3

Grofield pressed his right hand down on the sleeping man's mouth and closed his left over his throat. The sleeper woke with an explosion of arms and legs under the covers, flinging blankets and sheets off the bed in all directions. But his shouts were turned to muffled gargles in his throat, and for all the thrashing the only sound was rustling and scrabbling – not enough to be heard through the closed door and down the hall and into any of the rooms where the others were sleeping.

There were six in the house, the same number as the gang Myers had tried to put together when Grofield first met him. They were all asleep, scattered among the four bedrooms on the second floor. Myers and this one had rooms to themselves; the other four doubled up. That was why this one had been picked; he was alone. The snoring that had covered Grofield's approach explained why.

Grofield stood on one foot, leaning all his weight on his hands, the one over the thrashing man's mouth and the one squeezing his throat. He knew this would take a fairly long while, that unconsciousness comes reluctantly when the air supply has been cut off, but the guy was helping the process by flinging himself around this way, using up the strength in his body.

Grofield had come in through the back door; Myers hadn't even bothered to lock it. Not that Grofield would have been stopped by a lock, but the carelessness of Myers was a never-ending revelation to Grofield. It was the man's strength as well as his weakness, it made him bold and successful at the same time that it made him dangerous to be around. And ultimately, with a little help from Grofield, dangerous to himself.

The mind wakes up more slowly than the body. By the time the guy in the bed thought to attack the hands that were holding him down and cutting off his air, he had very little time or strength or consciousness left. He scratched at Grofield's gloved hands, plucked at his sleeves, tried vainly to get at his face. His arms stuck straight up, fingers moving more and more slowly, until it looked as though he were doing an imitation of an underwater plant. And his legs had stopped moving.

Grofield had searched the downstairs first, thoroughly. He had catalogued the arms supply, he had inventoried the food in pantry and refrigerator, he had observed the half dozen suitcases and bags lined up along the wall in the dining room. So they were planning to leave from here, in that highly noticeable red fire engine, and then they were planning to drive back here and hide out for a few days. They had food enough for at least a week. With Myers running things, the state of New York would be feeding the bunch of them within twelve hours.

Any damn fool can plot a robbery, and can get away with planning it. Walk in and out of the same bank every day for a month, casing it. Live where you want, drive where you want, do what you want. Any damn fool can walk into a bank or a brewery or wherever the money is – a supermarket, say – and manage to walk out again and leave the immediate scene of the crime. The part that takes the brains is not getting caught afterward. A sensible man, running this thing, would have his people in motels in Watertown and Massena, far enough away from Monequois so none of the locals will have seen them in front, to be remembered later. A sensible man would have his fire engine stashed miles from where he intends to hide out after the operation. A sensible man would keep as far away from his hideout as possible until after the job. A small town area like this one couldn't be hit the way Grofield and the others had hit the supermarket near St. Louis, with a large anonymous city handy to disappear into before the alarm could be raised, and a sensible man would take the local conditions into account.

Hell. A sensible man wouldn't try to knock over that brewery in the first place.

Grofield's arms were getting tired now, his fingers were growing tired from the job of forbidding this guy air. But at last, the man on the bed was running down, like a wind-up toy. His legs were stretched out like pale logs on the sheet, and his arms were collapsing downward in slow motion, the fingers sliding helplessly down Grofield's rigid arms. The madly blinking staring gulping eyes were glazing over now, the distended pupils were rolling upward. The airless heaving of the chest was growing more sporadic.

"Don't die, you silly bastard," Grofield whispered. "All I want you is unconscious."

The eyelids fluttered down. The arms fell to the sheet, flanking his still torso.

There was no sound anywhere in the house. Grofield stood unmoving a few seconds longer, listening, watching, waiting, and then very tentatively relaxed the grip of his two hands, lifted them slowly from the purpled face.

Nothing happened.

Including no intake of breath. Grofield frowned down at the unconscious man, and when breathing still didn't start he put the heel of his left hand on the guy's stomach, just over the waistband of his shorts, and leaned his weight on that hand. Lean, release; lean, release. The second time, a very scratchy sound followed it – a first breath.

Fine. So far, so good.

Grofield's eyes were used to the darkness by now, so he worked without his pencil flash while looking for the guy's clothing. He'd been sleeping in his shorts and T-shirt, and everything else was on a chair over near the door. All except the shoes, on the floor beside the bed.

Grofield took the shoes first, and removed the shoelaces. One he used to tie the guy's big toes together, and the other to tie his thumbs together behind his back. His necktie made an effective gag. The rest of his clothing, shoes, socks, shirts, pants, jacket, all went into the pillowcase Grofield stripped off the bed. A raincoat and a soft cap were in the closet, and Grofield took them, too, stuffing the cap into the pillowcase.

Next he spread a blanket on the floor, and carefully rolled the guy off the bed and down onto the blanket. He wrapped the raincoat around him as best he could, and then rolled him in the blanket. A hands and knees search around the walls of the room produced one extension cord, which Grofield tied around the middle of the long bundle he'd made. He tucked the end of the pillowcase up through his belt in the back and looped it there so the pillowcase hung down over his behind, then picked up the rolled blanket, balanced it precariously on his left shoulder, and slowly made his way out of the room.

Rain continued to pour, outside. It could be heard drumming on the roof, tapping on the windows, pouring through the gutters. The muffled, distant, soothing sounds of the rain covered the small sounds Grofield made as he carried his burden slowly down the stairs to the first floor and through the house and out the kitchen door.

It seemed darker outside the house than in, maybe because the pelting rain distorted everything you tried to look at. Grofield shifted the weight of the blanket on his shoulder and began slogging away from the house through the mud.

Halfway to the car, the figure in the blanket came to life and started to twist violently around, almost making Grofield lose his balance and fall down in the mud. He managed to stay on his feet, and when he was braced with his legs spread he took the Terrier out of his pouch, holding it by the barrel, and hit the spot on the blanket where he believed the head to be. The third time he hit it, the twisting around came to a stop. Grofield put the Terrier away again and slogged on toward the car.