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was bothering him.
    Frank's glance took in a wide circle.
    There were only two other cars parked on the block, both of them empty. An old man was slowly pushing a nearly empty shopping cart uphill across the street, a collie dog was drowsing on the front lawn of the neat shingle cottage across the way. There were no other people or animals around.
    The breeze picked up a little, and Frank saw something move by the driver's door of Callie's car. The door was not quite shut. In fact, it couldn't close. The safety belt was dangling out, holding it slightly ajar. The silver buckle glinted.
    Frank's frown deepened. He hadn't locked the car, but he knew he'd shut the door tightly.
    Walking up to the car, he yanked on the door and saw immediately that the glove compartment had been ransacked. Papers, garage receipts, the driver's manual, and a brush and comb belonging to Callie were spilled out on the passenger seat and the floor.
    After scanning the afternoon street again, Frank slid into the driver's seat. He gathered up the scattered stuff, put it back in order, and returned everything to the glove compartment.
    Doesn't seem like they took anything, Frank said to himself.
    He went to thrust the key into the ignition, then hesitated. Instead, he pulled the hood release and got out to check the engine. After a long, slow look, he slammed the hood down.
    "No sign of tampering," he told himself out loud, "and nobody's planted anything."
    Frank got back inside the car and drove off. He turned right at the corner and before too long was on a winding road that cut through a stretch of wooded hills.
    I'm probably getting too suspicious, he thought. Frank shook his head as he drove. Somebody did search the car, sure, but I don't think we're actually involved anybody who'd put a bomb under my - The roar of a powerful car sounded through his thoughts.
    Then came the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. "Uh - oh!"
    Frank stomped on the brake and slid a little lower in his seat.
    I wasn't as paranoid as I thought, he decided as the car screeched along the road. The other car came roaring up behind him.
    Again, the throbbing of its engine was drowned out—this time, by two shots.
    Frank glanced into the outside side-view mirror as a bullet tore into it.
    He couldn't see where the next shot was coming from.

Chapter 8
    The room was small, shadowy, and window-less. It went in and out of focus, as if someone were using a zoom lens—and not doing a very good job with it.
    Joe Hardy wondered what the movie was. Then he realized it wasn't a movie. It was real — painfully real—life.
    He groaned, managed to open his eyes fully, and ran his tongue over his teeth. He discovered, at just about the same time, that he had a horrendous headache and that he was tied to a straight-back wooden chair.
    There was old furniture piled everywhere. Joe saw nests of wooden chairs, a gilded love-seat, rolled-up carpets, huge vases, marble Venuses—one of them had a gold clock built into her stomach—and a lot of dust.
    Nobody else seemed to be in the storeroom, as far as he could tell, but the shadows in the corners could have hidden an army. And the entire supply of light came from a bare forty-watt bulb dangling from a twist of black cord just over his head.
    Since his hands were tied behind him, there was no way to get a look at his wristwatch to find out what time it was. The clock in the Venus's stomach wasn't running. The clock in Joe's stomach told him it had been a long time since he'd had that hot dog in beautiful downtown Kirkland.
    Exactly how long have I been unconscious? Joe wondered, then shrugged. I guess there's no way to tell.
    He gave a tug at his bonds — there was no give at all. Someone had lashed him to the chair with plastic line, and the knots felt strong and tight.
    I wonder if this is the Goodhill Antiques shop, he thought, remembering the truck that had been parked outside the Sinclair place.
    Whoever had knocked out the Sinclair butler