Reich gasped for breath and beat his knuckles together painfully, fighting for control. When the roaring in his ears subsided, he propelled himself toward Barbara, trying to arrange his thoughts and make split-second alterations in his plans. He had never counted on a witness. God damn Powell. He would have to kill the girl. Could he arrange a double-murder in the—No. Not murder. Booby-trap. Damn Gus Tate. Wait. He wasn’t in Beaumont House. He was ... in ...