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‘You go now. We prepare for the sea ania.’ Don Jose sniffed, already done with him.
‘The flower world,’ Mac pressed. ‘But that’s east, beneath the dawn.’ East meant life.
Don Jose tipped the carving. The deer dancer stooped, caught mid-dance, elbows out, head angled, so his deer face and antlers looked behind him over his shoulder.
‘The dancer looks behind him. Toward the place of life. But his feet, still unformed, move in the opposite path. He dances west,’ Don Jose rumbled. ‘Toward death.’
‘No!’ Maria cried. Her voice was unexpected and shrill. The men froze. It was not seemly to behave this way, even over the dying of a child. ‘No. She is my daughter, too. I will not. I will not. She will go in.’
Arturo took a step toward his wife but Don Jose held up a gnarled hand, stopping him.
‘Hekka’s on the UNOS list. Maybe there will be a regular donor heart for her,’ Mac offered. ‘Arizona and California are both AREA 5 on the UNOS transplant map so that means you can stay at the Center while you wait.’
Not reminding them that because of specific immunity problems, doctors had pegged Hekka’s chances at finding a compatible heart at less than 15 percent. Only saying, ‘If she stays here, they say she doesn’t have a chance.’
They waited. The camera whirred.
‘Very well. Hekka goes to the Center with me,’ Don Jose said finally. ‘I shall be her guardian. But this heart-in-a-box, it will not save her.’
Great video, Mac thought, and felt equal parts shame and euphoria.
Pete and Aaron dropped him off at La Cholla Airpark northwest of Tucson near the Tortolita Mountains. The pair kept driving toward Tucson International, where they’d catch the same commercial flight that would carry Hekka and her grandfather back to San Diego.
The office was a modular building, sided in stucco and framed by a cement walkway larded with stepping-stones. An acacia and two bristly mesquite trees offered slight shade. Even this early, the smell of heat rising from the cement mingled with the faint scent of sage.
The pilot, Jeb Shattuck, punched in a code at the French doors and pushed them open. He was wearing black Doc Martens and his hair under his trademark Sacramento Kings hat was turning gray.
‘There’s a computer in the pilots’ lounge, if you need to go online before we leave. I’ll be outside.’
Mac nodded and stepped inside. He drank coffee out of his thermos as Jeb went through the checklist on the Cirrus. The room had lavender-gray carpeting and two sofas littered with aviation magazines. A bulletin board to the left of a small office was crammed with ads for planes, spaces to lease, and tie-down information.
Mac went to the window and looked out past a row of corrugated metal hangars and shadeports. It was just after four in the morning and the sky held the faint pearl color that came an hour before dawn, suffusing the mountains in pink. A light rain fell. In the distance, tidy homes sat amid a vast desert landscape, and horses drowsed along a corral fence.
Jeb was squatting under the plane with what looked like a shot glass and metal straw, poking the straw up into the underside of the plane, taking a fuel sample. He was based out of Sacramento but Mac always used him for trips when he could pry money out of his expense account. Jeb routinely flew media stars who wanted a low profile, and sometimes celebrity pilots whose insurance policies insisted on the presence of a second pilot on board. Mac had heard he flew with Angelina Jolie, but he’d never hear it from Jeb. And Mac liked that, how discreet and trustworthy Jeb was, and how unswayed by star power. Liked the man.
Jeb held the cup up to the light and checked for contaminants, discarding the thimble of fuel in a quick toss onto the tarmac that left a faint streak of shine. He half waved and mimed checking his watch. He held up five fingers. Mac nodded and turned away from the window.
He knew from experience Jeb still needed to check the control surfaces, making certain the safety wires were secure, tweak the wheel pants to see if they moved, eyeball the static port, a quarter-sized metal piece flush on each side of the sleek white body, to ensure that the pin-sized hole at the center wasn’t blocked. More checks than that, but that was enough to know he had five minutes at least.
He walked to the computer desk and found the mouse amid a stack of papers. He drank the rest of his coffee and sat down, fingers clicking over the keys, looking for breaking news stories, an occupational curse.
He found a Web stream of a local news station out of Tucson, anchored by a stocky man with darkly handsome features and a much younger woman wearing a crisp suit. The female anchor, hair stiff with gel, was introducing a piece out of San Diego. Mac had seen a flash the night before. Something about a California senator’s son being shot in a meth bust gone bad.
He turned up the sound. He knew that part of San Diego, Ocean Beach – a funky hippie holdout with bead shops and tattooed panhandlers usually accompanied by pit bulls. He saw her darting out of a squad car into a jostling thicket of reporters and felt his throat close.
Grace Descanso.
Grace. Her hair was shorter than he remembered. But her face still held a curious mix of intelligence and warmth and a kind of raw sexuality, the kind no woman could manufacture. It came from some molten liquid place deep inside.
