"There's your problem."

Vicki peered down into the engine of Henry's BMW. Nothing looked obviously wrong. "Where's the problem?"

"There." The mechanic pointed with the screwdriver he held. "Brakeline, up by the master cylinder."

"There's something wrong with the brakeline?"

"Yeah. Holed."

"What do you mean, holed?"

The mechanic sighed. His expression said "Women!" as clearly as if he'd spoken the word aloud. "Holed. Like, not solid."

"Someone put a hole in it?" It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in. Had the stakes just gone up? Had the killer become aware of her involvement and decided to do something about it? She frowned; that didn't fit the established pattern. Suddenly the air in the garage, already redolent with iron and oil and gasoline, grew thicker and harder to breathe.

"Didn't say someone did it. See here?" He lifted the black rubber hose on the end of his screwdriver. "Rubbed against that piece of metal. Rubbed just right between the ribs and broke through." Shrugging, he let the hose drop. "Happens. Brakes work for a while but lose fluid. Lose enough fluid and... "A greasy finger cut a line across his throat.

"Yes, I know." Vicki straightened. "I was there. So you'll be telling the police... ?"

"Accident. Tough luck. Nobody's fault." He shrugged again and turned to shake his head at the destroyed side of the car. "Hard to believe everyone walked away. Lucky."

Very lucky, Vicki realized. Death had missed her by less than a couple of feet and if Rose had been riding on the passenger side, she wouldn't have survived. Holding her glasses on her nose, Vicki bent over the brakeline again; something didn't look right.

"Why the hell would anyone build a car so that the brakeline rubbed?"

She could hear the shrug in the mechanic's voice. "Could be 'cause it's an old car. Built in '76, things go wrong. Could've been a mistake on the line. No two cars are exactly alike."

All right, it made sense, bad luck and nothing more had put her and Rose and Peter in the car when that little mistake had paid off. Jesus, if you can't count on a BMW...

Except... There were two spots bracketing the tear where the yellow markings on the hose showed brighter, places where accumulated dirt could have rubbed off on someone's fingers as they gave that little mistake a helping hand. Careful not to touch the rubber, Vicki pressed her finger against the protruding bit of metal that had done the actual damage. While not exactly sharp, it held a definite edge.

"Suppose you wanted to hole someone's brakeline and yet made it look like an accident," she gestured down into the engine, "how long would it take you to duplicate that?"

The mechanic looked speculative. "Not long."

They'd been in the restaurant for an hour and a half. Plenty of time.

Intrigued by the idea, he reached down into the car. "I'd grab it here... "

"Don't touch it!"

He jerked back as though stung. "You don't think... "

"I don't think I want to take any chances. I want you to call the police. I have the number of the officer at the scene if you don't."

"No. I got it."

"Good. Tell him you've found suspicions of tampering and, if nothing else, they should take prints." She had her own small kit, not exactly high tech but certainly up to lifting prints off greasy hoses. If, however, police technology could be brought to bear, so much the better.

"Why don't you call?"

"Because you're the expert."

He scowled at her for a moment then sighed and said, "Okay, lady. You win. I'll call."

"Now," she suggested.

"Okay. Now. You don't touch nothing while I'm gone."

"Fine. And you don't touch anything until the ident man has come and gone."

The scowl returned. He went two steps, stopped, and looked back. "Someone tried to kill you, eh?"

"Maybe." Or Peter. Or Rose.

He shook his head, his expression hovering between respect and disgust. "Bet it isn't the first time." He continued to the office without waiting for a reply.

Vicki rubbed her right thumb against the faint scars on her left wrist, saw again the inhuman smile, and heard the demon say, "So you are to be the sacrifice." A trickle of sweat that had nothing to do with the heat ran down between her breasts and behind it, she could feel her heart begin to race. Death had been so close that a shadow of it remained long after the substance had been defeated. With practiced skill, she pushed the memory away and buried it deep.

