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They bolted toward the hotel entrance, then Julia yelled, "Wait! Wait! Not there. It's too obvious."

She scanned the narrow stores that occupied this half of the block. All the shops carried expensive jewelry, clothes, and objets d'art. Their facades were all display windows and glass doors, which led no doubt into tastefully sparse showrooms; none looked like a particularly shrewd place to hide. Certainly they had back rooms, but not necessarily rear exits.

"The hotel!" Stephen rasped. "It's the only way!"

"No, here!" Allen said, pointing at the curb.

"What?" Stephen asked.

"Yes!" Julia said. "Under the cars! Now!"

She dove into the space between two parked cars, pushed the gym bag under the front one, and disappeared after it. Allen shoved Stephen toward the car behind hers and shimmied under the vehicle behind that. Stephen hunkered down and slid into the narrow space. Something bit into his back, and he pushed closer to the asphalt, scraping his body along. He craned his neck to be sure his legs weren't exposed.

Through the slim opening between the high curb and the car frame, he witnessed the killer's head pop around the corner. Gone again. A second later, he swung into view, a silenced pistol extending from one arm. Failing to spot his quarry, he lowered the gun and stepped to the first display window. He moved to the next window, spinning around between the first and second to check the area across the street and down toward the hotel. He moved with fathomless agility, like water erupting from a fountain. He flowed past Allen, past Stephen.

A boy of about thirteen on a skateboard approached at top speed, the wheels of his ride clack-clack-clacking on the pavement seams. The killer's arm shot out. He grabbed the boy by the shirt and lifted him off the skateboard, which sailed on without him.

"Where are they, boy?" the killer hissed into the teen's face. "A woman. Two men. Where?"

"I . . . I . . . don't know what you're talking—"

He tossed the boy aside like dirty laundry. The kid tumbled on the cement, coming to a stop facedown. When he lifted his head, he was staring right at Julia.

forty-three

The boy's eyes were huge. His mouth quivered, and she

was sure he would scream out.

She raised a finger to her lips.

The boy rotated his head a bit, saw Stephen under the car behind her. He swiveled around to look over his shoulder. The killer was glaring into a store window thirty feet away. He turned again to Julia, frightened eyes staring into frightened eyes. With a slight smile, he hopped up and bolted away from the killer, toward his wayward skateboard.

More man in that hoy than I thought.

As the killer made his way toward the entrance of the Marriott-Knoxville, Julia tried to anticipate his moves. Would he assume they took refuge in the hotel? Would the lobby area occupy his time long enough for them to escape? Or would he simply threaten the valets for information, as he had the boy? Perhaps this time with his pistol— picking off one to motivate the others.

Yes, she suspected that was his style.

Even if no one had seen them dive under the cars, the valets would surely convince him that the three hadn't entered the hotel. He'd keep tracking them outside, eventually thinking to look under the parked cars.

So what to do?

A pebble bore into her elbow. She tried to push it away and knocked her head painfully on the car's undercarriage. Something warm and wet touched her scalp—blood or oil. No matter . . .

He was almost at the hotel entrance. Could she bear to see him sacrifice a life in his search for them? No way. A threatening move was all it would take to push her into offensive action.

Images of last night's firefight brought a dark cloud of pessimism to her thoughts. Acid roiled through her stomach, and her mind ached at the need to know how this man had survived, how he had come back. Even in the heat of battle, the perplexity of it pushed at her thoughts. Had last night really happened at all? Had she been hypnotized? Drugged? Was she going crazy?

Not now, Julia! she scolded herself. Focus. Focus on this killer— whoever, whatever he was.

He had turned from the window and was scanning the row of cars parked along the street, paying particular attention to the taxicabs closest to the hotel entrance. He stepped to the next store's window.

She fished something out of a side pocket of the gym bag, then twisted around to look back at Stephen. The big man was absolutely packed under the vehicle. Bits of gravel clung to his beard, and a smudge of grease marred his forehead. His face expressed miserable distress. He spread his hands and opened his eyes wide, as if to say, What are we going to do?