He raised his head hopefully. “Home?” he said.

A feeling of total helplessness washed over Joanna. She had no idea where his home was or how to take him there. In his innocence he thought she did and trusted her to make good her promise. How could she do that? And how would she deliver on what she had told Father Mulligan, that she would take care of Holy Trinity’s little lost lamb?

Where would she find something as simple as dry clothing for him to wear? There was nothing out at High Lonesome Ranch that would fit him. Joanna had long since sent Andy’s things to a local clothing bank. Even if she was able to solve the basic issue of dressing Junior, what would she do with him after that? For one thing, there was the question of bed-rooms. The house at High Lonesome Ranch was a modest two-bedroom affair with no guest room. Butch had slept fine on Joanna’s cloth-covered sofa. With Junior that wouldn’t be possible-for several obvious reasons.

On the seat beside her, an inconsolable Junior once again dissolved into tears. His despairing, muffled sobs were enough to break Joanna’s heart.

“Hush now,” she said. “Do you like to sing?”

Continuing to whimper, he didn’t answer.

They were through Tombstone now, past the airport, and coming down the long curve into the upper San Pedro Valley. Off to the right-a good twenty miles across the valley-the combined lights of Sierra Vista and Fort Huachuca glimmered along the base of the mountains. Ahead of them, in the darkened sky over the Mule Mountains, a single star-the evening star-glittered brightly. Seeing it reminded Joanna of some of the trips she had made back and forth to Tucson when Jenny was a baby. Driving by herself, there had been no way to comfort her crying child but to sing. Would that same magic work on Junior?

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” Joanna began. The familiar tune filled the night. At the sound of her singing, Junior quieted a little. He continued to sniffle and choke, but his heart-wrenching sobs eased.

By the time Joanna finished that first familiar ditty, Junior’s breath was coming in long, ragged shudders, but at least he was quieter. And Joanna felt better, too. As the last notes of “Little Star” died away, she moved on to another equally familiar tune. For the next twenty minutes, she sang every childhood song she could remember. There were ones from Sunday school: “Zacheus,” “Jesus Loves Me,” “I’ll Be a Sunbeam for Jesus.” There were ones from kindergarten: “Eensy Weensy Spider,” “I’m a Little Teapot,” and “Do the Hokey-Pokey.” By the time the Crown Victoria slid across the Divide and dropped down into Bisbee’s Tombstone Canyon, Joanna had moved on to Girl Scout songs: “Make New Friends But Keep the Old” and “White Coral Bells.”

By then it no longer mattered what she sang because Junior was sound asleep beside her. With the heater on, the smell of urine was thick in the air, but Joanna didn’t dare open the window for fear the cold air would chill him. After all, he was wet. She wasn’t.

Coming around Lavender Pit, she finally made up her mind about where she was going to go-straight to Butch Dixon’s place in Saginaw. Picking up the phone, she dialed his number and breathed a sigh of relief when he answered right away.

“Where are you?” Butch asked. “Jenny and I are just now sitting down to eat.”

“I’m coming through Lowell,” she told him, speaking quietly, afraid that if she raised her voice she might disturb Junior, who was snoring softly beside her.

“Great,” Butch said. “We set a place for you, but I didn’t think you’d be here this early.”

“Neither did I,” Joanna murmured, wondering how she was going to break the news to him. “But I’ve got a problem, Butch.”

“What kind of problem?”

“I’ve got a passenger with me. His name is Junior. At least that’s as much of his name as we know. He’s developmentally disabled. He peed his pants about the time we were leaving a crime scene in Tombstone, and now he’s sound asleep.”

“What’s he doing in your car?” Butch asked. “Is he under arrest, or what?”

“He didn’t commit a crime, so no, he’s not under arrest. Somebody abandoned him at the weekend arts and crafts fair over in Saint David. It’s hard to tell about his age. I’d say he’s somewhere close to fifty, but we’ve got no identification to verify that. Mentally he’s closer to three or four. Verbal, but only just.”

“Not enough to tell you he needed to go to the bathroom.”

“Right. He tried. I just didn’t understand.”

“So where are you taking him, to the jail?”

“I can’t take him there, Butch. Some of those guys…”

“I know. I know. And you can’t take him home, either.”

“No,” Joanna agreed. “I can’t, but…”

“You want me to take care of him?”

Joanna’s heart filled with a flood of gratitude. It was exactly what she had wanted, but she hadn’t dared ask. By then she was less than half a mile from Butch’s home in the Saginaw neighborhood. Driving around the traffic circle, she was tempted to go around several more times, just to give Butch time to adjust to the idea of taking in an unexpected house guest. It seemed, however, that Butch was already coping.

“Where are you now?” he asked.

“The traffic circle.”

“I’ll go out and move the Subaru so you can pull into the carport right next to the house. And I’ll bring out a robe and some towels so we can get him out of his wet clothes before we try to bring him inside. How big is he?”

“Not very,” Joanna responded.

“Will my underwear fit him?”

“He’ll swim in it.”

“No problem,” Butch said cheerfully. “Sounds like he’s swimming in something else at the moment. How bad is your car?”

“It’s bad. Soaked.”

“It’ll have to wait. First things first,” Butch said. “See you in a couple of minutes.”

It wasn’t much more than that when Joanna arrived at Butch’s house. True to his word, Butch’s new Outback was parked on the street. The chain-link gate to his driveway stood wide open, allowing Joanna access to a covered carport. Jenny stood at the back door clutching an armload of material that turned out to be the promised towels, a robe, and a pair of sweats with a drawstring at the waist.

For a change, Joanna was only too happy to stand aside and let someone else take charge. Butch knelt beside the car and untied Junior’s high-topped tennis shoes. After removing the shoes, Butch gently shook Junior awake. Helping him out of the car, Butch stood him upright long enough to peel off the soaked khaki work pants, undershorts, and shirt, all of which he allowed to fall into a sodden heap. After helping Junior step into the sweats, Butch wrapped the shivering and uncomplaining man in the ample folds of a thick terry-cloth robe.

“There you go,” Butch said, taking Junior by the arm. “Come on in. It’s cold out here, and dinner’s on the table. I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

Looking down at the terry-cloth robe, Junior ran his fingers across the soft, downy material in seeming delight. “Hungry,” he said, nodding agreeably. “Junior eat.”

As soon as Butch had begun unbuttoning Junior’s shirt, Jenny had disappeared into the house. When Joanna followed Butch and Junior into the small, cozy kitchen, she was gratified to see that Jenny had made use of the time alone to set another place at the table.

“This is Junior, Jenny,” Butch said.

“Hello, Junior,” Jenny responded, as though welcoming someone like him was the most ordinary thing in the world. “What do you want to drink-milk, water, or soda?”

Junior’s eyes fastened hungrily on the carton in Jenny’s hand. “Milk,” he said. “Junior like milk. Milk good.”

Matter-of-factly, Jenny went to one of the places and filled the glass there with milk. “Here, Junior,” she said, pointing. “You sit here.”

Butch helped Junior onto the proper chair. Joanna wasn’t sure how Butch had done it, but somehow he had managed to convey to Jenny exactly what was going on. Between the two of them, Butch and Jenny were handling Junior’s afflictions with such easy grace and acceptance that they might both have been used to dealing with people like him on a daily basis.