A blast of cold hit Denton when he pushed through the fire door. Already breathless from running down the stairs, the frigid air made him gasp.

The emergency exit led out to the side alleyway near the back of the building. A mirror image of the door was directly across from him; gray metal, four concrete steps off the ground, with a single spotlight directly above. Off to his right, the wind whipped over the river, pushing a damp air front in from the northeast. To his left, two dumpsters blocked the view of the parking lot.

Where was Radnor?

The security light reflected off half frozen puddles pooled on the deteriorating asphalt. Some of them seemed tinged with a deep crimson. Denton staggered down the few steps to the pavement and noticed a blood trail leading toward the front of the building, past the dumpsters.

It wasn't long until the shattered glass came into view. Near the front corner of the building, it was sprayed across the ground as if someone had emptied a treasure chest full of diamonds and rubies. At the center, a large splatter of blood marked Radnor's point of impact. Spurts of the red gore extended out of it like a sunburst.

Denton stopped at the outer perimeter of the glass. At his feet lay the knife. He had only seen the handle before. Now he saw that it was a thin bladed boning knife.

He stood there staring at it—the murder weapon. The thought crossed his mind: I wore my gloves the whole time; there are no fingerprints. He could walk away. Just leave and let the police sort things out. Who would know he'd been there?

But it wasn't murder, it was self-defense. And Radnor wasn't even dead—just wounded and out there somewhere.

It would have been easy for the narrow blade to miss any vital organs. He looked up to the open window. Thirty—thirty-five feet at most. That's survivable. Right? He had no idea, but it must be. And Radnor's leg must have only looked broken. After all, Denton had only glanced down. The dark and the distance could have tricked his eyes.

There was nothing supernatural about it.

So where was he?

Denton circled around the radius of broken glass. The only trail of blood extending from it was the one that had led him there. Radnor had headed to the back of the building.

He should have gone toward the street. He would have been more likely to find help in that direction. Someone coming into the parking lot would have seen him. Or he could have flagged down a motorist from the road. What help would he find by the train tracks and the river?

He was running away. Why?

The man had experienced a psychotic break and wasn't being rational. He was suffering severe delusions. Who knew why he would have chosen that way. But he was losing more blood with every step and he was moving farther away from help.

How long would it take the ambulance to show up? Were the police on their way? He couldn't hear any sirens. He wasn't sure whether they had even dispatched anyone. He hadn't stayed on the line. When he saw that Radnor had gone, he left the apartment. He couldn't even remember what he had done with the phone. Everything was still jumbled in his mind.

He should go back and call again to make sure they were coming. Warn them that Radnor was injured and violent. Then he could wait in the apartment—no, that was a crime scene. He should wait in his car until they got there and he could give his statement.

Would Cole Radnor survive that long? Would they be able to find him when they got there? Or would they only find his cold, dead body hours or days from now? They would come across a frozen corpse collapsed in red snow in some forlorn spot on the bank of the Gilead River.

He couldn't take that chance. If Cole Radnor died, it would be on his conscience. He wouldn't be responsible for the man's death. Denton made up his mind to go after him and to make sure he didn't bleed out. There was fear in the thought. Radnor could try and attack him again. But how big a threat could he be in such a weakened state? He had to help him.

He took one step, and a voice in the back of his head said: take the knife—just in case.

He allowed himself a glance at it before he put it behind him and walked away from it with determination.

He was going out there to save Cole Radnor, not to finish the job. At the back of the buildings, the ground was trampled by hundreds of tiny feet. There must be children living in the complex who used the back lot as a playground.

His gaze searched the empty land between him and the river. The black train tracks cut through the blue-gray snow like a gash. A small figure was on the track about a hundred yards away. Could that be Radnor? A length of chain-link cordoned it off for safety, but perhaps he had gotten past it.

He was heading south. It would lead him back through town.

And if he kept going...

The unwelcome image of the giant red eight under the train bridge popped into his head.

Denton scanned the ground for several minutes, searching for some indication of Radnor's trail. Finally, he came across two drops of fresh blood in a frozen heel print. Each drop melted a perfect circle into the snow.

