“Edward Mullen. One of the survivors remembered seeing him on the tour bus. We contacted the company that owns the bus. It’s based in Austin. The lights are only a brief part of the tour-it also goes to the big ranch house that was built for that James Deacon movie, Birthright.”

Page nodded. “Last night at the viewing area, someone mentioned that movie set.”

“Mostly, though, it’s a nature tour that goes through the Davis Mountains. The company gave us a list of everyone who signed up for that particular tour. All the victims had ID on them. We com- pared their names and those of the survivors to the names on the list. Edward Mullen was the only person we couldn’t account for. You were right-according to one of the survivors from the bus, he had a guitar case. The guy remembered because Mullen had a lot of trouble finding a place to put it. That must be where he hid the rifle.”

“A lucky guess.”

“No. I told you last night, you have the instincts of a good cop.”

Page glanced at Tori and found that she was looking at him.

The elevator doors opened. As they stepped into a hospital corridor, Page’s nostrils felt pinched by the smell of antiseptic.

“This was the ninth time Mullen had taken the same tour,” Medrano continued.

Page stopped walking and frowned at him. “The ninth?”

“The tour company gave us the credit-card number he used. The credit-card company gave us his address. The Austin police went to his apartment.”

“Surprise me and tell me he didn’t live alone.”

“His wife died a year ago,” Medrano said. “He didn’t have any children.”

“Now tell me the apartment wasn’t crammed with religious statues and paintings and all kinds of literature about damnation.”

“It’d take a truck to carry it all away,” Medrano replied. “I’m tempted to go with the theory I had last night: some kind of religious lunatic. But there’s a problem with that theory.”

“Oh?”

“Mullen has a brother. According to him, Mullen was never religious-never even went near a church-until his wife’s funeral.

Apparently her death hit him so hard that all he did was stay in bed all day. The brother tried to get him interested in things and happened to see a newspaper ad for one of those tours. Before his wife’s death, Mullen was a movie buff. If a movie was filmed in Texas, he knew it shot by shot. So when the brother read that the tour included the set for Birthright, one of Mullen’s favorites, he managed to convince Mullen-‘practically twisted his arm’ is how he put it-that the two of them should go on the tour. It also included some locations from movies that were made in the Davis Mountains. Before the group reached the movie locations, though, they arrived at that viewing platform. As usual, some people on the tour claimed to see the lights while others wondered what all the fuss was about.”

“Did the brother see the lights?” Page asked.

“No, but Mullen claimed they were spectacular. After he got back to Austin, he started filling his apartment with the religious statues and paintings.”

A phone rang, distracting Medrano. It came from a nurses’ station across from the elevators. Page glanced around and noticed open doors along the corridor, nurses going into some of them, people in civilian clothes coming out of others.

Medrano pointed toward a clock in the nurses’ station.

“Almost 5. I’m due at a press conference at the courthouse. I’d better show you where Chief Costigan is.”

As they walked along the corridor, Page looked again at Tori, who rubbed the back of her neck, obviously bothered by the smell and feel of being in a hospital. He stepped closer to her, reached out, and discreetly squeezed her hand, but got no reaction.

Medrano entered the second-to-last doorway on the left and stepped out of Page’s sight. “Want more visitors?” he asked someone.

“If they’re pretty,” a raspy voice said.

“One is. The other could use a shave.”

Medrano motioned for Page and Tori to enter the room.

Costigan lay in a bed that was tilted up, allowing him to see a news program on a television that was mounted on the opposite wall. The reporter on the screen was the same man Page had seen on the television at the motel office: rumpled suit, mussed blond hair, beard stubble, haggard but handsome features.

“Anything’s better than watching that damned fool get everybody fired up,” Costigan growled.

The chief pressed the remote control and shut off the TV. Bandages encircled his head, pads making one side thicker than the other. His face looked grayer and thinner. Even his mustache seemed gray.

“Recognize these folks?” Medrano asked.

“Sure do.” An IV tube was taped to Costigan’s left arm. Wires attached to heart and blood-pressure monitors led under the chest of his hospital gown.

“Glad to hear it,” Medrano said. “That’s part of the memory test. I need to get to a press conference, but I want this couple to tell a nurse if you start forgetting things, like the fifty dollars I lent you last week.”

“I didn’t borrow any fifty dollars.”

“You’re right. Come to think of it, I lent you a hundred dollars.”

“Get out of here,” Costigan said.

After Medrano grinned and left, the chief motioned for them to come closer.

“We brought your windbreaker back,” Page said. “Thanks. It came in handy.”

“Keep it a while longer. I’m hardly in a position to use it.” Costigan studied them. “He called you ‘this couple.’ Does that mean things are better between the two of you?”

“It’s complicated,” Page answered.

“Isn’t everything? At least you came here together.”

Tori changed the subject. “How bad are you hurt?”

“Apparently I’ve got a hard head. The bullet creased my skull. Didn’t fracture it but gave me a hell of a concussion.” Costigan winced. “And an even worse headache. If I start to drool, tell the nurse.”

Despite the burden of his emotions, Page almost smiled.

“Your head was covered with so much blood,” Tori said, “I thought you were dead.”

“Scalp wounds are terrible bleeders. Mrs. Page, I heard that you picked up my gun and made good use of it. You saved the lives of a lot of people. You’re remarkable.”

Tori looked away.

“Sorry. It wasn’t my intention to upset you.” Costigan changed the subject. “I don’t suppose either of you has any cigarettes.”

“Afraid not,” she said, looking at him again.

“Just as well. They won’t let me smoke in here anyhow.”

“It’s a good time to quit,” Tori said.

“Yeah, this wound gives me motivation to stick around as long as I can.” Costigan looked at Page. “Before the shooting started, you seemed to see the lights.”

Page could tell that Tori was waiting for his answer.

“I did.”

“I’m impressed,” Costigan said. “Not everybody does. Your wife sure saw them.”

“Yes.” Tori sounded as if she spoke about a lover.

“But I’m still not sure what it is I saw,” Page added. “What’s happening here, Chief? What are they?”

Costigan pressed a button. A motor under the bed made a whirring sound and raised his head a little more.

“I’ve heard every kind of explanation you can imagine. Everything from ball lightning to pranksters. If it’s pranksters, they’re good at it. When I came to town to be the chief after my father was killed…”

The harsh memory made Costigan pause. He gradually refocused his thoughts.

“Well, I spent a lot of nights out there, looking for people with flashlights or lanterns or whatever. That’s a long way to go for a practical joke. I never saw cars parked along the side roads, and I never heard any noises I couldn’t identify. It would take at least a half- dozen people to pull off a prank like that, and I don’t know how they could do it quietly. What’s more, it’s hard to keep a secret. After all these years, someone in town would have hinted about what they were doing. And how many pranksters have the determination to do it night after night after night?”