"Get on your knees," a young man in uniform demanded.

"Hey, I'm the guy who called Stone! I-"

"Get the fuck on your knees and keep your goddamned hands in the air!"

Heart thudding, Stone aimed at the man looming in the darkened hallway. Go straight to hell, Turnbull!

"Dad?" a deep voice rasped. "Mom?" The dark figure stumbled a step, then pitched forward, falling into the light of the family room.

"Oh, no." Stone flew across the thick carpet to the spot where Brandt Zellman, wearing only boxer shorts, bleeding from wounds to his chest and neck, collapsed. But he was alive. Dragging in shallow, gurgling breaths.

"Jesus . . . Hang in there!" Stone said to the boy and heard the sound of sirens approaching. Oh, God, will they make it in time? "You hang in there." There was so much blood running from the jagged cuts on his chest and neck. Brandt had twisted onto his back, his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. Stone held the kid's bloody fingers. "I'm here. Help is coming."

The kid seemed to be fading away.

"No way, Brandt. You hang in there."

Stone heard the sound of tires screeching to a stop.

Thank God!

More sirens. Close now. Screaming.

Voices. Shouting. Angry commands.

Maybe they caught Turnbull outside. Get in here! Get the hell in here now!

The boy was fading away, his skin blanched white, showing the acne of his youth amid the thin stubble of his whiskers. "Brandt! I'm right here. Don't you let go." He gave the boy's hand a squeeze. "Help is here." Why the fuck aren't they coming inside? "You hang on. . . ."

He yelled toward the front of the house. "In here! For Christ's sake . . ."

From the corner of his eye, he saw two officers hurrying through the shrubbery, their pistols drawn. Then, as Dunbar looked through the window and caught a glimpse of the bloody scene inside, she sprang forward, through the open French doors.

"Holy . . . ,"she whispered.

"We need an ambulance!" Stone said.

"They're here." She was already heading to the front of the house.

As Stone gripped the teen's hand and kept offering up words of encouragement, he heard the welcome sound of footsteps.

"We've got him," one of the EMTs, a slim, dark-haired, small-featured woman, said.

"I don't know if the house is secure," Stone admitted, and two other cops began searching each of the rooms.

"We've got the reporter in cuffs," Dunbar said. "Found him outside with a nine millimeter."

She glanced at the body, turned a little green.

"He called in the crime. Turnbull phoned him."

"Still, he stays in cuffs in the back of the vehicle, till we sort this all out." She took a deep breath, then slid her partner a glance. "Let's let Clark Kent cool his jets for a while."

CHAPTER 41.

Harrison was gone.

Not in the bed, not on the settee, not on the floor, where a pillow and blanket had been left, not in the bathroom.

He was missing.

As was the gun.

Laura's heart went cold. She threw off the covers and noticed on the bedside clock that it was after nine in the morning. Quickly, she tossed off her sleeping shirt and yanked on her jeans and a sweater. With the distinct feeling that something was very, very wrong, she was starting out of the room when she heard his vile hiss: You're nexxxt, Ssisster.

She nearly tripped on the stairs outside the room.

She slammed up the wall before Justice could terrorize her any further, wasn't ready to get into a telepathic shouting match. . . .

Her throat was dry as she raced down two flights to the main level, where the scents of brewing coffee and cinnamon tantalized her nostrils. Three couples and a single man were already seated in the dining area. Two of the couples were laughing and talking, planning a trip to the nearby Astoria Column, a historic tower on the highest hill in the city, while the other couple was just finishing up, sitting across from each other at a small table for two and sipping coffee over their finished plates. The sixtyish single guy perused the sports section of a newspaper through reading glasses while absently picking at a gooey cinnamon roll.

Normal people, with normal lives . . .

Cloths covered the six tables; a bud vase with a single rose adorned the center of each. Upon the long sideboard, carafes of chilled tomato, apple, and orange juice stood next to the coffee urn and teapot. A woman wearing an apron and a bright, welcoming smile carried in plates filled with some kind of quiche, sausage, and the rolls.

"Excuse me, have you seen Mr. Frost, in three-oh-two?" she asked as the waitress left the plates on the table.

Her smile faltered and she shook her head as she headed toward the kitchen. "Sorry."

"Thanks." Don't panic. Just because he's not in the room doesn't mean . . . But the gun, he took the damned gun! Laura's heart was knocking, her mind racing to all kinds of awful scenarios as she stepped barefoot onto the front porch and jogged to the corner that overlooked the parking lot.

Rain was slanting from the heavens and gurgling in the gutters. Clouds were hanging low over the wide chasm that was the Columbia River, adding to the gloom.

Shrubbery fronds were dripping; the ground was sodden; the asphalt of the parking lot, slick with rain.

And Harrison's car was gone.

"Damn it," she muttered and turned on her heel. She hurried through the thick front door and raced up the stairs, running up the two flights to their room. Finding her cell, she checked for messages. . . . Nothing. No voice mail, no texts. She punched out his number and, after four rings, heard his voice mail message. "It's me," she said, going quietly out of her mind. "Where are you? I'm-I'm still here at the B and B, but . . . just call me." She clicked off and felt a knot in her stomach.

Why would he have left without waking her or leaving a note or calling? "Come on, Harrison," she said, anxiety twisting her guts as she stared at the cell. "Come on!"

With the phone in her pocket, she packed her things, twisted her hair onto her head, and added a little make-up. Justice's vile message rolled through her brain. You're nexxxt, Ssisster.

She caught the edge of the sink to steady herself.

What the hell did that mean? Next? Did the monster have Harrison? Her heart filled with a new, dark fear. If Justice had wounded Harrison . . . or killed him . . .

