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At first, she'd thought he must have somehow followed her to the University Medical Center, the way he'd somehow followed her to that lonely back street. But the psycho was hurt. And, even if he'd known she'd brought Matus here for treatment, he hadn't approached the building like a stalker. Her adversary had come here like a would-be patient with special connections. And then those special connections had turned on him and tried to kill him. Now, if she was right, the psycho was running. He'd probably go back for his car, which, since he'd come to the building from the north, was most likely in this parking garage or the neighborhood just beyond.

She shouldn't be going after him alone. She knew that. But it wasn't like Uncle Mad Dog and Captain Matus had given her a choice. They'd left her. Gone after him together. Maybe they'd gotten lucky and caught him and she'd just huddle in these bushes until the sun came up, or someone reported her suspicious behavior. Or she'd lurk here long enough to convince herself the psycho wasn't coming.

Getting out of the room with the dead doctor hadn't been hard. Once she resumed shouting, help came fast. After all, they were in the offices just behind the emergency department. And then, as soon as Uncle Mad Dog's patient was receiving real medical attention, she beat it. Went right back down that hall she'd entered by and out the door at the rear of the building. She hadn't paused to look back to see how things were going behind her because security forces and the police would be all over that office real quick. And once they got hold of her, she'd be off the street until this was over.

Heather checked her fanny pack, hoping a gun might have somehow gotten in there when she wasn't looking. No such luck, of course. She didn't even have her can of pepper spray. She must have left it in her purse. Her weapons were all in the pockets of her jeans—a miniature Swiss Army knife, pink handle and all, and two sets of keys. Her rental car's and the ones for Matus' 4Runner. And her badge. Not what she wanted to go up against a man who'd promised her such elaborate and twisted tortures a short time before. But he
was
hurt. He'd been holding one hand with the other when that guy in the scrubs led him into the hospital. And she'd held her own against him while he was still healthy. For a little while, at least. It made her feel better until she remembered that the psycho, while hurt, had just crushed one guy's larynx, killed another with a syringe, and gotten out of the room before she and Mad Dog and Matus, not that far behind, could get there.

And then none of that mattered because there he was, on the sidewalk that led from the hospital. He held his injured hand to his abdomen, as if even letting it hang and swing normally was seriously uncomfortable. His cell phone was in his good hand and to his ear. As he went by, he was issuing quiet orders to whoever was on the other end of that call.

“…everything you can get me that might link….”

The night breeze rustled the leaves of the bushes she was hiding behind and that was all she caught.

Now what? Maybe she should have tried to take him while they were close to the emergency room—where she might have attracted attention and gotten help if things didn't go well. But what-ifs and might-have-beens were useless now. She could go back for help and probably lose him, or….

She chose column B, slipping from behind the shrubbery and onto the sidewalk. He was walking fast, seemingly involved in his conversation and not concerned about being followed. She sprinted to the stairway at the end of the garage and ducked in there. When she peered out, he was entering the neighborhood. It was darker there. Not so many street lights.

He was good, she knew that. But maybe he was too good, or thought he was, and that would prove his fatal weakness. Maybe he was so certain he had gotten away and was clear that he didn't think he needed to check behind him. Maybe she really could take him. Or find out where he was going and call for help.

A brick wall separated the loop road around the hospital from the neighborhood. Heather made that her next stop. She crept to the corner and checked for him again. He was out of sight. He'd gone around a nearby street corner, but he wasn't far because she could still hear the low murmur of his end of the phone conversation. She picked some promising bushes and sprinted. He was about half a block down, opening the door of a generic Japanese rental car. The dome light didn't come on after he opened the door. This guy thought of everything.

What now? He had disappeared into the car but the driver's door was still open. If she could get there quickly and quietly enough, she'd come up on his left side—his bad hand. That, and being behind the wheel, would limit his ability to defend himself. She could probably kill him quickly enough—crush his throat the way he had for that man in the hospital, or drive his nose cartilage straight into his brain. But she wanted him alive. If only she had the pepper spray.

