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help her.
    Car l a?
    No. Not Carla. Through a red veil she caught a glimpse of blond hair, bandages, white robe. And this woman was calling a name. It sounded like Alan.
    She heard it again. Farther away. It faded into a distant echo. Everything was fading but for the bursts of light inside her brain. They were the last thing she saw.
    Henry Dunville was on his feet. Backing away. Snif fling. Moaning.
    He was bent over sideways, his left elbow pressed tightly against his ribs where Barbara Weinberg had kicked him. The ribs were broken. Blood dripped from his face.
    The blond woman stood before him, moving with him as he tried to circle her, blocking his path to the door. His left hand held the waistband of his trousers. He tried to tug them up but he could not. They barely covered his thighs, hobbling him. His right hand held a small brass lamp by its neck. He gestured with it, threatened with it, but the woman, her expression cold, almost lifeless, did not retreat.
    The man known as Weinberg knelt at the le a ther sofa, his face against Lisa's, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe life into her. He straightened, watching. She showed no response. Now he pumped at her chest a lthough he knew it was useless. After a while, he stopped. He reached to close her eyes. Slowly, he pushed to his feet.
    He turned to face Henry Dunville. Dunville raised the lamp.
    “ See this ?” Dunville cried. He turned the left side of his face to the larger man. The eye was like a red prune, oozing, clotted. More blood smeared his cheek and had soaked through the collar of hi s shirt. “ Do you see what she did to me ?”
    Weinberg didn't answer. “ Please wait outside. Watch the door ,” he said to his wife.
    She shook her head. She gestured toward his own face under the bandages. “ If he hits you ,” she said, “ he'll ruin it .”
    “ He's not going to hit me. I'm going to hit him .”
    “ No ,” she said firmly. “ You can't see to the side. You wouldn't see it co m ing .”
    He hesitated.
    “ Touch me ,” Henry Dunville gasped, “ and you're fin ished. Both of you .”
    “ You wait outside ,” the blond woman said. “ I ' ll finish this .” She walked to a cabinet. She opened a drawer. He heard the metallic rattle of instruments.
    “ What do you have in mind ?” Weinberg asked, turn ing to her.
    “ I'm going to take his other eye ,” she said.
     
    The door to the surgery had muted the screams. A second door, leading upstairs, would block them entirely.
    The man and woman named W einberg waited there, not opening it, until Henry Dunville's screams became sobs and until the sounds of crashing furniture became less frequent.
    That done, the Weinbergs fully realized that they had a problem. Given their condition, there could be no ques tion of running from it. In any case, they had an invest ment to protect.
    The surgery on their faces, the new documents, all the weeks of coaching to prepare them for their new lives as Alan and Barbara Weinberg . . . had already cost them nearly $400,000. Add to that the cost of two new home s, the house in Santa Fe, the apartment in Franc e, w hic h were part of their new identity and, therefore, could hardly be used if they ran. It would be a million-dollar write-off at least. And even then, where could they go, how far would they get, looking like this?
    By any standard he knew, the punishment of Henry Dunv il le had been just. The man had committed a useless, stupid murder. The girl had posed no real threat. She had discovered nothing that could not have been explained, denied, or ignored. Worse, he'd had her followed to Su r La Mer by someone who would soon conclude that she must have died there. That person might now have to be silenced as well. All because Henry Dunville enjoyed play ing with helpless women.
    He could only hope that the other Dunvilles would see the wisdom of cutting their losses. Keep Henry alive if they wished. As a new and permanent member. Let old Mr. Bella