“She’s a squirrelly girl.”

“Squirrelly? She’s fucking bananas,” the woman said. “A crazy, manipulative little witch.”

“This is my lovely wife, Lorena.”

Her expression was nowhere near “how do you do,” more like “fuck you and drop dead.”

“Phaedra’s been missing since last night,” Cavagnolo said.

Lorena blurted, “That’s three times this month and now you’re worried about the little tramp? You wanna find her? Try the goddamn jail.”

“Lay off,” Cavagnolo snapped. His tone implied there was much he was keeping from his wife. Like Gino’s and Cleto’s disappearances and the other murders.

I needed time alone with Cavagnolo to ask him about the guns I needed. “Could we go in Phaedra’s room? Maybe we’ll find something that’ll tell us where she’s gone.”

Cavagnolo led us around the side of the house. A pair of hounds snarled and barked from behind a chain-link fence surrounding the backyard. He put his hand on the latch of a gate through the fence. He asked Lorena to hold the dogs, but the glance she tossed at us said that she’d rather watch them tear me apart.

We walked on a brick path through the dried lawn to a cottage at the back of the yard. The place looked homey despite its apparent origins as a toolshed or stable.

While Lorena held the dogs, Cavagnolo took me to the cottage’s front door. He turned the knob.

“Was the door locked?” I asked.

“No. Out here, nobody locks their doors.”

They better start.

The room wasn’t much larger than a walk-in closest. The only window was to the left, above a desk with a computer monitor, a wooden chair, and shelves. To our front: bunk beds, a credenza, and more shelves. The furniture was mismatched hand-me-downs. At the right, another door opened to a tiny bathroom.

Other than the computer, I didn’t see much of a preoccupation with schoolwork. A few books and cups with pens but most of the shelves held stuffed animals and glittery toys. Girly stuff.

Cavagnolo made room for me to pass.

A comforter was draped over the top mattress of the bunk bed. A black cloth hung like a curtain from the edge of the top bed to obscure the space above the bottom mattress.

“What’s in there?”

“A place for storage. As you can see, there’s no closet. Phaedra used to be a real slob. Clothes everywhere. The damn dust was so thick you could’ve planted onions. I’m surprised the county didn’t condemn her toilet.”

Outside, the dogs barked like they’d seen a she-bear.

Cavagnolo ran a finger over a shelf. He held up a clean fingertip for me to inspect. “Then three months ago, click, like a bulb had gone off in her head.” Cavagnolo made a pulling motion beside his ear. “She went into a cleaning fit. At first I was worried it was one of those presuicide rituals, you know where someone tidies up their lives before offing themselves. But it wasn’t, fortunately.”

“Wasn’t what?” Jolie said.

Cavagnolo turned, startled by the sudden appearance of the muscular redhead in motorcycle leathers. Her slicked-back hair and sunglasses added to her mysterious and intimidating posture. The dogs barked and snarled behind her, Lorena barely managing to keep them under control.

“She’s my partner,” I explained.

“Can I take a look?” Jolie motioned to the black curtain.

Cavagnolo remained astonished. “Y…yeah, go ahead.”

“Will Phaedra mind?”

“I’m sure she will but serves her right for taking off on us.”

Jolie parted the curtain and peeked inside. “What do you think of this?” She pushed open the curtains.

Clothes on hangers dangled from a cord tied under the top bunk. Under the clothes lay charcoal drawings like the ones Phaedra had in her hideout.

The drawings were of the little Iraqi girl, self-portraits of Phaedra, and one of me.

That drawing was a three-quarter view with my eyes staring at the viewer. I didn’t remember taking a photo of myself this way but the likeness was unmistakable, especially the tips of my fangs poking from under my upper lip.

I stared, unsettled and uncertain.

“How did she manage this?” Cavagnolo asked, surprised as I was. “I never saw her draw and she got your face on the money.” He pointed to the fangs. “Except for these. What’s with that?”

“I dunno.”

Jolie flipped the drawings and lingered on one depicting a box receding to an infinite distance. There was a figure of a girl in the foreground with her back to the viewer. Smaller rectangles were arranged inside the box. Stars filled the background. After a moment, I realized that the figure was Phaedra and she was looking into the void, what she had called the astral plane. The rectangles represented doors or passages to the void.

“She was keeping a lot to herself,” Cavagnolo said. “I figured she was on the computer, not making these.”

“Can we keep them?”

He took the drawings and slipped them behind the curtain. “No. They belong to Phaedra. If she finds out we’ve been going through them, she’ll throw one of her tantrums.” He shepherded Jolie and me from the bed.

“I don’t know if this is related”-I closed the door-“but I’ve got a handle on those who took Gino and Cleto.”

Cavagnolo straightened. “Who?”

“I can’t say.”

His voice got an edge. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Some of both. I have to take care of them but I’ll need some special hardware.”

“Like what?”

“You got a machine gun?” I asked.

“You crazy? The feds hear a whisper about any kind of automatic weapon and the ATF will swim up my butt faster than piranhas.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Let me sweeten the pot. I’ll take care of this problem and your nose stays clean.” In case he didn’t understand, I added, “Of the government.”

Cavagnolo turned introspective. He nodded to himself. “All right.” He looked at me. “What kind you want?”

“A Browning. An M249. I’ll even take an M60.”

“It’s possible.”

“Any dynamite?” I asked.

“For what?”

“Clearing stumps.”

“None of that stuff is here. I have to make a few calls.”

“Then do it,” I said. “Arrange for a place to meet. Tell them you got a buyer. Keep in short. Keep it simple.”

Cavagnolo used his cell phone and mentioned something about horses. We left Phaedra’s room. As soon as we cleared the gate, Lorena let go of the hounds and they threw themselves against the fence, snarling and snapping.

I took Cavagnolo in my 4Runner. Phaedra followed on her BMW. He gave directions to a county road north of the highway and east of Morada. We pulled onto a long straight private drive to a farmhouse and barn surrounded by mowed fields with square bales of hay. Cavagnolo made another call and said it was us arriving.

Jolie rode up to the door of my Toyota. I halted and rolled down the window.

She leaned from her bike and shouted. “Can you take care of this yourself?”

“Why?”

“I’m going to stay behind and watch your back. And another thing. Pick me up an accessory.”

“Any size or style?”

“Something ladylike.”