She crossed the street and began closing the distance between herself and that open door. She was a car length behind when she heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol's hammer being cocked. She turned and there he was, just on the other side of the car. His gun was centered on her chest. He'd known she was behind him all along.

“You're good,” he said, echoing what she'd thought about him only a few minutes before, “but not as good as you think. That can get you in real trouble.”

She was considering whether she should dive forward or backward, and where she might run that would minimize the chance of him hitting her with at least half a dozen opportunities. Her plans changed when he let the hammer back down and slipped the weapon in his belt.

“I was going to hurt you very badly,” he said as casually as if they'd just sat down over triple espresso shakes at the neighborhood coffee house, “and I would have enjoyed it. But now, things have changed. I think we're on the same side.”

“No way.”

“Oh, yes. The client who hired me to hurt you, and frame your uncle, just put out a hit on me. That changes everything. Now, you and I need to cooperate, share information.”

He couldn't have surprised her more if he'd broken into a soft-shoe routine. Actually, that would have made some sense because she was already convinced he was insane.

“But we can't do it here,” he said, and she realized distant sirens were coming their way. “You found me. Unless I'm out of here soon, so will everyone else who's looking for me. So get in the car. Let's get out of here.”

“Are you kidding?”

He shrugged and walked around to the driver's door. “Suit yourself. I don't have time to argue. I know quite a bit about what's happened to your uncle. What's still supposed to happen to him. And to you. I'll tell you what I know and maybe you can tell me who might want it done. Then, when we understand who we're after, we can see about putting an end to it. Separately, of course. And each in our own fashion.”

He closed the door and started the car. “Sit in the back if you feel safer there,” he said. “And feel free to bring the wolf.”

Hailey bounded from behind a bird of paradise plant on the dark lawn near where the psycho had been standing. She nuzzled Heather's hand and then walked over and put claw marks on the rental car's back door.

Damn, Heather thought. In all those self-defense classes, the first thing they told you was never get in the car with the bad guy. Of course, they hadn't mentioned what to do if you could take a wolf along for support. There was only one way to find out. She opened the door and followed Hailey into the demon's lair.

***

English decided to set up a temporary sheriff's department in Doc Jones' section of the Buffalo Springs Medical Clinic. The choice was easy. Doc had two phone lines, cable for his computer, and he'd offered the keys to his place before transporting Miller's charred body from the courthouse yard to Klausen's Funeral Home where he would do the autopsy.

The sheriff had disarmed Miller's homemade bomb. He'd learned how to do that with Bouncing Betties while he was in the service. Then he took all the explosives out of the truck and locked them in his office safe. Mrs. Kraus gathered notebooks, telephone numbers, and her CDs for War of Worldcraft.

“Install that on Doc's computer and log in as soon as you can,” the sheriff said as he sent her out the door. “Fig Zit may put in another appearance. And check with that Worldcraft technician. He may have the list of accounts in our area by now.”

“Would that be before or after I contact the telephone company to get our calls forwarded to Doc's office?” Mrs. Kraus grumbled as she headed for her car. The sheriff didn't pay any attention because he was busy answering his cell phone. The incoming call had a Tucson area code so he took the call immediately.

“Parker, here,” a familiar voice said.

“Any word?”

“Oh heck!” someone said, poking their head into the sheriff's office. “This is gonna bust your budget.”

The sheriff turned to tell them to get out, that this was a crime scene. But it was Supervisor Macklin. Since Macklin was personally responsible for the budget cuts that prevented the county from having even one round-the-clock deputy anymore, the sheriff was inclined to tell him to get out anyway, but he didn't.

“No. No word,” Parker said, refocusing him on the phone.

“I was hoping you'd heard something. Things aren't going great. We've got nothing on your brother or Heather yet.”