It had been over five years since Guatemala, and yet he instantly felt the roiling emotions he’d experienced standing next to her in that makeshift shed assisting her as she doctored, felt the remembered cautious optimism, the laughing connection, and then the quiet certainty, born of hope and fostered in every act of kindness, every molecule of her hard, clean presence, that they belonged together then and always, that neither time nor space nor act of God could separate them.
That she was the woman he was willing to die for.
Die for, perhaps, but not give up the story for.
And so it is, and was, and always shall be, amen.
His career was not a cold thing. It was a sinuous presence, alive, a shape-shifter, luring him always with the next seductive thing just over the horizon, the eternal quest to get to the bottom of things, to get it right.
For a brief moment he’d been certain he could have it all.
She was the one who got away. She was his great What If.
They’d been in a dangerous spot and he’d left her there; he knew it was dangerous and he’d left her there, to meet whatever fate was hers while he went into the next country, and then the next, dogging a lead that melted into lies, that changed form, that became a breathless and sensational story that faded away into a yellow dawn, leaving him stunned and awake for the first time in months, with a bitter taste of fear and regret in his mouth. And afraid for her, for what he’d done. For what he had not.
He’d come back for her then and she was gone and there was nothing but scorched earth, and she’d stayed gone for the longest time and to be honest, It wasn’t all bad, his work murmured, She was a distraction, an inconvenience, a minor character in the play of your life.
And now there she was like some apparition, standing there with her head tucked, rushing away from the cameras into a waiting car.
He watched the piece straight through and turned it off.
Jeb poked his head inside the door. ‘Ready?’
Mac nodded.
Jeb zipped up his leather jacket. ‘We might get whapped around a little up there. Expect some turbulence.’
Mac already knew that.
FIVE (#ulink_891dc2e8-d89a-51b7-af60-52643e8d2c80)
He’s coming for you. I came to save you, warn you.
It played through her mind all night, darting through her dreams, leaving her troubled and drenched in sweat.
He’s after you. The Spikeman.
A warning, specifically for her. How else would he have known her name?
You need to run, Grace.
And if it was a legitimate threat, it meant she’d killed the only person who could lead her to the truth. She was a sitting duck now, stalled in the crosshairs, easy pickings for whatever fresh lunatic came lurching out of the muck whispering her name.
She gave up trying to sleep as dawn washed the boats in the harbor a pale shade of gold. The water was a gunmetal gray and the sand looked cold. She took Helix outside and walked him quickly, sticking to side streets, eyes darting, looking for danger, wondering if when it came she’d even recognize it. Helix was no help; there wasn’t a person that his joyous broken body didn’t love. The street was quiet when she unlocked the door afterward and let him in, and she was relieved to be done, wondering if that’s the way it was going to be now, always looking behind her, scared.
She took a shower and studied herself in the closet mirror. Her skin looked unnaturally pale, and smudges accented her dark eyes. She lifted her black hair off her neck and studied the damage. The bruise on the right side of her neck was as big as a fist, and her jawline, still strong – although at thirty-two, time was waging its inexorable battle – was faintly discolored. The bruise was turning an interesting shade of purple. She smiled bleakly into the mirror. At least he’d missed her teeth.
He’s the Spikeman. He transmits signals through the wires in my brain.
Yeah, right. Not anymore, sweetheart. She put on a turtleneck.
Jeanne was still sleeping on the foldout sofa in the family room as Grace carried Katie’s clothes into the kitchen and made coffee. She could hear the scratchy sound of Jeanne’s gerbils stirring in their cage. The gerbils were Jeanne’s pets, lab animals from her old life as a medical researcher. They’d never worked at the same place, but when Grace had been ready to get a sponsor, Jeanne’s connection to science had been one of the things that made Grace trust her. Science didn’t lie. Both women appreciated that.
Grace got out a pencil and tablet, her mind blank. Months ago, she’d taken a game from her own childhood and tweaked it, using it to make Katie’s transition into the school week easier. It had morphed into Katie’s favorite, the game they always played on Mondays to get dressed.
The Timer Game involved everything Katie loved: clues, a race against time, and at the end, if she beat the timer, a small treat to kick-start the day. It was helping Katie identify words and begin to grasp the passage of time, but now, October, all the easy combinations of rhymes and hiding places had been exhausted. Grace kept the old clues in a kitchen drawer. She riffled through them. It reminded her of sorting recipes, wondering if it was too soon again to try the meatloaf.
She found some clues she could modify and worked silently, concentrating. Jeanne appeared in the doorway arch, hair springy, a pink kimono cinched around her waist. She was in her midfifties and looked older. Alcohol and too much time in the sun had thickened her skin into a deep web of lines. She had dyed her hair a defiant shade of red that both moved and amused Grace. This was a woman who would not go quietly. Soberly and with a bad knee, but not quietly.
‘Coffee.’ Jeanne eased into a chair. Helix woofed a greeting and Jeanne absently scratched his head as he settled himself at her feet.
‘Bad night?’ Grace poured a cup and gave it to her.
