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flute my dog could tootle.
    Dylan O’Conner’s game had long been an effective defense against being driven into a screaming fit by his brother’s occasional spells of monotonous chanting. In the current crisis, however, if he was not able to shut out Shep’s voice, he would not be able to stay focused on the challenge posed by his bonds. He would still be taped to this chair, chewing on a cotton cud, when the nameless assassins arrived with the intention of testing his blood for the presence of
stuff
and then chopping him into bite-size carrion for the delectation of desert vultures.
    As his fluttering hands rapidly constructed the two-dimensional temple, Shep said, “Doodle-deedle-doodle.”
    Dylan concentrated on his predicament.
    The size of the rag in his mouth—a soggy wad large enough to make his entire face ache from the strain of containing it—prevented him from working his jaws as aggressively as he would have liked. Nevertheless, by persistently flexing his facial muscles, he loosened the strips of tape, which slowly began to peel up at the ends and to unravel like a mummy’s wrappings.
    He drew his tongue out from under the gag, contracted it behind that ball of cloth, and strove to press the foreign material out of his mouth. The extruding rag put pressure on the half-undone tape, which caused twinges of mild pain when, at a few points, the adhesive strips separated from his lips with a tiny prize of skin.
    Like a giant human-moth hybrid regurgitating a disagreeable dinner in a low-budget horror movie, he steadily expelled the vile cloth, which slid wetly over his chin, onto his chest. Looking down, he recognized the saliva-soaked ejecta: one of his nearly knee-length white athletic socks, which Doc apparently had found in a suitcase. At least it had been a
clean
sock.
    Half the tape had fallen away, but two strips remained, one dangling from each corner of his mouth, like catfish whiskers. He twitched his lips, shook his head, but the drooping lengths of tape clung fast.
    At last he could shout for help, but he kept silent. Whoever came to free him would want to know what had happened, and some concerned citizen would call the police, who would arrive before Dylan could throw his gear—and Shep—into the SUV and hit the road. If killers were coming, any delay could be deadly.
    Point in pine, gleaming brightly, the pocketknife awaited use.
    He leaned forward, lowered his head, and clamped the rubber-coated handle of the knife in his teeth. Got a firm grip. Carefully worked the little instrument back and forth, widening the wound in the arm of the chair until he freed the blade.
    “Doodle-deedle-doodle.”
    Dylan once more sat up straight in the chair, biting on the handle of the pocketknife, staring cross-eyed at the point, on which a star of light twinkled. He was armed now, but he didn’t feel particularly dangerous.
    He dared not drop the knife. If it fell on the floor, Shepherd wouldn’t pick it up for him. To retrieve it, Dylan would have to rock the chair, topple it sideways, and risk injury. Risking injury remained always near the top of his list of Things That Smart People Don’t Do. Even if he toppled the chair without catastrophe, from that new and more awkward position, he might have a hard time getting his mouth around the handle again, especially if the knife bounced under the bed.
    He closed his eyes and brooded on his options for a moment before making another move.
    “Doodle-deedle-doodle.”
    Because he was an artist, brooding was supposed to come easily to Dylan; however, he had never been
that
kind of artist, never one to wallow in bleak thoughts about the human condition or to despair over man’s inhumanity to man. On an individual level, the human condition changed day by day, even hour by hour, and while you were soaking in self-pity over a misfortune, you might miss an opportunity for a redeeming triumph. And for every act of inhumanity, the species managed to commit a