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  Lily said nothing. Her mouth was too swollen and she felt too numb.

  The figure hesitated a moment longer, and then said, “Look at you. You look like a witch, in that nightgown, all ready to make her peace with God.” Lily was trembling with shock. The other figure, who was gripping her arms, let out another giggle, and then a snort.

  The figure with the demon’s horns dragged over one of the wheelback kitchen chairs, and pushed Lily back until she was forced to sit down in it. Out of his pocket he produced a coil of washing-line cord, and lashed up her arms and her waist and her ankles, knotting the cord so tightly that it cut into her skin.

  “You won’t hurt my children, will you?” Lily managed to ask him, in a bruise-muffled voice.

  “Do I look like somebody who would hurt a child?” the figure asked her. “There’s a whole lot of difference between divine retribution and unnatural cruelty, believe me.”

  “Just don’t hurt my children—or, by God, I will come back and haunt you, I swear. I will haunt you day and night for the rest of your miserable, worthless life.”

  The figure said nothing but walked across the kitchen to the refrigerator and lifted out a gallon-sized container of spring water. He came back, unscrewing the cap.

  “Do you know why witchfinders used to dunk witches in water?” he asked. “There was three reasons. One, to make them confess to their liaisons with Satan. The second, to see if they floated, or sank. If they floated, then God’s own water refused to take them to its bosom, and their guilt was manifestly proven. But the third reason was to soak their clothes, so that when they were burned, they burned more slowly, and suffered the pain of their punishment for a whole lot longer than they would have done if they had been burned dry.”

  “What?” said Lily. She couldn’t understand what she was hearing. But without any hesitation the figure held the container over her head and emptied it all over her. It splashed all over her hair and her face, and drenched her sleep-T. She couldn’t stop herself from gasping.

  The figure tossed the empty container across the kitchen. Then he nodded curtly to his companion, and the two of them bent down on either side of her. They gripped the kitchen chair and heaved it up until Lily was sitting on top of the island.

  “What are you going to do to me?” asked Lily. High up like this, she felt even more vulnerable.

  “Well, you’re a witch, and this is the prescribed way for dealing with witches. As close as I could manage, anyhow. These modern homes—they may have all the modern built-in accessories, but not too many of them can boast a stake for the burning of witches, can they?”

  The other figure had temporarily disappeared, but he returned only a few moments later carrying a green plastic gasoline can. Lily could hear the gasoline sloshing inside it.

  “Oh God,” she said.

  “Well, it might be a good idea to ask for the Lord’s forgiveness, in your final moments.”

  “Oh God, you’re not going to burn me. Please don’t burn me. I’d rather you shot me.”

  “That’d be kind of difficult since I don’t carry a gun of any kind and neither does my friend here.”

  “Then for God’s sake strangle me. But please don’t burn me. I couldn’t stand to be burned.”

  “I gather it’s pretty damned painful, for sure. But the pain you’ve caused, Mrs. Blake, don’t you think you deserve it?”

  Lily tried to appeal to him again, but she was so terrified that she began to hyperventilate and she couldn’t get the words out. She watched with dread as the figure unscrewed the cap of the gasoline container and began steadily to pour it all over the floor around the kitchen island, and splash the sides of the island itself. The reek of gasoline was overwhelming, and the air was distorted by its fumes, as if everything around her were a mirage.

  At last, she heard a woman say, “Please—don’t do this.” To her surprise, it was her. She was amazed that she sounded so reasonable and detached—almost as if a separate Lily Blake were pleading on her behalf. “If Jeff sent you . . . if Jeff has a problem with custody . . . I’m sure that we can work something out. I can talk to my lawyer first thing in the morning.”

  The figure with the demon’s horns said nothing, but backed away from the island, toward the kitchen door, while his companion crouched alongside him, pouring a trail of gasoline across the tiles.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Lily insisted. “And if Jeff sent you, neither will Jeff.”