“Really?” English was surprised, but not exactly disappointed. For some reason, he decided not to pass along what Heather had been through, or where. “I thought, with that APB your assistant chief put out on Mad Dog….”

“You heard about that, huh? I wasn't going to say anything.”

“Yeah, I know,” the sheriff said. “Bastard told me about it himself.”

“Watch your language, Sheriff,” Supervisor Macklin said. Not only was the man a political pain in the neck, he oozed holier-than-thou attitude. The sheriff would have popped the guy in the nose a couple of years ago if it weren't for his situation—losing his wife to cancer and bringing up two boys on his own. It was too much like what English had gone through.

Sergeant Parker said, “I would have gone to the chief to get that order rescinded, but he's out of town and unavailable. I don't like the way this is shaping up.”

This wasn't the time for the sheriff to learn about the politics in Tucson's police department.

“Last I heard from Fig Zit was a threat to harm Heather.” Parker didn't know about Fig Zit or War of Worldcraft and the sheriff had to take a few moments to bring her up to speed.

Then she said, “Hang on.” And didn't wait for him to agree. Parker just put him on hold for a frustrating minute.

Supervisor Macklin chose to fill the silence. “That crazy brother of yours deserves whatever he gets. And your snooty daughter….”

Parker came back on the phone before the sheriff could react. “I just got word of a murder at a local emergency room. And a second attempt. A doctor and a nurse. Not your family.”

The sheriff hadn't realized he was holding his breath until he released it.

“I'm on my way there,” Parker continued, “because two of the suspects are described as a big bald guy and a pretty young woman with a badge. I'll keep you posted.”

The sheriff started to beg her to ask the responding units to go easy on those two, but the phone was already dead in his hand. Parker really was on her way. He tried Heather's cell and got her voice mail. Her phone was off.

“Shit!” the sheriff muttered, clicking the phone closed and feeling, yet again, utterly helpless in the face of this distant emergency.

“Really, Sheriff. I'll thank you to watch your mouth,” Macklin scolded him.

That was it, the sheriff's last straw. His camel collapsed.

The sheriff maneuvered his walker toward the door. When he was face to face with Macklin, he stopped. “Yes, sir, I should probably do that. But in the meantime why don't you fuck off?”

***

“Wow! It's a boy.” Mad Dog said.

“Works out that way, about half the time,” the obstetrician said, holding the infant up so Esperanza could see him. The no-longer-pregnant but just-as-illegal alien reached for her son and took him in her arms. She looked at Mad Dog and said, “Thank you for coming back.”

Mad Dog hadn't intended to. Not that he'd wanted to abandon her, but he'd been hot on the heels of Fig Zit. Well, for a little while at least. And then he'd been sure Fig Zit had gone up a stairwell while Matus was sure the killer had gone down. When the door at the top was locked, Mad Dog went up another level and got thoroughly lost until he found himself face to face with one of the people who'd checked Esperanza into the hospital in the first place.

“Come on,” the nurse had said. “She needs you now.”

And Mad Dog had gone and held her hand. Now he wondered if he should maybe get it x-rayed in case Esperanza had actually fractured every bone below his wrist.

“That hurt pretty bad, huh?” Mad Dog said.

The obstetrician rolled her eyes and the nurse said, “Oh no. I think she kept screaming like that because she was glad to see you.”

“I was glad to see you,” Esperanza told him. “You may not think so, but having a good man like you, and a shaman to boot, it helped me a lot.”

Mad Dog shuffled his feet and beamed, and neither the obstetrician nor the nurse made another wisecrack.

“I hope you're not mad at me,” Esperanza said, “sneaking in so my baby can be a citizen. I just want him to be part of this great nation.”

Mad Dog was too psyched by the miracle of birth to consider immigration issues. “Course not,” he said.

A different nurse stuck his head into the delivery room. “Doctor, I need your attention out here for a minute.”

“Congratulations to all of you,” the doctor said, and smiled and left the delivery room.