The world outside the memory seemed strange for a moment then she shook her head and forced herself back to the present. Out by the car, Rose was telling Celluci some kind of story that involved a great deal of arm waving, Peter hovering protectively at her side. When Celluci laughed at something Rose said, Vicki saw Peter's shoulders stiffen.

"Peter! Could you come here, please?"

Reluctantly, he came.

She nodded toward the car. "What are the odds that you could pick up someone's scent off a rubber brake-line?"

Peter glanced down into the engine and wrinkled his nose. "Slim to none. The smell of the brake fluid is kind of strong. Why?"

Vicki saw no point in lying, the wer already knew they were under the threat of death. "I think someone engineered yesterday's accident."

"Wow. Henry's going to be pissed."

"Henry?"

"Well, they totaled his car."

"And almost killed us," Vicki reminded him.

"Oh. Yeah."

The office door opened and the mechanic walked back into the garage. He didn't look thrilled. "Okay. I called. He says someone'll come around. Later." He glared at the car and then up at Vicki. "He says he wants to talk to you. Don't leave town."

"I wouldn't dream of it. Thanks, you've been a big help."

He returned her smile with a snort and pointedly bent to work on a late model, blue Saab that had seen better days.

Vicki recognized a dismissal when she saw it. As there was nothing more she could do here, she even decided to pay attention to it. "Come on, Peter."

Frowning thoughtfully, Peter followed her out of the garage.

"What?" she asked as they crossed the parking lot to Celluci's car.

"It's probably nothing, but while you were talking to Mr. Sunshine I had a sniff around the edges of the hood. I mean, if someone messed with the brakes they had to get the hood open first." He took a deep breath. "Anyway, for just a second there, I thought I caught a scent I recognized. Then I lost it. Sorry."

"Would you know it again?"

"I think so."

"Okay, if you do come across it, tell me immediately. This guy is dangerous."

"Hey," he protested. "I know. It's my dad that got shot."

Vicki wondered if she should tell him that the person who'd shot his father and the person who'd tampered with Henry's car weren't likely to be the same man - the actions were far too different - and in her book this new threat, with no pattern to make it predictable, was a lot more dangerous. She decided against it. What good would it do?

Celluci watched until Peter and Rose had gone inside then he backed out of Dr. Dixon's driveway and headed downtown. "It's hard not to like them, isn't it?"

"What's not to like?"

"This from the woman who once said that teenagers should be against the law?"

"Well, they're not exactly your typical teenagers, are they?"

Celluci glanced sideways at her. "All right, what's bothering you? You've been in a mood since we left the garage."

Vicki shoved her glasses up her nose and sighed. "I was just thinking... "

"That's a first."

She ignored him. "... that if someone's taking the trouble to try to kill me, I must know something I'm not aware of knowing. The killer thinks I'm getting too close."

"Or you weren't the target, Rose and Peter were. You were just there."

"No, there's already a system set up to kill the wer, why change it? It's still working. I have a feeling this was aimed at me."

"A hunch?"

"Call it what you like, but if you call it woman's intuition, I'll rip your face off."

As he had no intention of saying anything so blatantly suicidal, he ignored the threat. "So let's go over what you do know."

"Shouldn't take that long." Knees braced against the dash, Vicki ticked the points off on her fingers. "I know Barry Wu didn't do it. I know Dr. Dixon didn't do it. I know Arthur Fortrin didn't do it. Anyone else might have, up to and including a chance acquaintance either of those three might have bragged to in a bar. Once Barry tells me who around London is capable of that kind of shot, well, I'll make some comparisons with those lists of the people who use the conservation area regularly. Hopefully we can decode these directions to his apartment before he leaves for work."

Celluci plucked the sheet of paper off her lap, scanned it, and tossed it back. He had complete faith in his ability to find his way around in spite of the morning's scenic tour of the countryside. "And if Barry doesn't know?"

"Someone knows. I'll find them." She smoothed the map out on her leg. "Oh, and it isn't Frederick Kleinbein either."