Spurred by her thoughts, Laura grabbed her things and headed to her car. She thought of calling Kirsten but didn't want to worry Harrison's sister. Nor did she want to leave a message at the paper.

Climbing behind the wheel, she tossed her overnight bag into the backseat, then jammed her keys into the ignition.

Only to stop.

See her reflection in the rearview mirror, witness the mind-numbing terror in her own eyes.

So where are you going to go? What're you going to do? Harrison thinks you're here. If he comes back and misses you . . .

"He can damned well call!"

She turned on the car, flicked on the wipers, and rammed the Outback into reverse. Her heart was a drum, every muscle in her body tense, as she hit the brakes; then, before her vehicle had stopped rolling backward, she shoved it into drive and sped down the hill.

Harrison heard his cell phone ring but couldn't answer it, as his hands were cuffed and he was locked in the backseat of a sheriff's department cruiser that smelled of some kind of lemon cleaner, which couldn't quite mask the scent of vomit, probably from an arrest the night before.

He didn't have to see the readout to know that the caller was Laura.

She was awake and wondering where he was. New panic assailed him.

Stay put. Don't go anywhere. You're safe in Astoria.

Desperately, he yelled through the glass and tried to get someone to talk to him, to tell Stone that he was here, but he was left by himself as more cars arrived and, to his horror, he saw a vehicle from the medical examiner's office.

He did kill them! That whack job killed the Zellmans!

It seemed like hours before he saw detectives Stone and Dunbar walking out the front door, when it had been less than twenty minutes.

Serious faces, deep in conversation, they didn't notice. Dunbar said something Harrison couldn't hear. They stepped out of the way as a collapsible gurney was pushed through the front door to a waiting ambulance.

Harrison craned his neck as the gurney passed.

Zellman's teenaged son, Brandt, was lying pale as death, an EMT in attendance and holding an IV bag as the boy was loaded into the back of the waiting ambulance. Thank God. At least he was alive!

Stone looked up, spied Harrison in the car and, with a quick word to his partner, strode over. He unlocked the back doors. "Come on out," he said and, as soon as Harrison was on his feet on the drive, unlocked his cuffs. "You don't listen," the detective said, "but it's what you should expect if you show up at a crime scene brandishing a weapon."

"I know." Rubbing his wrists, Harrison heard the sound of a car's engine racing and looked up just as Dr. Maurice Zellman's black Lexus, headlights glowing, squealed to a stop.

"Oh, hell!" Stone was already heading toward the doctor's sleek car. "Stay put," he ordered Harrison over his shoulder as the doctor threw open the door of his car.

"Brandt?" Zellman whispered brokenly, his face ghostly pale, his eyes round in horror. "Oh, no, oh, no!"

"Doctor Zellman, if you'll get back into your car until we sort this all out." Stone was all business.

"Not Brandt. Oh, God, not Brandt. He'll be all right!" Disbelieving, he collapsed across the hood of his car. "Not Brandt. I . . . I have to go with him! I'm a doctor," he rasped weakly as Detective Dunbar crossed the drive to the Lexus.

The doors to the ambulance slammed shut, and an EMT got behind the wheel. Sirens shrieking, lights flashing, the ambulance took off, roaring down the drive.

Zellman appeared confused. "I don't understand . . . Brandt . . . son . . . I have to go with him. I should never have left. . . ." His eyes were dark with guilt. And then he swallowed hard, with difficulty, it appeared. He seemed dazed, almost a zombie. . . .

"Dr. Zellman," Savannah Dunbar said and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

"Oh." Blinking several times, he looked around. "Patricia? Where's my wife?" He cleared his throat and his eyes glittered. "What the hell happened to Patricia?" His gaze was nearly accusatory as he glared at the detectives. "What did that bastard do to her?" He glanced from one of the cops to the other, then collapsed to the ground. "He said he'd get me.' That's what he said. And I knew . . . oh, dear God." His voice was nearly mute.

"He threatened you? You never said?"

"Patient-doctor confidence," Zellman snapped, sitting on the wet pavement, rain plastering his hair. Then, less angry, he added regretfully, "And I didn't believe him. . . ."

"He was a convicted murderer," Stone said in disbelief.

Zellman's eyes closed. Then he seemed to gather himself and, with Stone's help, climbed to his feet again. "Where's my wife?" he whispered. "Patricia. I want to see her."

Harrison felt that little tickle of apprehension that was innate, an inborn response that came right before a devastating blow. Maurice Zellman felt it, too. His head was already shaking when Savvy Dunbar said, "I'm sorry, Dr. Zellman. I'm afraid I have some bad news."

Laura's cell phone rang just as she was driving through the north end of Seaside, trying to determine if she would attempt to locate Harrison's apartment or stop at the offices of the Breeze to see if someone had heard from him.

Eyes on the road, she dug through her purse, retrieved it, and flipped it open. Ignoring the fact that it was illegal to talk on a cell phone without a hands-free device, she answered, "Where are you? I was scared out of my mind that something happened . . ."

"Lorelei?" a fragile woman's voice said.

Laura's heart dropped like a stone.

"It's Catherine. You said to call if there was trouble."

Oh, no!

"What's he done?" Laura demanded, fear jetting through her blood as she remembered Justice's threat.

You're nexxt, Ssisster.

"It's Ravinia and Isadora," Catherine admitted, her throat catching. "Justice attacked them."

Laura's heart froze as she braked for a red light.

"He had a knife. . . ."

My knife, Laura thought, remembering her missing butcher knife in Justice's hand as he stood outside her kitchen door.

"I've been so wrong," Catherine said, her voice, barely a squeak, catching.

"Are they all right? Isadora and Ravinia, are they okay?" Laura demanded.

"I don't know."

"But they're alive?" Oh, please God.