The Mark of the Assassin

forth across
    the walls until he found the fuse box. He opened it and shone the light
    inside. The master switch was the largest. He threw the switch and
    killed power to the entire house. The alarm system ran on batteries, so
    it would remain functional. He set the alarm on silent. He followed the
    beam of light up the stairs and returned to the kitchen. On the wall,
    next to the telephone, was an intercom box for the front gate. The
    intercom operated on the telephone system, and the gate had a separate
    power source. He pressed a button and went quickly to a living room
    window overlooking the lawn. Outside, at the head of the property, he
    could see the metal gate rolling open on its track.
    THE GUEST COTTAGE felt like an icehouse. Elizabeth couldn't remember the
    last time someone had stayed in the place. The thermostat was set to the
    lowest level to keep the pipes from bursting in a hard freeze. The wind
    tore at the shingled roof and beat against the windows overlooking
    Shelter Island Sound. Something scratched against the side of the house.
    Elizabeth emitted a short scream, then realized it was only the old oak
    tree that she had climbed countless times as a child. It wasn't the
    guest cottage; in the lexicon of the Cannon family it was known as
    Elizabeth's cottage. The place was comfortable and modestly furnished.
    There were light-finished hardwood floors and, in the living room,
    rustic furniture arranged around the large picture window overlooking
    the harbor. The kitchen was tiny, just a small refrigerator and a stove
    with two burners, the bedroom simple. When she was a child, the cottage
    had been hers. When the main house was filled with her father's staff,
    or some delegation from a strange country, Elizabeth would come here to
    hide among her possessions. She adored the cottage, cared for it, spent
    summer nights in it. She smoked her first dope in the bathroom and lost
    her virginity in the bedroom. She thought, If I could choose a place to
    die it would be here. She blew on her hands and wrapped her arms tightly
    around herself against the cold. Reflexively, she touched her lower
    abdomen.
    She again thought, Are the babies all right? God, let them be all right!
    She went to the window and looked out. A tall woman was running toward
    the cottage, gun in hand. She could see enough of the face to realize it
    was the same woman who had pursued her in Washington. She walked
    backward from the window and nearly toppled over an armchair. It's me he
    wants, not you. She knew Michael was lying to her. They would use her to
    get to Michael, but they would kill her too. Just the way they killed
    Max. Just the way they killed Susanna. She heard the scrape of boots on
    the wooden steps to the front door. She heard the metallic clicking of
    Astrid Vogel trying the doorknob. She heard a loud thud as Astrid Vogel
    tried to kick the door down, and she summoned every ounce of
    self-control she had to keep from screaming. She moved to the bedroom
    and closed the door. She heard a series of low thuds--three or four, she
    couldn't be certain--and the sound of splintering wood: Astrid Vogel,
    shooting her way through the lock. Another kick, and this time the door
    crashed open, slamming into the adjoining wall. It's me he wants, not
    you. And you're a liar, Michael Osbourne, she thought. They were
    merciless and sadistic. There would be no reasoning with them and
    certainly no negotiating. She backpedaled into the corner, eyes on the
    closed door. God, how many times had she been here before? On beautiful
    summer mornings. On chilly autumn afternoons. The books on the shelves
    were hers, and so were the clothes in the closet. Even the threadbare
    rug at the foot of the bed. She thought of the afternoon she and her
    mother bought it together at an auction in Bridge-hampton. She thought,
    I can't let her take me. They'll kill us both. She heard the woman
    walking through the cottage, the footfalls of her boots on the hardwood
    floors.
    She heard the wind rushing through the trees, the screaming of gulls.
    She stepped forward and put the hook on the door. Hide in the closet,
    she thought. Maybe she won't look. Don't be silly, Elizabeth. Think!
    Then she heard the woman call out. "I know you're in here, Mrs.
    Osbourne.
    I don't want to hurt you. Just come out now."
    The voice was low and strangely pleasant, the accent German. Don't
    listen to her! She opened the closet door and slipped inside. She closed
    the door