The three men neared the house. A slash of light was visible under venetian blinds at the kitchen window, the same light seen as a heat source on the monitor. At the picket fence Gray ran his free hand up and down the gate pickets and over the latch. He nodded at Coates. There were no booby traps attached to the gate. They pushed it open slowly. The gate did not squeak. They moved along a concrete walkway between planter beds of orange and red marigolds that stunk even at night.
The FBI agent took the lead and stepped onto the porch. He knelt at the door and worked his picks. Ten seconds later he nodded. Gray and Coates removed their shoes. Gray slowly twisted the knob. He nudged the door open three inches, then reached behind it to check the inside knob. He pushed the door open a fraction further, and reached inside further, checking for string triggers.
When the door was open fully, Gray led Coates inside. He moved slowly to avoid sound and to carefully survey the house. Each step was deliberated before taken. Gray's eyes searched the walls and the rugs and the furniture. The living room was dark except for light coming from the kitchen. Mrs. Robinson's collection of porcelain dolls — dozens of them — stared from a display case. A Wurlitzer organ was in one corner, with open sheet music on its stand. The room smelled of a dog, probably on vacation with the Robinsons.
Coates tapped Gray on the shoulder to stop him, then put his lips at Gray's ear. The detective whispered, "The earplug just said he's still lying on the bed. Hasn't moved."
Gray's hand ran over the riser and the first step to the second floor. He began up, checking the banister rail and pickets and the steps as he climbed. He paused on each step, listening and feeling. Gray led Coates into the second-story hallway. Gray slid his stockinged feet along soundlessly.
When they reached the closed bedroom door, the detective tapped his earplug and gave the thumbs-up. The tech had just reported Trusov was still asleep.
Gray put his hand around the knob. As slowly as he could and still be moving, he turned the knob.
Coates lifted his thumb again, keeping his fingers around the flashlight handle. Still asleep. His pistol was at his ear. His teeth were bared.
Gray turned the knob. The bolt freed itself from the door frame. He inched the door open and slipped his hand inside to feel the interior knob. He slid his hand up and down the inside of the door as far as he could reach in up to his elbow. Nothing. No traps. He nodded at the detective.
Coates clicked on the flashlight and rushed the door. He swept into the room yelling, "Hands up, asshole. You're under arrest."
Gray followed, the bore of his rifle instantly pointing at the bed. He almost slipped on the damp floor.
The detective aimed the flashlight. "Goddamnit." He pointed the beam up and down the body. "Goddamnit to hell." The beam found the face on the pillow. "It's that hippie."
Andy Ellison lay on the bed, fully clothed, his throat laid open ear to ear. Blood was pooled on the floor in several places. Trusov had slit his throat, then dragged him to the bed.
Coates stepped to the wall to throw the light switch. Nothing happened. He pointed the flashlight at the overhead socket. The bulb was missing. He returned his flashlight's beam to the body on the bed. Blood had further dyed Ellison's tie-dyed shirt. A deer rifle leaned against the wall near the bed. A framed charcoal drawing of a bearded, severe family patriarch from the nineteenth century hung on one wall.
Gray put his hand across Ellison's forehead. It was still warm. "He's only been dead fifteen or twenty minutes."
Coates brought his gun hand to his forehead, pressing the back of his hand against his head. "That sensor didn't detect the heat of a man sleeping but of a man permanently cooling." He added sourly, "He might've been a puke dope grower, but he didn't deserve this."
Gray's nose came up. He sniffed, then suddenly pushed Coates toward the door. Too late.
Fire spilled from above the doorway to the wood floor, where it splashed into the room. The wall where the charcoal portrait hung shimmered as if liquid, then licks of fire curled through the wallpaper. An instant later the wall was a sheet of fire.
Gray pushed Coates's shoulders as they fled the bedroom. In the hallway fire gushed from a heating vent like a blowtorch, spreading quickly along the hall and slopping down the stairs, black smoke twisting away and ebbing against the ceiling. Lace curtains disappeared in a flash of fire. Above the second bedroom door the hatch to the attic had been left partly open. The sound of a dull burst came from the attic, then flames spewed down through the hatch, a red and yellow torrent of fire. The two men splashed through puddles of flame. Gray's pants legs caught, and he swatted them. When another muffled rupture sounded, the bathroom instantly filled with flames, billowing and surging, then rushing out into the hall.
Wallpaper peeled and curled, then caught on fire. The ceiling was abruptly made of flame rather than wood, a dome of fire above them. The old house popped and hissed and groaned. The fire sounded like a locomotive.
They reached the stairs. The steps crawled with flames. Gray fought for breath, and his throat and lungs seemed parboiling. The air was black with acrid smoke. Gray blindly led Coates down the stairs, feeling the fire work on his pants legs. Flames swirled and coiled, reaching for them. They tumbled down the stairs, a huge hand of fire reaching down after them.
Gray and Coates sprinted through the main room and out the door, leaving the blaze behind. Gray sucked the cool air into his lungs and swatted at his pants legs.
Coates bent over, hands on his knees, gulping air. He wiped his face with his sleeve. He formed the words slowly. "Christ, that was nasty."
Gray squeezed his eyes closed. His pants and shirt radiated heat as if just taken from a clothes dryer. Behind him the second story of the Robinson house was fully on fire with flames pouring out of windows that had been shattered by heat. The FBI locksmith was running toward them, and several law-enforcement cars were speeding along the road toward the house.
"We could've been killed," Coates said. He swatted embers from his jacket sleeve.
Gray shook his head. "Trusov was toying with us."
"He was playing a game? Why?"
"Trusov is a predator. A cat. And a cat plays with its mouse before it kills it."
Owen Gray sat under the antlers in the dining room. The Marine Corps sniper rifle was on the table. He was installing an Army-issue MILE — a multiple integrated laser engagement system — on the barrel. The MILE was slightly larger than a cigarette pack, and it fit on the front of the barrel just behind the sight. Also on the table was a scope mount extension that would raise the scope an inch to allow the shooter to peer over the MILE. The installation and instruction booklet was held open by a Crescent wrench placed across its pages. Gray worked slowly, occasionally turning pages in the booklet. He was unfamiliar with the laser system designed to put a dime-size red dot on the target's forehead.
Coates returned from the telephone. "The FBI has determined how Trusov booby-trapped the house in Butte."
Gray looked up from the weapon.
"He removed light bulbs from their sockets, then connected the electrical wires above the bulbs. He did so for all the lights on that fuse, essentially making one long filament from the fuse box. When I threw the light switch on in the bedroom the fuse should have blown."
"So why didn't it?"
"Because Trusov had removed the fuse and stuck a penny in the fuse box. With no fuse to blow, the electrical wires overheated in just a few seconds. Trusov had also been in the attic, where he placed eight or nine plastic containers of gasoline right on the exposed wires. When the wires caught fire so did the gasoline. Our Russian is a smart boy."