Charlie would have liked to share with Dillon her excitement over the new studio as she shared it with her other friends, to relay her delight over simple details like the big adjustable shelves to hold drawings and prints and paper supplies, the new printing table, her anticipation over a new (used) desk, over a decent place for her computer.

She studied the girl, looking for a spark of the old Dillon. "I'll be working on the building project as carpenter's helper, under Ryan's direction. I want to improve my carpentry skills. I'm already pretty good at Sheetrock, from helping with Clyde's apartment building." She wished she could hone her people skills as easily. She wished she could master the moves to make the world right again for Dillon.

Dillon looked at her and rose. "Can I ride Redwing?"

Charlie nodded. "Don't let the dogs out of the pasture. You want company? We're about through here."

"Could I call my friend? Could my friend ride Bucky?"

Charlie stared at her. Bucky was Max's big, spirited buckskin. The sun rose and set with that gelding, no one else rode Bucky. "What friend is that?" she said carefully.

"From school. My friend from school."

"A girlfriend?"

Dillon said nothing. The child's stare made Charlie very glad she didn't have a teenager to raise. "You know that no one rides Bucky. Even I don't ride Bucky, without a very special invitation."

"I guess I'll go home then." Dillon turned on her heel, heading for the door.

Ryan rose, moving quickly around the table. She put her arm around Dillon. "Christmas vacation isn't far off."

"So?" Dillon turned a sour look on her. But she didn't move away.

"You have a job for the two weeks of vacation?"

Dillon shrugged. "Who needs a job? Who wants to work during vacation?"

"You want to work for me?"

"Why would I want to work for you? Doing what?"

"Carpenter's gofer. Fetching stuff. Sweeping up, cleaning up the trash. Maybe some nailing. Learn to lay out forms and mix cement. I can get a work-learning permit through the school. I'll pay you minimum, which is likely more than you're worth."

Dillon stared at her. "Why would I want to do that kind of work?"

"Something wrong with it? It's the way I started, when I was younger than you. At about the same time I began to learn to shoot a gun and to train the hunting dogs-carpentry skills might come in handy, whatever you do with your life." Ryan looked hard at Dillon. "What you do right now-while you're hurting-will shape the rest of your life. You want to spend it sneaking around shoplifting?"

Dillon pulled away. Ryan took her hand. "You are not your mom, Dillon. And she's not you." Ryan's green eyes flashed. "You plan to mess up your life just to punish her? What do you get out of that? If you're a survivor, as I hear you are, you'll stop this shit. You'll not let the dregs of the world plan your life for you, you'll write your own ticket."

She drew Dillon close and hugged her. "Charlie and Max love you. Clyde and Wilma love you. I don't love you but I'd like to be your friend." She tilted Dillon's chin up, looking hard at her. "You come to work for me, you'll have more fun with my carpenters than with your smarmy girlfriends-I bet they wouldn't have the guts to tackle construction work."

Dillon said nothing. She stared back at Ryan, her jaw set, deeply scowling.

But something was changed. Charlie could see it; deep down, something was different.

Ryan said no more. Dillon moved away and out the door, swung on her bike, and took off up the lane. Charlie watched her pedal away alone. But maybe her shoulders were less hunched, her back not quite so stiff. Ryan glanced at her watch and rolled up the plans. "I'll leave one set. If you can go over them with Max tonight, if you're happy with everything, call me and I'll be at the building department first thing Monday morning." She gave Charlie a twisted smile. "To start the permit process rolling." They both knew that the county building department was hell to work with, that weeks of officiousness might be involved, enough unnecessary bureaucratic red tape to break the spirit of a marine sergeant.

Ryan shrugged. "I can only hope we get a good inspector, hope he doesn't find some trumped-up excuse to trash the whole plan." She grinned at Charlie. "It'll be okay, I'll sweet-talk him, as disgusted as that makes me. I can hardly wait to get started, I'm as excited as a kid-as enthusiastic as a kid should be," she said, glancing toward the lane. She slipped an elastic around the blueprints. Charlie unplugged the coffeepot, and they walked out to the pasture gate, discussing the work schedule and where the building materials should be stacked. At the gate, the three dogs came bounding. The big silver weimaraner weighed eighty pounds and stood over two feet at the shoulder, but he was dwarfed by the Harpers' half-breed Great Danes. The three dogs charged the gate like wild mustangs, but Ryan and Charlie, with fast footwork and sharp commands, got them sorted out, got Rock through the gate without the pups following. Ryan loaded Rock into the passenger seat of her pickup. "You still planning on a groundbreaking party?"

"The minute we have the permit. Max needs some diversion."

Ryan grinned, gave Charlie a thumbs-up, and took off up the lane. Charlie stood by the pasture gate petting the pups and scratching behind Redwing's ears, thinking about Dillon, about the building project, about the several commissions she'd promised, including the Doberman studies; and about the two recent deaths in the village. All the fragments that touched her life, both bright and ugly, seemed muddled together like the contents of a grab bag: You pay your money and you take your chance. Or, as Joe Grey would put it, whatever crawls out of the mouse hole, that's your catch of the day.

11

The only luggage the black tomcat required was a canvas tote containing a dozen assorted cans of albacore and white chicken, and a box of fish-flavored kibble. A little something to snack on, between room service. His traveling companion, by contrast, had packed three suitcases, effectively filling the entire trunk of her pale blue Corvette.

Consuela hadn't been thrilled about him coming along on this little jaunt. He had prevailed, however, having more plans than he had mentioned to her-far more than cleaning out Kate Osborne's safe deposit box.

Traveling north from Molena Point, Consuela preferred Highway 101 to the coast route, despite the heavy traffic and the preponderance of large tractor-trailers. She was a fast driver with flash-quick reactions and a competitive take on life. Azrael studied her with interest.

She no longer looked like the bawdy young woman who had hung out with those younger girls; her transformation was, as always, remarkable. She looked her true age now, of twenty-some. Without the frizzed-out hair and theatrical makeup, her sleek, fine-boned beauty was startling; and the transformation hadn't taken long. She had scrubbed her face and now wore very little makeup, just a touch of pink lipstick. He had watched her dampen her dark hair, twist it tightly around her head, and cover it with the sassy blond wig that she had styled like Kate Osborne's hair. She was wearing a tailored beige suit, much as Kate might wear. She looked serious and businesslike, and in fact far more interesting than the painted child who had run with Dillon and her friends. She had wanted to make reservations at the St. Francis, on Union Square, but Azrael had quashed that notion. The Garden House on Stockton was just a block from Kate Osborne's apartment.

He slept during much of the two-hour drive, waking in San Jose, where Consuela stopped at a Burger King. She ordered orange juice and coffee for herself, and a double cheeseburger for him, hold the pickles. That would tide him over until they hit the city and had visited Kate's bank-though as it turned out, their errand didn't take long.