He struggled along the soft, uneven ground. The hiking boots he had put on that morning kept him from slipping but not from sinking. He reached the fence. A few of the wires were snapped or had been cut and about three feet of chain-link was pushed to the side. Blood was streaked over the snow where Radnor had crawled through. Beyond it a well-worn trail led off. Most of the boot prints were small. Perhaps it was a shortcut to the water or perhaps it was simply the lure of mischief and forbidden places that had brought the neighborhood children through here.

Grimacing, Denton dropped to his knees and followed.

When he reached the tracks, he started a light jog, trying to time each footfall to land squarely on the railway ties, since the gravel in between the wooden planks was too rough to run on. Out in the open, the cuts on his face stung and the tips of his ears burned from the cold. He tried to ignore it and to focus on the task. The figure was almost lost to sight, fading in with the murk.

No matter how fast he pushed himself, the other person on the tracks seemed to only retreat from him and never got any closer.

"Cole!" he screamed into the night, as he staggered to a stop, the energy in his body spent. He yelled out the name two more times as loud as he could, praying that his voice would carry over the wind.

Radnor stopped. Had he heard him? Or were his wounds finally slowing him down?

Denton started walking to him, dragging his exhausted legs forward one step at a time. His feet stumbled, hitting gravel more often than the wooden ties. His breath sent ragged plumes of vapor into the air. The figure in the distance started getting bigger—getting closer.

Denton stopped. Radnor had turned back and was heading toward him. A splash of terror hit his brain and he contemplated fleeing. The madman from the apartment loomed in his mind. I really don't want to kill you, he had said pressing the razor to his throat. But I will was left implied.

Denton forced the fear down and tried to clear his head. Keep to the plan. Get to him. Calm him down. Stop the bleeding. Get him to the hospital. Simple.

So why couldn't he get his legs to move forward? Why was his mouth so dry? How was Cole Radnor moving so damn fast?

Denton couldn't take his eyes off of him as he charged down the tracks. The ground seemed to be rumbling beneath him. He was close enough that Denton could make out the pumping of arms and legs. Hair flew around his head, but specific details were lost in the darkness. His face was black and there was no definition between skin and clothes.

Denton's mind refused to think. It just seemed to be filled with a deafening screeching noise that blocked out everything else. He found himself stepping backward, slowly retreating. Too slowly. His foot landed on the uneven stones and sent him off balance. He fell back and landed on his butt. All the air escaped from his lungs. He turned onto his stomach to try and get up and realized that the noise wasn't in his head; a train was hurtling toward them. He had to get moving—get off of the tracks.

He got to his knees and was pushed back to the ground. His face jammed up against an icy tie.

"Hello, Dent," Radnor snarled in his ear. The weight of his body held him down.

"Cole, I came to help. You need to go to a hospital. Let me up. I'll drive you. Hurry, the train's coming."

All he could see was the light of the engine getting ever closer. No one had seen them there. It wasn't braking. It wasn't even slowing down.

"Afraid of the train? How sad. When you embrace eternity, you won't be afraid of anything anymore. The truth will set you free."

"You're hurt. You need help." "Are you going to help me? Like you helped me before?" Radnor's arm snaked away from Denton's left shoulder and his hand stroked the back of his head.

"Look, I'm sorry. I—" He broke off as Radnor's fingers coiled around his hair and pulled his head back.

The train seemed impossibly close. Denton could smell death in the air all around him. His heart was pounding as if it were about to burst in his chest.

Radnor started to shove his head down. Denton anticipated his face being smashed into the ground. He felt Radnor's body shift. With an adrenaline fired burst, he flung his elbow into Radnor's stomach, right below the rib cage. By chance it hit squarely on the knife wound and Radnor's strength ebbed. Denton sprang up on one knee and pushed, dislodging Radnor from his back and sending himself rolling away from the tracks.

Denton fell free and slid down the slope of the railway embankment. He looked up to see Radnor climbing to his feet. The moment he recovered himself, he dove at Denton.