"Who?"

"Technically, I guess you could call him their nearest neighbor. He informed me that the Heerkens have a deep, dark secret." She grinned. "They're nudists, you know."

"Nudists?"

"So he tells me. Apparently, the locals prefer to believe in nudists over werewolves."

He shot her a sour look. "Hardly surprising. I am, however, surprised it hasn't brought flocks of young men out armed with telephoto lenses."

"I got the impression the 'dogs' took care of that problem."

Celluci who had been on the receiving end of one of those "dogs" in action could see how it might discourage a casual voyeur.

Vicki interpreted his grunt as agreement and went on. "The only other people I've really talked to are Carl Biehn and Mark Williams."

It took him a moment to place the names. "The two guys this morning?"

"That's right."

"So maybe it's them."

"Not likely." She snorted. "Can you see someone like Williams taking the time and trouble to become a marksman? Uh uh. The way I read him, it's instant gratification or he's not interested."

"And the older man? The uncle?"

Vicki sighed. "He's a vegetarian."

"He's not eating the wer, Vicki, he's just killing them."

"And he's a deeply religious man."

"So are a lot of nut cakes. It's not mutually exclusive."

"And he gardens."

"And you like him."

She sighed again, flicking the air-conditioning vent open and closed. "Yeah. And I like him. He seems like such a basically decent person."

"Another feeling?"

"Piss off, Celluci." Between the bright sunlight, yesterday's injury, and the lack of sleep, she was developing one mother of a headache. "Having a slime-bag for a nephew is hardly grounds to accuse someone of multiple murders. I am, however, going to ask Barry to check out Mr. Williams for priors, just in case. If you want to be helpful, and the wind is in the right direction, you can spend tonight watching the tree."

"Thank you very much. Just what I always wanted to do, spend the night out in the woods being eaten alive by mosquitoes." While you and Henry are comfy cozy inside? Not fucking likely. He glanced over at her and then back at the road. "Who says he'll go back to it?"

"It's part of his pattern when the wind's off the field."

"Then why don't you cut it down?"

"I've thought about it."

"While you're thinking about that, here's another one. If you know he keeps going back to that tree, why haven't you staked it out?"

"How? You know I can't see a damned thing after dark. Besides, Henry went out... "

"You sent a civilian!"

"He volunteered!" Vicki snapped, ignoring the fact that she herself was now a civilian.

"And did he volunteer to get shot?"

"Henry's a grown man. He knew the risks."

"A grown man. Right. And that's another thing, according to his driver's license, Fitzroy is only twenty-four years old." He took his eyes off the road long enough to glare at her. "You're almost eight years older than he is, or doesn't that... What's so funny?"

Although the vibrations were doing nasty things to the inside of her head, Vicki couldn't stop laughing. Eight whole years. Good God. Finally, the frigid silence on the other side of the car got through and she managed to get ahold of herself. Eight whole years... She took her glasses off and wiped her eyes on the shoulder of her shirt. "Mike, you have no idea of how little that matters."

"Obviously not," Celluci grunted through gritted teeth.

"Hey! Are we in hot pursuit or something? You just accelerated through a yellow light." Vicki took one look at the set of his jaw and decided the time had come to change the subject. "What could I possibly know that's worth killing to protect?"

It wasn't the most graceful of conversational transitions but Celluci grabbed at it. He suddenly did not want to know what she'd been laughing at. At a full twelve years older than Henry fucking Fitzroy, he didn't think his ego was up to it. "If I were you, I'd have Carl Biehn and his nephew pulled in for questioning."

"On what grounds?"

"Someone thinks you're getting too close and they're the only someones you've talked to who haven't been cleared."

"Well, you're not me." Vicki scratched at a mosquito bite on the back of her calf. "And in case you've missed the point, not only is this not a police case but we can't get the police involved."

"They're already involved, or have you forgotten last night's reported gunshot wound?"

