over the shower door the only signs that anyone resided here.

If you could call it that.

The one sliding door off the cracker box of a kitchen had a set of vertical blinds with several slats missing, and the almond-colored appliances were circa 1972.

"Retro," he muttered, walking to the bedroom, where the blow-up bed was covered with his rumpled sleeping bag. He'd managed to put some of his clothes into a small dresser. His one suit and a couple of sports coats and jackets were hung in the closet. On the top shelf, surrounded by boxes, was his locked gun case. He pulled the metal box down, unlocked the combination, and saw his pistol, a Glock he'd bought a few years back and never used. He picked up the 9 mm, loaded it, made sure the safety was on, then stuffed it into the waistband of his jeans.

"Locked and loaded," he muttered as he found a leather jacket, slid it on, and saw that it effectively hid the weapon. "Just like on TV."

He phoned Laura's cell, and his call went directly to her voice mail, so he didn't bother leaving a message, just left the apartment and locked the door behind him as he stepped outside.

Night had fallen. The security lamps were humming and casting the parking lot in a blue-tinged light. A few stars were just beginning to wink high overhead as he reversed out of his space and nosed his Impala toward the street. He planned on finding out when Laura's next break was, then meeting her in the hospital cafeteria. Just to assure himself she was okay.

He wended through the traffic and headed south along Roosevelt Drive, which was essentially the part of Highway 101 that wound through Seaside. On the outskirts of town, his cell phone jangled. Expecting to hear Laura's voice, he answered, "Hey."

Across the wireless connection, he heard a rasping, ominous voice. "You've been with the witch!" the caller intoned, turning Harrison's blood to ice.

"Who is this?" he demanded and, with a quick look in his rearview mirror, cut into the empty lot of a bank.

"Sssshe's the spawn of Ssssatan," the caller hissed, and Harrison's pulse started hammering. The caller was Justice freakin' Turnbull?

"Who the hell are you?" Harrison demanded, staring through his windshield and seeing nothing. His gaze was turned inward; his concentration on the caller.

"They all will die . . . all the witchesss who hide in their fortresss," he scoffed. "Ssssiren Ssssong . . . The sssisters think they're ssssafe." Then Harrison heard a smile in the caller's voice. "But they never will be, not until all of Satan'sss spawn are dead, their black sssouls going sssstraight to hell!"

"Turnbull?" he asked.

Click!

The phone went dead in his hand.

Jesus, what was that all about?

Immediately, he recalled the number, then hit the dial button, but no one answered. No voice mail picked up.

"Damn!"

Had he really been talking to Justice Turnbull?

Or could it have been a prank?

No way . . . The voice was too low, too deadly, too damned weird.

Psychotic.

Even now, his car idling in the bank lot, traffic rushing by on Roosevelt Drive, Harrison's skin crawled. Where the hell was the bastard? Why was he taunting him? Of course, he knew that some criminals, including killers, got off on the replay of their crimes in the press. They loved the notoriety. But it surprised him that Justice Turnbull knew him, had his number, for Christ's sake.

Then again, who really knew what went on in the mind of a psychopath?

Even those who purported to understand them could be fooled. Dr. Maurice Zellman was a case in point. He'd been so sure of himself, of his understanding of the maniac, that he'd let down his guard. And nearly lost his life in the process.

A little calmer, Harrison grabbed his wallet and found Detective Stone's card. He punched in the number of the offices of the TCSD, only to be told that the detective had left for the day. Not missing a beat, Harrison next dialed Stone's cell number. On the first ring, voice mail answered, and Harrison was forced to leave a short message telling Stone that Turnbull had called him and he had a cell number for the bastard.

Once more, as he pulled out of the lot, he dialed Laura.

Once more, she didn't answer.

He tried to convince himself that she was fine, just busy, that she wouldn't take his call while on duty. He also assured himself that if Justice Turnbull had done anything to her, the maniac would have bragged about it in his call.

Right?

"Son of a bitch." He pushed on the accelerator and risked a call to the hospital. An operator answered and he asked to speak to Laura Adderley.

"Just one second," the receptionist said, and a few minutes later a smooth female voice said, "Nurses' station, second floor."

"I'd like to speak to Laura Adderley. This is Harrison Frost."

"Ms. Adderley's with a patient right now. If you would like her to call you back . . . oh, wait." Her voice became more muted as she said, "Laura, there's a Harrison Frost on the line. He wants to talk to you," then, more loudly, "If you'll just hang on, she'll be with you."

Relief rained over him.

"Hello?" Laura's voice was a balm.