  The two figures reached the kitchen door and stepped outside, into the hallway. The figure with the demon’s horns took out a cheap flip-top cigarette lighter and flicked it into flame. It dipped and guttered and made his transparent plastic mask look as if he were grinning.

  “You’re making a serious mistake here,” Lily warned him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There was no explosion, only the softest of whoomphs. Orange flames ran across the floor and then jumped up all around her, like blazing clowns. She felt a wave of heat that seared her face and shriveled the hairs in her nostrils.

  The fire burned with soundless ferocity. Within a few seconds it had consumed almost all of the oxygen within the circle of flames that surrounded her. She gasped for breath, but the gases she inhaled were so hot that she had to clamp her mouth shut, and keep it shut. She could smell her hair burning, and she could see the skin on her forearms starting to redden.

  Sergeant was barking now, and throwing himself up against the utility-room door. Lily was fully aware of what was happening to her, but she felt preternaturally calm. No matter how I do it, I have to get myself out of this fire, and I have to do it now. The oak-paneled sides of the island were already blazing—they were thickly polished with beeswax and they were crackling and popping and pouring out thick black smoke. She realized that she would probably choke to death before she was actually cremated.

  She did the only thing she could think of: she bent her head forward as far as she could, hesitated for a moment, and then threw herself violently backward. Her chair tilted, rocked, but it didn’t overbalance.

  Desperate for air, she bent her head forward again, and threw herself backward a second time. There was a split second in which the chair was teetering on its back legs. Then she crashed off the island onto the floor, knocking the back of her head on the terra-cotta tiles and jarring her spine.

  Gasoline flames were still dancing all around the island, but on the tiles they had almost burned themselves out. She managed to kick herself away from the island with one blistered foot, and rock the chair onto its left side. She rocked it again, and again, until she had rolled herself clear of the fire, almost as far as the kitchen door.

  She felt bruised, and half-concussed, and she was quaking with shock. The kitchen door was shut, but Sergeant was still furiously barking and the smoke alarm was screeching. That worried her more than anything. If Tasha and Sammy were still in the house, surely the noise would have woken them up, and they would have hurried downstairs to find out what was happening. She prayed that those two figures in black hadn’t hurt them.

  The island was still burning in the center of the kitchen, spitting out sparks. As she watched, the oak work-surface collapsed sideways, and two drawers fell out, showering cutlery all over the floor.

  “Tasha!” she croaked. “Sammy!” Her throat was raw and she couldn’t shout any louder. “Tasha!” The two figures in black could still be in the house, and if they heard her calling out, they might come back and finish her off; but right at this moment she didn’t care. She just needed to know that her children were safe.

  She cried out again, but there was no reply. The fire was dying down, although the smoke was billowing much more densely. Lily lifted up her hands as if she were praying and started to bite at the cords around her wrists. The figure with the demon’s horns had tied her painfully tight, and she had to gnaw at the cord until her gums bled. But the knots weren’t complicated, and gradually she managed to tug one end loose, and then another. After three o
r four minutes she was able to untie her waist and her ankles and climb unsteadily onto her feet.

  She hobbled to the utility room and let Sergeant out. He stopped barking and circled worriedly around her legs, his tail lashing from side to side.

  “Steady, boy,” she coughed. “Quiet now.”

  She opened the kitchen door and stepped out into the hallway. There was no sign of the two figures. She waited for a moment and then limped toward the foot of the stairs. A horrifying apparition approached her, until she found herself standing face-to-face with her reflection in the long mirror by the front door. Her forehead and her cheeks were scarlet and her eyebrows had been singed, which gave her a mad, expressionless look. Her sleep-T was scorched, and her feet were swollen with blisters. The right side of her hair had been burned into crispy, prickly clumps.

  She coughed, and coughed again, and couldn’t stop coughing, but she mounted the stairs and made her way across the landing to Tasha’s bedroom.

  “Tasha?” The door was ajar. “Tasha?”

  She switched on the light. Tasha’s comforter was pulled right back and her bed was empty. Still coughing, Lily went to Sammy’s room. His bed was empty, too.