"Queen Street. Turn here. Barry's apartment building is number 321." Pushing her glasses up her nose, she added. "The police only think they're involved. They haven't a clue about what's really going on."

"And you don't think they'll find out?" he asked while swinging wide around the corner to avoid a small boy on a bicycle.

Vicki spread her hands. "How are they going to find out? You going to tell them?"

"They'll investigate."

"Sure they will. The OPP'll swing around by the conservation area a little more frequently for a couple of weeks and then something more important than an accidental shooting'll come up for them to allot man-hours to."

"But it wasn't an accident," Celluci pointed out, making an effort and keeping his temper.

"They don't know that." Vicki forced herself to relax. Clenched teeth just made her temple throb and had no effect on the thickhead sitting next to her. "Nor are they going to find out."

"Well, they're going to have to get involved when you find out who's doing the killing. Or," he continued sarcastically, "had you planned on arranging an accident that would take care of everything?"

"There." She pointed. "Three twenty-one. Sign says visitor's parking is in the rear."

The silence around the words spoke volumes.

"Jesus Christ, Vicki. You aren't going to bring this to trial, are you?"

She studied the toes of her sneakers.

"Answer me, damn it!" He slammed on the brakes and, almost before the car had stopped, grabbed her shoulder, twisting her around to face him.

"Trial?" She jerked her shoulder free. God, he was so dense sometimes. "And what happens to the wer at a trial?"

"The law... "

"They don't want the law, Celluci, they want justice and if the killer goes to trial they won't get it. You know as well as I do that the victim goes on trial with the accused. What kind of a chance would the wer have? If you're not white, or you're poor, or, God forbid, you're a woman, the system sees you as less than human. The wer aren't human! How do you think the system is going to see them? And what kind of a life would they have after it was finished with them?"

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Are you trying to convince me or are you trying to convince yourself?"

"Shut up, Celluci!" He was deliberately not understanding. His own neat little world view gets screwed and he can't adapt. That's not my fault.

His voice rose in volume to match hers. "I'm not going to stand around and watch you throw away everything you've believed in for so long."

"Then leave!"

"You're willing to be judge and jury - who's to be the executioner? Or are you going to do that, too?"

They stared at each other for moment then Vicki closed her eyes. The pounding of her heart became rifle fire and on the inside of her lids she saw Donald, bleeding, then one by one the rest of the pack, sprawled where the bullets dropped them, their fur splattered with blood, and only she was left to mourn. She drew in a long shuddering breath, and then another, and then she opened her eyes.

"I don't know," she said quietly. "I'll do what I have to."

"And if that includes murder?"

"Leave it, Mike. Please. I said I didn't know."

He forced both hands up through his hair, closing his lips around all but one of the things he wanted to say. He even managed to keep his voice sounding reasonably calm. "You used to know."

"Life used to be a lot simpler. Besides," she unhooked the seat belt, gave a shaky and totally unconvincing laugh, and opened the car door. "I haven't even caught the son-of-a-bitch yet. Let's worry about this shit when it hits the fan."

Celluci followed her into Barry Wu's building, concern and anger in about equal proportions grinding together inside his head. Life used to be a lot simpler. He sure couldn't argue with that.

"Most of all, you need a good set of knives."

"I have the knives."

"Pah. New knives. Factory edges are crap."

"I'll have them sharpened this afternoon."

"Pah." The elderly man pulled a torn envelope out of the mess of papers on the kitchen table and scribbled an address on the back of it. "Go here," he commanded as he passed it to his visitor, "last place in town that might do a decent job."

Mark Williams folded the paper in half and tucked it in his wallet. A few questions asked around the fur trade had gotten him the old man's name. A fifty had bought him a couple of hours of instruction. Considering what the pelts were going to net him, he considered it money well spent.