"Hey. Just thought I'd check in. Was wondering if we could have lunch or dinner or whatever your next break is."

"I just took lunch . . . I won't have another break until one in the morning. You still on?"

"About that . . . ," he said. Then, though he didn't want to worry her, he thought she deserved to know what was happening, so he explained about the call he'd received, finishing with, "It was anonymous, of course, but I've got a call into Stone, to find out to whom, if anyone, the phone is registered. It could be one of those throwaway cells."

"He's targeting you?" she asked, sounding coldly furious.

"I think he's looking for a little press, and that worries me because his need for publicity, to be on page one, might ramp up his anxiety, his need to do something to draw attention back to him."

"Like kill," she whispered.

"I'll keep you posted on what I find out, but be careful. I think you're safe at the hospital. So call me when your shifts are over, and we'll take it from there."

She hesitated.

"Laura?"

"You be careful, too. He's got your phone number."

"I told Buddy to give it out. I don't think Turnbull's interest in me is personal. It's you he wants."

"And my family."

"Yeah." He almost said, "I love you," but caught himself, surprised by how it had seemed so natural to say.

"You won't believe this," Stone said, an edge to his voice as he drove south toward the Zellman estate.

"What?" Dunbar asked, sounding far away wherever she was on her cell phone.

"The reporter, Harrison Frost, the guy we saw earlier. He claims he got a call from Justice Turnbull."

"What? Why?"

"Maybe he wants some publicity. Who knows? He's a psycho. But get this, Frost got the guy's cell number and I ran it. Guess who it belongs to?"

"Just tell me, Stone." She sounded exasperated.

"Dr. Maurice Zellman. I'm on my way there now. Should arrive in fifteen minutes. Frost is probably going to show up, but I told him to stay back. Who the hell knows what's there."

"Did you try calling the number?"

"No answer."

"What about Zellman's home phone?"

"That's the kicker. They don't have one. Everyone in the house has his own cell, and an answering service takes after-hours calls for the doctor. Helluva deal."

"No kiddin'. I'll be there in twenty. I'm-" There was a little gasp, and Dunbar sucked in a shaking breath.

"What?" Stone demanded. "Dunbar?"

"I think I'm going to throw up again," she said on a sigh. "I'm gonna have to pull over."

"You sick?"

"Probably pregnant. I'll let you know."

"Well, don't come to the Zellmans. I've got this one," Stone told her, surprised.

"Okay," she said and hung up.

Stone didn't have time to think about that as he took a corner a little too fast, his tires screeching a little. Was Turnbull holed up in Zellman's house? Had he stolen the doc's phone? Or had someone else called?

It seemed to take forever before he pulled into the drive and past the stone pillars guarding the gate which was still dented and lying open, the result of some unfortunate crash. Carriage lights blazed against the stone house. Cars were parked in front of the huge garage, and he wondered vaguely why they weren't locked inside it, especially after the son's Range Rover had been stolen.

He parked behind a BMW, then called again, trying both Zellman and his wife's cell. Again, neither call was picked up.

For a few seconds he surveyed the place, but it looked quiet and occupied, the lights glowing through tall windows. He phoned in his position with the department . . . just in case, then climbed out of the car and eyed the premises again. Still nothing looked out of place, the darkness shrouding the huge house on the cliff over the Pacific was to be expected. A porch light was on, so warily, with one hand on his sidearm, he walked up the front steps and rang the bell.

From within he heard the sound of classical music, then quick footsteps. A few seconds later a woman he recognized as Mrs. Zellman peeked through the windows near the door, then unlocked the dead bolt and pulled the door open slightly. A chain still kept the door from swinging free.

"Detective Langdon Stone, Tillamook Sheriff's Department," Stone said and flipped open his badge.

"Oh . . . yes." She managed a tight, worried smile. "What can I do for you?"

"I tried to call. Neither you nor your husband answered."

"Oh, my . . . well, the music is on in the house, and I was watching television in the den. I must not have heard my phone."

"Is your husband inside?"

"Yes . . . oh, and I'm sure you didn't reach him, because he's misplaced his cell. It's been missing for a few days now. . . ." She let her voice trail off, then asked, "Is something wrong? Oh, dear, it's that patient of Maurice's, isn't it? He's killed someone else or stolen another car or God knows what else!"

"Ma'am, I'd like to speak to your husband."

She was just rattling the chain when headlights swept across the drive, and Stone recognized Harrison Frost's old Chevy. The reporter killed the engine and sprinted across the lawn into the light cast by the exterior lamps.