The third man, who had stood silently scanning the woods, said, "I don't see any sign of the kid. Think she ran off?"

"I think she was carried off." The words had barely left DeMarco's lips when, faintly, they all heard the sound of a car's engine revving and then fading within seconds into silence.

"Amateurs." DeMarco repeated.

"And heartless, not to come back for their dead." It was said with absolutely no sense of irony, and the man still kneeling beside the bodies looked down at them sorrowfully for a moment before lifting his gaze again to DeMarco. "I didn't hear Father saydoes he want these two brought back?"

DeMarco shook his head. "Dump the bodies in the river, Brian. Fisk, help him. It's nearly dawn; we need to get back."

They obeyed the clear order, holstering their weapons and bending to the task of lifting the large, heavy man from the frozen ground.

"Over a shoulder would be easier," Carl Fisk panted as they struggled to manage the dead weight. "Fireman's carry."

"You can if you want to," Brian Seymour told him. "Not me. I go back covered in this guy's blood and my wife is gonna ask all kinds of questions."

"All right, all right. Just lift your share, will you? Shit, Brian"

DeMarco looked after the two men for a long moment until they disappeared into the forest and he could measure their progress only by the continuing complaints and fading grunts of effort. Finally he returned his weapon to the shoulder holster he wore and knelt beside the body of Sarah Warren.

He didn't have to check for a pulse but did it anyway, then gently closed her eyes so the frosty whiteness was no longer visible. Only then did he methodically search her to make certain she wasn't carrying identificationor anything else that might cause problems.

It was a very thorough search, which was why he found the silver medallion hidden in her left shoe. It was small, nearly flat, and on its polished surface was carved a lightning bolt.