"Okay. Listen up. We go over this one more time and if you go slow you shouldn't have any trouble. Your first cut is along the length of the belly - almost a seam there anyway - then... "

"The problem is, there isn't anyone else. In fact, I'm not positive I could make those shots myself. Not at night." Barry stuck his head out of the bedroom where he was getting dressed for work. "I haven't done much scope work."

"What about one of the special weapons and tactics people?"

His eyebrows drew down. "You mean a cop?"

Celluci sighed. In his opinion, young men always looked petulant when they tried to scowl. "You trying to tell me London's never had a bad cop?"

"Well... no... but it's not like we're Toronto or anything." He disappeared back into the bedroom and emerged a moment later, uniform shirt hanging open and carrying his boots. "I guess I could ask around," he offered, perching on the edge of the one remaining empty chair. The apartment was a little short of furniture although both the television and stereo system were first rate. "But frankly, I don't think any of those guys could do it either." He took a deep breath. "I know it sounds like bragging but even considering my lack of scope work, none of them are in my league."

Vicki picked Barry's police college graduation picture up from its place of honor on top of the television. Only one of the earnestly smiling faces in the photograph belonged to a visible minority; Barry Wu. Plus five women and a werewolf. What a great mix. All the women were white. Technically, so was the werewolf. And the police wonder why community relations are falling apart. Actually, she had to admit, the police knew why community relations were falling apart, they just couldn't come up with the quick fix solution everybody wanted in the face of such a long-term problem. Unfortunately, "it'll take time" wasn't much of an answer when time was running out.

"I'm surprised the S.W.A.T. boys haven't scooped you up." She carefully set the picture back down. It was still strange thinking of herself and the police as separate units.

He smiled a little self-consciously. "I've been warned the moment I come back with Olympic gold, I'm theirs." The smile faded as he bent to lace his boots. "I guess I'd better check them out, hadn't I?"

"Well, if you can find out what their best marksmen were doing on the nights of the murders, it would help."

"Yeah." He sighed. "Pity we didn't have some big hostage crisis those nights that'd clear them."

"Pity," Vicki agreed, and hid a totally inappropriate smile. The boy - young man - had been completely serious.

"I just can't believe that someone'd be shooting at Colin's family. I mean," he sat up and began buttoning his shirt, fingers trembling with indignation, "they're probably the nicest people I know."

"It doesn't bother you that these people turn into animals?" Celluci asked.

Barry stiffened. "They don't turn into animals," he snapped. "Just because they have a fur-form doesn't make them animals. And anyway, most of the animals I've met lately have been on two legs! And besides, Colin's a great cop. Once he picks up a suspect's scent the perp's had it. You couldn't ask for a better guy to back you up in a tight situation, and what's more, the wer practically invented the concept of the team-player."

"I only wondered if it bothered you," Celluci told him mildly.

"No." Savagely shoving his shirttails into his pants, Barry turned faintly red. "Not anymore. I mean, once you get to know a guy, you can't hate him just because he's a werewolf."

Words of wisdom for our time, Vicki thought. "Back to the shooting... "

"Yeah, I think I know someone who might be able to help. Bertie Reid. She's a real buff, you know, one of those people who can quote facts and figures at you from the last fifty years. If there's someone in the area capable of making those shots, she'll know it. Or she'll be able to find it out."

"Does she shoot?"

"Occasionally small arms but not the high caliber stuff anymore. She must be over seventy."

"Do you know her address?"

"No, I don't, and her phone number is unlisted - I heard her mention it one day at the range - but she's not hard to find. She drops by the Grove Road Sportsman's Club most afternoons, sits up in the clubroom, has a few cups of tea and criticizes everyone's shooting." He glanced up from the piece of paper he was writing the directions on. "She told me I kept my forward arm too tense." Flexing the arm in question, he added, "She was right."

"Why don't you practice at the police range?" Celluci asked.

Barry looked a little sheepish as he handed over the address of the club. "I do occasionally. But I always end up with an audience and, well, the targets there all look like people. I don't like that."

