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She started to leave the front door open in case she needed a quick escape. But the man could’ve already left the trunk. Not likely—Lacey had been in the house no more than half a minute. That could be time enough, though. He might be out of the trunk, hiding nearby, ready to jump her or sneak inside the house. So she closed the front door and locked it.
    She stood on the Welcome mat, holding the revolver close to her belly. Its weight felt good in her hand. She felt safer than before, as if she’d been joined by a powerful trusted friend—a brother who would nail the bastard for her.
    Just point and fire.
    The only real danger, now, lay in being caught from behind.
Like before. That’s how he got me before.
    Not this time.
    He might be in the geraniums.
    He’s probably still in the trunk.
    Lacey sprang from the stoop, past the geranium bushes, and raced into the center of her lawn. She spun around, revolver ready. No one.
    Okay.
    Still in the trunk.
    She ran to her car. Standing behind it, she studied the keys in her left hand. She found the trunk key. Revolver ready, she stabbed the key into the lock and twisted it. The latch clicked.
    She jumped back, and aimed. The springs groaned as the trunk began to open. The lid inched upward. Lacey stared at the dark, widening gap. Her finger was tense on the trigger. The lid gathered speed, stopped abruptly at its apex, and quivered for a moment.
    In the darkness of the trunk, nothing moved.
    Lacey stepped closer. She saw her spare tire, a pack of road flares, and an old towel she sometimes used for wiping the car windows. There was certainly no man in the trunk.
    She sighed. She felt weary, disappointed. She’d been sure she would find the killer there.
    The rapist.
    The man who tore her and bit her and pumped his foul seed into her.
    He would be in the trunk and Lacey would pump him full of a different kind of seed—the kind thatgrows death—the lead kind. He would never hurt anyone again.
    “Damn,” she muttered.
    Reaching up with her left hand, she slammed the trunk shut. The car rocked slightly with its impact.
    She remembered her torn undergarments on the front seat. Better pick them up.
    Stepping around the end of the car, she saw that the rear door jutted out an inch. Its lock button stood high.
    “My God,” Lacey said. She covered her mouth, and staggered backward.

CHAPTER FIVE
    She refused to run. Back in the market, she had run and he’d taken her down from behind. It was a mistake she would not repeat.
    Cautiously, turning to check every side, she made her way to the front door. She stood against its cool wood, the handle near her hip, and reached behind her with the key. It clicked and skidded against the lock-face. Finally, it slid in. She turned it. The lock tongue snapped back.
    Through the bushes to her left, she saw a quick pale movement. She jerked her revolver toward it. The shape rushed clear of the bushes and appeared in the open ahead of her, just across the lawn.
    A man. Cliff Woodman. Out for a run.
    He glanced toward Lacey, waved, and suddenly stopped.
    “That you, Lacey?”
    “It’s me.”
    “Is that a gun?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Trouble?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Lacey stepped away from the door and loweredher revolver as Cliff jogged toward her. She immediately felt better. Cliff, a gym teacher at the high school, was forty years old and an ex-marine. To night, in his running shoes, shorts, and a bandanna knotted around his head as a sweatband, he looked almost savage.
    “What’s the problem?” he asked.
    “I think I’ve got a prowler.”
    “Where?” He squinted at the bushes in front of the house.
    “I don’t know. I think he was in my car.”
    “Your car?” Cliff strode toward it, hunched slightly, arms away from his sides like a wrestler about to do battle. Lacey hurried after him. He jerked the handle of the passenger door.
    Thank God it’s locked, Lacey thought, hoping he wouldn’t discover her torn bra and pan