Watchers

an even louder crash, and the runner cursed, and Einstein made a vicious sound that gave Travis a chill, and the din grew worse.
    He went to Nora Devon. She was leaning against the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. He said, “You okay?”
    “He almost . . . almost . .
    “But he didn’t,” Travis guessed.
    “No.”
    He touched the blood on her chin. “You’re hurt.”
    “His blood,” she said, seeing it on Travis’s fingertips. “I bit the bastard.” She looked toward the swinging door, which had stopped moving now. “Don’t let him hurt the dog.”
    “Not likely,” Travis said.
    The noise in the kitchen subsided as Travis pushed through the swinging door. Two ladder-back chairs had been knocked over. A large blue-flowered ceramic cookie jar lay in pieces on the tile floor, and oatmeal cookies were scattered across the room, some whole and some broken and some squashed. The runner was sitting in a corner, his bare legs pulled up, hands crossed defensively on his chest. One of the man’s shoes was missing, and Travis suspected the dog had gotten hold of it. The runner’s right hand was bleeding, which was evidently Nora Devon’s work. He was also bleeding from his left calf, but that wound appeared to be a dog bite. Einstein was guarding him, staying back out of range of a kick, but ready to tear at the runner if the guy was foolish enough to attempt to leave the corner.
    “Nice job,” Travis told the dog. “Very nice indeed.”
    Einstein made a whining sound that indicated acceptance of the praise. But when the runner started to move, the happy whine turned instantly to a snarl. Einstein snapped at the man, who jerked back into the corner again.
    “You’re finished,” Travis told the runner.
    “He bit me! They both bit me.” Petulant rage. Astonishment. Disbelief. “flit me.”
    Like a lot of bullies who’d had their way all of their lives, this man was shocked to discover he could be hurt, beaten. Experience had taught him that people would always back down if he pressed them hard enough and if he kept a crazy-mean look in his eyes. He thought he could never lose. Now, his face was pale, and he looked as if he was in a state of shock.
    Travis went to the phone and called the police.
 
    FIVE 1
    Late Thursday morning, May 20, when Vincent Nasco returned from his one-day vacation in Acapulco, he picked up the Times at the Los Angeles International Airport before taking the commuter van—they called it a limousine, but it was a van—back to Orange County. He read the newspaper during the trip to his townhouse in Huntington Beach, and on page three he saw the story about the fire at Banodyne Laboratories in Irvine.
    The blaze had broken out shortly after six o’clock yesterday morning, when Vince had been on his way to the airport to catch the plane to Acapulco. One of the two Banodyne buildings had been gutted before the firemen had brought the flames under control.
    The people who had hired Vince to kill Davis Weatherby, Lawton Haines, the Yarbecks, and the Hudstons had almost certainly employed an arsonist to torch Banodyne. They seemed to be trying to eradicate all records of the Francis Project, both those stored in Banodyne files and those in the minds of the scientists who had participated in the research.
    The newspaper said nothing about Banodyne’s defense contracts, which were apparently not public knowledge. The company was referred to as “a leader in the genetic-engineering industry, with a special focus on the development of revolutionary new drugs derived from recombinant-DNA research.”
    A night watchman had died in the blaze. The Times offered no explanation as to why he had been unable to flee the fire. Vince figured the guy had been killed by intruders, then incinerated to cover the murder.
    The commuter van ferried Vince to the front door of his townhouse. The rooms were cool and shadowy. On the uncarpeted floors, each footstep was hard and clearly defined, echoing hollowly through the nearly empty house.
    He had owned the place for two years, but he had not fully furnished it. In fact, the dining room, den, and two of the three bedrooms contained nothing except cheap drapes for privacy.
    Vince believed that the townhouse was a way station, a temporary residence from which he would one day move to a house on the beach at Rincon, where the surf and the surfers were legendary, where the vast rolling sea was the overwhelming fact of life. But his failure to