"I never cared for it much myself," Vicki told him, dropping the folded piece of paper in her purse. It might be realistic, certainly anything a cop would have to shoot would be people-shaped, but the yearly weapons qualifying always left her feeling slightly ashamed of her skill.

They accompanied Barry down to the parking lot, watched him shrug into a leather jacket - "I'd rather sweat than leave my elbows on the pavement." - and a helmet with a day-glow orange strip down the back, carefully pack his cap under the seat of his motorcycle, and roar away.

Vicki sighed, carefully leaning back on the hot metal of Celluci's car. "Please tell me I was never that gung ho."

"You weren't," Celluci snorted. "You were worse." He opened the car door and eased himself down onto the vinyl seat. There hadn't been any shade to park in, not that he would have seen it given the conversation they'd been involved in when they arrived. Swearing under his breath as his elbow brushed the heated seat-back, he unlocked Vicki's door and was busying himself with the air conditioning when she got in.

The echoes of their fight hung in the car. Neither of them spoke, afraid it might begin again.

Celluci had no desire to do a monologue on the dangers of making moral judgments and he knew that as far as Vicki was concerned the topic was closed. But if she thinks I'm leaving before this is over, she can think again. He didn't have to be back at work until Thursday and after that, if he had to, he'd use sick time. It was more than Henry Fitzroy now, Vicki needed saving from herself.

For the moment, they'd maintain the truce.

"It's almost 2:30 and I'm starved. How about stopping for something to eat?"

Vicki glanced up from Barry's scribbled directions and gratefully acknowledged the peace offering. "Only if we eat in the car on the way."

"Fine." He pulled out onto the street. "Only if it's not chicken. In this heat the car'll suck up the smell of the Colonel and I'll never be free of it."

They stopped at the first fast food place they came to. Sitting in the car, eating french fries and waiting for Vicki to get out of the washroom, Celluci's attention kept wandering to a black and gold jeep parked across the street. He knew he'd seen it before but not where, only that the memory carried vaguely unpleasant connotations.

The driver had parked in front of an ancient shoe repair shop. A faded sign in the half of the window Celluci could see proclaimed, You don't look neat if your shoes are beat. He puzzled over the fragment of memory until the answer walked out of the shop.

"Mark Williams. No wonder I had a bad feeling about it." Williams had the kind of attitude Celluci hated. He'd take out-and-out obnoxiousness over superficial charm any day. He grinned around a mouthful of burger. Which certainly explains my relationship with Vicki.

Whistling cheerfully, Williams came around to the driver's side of the jeep, opened the door, and tossed a bulky brown paper package onto the passenger seat before climbing in himself.

Had he been in his own jurisdiction, Celluci might have gone over for a chat, just on principle; let the man know he was being watched, try to find out what was in the package. He strongly believed in staying on top of the kind of potential situations Mark Williams represented. As it was, he sat and watched him drive away.

With the jeep gone, a second sign became visible in the shoe shop window.

Knives sharpened.

"Bertie Reid?" The middle-aged man sitting behind the desk frowned. "I don't think she's come in yet but... " The phone rang and he rolled his eyes as he answered. "Grove Road Sportsman's Club. That's correct, tomorrow night in the pistol range. No, ma'am, there'll be no shooting while the function is going on. Thank you. Hope to see you there. Damn phones," he continued as he hung up. "Alexander Graham Bell should've been given a pair of cement overshoes and dropped off the continental shelf. Now then, where were we?"

"Bertie Reid," Vicki prompted.

"Right." He glanced up at the wall clock. "It's only just turned three, Bertie's not likely to be here for another hour. If you don't mind my askin', what's a couple of Toronto PI's want with Bertie anyway?"

More than a little amused by his assumption that her ID covered Celluci as well, Vicki gave him her best professional smile, designed to install confidence in the general public. "We're looking for some information on competition shooting and Barry Wu told us that Ms. Reid was our best bet."

"You know Barry?"

