Part 43 (2/2)

I opened the cover, staring again at the stamp in red ink as I walked back into the kitchen. PROPERTY OF THE FRONTIER HOTEL, PARK CITY, UT.

I put the Bible down on the granite countertop, flipping to the page where the pa.s.sage had been cut out-Deuteronomy 32:35, the Song of Moses. I had it marked with a yellow sticky note on which I'd written the missing words.

To me belongeth vengeance, and recompence;

their foot shall slide in due time:

for the day of their calamity is at hand,

and the things that shall come upon them make haste.

I'd barely finished reading the last line when I heard a voice over my shoulder. Someone was in my house, right in my kitchen. Someone I was sure I didn't know this time.

”Are you John O'Hara?” the stranger asked.

Chapter 68

I FROZE, MY body holding perfectly still for a few seconds. Those seconds felt like a lifetime. Or was it that I felt like my lifetime only had a few seconds left?

If I had been anywhere away from home, I would already have been doing the world's fastest deep knee bend to reach for my s.h.i.+n holster.

But that baby, and, more important, the 9mm Beretta it was holding, was sitting somewhere in my bedroom upstairs, along with my wallet, pocket change, and a half-eaten roll of Pep O Mint Life Savers.

Now what?

It was the next best thing. Lunging to my right, I grabbed the closest handle from the block of Wusthof knives next to the stove and spun around with my arm c.o.c.ked, ready to throw.

Again, I froze.

Good thing, too. Otherwise she probably wouldn't have done the same-and she was the one with the gun.

”FBI!” she shouted, collapsing into the crouch position they teach you your first year. Smaller target, more vital organs s.h.i.+elded. Only when she saw that she had the upper hand did she reach for her badge. Even from twenty feet away I knew it was legit.

”Jesus Christ, you scared the s.h.i.+t out of me!” I said, lowering the knife. I exhaled so heavily I could've blown up a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade balloon.

Her exhale was just as big. A Rocky to my Bullwinkle. ”My G.o.d, I could've shot you!” she said, lowering her gun.

”That's what I was afraid of.”

I nodded at the TV. The CNN anchor was back on the screen, as were the same four words: ”John O'Hara serial killer.”

The second she saw it she rolled her eyes. They were green, I couldn't help noticing, and about as attractive as the rest of her. Interesting, though. With her hair pulled back and minimal makeup, I could tell she was trying her best not to advertise her looks. Just the opposite, actually.

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