  She leaned back against the wall. Jeff. It must have been Jeff. Who else hated her so much, and wanted the children?

  She went to her bedroom and picked up the phone. Her fingers left oily black marks on the receiver, and she was shivering uncontrollably.

  “Police,” she said. “And fire department.” And then, catching sight of herself in the mirrored doors of her closet, “Paramedics, too, I guess.”

  The next morning she opened her eyes and her sister Agnes was sitting next to her bed, smiling at her. The hospital room was the palest of pale blues, and it was filled with white October sunlight. On the windowsill stood a large glass vase of white and yellow roses.

  She lifted off her oxygen mask. “Agnes,” she croaked, trying to sit up.

  Agnes said, “Ssh,” and gently pushed her back against her pillows. Then she held her very close, and kissed her.

  “I’m so glad you came,” said Lily. “When did you come?”

  “First time, about three o’clock this morning. Ned drove me up here. I looked in on you but you were totally out of it, so I went home and came back again.”

  Lily reached out and took hold of Agnes’s hands. She wanted to say something, but her throat was so sore and she was all filled up with tears.

  “It’s okay,” said Agnes. “I talked to the doctors and they said that you’re going to be fine. Minor burns, bruising, smoke inhalation. Your hair’s a bit singed. But nothing worse than that.”

  “What about Tasha and Sammy?”

  “No news so far. The police have called in the FBI.”

  “Already?” Lily tried to sit up again, but she started coughing again, and had to lie back.

  “It’s procedure, apparently, whenever young children go missing.”

  “My God, if those men have hurt them . . .”

  “I’m sure they haven’t, Lily. I’m sure they won’t. The police think that Jeff has probably taken them.”

  “They were going to burn me alive. They said they were going to burn me like a witch.”

  “I know. But you’re going to be okay, sweetheart. The doctor said that you should be able to go home in a couple days.”

  Lily pressed her oxygen mask against her face and took half a dozen deep breaths. Then she said, “Is Jeff not at home?”

  Agnes shook her head. “He hasn’t been seen for over a week. He left his job without saying anything to anyone, and the police say that his mother hasn’t seen him since the end of September.”

  “Oh, God.”

  Lily lay back and all she could do was look at Agnes and hold her hands. Agnes was five years younger than she was, just twenty-nine years old, but her serious face and her brown eyes and her wavy brunette hair always made her look more mature. Lily had always thought that there was something of the Catholic saint about her.

  The nurse came in, a plump girl with unnaturally rosy cheeks. “You’re awake, then, Ms. Blake! I’ll check your vitals and then you can have some breakfast.”

  “I’d like to see a mirror,” said Lily.

  The nurse looked at Agnes warily. “I don’t know if you ought to, just yet.”

  “Please,” coughed Lily.

  Agnes opened her pocketbook and produced a small compact mirror. Lily peered into it and saw a swollen, reddened face, glistening with lidocaine gel. One eye was purple and almost completely closed. Her eyebrows were shriveled and the hair on the left-hand side of her head was prickly, like a burned sweeping-brush. She stared at herself for a long time, saying nothing. The truth was, she could hardly believe that it was her.

  “Your burns are only superficial,” flustered the nurse. “Doctor Perlstein says you won’t have any facial scarring.”

  Lily nodded. “That’s good.” She handed the mirror back. “Not quite ready for mascara, though, am I?”

  “Lily . . .” said Agnes.

  “It’s all right,” Lily insisted. “I didn’t die, and I’m going to get my children back.”

  Agnes picked up a manila envelope and opened it for her. “I brought you this,” she said. “I thought it might give you some hope.”

  It was a color photograph of Tasha and Sammy taken in the summer when they had spent a week with Agnes and Ned in Wayzata. They were sitting on the swing in the backyard, surrounded by roses. Sammy had his left eye squinched up against the sunshine. Tasha was throwing her head back and laughing. Lily looked at it for a moment and her eyes suddenly filled up with tears.

