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All three detectives would be furious if I went on my own.

He could wait outside.

Again, I started to punch Ryan’s number. Again, I stopped.

What if Ryan insisted on escorting me inside?

McGee and Pomerleau obviously had a hidey-hole in that house. Ryan’s presence might drive them back underground. Might shatter their trust in me. Maybe they weren’t even there, but would provide further instructions only if I arrived alone. A police net around the whole neighborhood would be too obvious.

In my mind, I heard McGee’s terrified pleas, felt her grip on my arm, saw the desperate hope in her eyes.

Guilt and self-blame hopped into my thinking.

I’d been unable to calm McGee at the hospital. If anything, I’d increased her alarm.

What if Ryan’s presence panicked her again?

I lurched to my feet. Yanked my jacket from its peg.

This time I’d do as she asked. I owed it to her. To them.

A new thought stopped me cold.

What if McGee and Pomerleau weren’t alone? What if Menard was still working their heads? What if the call was a trap? Would he really dare to harm me? Why not? He was already looking at life in prison, and he was a malignant sociopath.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!”

Who to phone?

Ryan would go paternal. I couldn’t deal with that.

Claudel was out of the question.

Pulse racing, I tried Charbonneau, just so someone would know where I’d gone. A mechanical voice informed me that the subscriber I’d dialed was unavailable, and disconnected without inviting input.

I checked my watch.

Six forty-two. I dialed CUM headquarters and left a message for Charbonneau. He and Claudel were probably still in Vermont, but at least they would know where I’d gone.

Silence surrounded me.

More what-ifs.

What if McGee hurt herself?

What if Menard was maneuvering to add me to his fun house?

What if Menard planned to put a bullet through my brain?

I was scanning the face of each ugly scenario, when my cell erupted in my hand.

I jerked as though burned. The handset flew from my grasp, nicked the wall, and ricocheted under my desk.

Dropping to all fours, I scrabbled across the tile, grabbed it, and clicked on.

Another shock.

Without preamble, Anne launched into a rambling apology.

Relief and resentment joined the Armageddon in my head.

I cut her off.