Vance whispered shakily. “Maybe it meant somewhere else.” “No, I don’t think so.” Rhodes spoke in a normal voice. There was no need for whispering, because Stinger had to know they were waiting in Creech’s den. He aimed his flashlight at the hole in the floor. There was no movement, no sign of life—in whatever form—down in the darkness. “What time is it?” he asked Tom. “Almost twenty till two,” Tom answered, checking his watch in the beam of his own flashlight. Jessie stood beside him, her hair in sweat-damp curls and a fine layer of dust on her face. Rhodes had asked them to come, to see what they were dealing with, but he’d warned them not to say anything about Daufin. David Gunniston stood on the other side of the colonel, the younger man’s face still ashen with shock but his eyes alert and his hand on the butt of the .45 he’d taken from Vance’s gun cabinet. Vance had a Winchester repeating rifle, and Rhodes held the shotgun loaded with tear-gas shells at his side.
