up, backtracking across the bay.
Pitt was still on the move. Approaching one of the glassblowers, he plucked the blowpipe from the worker’s hand and hurled it like a javelin at the gunman. The spear struck the assailant’s outstretched arm, enveloping his hand in a glowing blob of molten glass. The man screamed as it torched his flesh. Shaking his arm, he flung the gun and most of the glass off his hand and onto the floor. Then he staggered toward the entrance, avoiding Pitt by skirting the far side of the reheating pit.
The second glassblower decided to follow Pitt’s lead. He stood and with a strong arm flung his glasswork at the fleeing man. It struck him on the hip, but glanced off and fell to the ground.
Disoriented, the gunman wobbled into a storage rack of glass goblets, which showered onto him. He staggered to the side, tripped, and fell into the open firepit. Surprisingly, he didn’t scream.
Pitt and the workmen rushed over and pulled him from the burning embers before his skin was charred. He didn’t move a muscle as Pitt rolled him onto his back. His head and torso were covered in white ash.
“Está muerto,” one of the glassblowers whispered.
Pitt, too, saw that the man was dead.
“One of the glass goblets.” Giordino approached and pointed to a gash in the dead man’s neck.
Pitt saw it now, a short but deep gash below his ear that had been cauterized in the firepit. Beneath the ashes, a thick layer of dried blood streaked across his back.
“A shard struck him in the carotid artery,” Pitt said. “He must have fallen into the pit unconscious and died before the fire got to him.”
“¡Un accidente!” shouted the worker who’d pitched the blow. “Un accidente.”
“Sí,” Pitt said, “un accidente.”
Giordino scanned the dead man. “Who do you think he is?”
Pitt searched the man’s pockets. “No wallet or identification, but plenty of cash.” He produced a thick fold of U.S. dollars, used as currency in El Salvador. He threw it to the ground beside the body.
“All the markings of a professional,” Giordino said.
“One who probably isn’t working alone.” Pitt gazed at Giordino with concern.
“You think someone else is still after Elise?”
Pitt nodded.
“Let’s go.”
Pitt told the workers to call the police, then sprinted out of the building with Giordino at his side, hoping that his gut instinct was wrong.
7
The black Jeep had kept its distance behind the ambulance, then stopped a block from the medical clinic at the edge of town. The driver, an athletically built woman with dark red hair and an angular face, watched as Elise was hurried into the building on a stretcher. She drove casually past the entrance, then continued toward the main road to San Salvador.
She circled back, drove to the rear of the building, and parked under a tree in view of the service entrance. Her partner had claimed he’d shot Elise before she disappeared into the cornfield. Maybe she’d die on her own, but it couldn’t be left to chance.
It had been several minutes since the explosion at the lakefront, and she looked down the road for a sign of her partner. He was nowhere in sight. A small laundry truck approached the clinic and backed up to the service entrance. The driver hopped out, rang the buzzer, and an orderly propped open the door.
The woman smiled and reached for a small case. Inside was a makeup kit and a black wig. She applied a darkening cream to the naturally light skin of her face, neck, and hands. Then she pinned up her hair, slipped on the wig, and inserted a pair of brown contact lenses. Next, she slipped on the black ball cap she’d worn earlier and pulled the brim low. The final touch to distract from her natural features was a heavy pair of pink-framed eyeglasses.
She waited until the deliveryman entered the building with a load of clean laundry, then she ducked through the open door. The doorway opened into a cramped, dim stockroom. She stepped behind a tall shelf stacked with sheets and blankets. The deliveryman was retrieving bags of dirty laundry that lined the corridor. When he stepped outside with a load, she snatched a remaining bag and pulled it to her hiding spot.
She rifled through a twisted pile of patient gowns until she spotted a green doctor’s smock. She ditched the ball cap and pulled on the smock, finding it close to her size. She rose with the bag as the deliveryman reentered.
“Uno más.” She