  “I’ll get them back,” she said, and she was quaking with emotion. “I don’t care what it takes, I’ll get them back. And those men who took them, they’re going to burn in hell.”

  Early that afternoon, Special Agents Rylance and Kellogg came into her room and stood beside her bed with their hands in their pockets. Special Agent Rylance was the older of the two, with a gray comb-over and dark pouches under his eyes and suspicious-looking stains on his yellow satin necktie, while Special Agent Kellogg was young and thin-faced and edgy, with a slicked-back pompadour and sideburns that made him look curiously dated, as if he had stepped out of a high-school prom in 1965 for a cigarette and unexpectedly found himself in the twenty-first century.

  Already there were more than a dozen get-well cards beside Lily’s bed, and it seemed as if the nurses were bringing in fresh flowers every few minutes. Agent Rylance picked up one of the cards and read it. “Best wishes from Bennie and Fiona and Bill and all at Concord Realty. God be with you.”

  He put down the card and said, “Doctors said you could have been barbecued, Mrs. Blake. You sure lucked out there.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” Lily coughed. “I was trying to survive.”

  Special Agent Kellogg said, “The police pretty much filled us in on the problems that you’ve been experiencing with your ex-husband—the custody battle, all of that. But did he ever give you any indication at all that he might be thinking of kidnapping your kids, or trying to harm you?”

  Lily cleared her throat. “Never. I mean, Jeff always had a temper. But he was childish, you know, rather than vicious. He slammed doors and shouted and broke things. He never hit me. Most of the time, whenever he got really angry, he just stormed out of the house.”

  “These two men who took your kids . . . do you have any idea at all as to who they might have been? Like, did your ex-husband ever mention that he was joining one of those fathers’ action groups?”

  “No. Jeff isn’t really a joiner. He wouldn’t even join a car pool.”

  “The thing is, Mrs. Blake, the way your children were taken and the harm that was done to you, we’ve come across several similar instances of this before, most of them in Minnesota and Wisconsin and Illinois, Children being kidnapped and their mothers being ritually burned to death.”

  Special Agent Rylance said, “We’ve been tr
ying to track down these sickos for three and a half years now. We believe they belong to an organization calling itself Fathers’ League Against Mothers’ Evil—FLAME for short.”

  “I still can’t believe that Jeff would want to see me dead. I mean, he’s very emotional, very unstable, but I don’t think he’s capable of killing the mother of his own children.”

  “The police said that one of the guys who attacked you accused you of having an affair.” He opened his notebook and squinted at it, as if he was having trouble reading his own writing. “A Robert Dane—is that right?”

  “Sure. Robert and I dated a few times. He works for the Neighborhood Revitalization Program and that’s how we met. But it’s never been anything serious. I’ve never brought him home and Tasha and Sammy don’t even know about him.”

  “Would your ex-husband be jealous if he found out that you were seeing another man?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. He always used to say that I’d never find anybody else to replace him.”

  “Okay,” said Special Agent Rylance. “I’m just trying to get a hook on the guy.”

  Lily took a few more inhalations of oxygen. Then she said, “I’d never bring Jeff down. When he and I were first married, everything was wonderful. We were so happy that I could hardly believe it was true.”

  “So what went wrong?”

  “Money, mostly. When I met him, Jeff had a really great job at 3M, in the IT division. We saved up and bought a three-bedroom starter house in Bloomington and when Jeff was promoted we moved to West Calhoun—to the house I’m living in now. It was pretty dilapidated when we first moved in, but we started to fix it up and we were hoping to sell it in a few years and upgrade nearer to Lake Harriet.”

  “But then Jeff lost his job?”

  “Not exactly, 3M merged two of its divisions and Jeff was sidelined. All of a sudden he had a smaller staff and much less money and no real prospects of promotion. He had a blazing argument with the CEO and he quit. He thought he could walk straight into another high-flying job, someplace else. But of course he was that much older and the marketplace was crowded with young whiz kids. He ended up doing computer maintenance for a small company in Richfield.”