He felt certain that after his call, Mike and probably Dallas were on their way. He felt sick for Mike, racing to get here, imagining the worst-as Joe, right now, was trying not to do.

He knew how he'd feel if he thought Dulcie had been shot, he'd race to the scene wanting to eviscerate whoever had attacked his lady. Right now, Mike would be feeling the same.

Whatever was going on in the medics' van seemed to take forever; the van continued to rock, while outside, officers continued to protect the area, turning cars and pedestrians away from the scene. Creeping ever closer, he was only a few feet from the van when the back doors opened and a young, sandy-haired medic stepped down, stood talking with the San Jose sergeant who seemed to be in charge; the sergeant was a tall stringbeany, bald-headed guy. His few brief words chilled Joe.

"Go on out and help work traffic," the medic said. "I'll call for the medical examiner."

Whoever was in the van was with them no longer. Either Lindsey or Ryder had died as the medics fought to save her. Joe had to have a closer look, he had to know.

He was now only two cars away. Crouching against a front tire, he could see inside the van, see the body on the stretcher, covered by a length of sheet, the face also covered. His heart felt as heavy as lead. Despite the danger of being seen, he slipped out from under the car on its far side, leaped to its hood, and crouched in the shadows of a pillar from where he could see in through the van's open door.

A hank of wavy brown hair hung from beneath the sheet, over the side of the stretcher. He was trying to remember the exact shade of each woman's hair, trying to determine which sister lay there, when the whoop of a siren and the screech of tires sent him dropping under the car again, out of sight.

From beneath the greasy underpinnings of the older car, he looked out across the concrete that was reddened now by reflections of a whirling light. He had crept out far enough to see that the light was spinning atop Dallas's tan Blazer when the vehicle screeched to a halt and Mike bailed out, running for the ambulance.

33

IN THE NIGHT-DARK woods, Charlie headed back toward home carrying Sage in her arms, Kit riding on her shoulder. Her flashlight was nearly dead, just the weakest wash of fading beam as she tried to pick out hindering branches blocking her path. She felt sick that she'd had to shoot the two coyotes. Coyotes were in no way evil, they were only hunting as they'd been born to do, they were only what God had made them. Not evil in the way a human could be evil.

But she'd had no choice. She was just thankful that Sage and Kit were safe.

"More to the right!" Kit said. "You're drifting off again, Charlie." Nothing was the same at night. All that was familiar by day was, in the blackness, a jagged world of hungry branches grabbing and poking at her.

"The barn's just there," Kit hissed. "Five more minutes, straight ahead. Can't you feel it? Can't you sense it there?"

Charlie couldn't. "But of course you can't," Kit said, placing a soft paw against Charlie's cheek, making her feel grossly inadequate. But then in Charlie's arms Sage looked up at her, and though she couldn't see his face clearly, the trusting feel of him, so relaxed against her, the trust of this wild and shy little feral touched her and made her feel needed.

She was stepping carefully through a tangle of vines when her cell phone played its short tune. Hastily she answered, not liking that electronic sound here in the silent woods; her crackling, clumsy progress through dry leaves and twigs and fallen branches was quite enough intrusion in this wild place-and quite enough to stir other predators.

"Where are you?" Max said. "The house is dark, the door unlocked. Are you all right? I'm at the barn. You haven't fed. The horses and dogs are still out. What is it, what's wrong?"

"I'm in the woods. I'm fine, I'm almost home. Sage ran off, but I found him. He seemed disoriented this afternoon, maybe his medication. When he ran out, Kit followed him, the way cats will." She had no idea whether an ordinary cat would do that, but what could she say? "I ran after her. It wasn't quite dark. I have a flashlight. I found them both, but there were…I could hear coyotes…"

Was he buying her rambling explanation? He said, "I'll saddle Bucky. I'll whistle to find you. Keep your light on."

"I…The battery's about dead."

Max said nothing. He hated it when she forgot to keep the batteries fresh. Cops, she thought. So damned careful about their equipment. But she was glad he was-and she wished she had been.

In a very short time she heard his whistle and the far sound of a horse approaching, stepping on twigs, the rustling sound as Bucky pushed through the dense foliage. He was there so quickly that she knew Max had hardly brushed Bucky's back, had just thrown the saddle on, jerked up the cinch, and headed out.

She'd have to tell him that she'd killed the coyotes. She wasn't looking forward to that. He must have still been on the highway when she fired, or he would have heard the shots. They'd have to send wildlife management to collect the bodies and test for rabies, and Max would question her to see if she or the cats had been bitten. She answered his whistle, and in a moment Bucky came looming out of the night between two stands of pine, nearly in her face, his pale shoulders catching her fading light, his nose pushing at her. She'd never been so glad to see anyone, she wanted to hug both Bucky and Max at once.

Leaning down from the saddle, Max took Sage gently from her.

"Watch his leg," she said. "He may have torn the splint loose."

Max got Sage settled in his arms, and took his foot out of the stirrup so she could swing up behind him. Kit clung to her shoulder, trying not to draw blood. The tortoiseshell was so careful that Charlie hardly felt a claw.

Quietly she settled behind Max on the saddle skirt, leaning against his warmth.

"Why did the cat run?" Max said, looking down at Sage. "Well, you couldn't leave him out here all trussed up. Damn cat. How did you find them in these tangles?"

"I could hear coyotes, that's what drew me. The cats were on a branch and two coyotes were leaping up at them."

"Lucky the coyotes didn't climb. They will, you know. Then what happened?"

She laid her head against his back. "I killed them."

And Max said nothing more as good Bucky made his way home through the night-black woods.

AS MIKE AND Dallas careened into the San Jose airport, their siren screaming and red light spinning, Dallas glanced at Mike with concern. His brother-in-law, not the type to come apart, was pale and sweating.

During his professional life, Mike Flannery had handled easily the most out-of-control parolees and the most temperamental judges, soothing both with the greatest diplomacy, but now he was a basket case, the detective had never seen him this way, not since the death of his wife, Dallas's sister. Pulling into the airport, navigating between drivers too preoccupied with finding their terminal to pull out of the way, between pedestrians too busy hauling luggage and racing for connections, he said, "You're not helping Lindsey. Get it together, take it easy!"

"What the hell was Lindsey doing, chasing them!"

Dallas slowed for a woman pushing a baby stroller. "Say Gibbs did kill the woman at the ruins. How would Lindsey know that? And how did Gibbs know we found the body? For that matter, why put his car in short-term if he meant to catch a flight and skip?"

Stopping to snatch a ticket to open the gate, Dallas maneuvered through the covered parking area toward the flashing lights, approaching the cordoned-off crime scene. "Why the hell haven't they cleared a larger area, cleared the whole parking garage?" But most of the area would already be contaminated by the movement of officers and their vehicles. Dallas moved on through, pulling up behind the medics' van. The Blazer hadn't come to a stop when Mike jumped out and ran.