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"Shut up!" I screamed, grabbing her hair and shaking her head. I rolled her over on her back and ripped the blindfold from her face. "Your husband doesn't look like this?!" I shouted.

"Orson." Her face turned white. "Why are you doing this to me? What are…"

"I'm not your husband, Mary. I'm his brother, and I'm gonna kill him, because he's a monster. You want to protect him, what does that make you?"

"I don't know what you're…"

"Turn over on your stomach."

"Why?"

"Do it or I'll kill you."

She turned over and lay flat on her belly. I held the gun by its short muzzle and crushed the back of her head with the hard, metallic handle. She let out a moaning gasp and was still.

My first thought was that she might bleed onto the floor, so I took the blindfold and pressed it into the back of her head. Only several drops of blood seeped through the white cloth, and I applied pressure until the bleeding stopped altogether.

A car pulled into the driveway, and I ran to the window. Walter's Cadillac backed in. He got out, opened the trunk, and returned to the driver's seat. I put the gun in my fanny pack and lifted Mary from the floor. Slinging her over my shoulder, I walked to the front door. By my watch, it was 5:15, and as I opened the door, I saw that the sky had deepened into a dark blue evening. Through the black-silhouetted trees, the first stars shined in the cold, night air.

I rushed down the steps, along the walkway, and stopped at the rear of the Cadillac. Setting Mary in the trunk, I slammed it shut and ran to Walter's lowered window.

"Who the hell is that?" he asked.

"His wife," I said. "I never thought he'd be married."

"Is she dead?"

"No. Get out of here. I'll call when he gets home. She said seven o'clock."

"I don't like this, Andy," he said. "We can't kill her. She might not know."

"She knows," I said. "Now's not the time. When the police come looking for them, the neighbors are gonna remember your car sitting in the driveway, so go. I'll call you."

Walter eased down onto the street, and I walked calmly back towards the house. Inside, I locked the front door and picked up the bloody dishtowel in the study. I'd clean up the glass before Orson came. I wanted there to be no trace of a struggle, no evidence that these people had been abducted save the simple fact they could not be found.

# # #

I tapped on the ivory keys and waited. The Steinway horribly out of tune, the notes hung awkwardly in the still air. I'd turned on three living room lamps so the house would look warm and inhabited, but that had been two and a half hours ago. Now it was several minutes past eight o'clock, dark outside, and still no sign of Orson.

I'd walked through the entire house--the upstairs, the first floor hallway and den, even the basement. Nothing here suggested Orson's taste for violence. I'd found no trophies, no hearts or photographs, not even a newspaper clipping concerning the Heart Surgeon. There weren't even indirect links such as horror novels, videos, or paintings. (In Orson's room in Wyoming, a William Blake print of The Simoniac Pope hung above his bed--a pen and watercolor of souls being tortured in hell). I couldn't understand it. I'd expected Orson to live alone, surrounded by the paraphernalia of his hobby. David Parker now seemed to be more than just a safe name. He was a different lifestyle, one separated, almost completely, from Orson Thomas.

A car came up the hill and pulled into the driveway. I took the walkie-talkie from my fanny pack and pressed the talk button.

"Go Papa," I said, but there was no response. "Go Papa," I said again as a silver Mercedes stopped behind the Lexus and its headlights went dark.

"Copy that," the radio squeaked. I laid the syringe and the vial of Meprobamate on top of the piano and took the Glock into my hands, now trembling. When the car door slammed, I grabbed the needle and tranquilizer and ran through the living room. Turning right, I walked several feet down the hallway and then left into a small den. A green, cloth sofa sat against