"We make it our business to work closely with the police." Celluci had no problem with being perceived as Vicki's partner. Better that than flashing his badge all over London - behavior guaranteed to be unpopular with his superiors in Toronto.

"And so do we." His voice grew defensive. "Gun club members take responsibility for their weapons. Every piece of equipment that comes into this place is registered with both the OPP and local police and we keep no ammunition on the premises. It's the assholes who think a gun is a high-powered pecker extension - begging your pardon - who start blasting away in restaurants and school yards or who accidentally blow away Uncle Ralph while showing off their new .30 caliber toy, not our people."

"Not that it's better to be shot on purpose than by accident," Vicki pointed out acerbically. Still, she acknowledged his point. If the entire concept of firearms couldn't be stuffed back into Pandora's box, better the glamour be removed and they become just another tool or hobby. Personally, however, she'd prefer worldwide gun control legislation so tight that everyone from manufacturers to consumers would give up rather than face the paperwork, and the punishment for the use of a gun while committing a crime would fit the crime... and they could use the bastard's own weapon then bury it with the body. She'd developed this philosophy when she saw what a twelve gauge shotgun at close range could do to the body of a seven-year-old boy.

"Do you mind if we wait for Ms. Reid to arrive?" Celluci asked, before the man at the desk could decide if Vicki's words had been agreement or attack. He figured he'd already gone through his allotment of impassioned diatribes for the day.

Frowning slightly, the man shrugged. "I guess it won't hurt if Barry sent you. He's the club's pride and joy, you know; nobody around here comes close to being in his league. He'll be going to the next Olympics and, if there's any justice in the world, coming back with gold. Damn!" As he reached for the phone, he motioned toward the stairs. "Clubroom's on the second floor, you can wait for Bertie up there."

The clubroom had been furnished with a number of brown or gold institutional sofas and chairs, a couple of good sized tables, and a trophy case. A small kitchen in one corner held a large coffee urn, a few jars of instant coffee, an electric kettle and four teapots in varying sizes. The room's only inhabitant at 3:00 on a Monday afternoon was a small gray cat curled up on a copy of the Shooter's Bible who looked up as Vicki and Celluci came in then pointedly ignored them.

From behind the large windows in the north wall came the sound of rifle fire.

Celluci glanced outside then picked up a pair of binoculars from one of the tables and pointed them down-range at the targets. "Unless they're cleverly trying to throw us off the trail," he said a moment later passing them to Vicki, "neither of these two are the marksman we're looking for."

Vicki set the binoculars back on the table without bothering to use them. "Look, Celluci, there's no reason for both of us to be stuck here until four. Why don't you swing around by Dr. Dixon's, take the twins and their father home, and then come back and pick me up."

"While you do what?"

"Ask a few questions around the club then talk to Bertie. Nothing you'd need to baby-sit me during."

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" he asked, leaning back against the cinder block wall.

"I'm trying to be considerate." She watched him fold his arms and stifled a sigh. "Look, I know how much you hate waiting for things and I doubt there's enough going on around here to keep both of us busy for an hour."

As much as he disliked admitting it, she had a point. "We could talk," he suggested warily.

Vicki shook her head. Another talk with Michael Celluci was the last thing she needed right now. "When it's over, we'll talk."

He reached out and pushed her glasses up her nose. "I'll hold you to that." It sounded more like a threat than a promise. "Call the farm when you want me to start back. No point in me arriving in the middle of things."

"Thanks, Mike."

"No problem."

"Now why did I do that?" she wondered once she had the clubroom to herself. "I know exactly what he's going to do." The chairs were more comfortable than they looked and she sank gratefully into the gold velour. "He only agreed to go so he could pump the wer about Henry without me around to interfere." Did she want him to find out about Henry?

"He's already been searching into Henry's background," she told the cat. "Better he finds out under controlled conditions than by accident."

It was a perfectly plausible reason and Vicki decided to believe it. She only hoped Henry would.