Shame and rage grappled with each other as he glared at his reflection. Jason had lured him with a hooker-a lousy hooker-and then let Zach take the fall. Jesus, he could have been killed.

But he hadn’t been. He was alive and though he’d probably have to be stitched up at a hospital, he’d survive long enough to beat the living shit out of his brother. With a white terrycloth rag emblazoned with a black “O,” he cleaned his face, wincing when the warm water touched the knife wound. He didn’t dare mess with his shoulder, couldn’t afford to have it start bleeding again. Besides, he had to leave quickly. No way did he want to try and explain what had gone on here or give the thugs another chance at him. He’d have to sneak back into the Hotel Danvers and up to his own room without being spotted by anyone.

That shouldn’t be too hard. According to his watch, it was almost four-thirty, nearly dawn. Witt’s party should have wound down to nothing. Anyone who was still awake would be too drunk to notice Zach slinking in.

And then he’d hunt down his older brother and beat the piss out of him. Jason had a lot to answer for.

He slipped out of the room unnoticed, took the stairs to the first floor, and while the desk clerk had his back turned, Zach crossed the lobby, hurried past the magazine stand where some old coot was hoping to sell the early edition of the newspaper, and was out the door.

A summer storm had hit. Warm rain lashed from the sky, puddling on the sidewalk and drizzling down the back of Zach’s neck. Ducking his head against the wind, he started back toward the Hotel Danvers. He hunched his shoulders-his legs felt as if they were made of rubber.

As he rounded a corner, he noticed the police cars, six or seven of them, parked in front of the hotel like vultures hovering over a dying sheep. Blue and red lights flashed against the side of the building and a dozen uniformed officers milled around the grounds.