Instinctively, Denton brought his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball to protect himself. Cole Radnor landed with his chest against his boots. Denton thrust out his legs with all of his strength and Cole Radnor was pushed into the air.

The speeding train turned the night into a rushing horror of noise, tremors, and gales of wind. A glossy black locomotive crushed Radnor under silver wheels. Jets of flame spewed out of its smoke stack. Seconds passed before Denton realized he had his eyes clenched shut and the image of the demonic engine was all in his imagination. He opened his eyes to see a long line of cargo cars zipping past him. Radnor was nowhere in sight.

When the train finally passed, he slowly got up out of the snow. There was no sign of the madman. There was no one running away. No mutilated body thrown clear of the tracks. No blood except a few small splatters where they had fought. Denton watched the train as it headed through town. What had happened to him?

After what felt like a very long time, Denton went back to Radnor's building. When he reached the alleyway, yellow police tape blocked it off, but there was nobody watching it. He circled around the other side and when he came out into the parking lot, he saw the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles outside the building. Two squad cars and an ambulance were parked by the main door.

Denton squared his shoulders and prepared himself for what was to come. Would he make the front page of the newspaper twice in one week? Once as a hero and once as the guy who threw a co-worker out a window and then pushed him under a train?

A patrolman was standing guard on the front steps. From several feet away, he recognized the man.

"Officer Lee," he said, as way of greeting, a nervous bile building in the back of his throat.

"Reed. Damn, you got here fast." There was astonishment in his voice.

"I..." Denton stammered, hesitating to give his confession. "Stahl isn't here yet. I'm sorry, I can't let you up there without him." "No, you see—" he paused, finally understanding what Officer

Lee was saying. "Bill is coming here?" "On his way. Hard to believe isn't it?" "What?"

"We just arrest the killers and already there's a copycat." Denton stared at him blankly. "Looks like there's been another abduction. Mr. 8 lives on."

Okay, time to come clean. Just tell him what happened.

"I'll wait for Bill then," Denton said. He started walking away and added, "In my car."

He sat down in the Buick's cold driver's seat. He'd wait and tell Bill. It would be easier explaining it to a friend.

He turned the key in the ignition to get the heat going. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, his body felt like hell. The beating it took in the apartment and then at the tracks could be traced in each joint and bone. Not to mention, he still had lingering pain in his face and a throbbing headache from the wrong lenses in his glasses.

Denton withdrew the pill bottle from his pants pocket. It was a transparent orange-brown—a sickly amber color. The prescription was for two pills every four hours. Desperate for some relief, he cautiously took one and downed it dry. Despite its small size, it coated his mouth with a bitter, chalky taste.

He adjusted his coat. Dirt and dried grass clung to the wool. He took a few futile swipes to try and brush it clean and noticed the paper towels were no longer in his sleeve. They must have fallen out in the fight. Which one? He hadn't seen them in the snow. They must have been left in the condo.

At least the welts had stopped bleeding, but just looking at them made them begin to itch and the thought of germs returned to the forefront of his mind.

It was ludicrous. It was only the power of suggestion. If the three killers had never put the idea in his head, he wouldn't have considered the possibility of an infection.

Yet, something about it made sense. There was a string linking one person to the next like a virus spreading. He could trace the victims back to Ray, the man the police had called The Troll. Was he Patient Zero? He was the first one to exhibit the symptoms. But were they symptoms? Or was this just trying to put everything into a nice, simple package? That had been the mistake those boys had made.

A pathetic rendition of Jingle Bells with horns and an electric keyboard ended, and the radio switched to a news brief. It was six o'clock and the top story was the winter storm heading into the region.

He was supposed to be meeting Linda at that very moment. Linda was probably already at the restaurant waiting. He had no phone to call. He pictured her sitting there impatiently, her hand dragging a strand of brown hair behind her ear, as she looked at the door with an overly casual glance.

He sat there for several minutes with his eyes closed. When he opened them, the faint moisture of early tears gave a soft glow to the lights. He put the car into reverse.

As two more patrol cars pulled into the parking lot, he turned off onto Chilton Street.