‘When are you going to tell her?’ Jeanne stared at the clues. ‘Oh, God, Monday.’
‘Yeah, I have to hide all this stuff before she wakes up.’ Grace scooped up Katie’s clothes and bent to pick up Spot Goes to the Farm, splayed open on the kitchen floor. She folded Katie’s T-shirt into the book, putting them under the kitchen sink along with the correct clue.
‘Mommy?’ The voice was coming from the stairwell upstairs.
‘I’m coming,’ Grace called. ‘I’ll be right there.’
‘You don’t want her finding out at school.’ Jeanne stared at Grace across the cup rim.
‘I’ll tell her, okay?’ Grace said irritably. ‘But not right now.’ She ran into the living room and hid Katie’s underpants along with a clue. From upstairs came the sound of a toilet flushing.
‘I’m using your shower.’ Jeanne was making her way to the stairs, leaning on her cane.
‘Go for it.’
‘Mommy?’ Katie’s voice was imperious, the queen summoning her court.
‘Coming!’ Grace shouted as she trotted into the kitchen and grabbed the timer. She stuffed Katie’s shorts and a clue into the family room bookshelf behind a tub of clay, dropped Katie’s Air Walkers next to the cage holding Jeanne’s gerbils, and scanned the room, trying to find some small treat. She settled on a pack of balloons she’d bought for the party and slid one into the final note, putting it under a shoe and covering everything with the cage blanket.
‘Mommy!’ Katie bellowed from upstairs. Helix perked up, ears lopsided, and trotted off to join her. Grace took a slow breath and climbed the stairs.
Katie waited in bed, eyes closed, pouting, Helix next to her on the quilt. ‘If you played this game, you’d lose.’
Grace stood the first clue on the top bookshelf next to the Peace Beanie Baby. ‘Well, guess what? Keep your eyes closed, honey; Helix, down.’ She pulled him off the bed and he grunted and flopped on the floor. ‘I played this game with my dad and your Uncle Andy when I was a kid and I was really good at it.’
She slid the scalloped socks she was holding under the bed ruffle along with the last clue and stood at the side of the bed, her hand on the timer.
‘Okay, at the count of three, I start the timer and you open your eyes. One … two …’
Katie’s eyes popped open. She scanned the room and spotted the note. ‘Three!’ She scrambled out of bed and flew to the bookshelf.
‘Three,’ Grace finished, giving the timer a brisk turn. Sixty seconds. Katie snatched up the first clue and opened it.
‘Today … is,’ Katie sang out.
‘You can read that?’ Grace settled onto the floor.
‘Mommy, that’s how all the clues start, so now I know those words.’ She stabbed her finger at the next word. ‘Mah … mah … Mommy?’
‘Today is Mommy? That’s silly.’
Katie grinned and threw her arms around Grace. ‘Today is Mommy, silly dilly Mommy.’ She beamed, her goodness radiating, at making this small joke.
From down the hall came the sound of a shower starting.
‘Who’s here?’
‘Jeanne. Remember? You have Show and Tell today with the gerbils.’
‘I just want to be with you.’ Katie crawled into her lap. ‘I need you to read these today. You pretend I’m little and I can’t read anything yet. Read the whole thing.’ She smiled sunnily.
‘Okay. Look at the words while I point.’
Katie repositioned herself and Grace smelled the ripe sleep smell of her young skin. Grace pointed and read aloud:
‘Today is MondayHere we goYour socks are close bySomeplace low.’
‘Someplace low, someplace low,’ Katie muttered, rolling to her knees and scanning the carpet. Grace saw a wink of hot pink under the bed ruffle. Katie scrambled to it. ‘Aha!’
The timer dinged. ‘You beat it. You beat the timer. I didn’t hide those very well, did I?’
‘Nope,’ Katie said cheerfully. She pulled on both socks and trotted back to Grace with the second clue. Grace reset the timer and read:
‘Far from hereIs underwearNear a windowDown the stair.’
‘Down the stair!’ Katie urged. ‘Come on!’
‘No running on the stairs!’
Katie shot ahead, running. Helix joined her, his leg banging on each step. The staircase opened into the living room and by the time Grace had made her way down, Katie was yanking on a pair of flowered underpants under her nightie, Helix prancing and yipping in tight circles around her.
‘Come on, hurry!’ Katie thrust a clue at Grace, and Grace reset the timer and read aloud:
‘Your T-shirt’s pinkAnd if you lookUnder a sinkIt’s in a book.’
‘This is too easy today,’ Katie protested, heading for the kitchen.
‘Maybe you’re just too good.’
Katie bent and opened the door under the kitchen sink and pulled out the Spot book and the T-shirt. She squirmed out of her nightie and pulled the T-shirt over her head. ‘Read,’ she commanded, her voice muffled.
Grace reset the timer and read the next clue as Katie’s face breathlessly emerged.
‘So take the bookPut it awayThen take a lookBehind the clay.’
