Shattered

downhill.”
        “Shouldn't we call the cops and-”
        “There isn't time for that. He's inside with Courtney.” Alex felt his stomach twist, and he thought he was going to vomit. A bitter fluid touched the back of his throat, but he choked it down.
        “Another couple of minutes-”
        “Might make all the difference.”
        Doyle turned away from the Thunderbird and hurried across the dark lawn toward the front door, which was ajar.
        How was it possible? Who was this man who could follow them wherever they went, who could catch up with them no matter how much they changed their plans? Who in the hell was he that he could drive ahead and wait for them here? He seemed more than maniacal. He was almost superhuman, satanic.
        And what had he done to Courtney? If he had hurt her in any way… Alex was caught up between rage and terror. It was frightening to realize that even when you had the courage to face up to violence, you could not protect those you loved. More than that, you couldn't know where the danger would come from or in what form.
        He reached the front door, pushed it open, and stepped into the house before he thought that he might have walked into a trap. Suddenly he remembered all too clearly the cunning and ferocity which the madman had shown when he had been swinging that ax…
        Doyle crouched against the wall, sheltering behind a telephone stand, making as small a target of himself as he could. He looked quickly around the front room.
        It was deserted.
        All the lights were blazing, but no madman-in here. And no Courtney.
        The house was very quiet.
        Too quiet?
        Keeping his back to the wall, he went from the living room to the dining room, the shag carpet absorbing the noise of each footstep. But the dining room was also empty.
        In the kitchen, three plates, knives, forks and spoons had been laid out on the butcherblock table along with various other utensils. She had planned a late-night snack for them.
        Doyle's heart was pounding painfully. His breathing was so harsh and deep that he felt certain it could be heard from one end of the house to the other.
        He kept thinking: Courtney, Courtney, Courtney…
        The sunken den and the screened-in back porch were also deserted. Everything was neat and orderly-or, rather, as neat and orderly as things could be in Courtney's house. And that must be a good sign. Right? No traces of a struggle, no overturned furniture, no blood…
        “Courtney!
        He had intended to remain silent. But now it seemed terribly important to call her name-as if the spoken word were a magic charm that would heal whatever the madman had done to her.
        “Courtney!
        No reply.
        “Courtney, where are you?”
        In the back of his mind, Doyle knew that he should calm down. He should shut up for a minute and rethink the situation, consider his options once more before making another move. He was not going to help either Courtney or Colin if he acted stupidly, precipitously, and got himself killed.
        However, with the silent house pressing in on him, he was temporarily incapable of rational behavior.
        “Courtney!
        Bent for-ward like a soldier landing on an enemy-held beach, he ran up the main stairs two at a time. At the top, he grabbed the head of the banister to keep his balance, and he gasped for breath.
        Along the second-floor hallway, all the doors were closed, each like the lid of a surprise package.
        The guest bedroom was the nearest. He took three steps across the hall and threw that door open.
        For a moment he could not understand what he was seeing. Boards, boxes, papers, and other junk were stacked in the middle of the room, a pile of rubble in the center of the nice new carpet. He took several steps forward, past the threshold, curiously disquieted by the incongruity of what lay there.
        The thick, slow voice came from the doorway immediately behind him: “You took her away from me.”
        Alex made himself fall to the left as he turned. But it was hopeless. In spite of that maneuver, the bullet slammed into him and knocked him all the way down.
        The tall, broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, smiling. He held a pistol quite like the one which Doyle had bought in Carson City - and had thoughtlessly left in the car when he needed it most.
        He