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live. I destroyed him—and he went on to destroy others. But I’m the true cause. I hope you can understand why I must perform an act of penance. I am a man of honor. And this is what a man of honor does. Sincerely yours, Quentin Harless.”
    *   *   *
    There was too much to do right now to react to the contents of the note, to let its devastating meaning seep into her soul. Bell had become very good at compartmentalizing her emotions. She hung up and told Mathers to drive. “You sure?” he said. “We can come back later if you’d rather deal with—.” Bell interrupted him: “Drive.”
    The gray building looked dingy and makeshift in the early sunlight. The Impala was parked on the other side of the building, over by the playground on which, Bell guessed, nobody ever played, including Jerry and Meagan Emery. Mathers shut off the Blazer’s engine and hung his arms over the wheel, perusing the place through the front windshield. The deputy was significantly overweight, and his brown uniform fit him like a sausage casing, but he’d worked for the sheriff’s department for over thirty years and was good at his job, even the parts of it that required physical nimbleness. His heft never interfered with his effectiveness.
    â€œDon’t see no kids being dropped off,” Mathers said. He grinned when he said it, because they both knew that the real business being done inside this place had nothing to do with child care. “What’s the plan, boss?”
    â€œThe way news travels around here,” she said, “they already know we’ve got Bannon and that he’s ratted them out. So let’s be extra careful, okay? I’ll go to the door and show them the warrant. I’d like you to wait by the vehicle, in case they try to run.”
    â€œRoger that.”
    Bell had just opened the Blazer door when they heard an engine rev. The Impala came tearing around the side of the building, dirt spitting out from under its wheels. The car was old and decrepit, and the quick acceleration was almost more than it could take; it shimmied and wobbled from side to side, the motor shrieking its pain.
    Bell lunged out of the Blazer, hearing, from somewhere behind her, the agitated voice of Deputy Mathers: “Get back in the car! Dammit, Bell—don’t you dare—.”
    Trent and Debbie Emery must have been loaded up and ready to go when Bell and Mathers arrived, ducking down in the car to hide their intention to exit. No matter: She wasn’t going to let them get away. Bell wasn’t an impulsive person by habit, but times like these, something came over her, an iron conviction: I have to stop them. They can’t get away with this. There were a thousand places to hide up in these mountains and other mountains just like them; the Emerys would bide their time, then start again somewhere else. Spreading their poison.
    Not if I can help it, Bell told herself, ignoring Mathers and running toward the churning, lurching Impala. She’d get in front of it, forcing the driver to stop. They wouldn’t run her down. She was sure of it.
    Well, she hastily corrected herself, fairly sure, anyway.
    But she hadn’t reckoned on the unsteadiness of a battered, hard-used car, one difficult to control when the accelerator was mashed to the floor. Through the front windshield she saw Trent’s face; in his eyes was a mixture of fear and confusion as he yanked at the wheel, trying to avoid hitting her. The car fought back, kicking up dust in a frantic sideways skid. Bell caught a flash of Debbie’s face in the passenger seat, a face avid with hate. In seconds, Bell knew, the Impala would strike her, and the anticipation of that fact seemed to please Debbie.
    The car fishtailed wildly, giving Bell a last chance to jump out of the way. She took it. She struck the ground shoulder first, scrambling to her feet and then running like hell