Jolene nodded thoughtfully.

“Not that he wasn’t royally pissed about the subdivision,” Debbie added. “Elizabeth reads about all this stuff and she told me the company has now put the project on hold.”

“Until they catch the arsonist,” said Tory.

“Arsonists,” Jolene reminded. “The one who hurt Britta, who I suppose is this man named Coyote. Danny, who’s dead. And whoever paid them.”

“What a mean man,” Debbie said. “Coyote. To chain up his own brother. It’s so sick. He’s the sick one. You know, the boy is really sweet. I brought him some snacks and spent some time with him at the juvenile facility. His eyes are so sad.” She hitched up the tank top. “So, Jolene. You and George do all this?”

Jolene couldn’t resist. She told them about the forty-two-thousand-dollar stash. “Hadn’t been touched for years, except a little over a thousand a few months ago,” she said. “I wouldn’t have known about it till George died.”

“That’s sweet,” Debbie said. “He was going to leave you an inheritance.” Seeing Jolene’s expression, she said, “It wasn’t sweet?”

“We need the money right now,” Jolene said. “So I stole it. Every bit. Withdrew it out of that account and opened a new one at Security Pacific. I had to.”

“Jolene!” Debbie breathed.

Tory said, “You go!”

“What are you going to do with it?” Debbie asked.

“I don’t know yet. But it’ll come to me. It sure will,” said Jolene. “We better get going, Tory. The girls get home from school at two-thirty. Debbie, I’ll leave a note for them to come over to your house if I’m late.”

“I’ll take care of them. But I thought we were going to figure this out. What about Ted and Megan? What about Britta’s husband? And what about Ben?”

Tory said, “At least we narrowed it down.”

“Did we?” said Jolene. “It’s like an octopus, I swear, all wavy tentacles getting into everything.”

Nina and Paul shot through the fog wall at Mid-Valley, where the organic stand sold expensive flowers and tomatoes to the tourists. Golden sun, benevolent, fertile land, bumpy road snaking through the narrow valley along the Carmel River. At Carmel Valley Village Nina got a good look down Esquiline Road toward Siesta Court, past the old buildings at Robles Vista and past the ashy land and black seared trees of the fire.

She was thinking about Coyote’s right to remain silent under the Fifth Amendment, which stood in Wish’s way right now. All the amendment said was that a person couldn’t be compelled to bear witness against himself.

The reasoning of the Founding Fathers went something like this-confessions become “confessions,” which become coerced confessions, a euphemistic phrase for confessions obtained by torture. So they decided to make it official-a defendant can’t be made to testify against himself.

Defense lawyers ran all the way for a touchdown with that one. Not only did the defendant have the right not to be tortured into a confession, court decisions gradually extended that right to a right to say nothing at all, to refuse any questioning. And this refusal to speak, even to save a victim’s life, could not be held against the accused in or out of court.

In her work as a criminal-defense attorney, Nina almost never let her clients take the stand or make any statement to the police. She used this powerful impediment to conviction whenever it would benefit her client. So it was ironic that she and Paul should be driving out to a hole in the woods, intent on catching Coyote before he could exercise the same right she exploited to the fullest extent in her work. Wish might sit in jail for months, or be convicted, because no one could make Coyote say anything, if he exercised that right. All anyone would know was that Danny was in on it.

And if Danny was in on it, and Wish was at the fire with him… what jury would believe that Wish wasn’t in on it too?

Her only chance was to find Coyote first, and make him tell his story.

They rode on for an hour along the olive-green ridges with their open views, through the heat, until the road flattened and rolled into the peaceful, sun-baked village of Cachagua. Nina jumped out and slammed the door, kicking up dust as she walked over to the screen door that led into the dark, air-conditioned cool of Alma’s. Paul followed.

Nobody at the bar this time, just the lady bartender behind the counter, her eyes watchful, her cough straight out of a Marlboro carton.

“Two Dos Equis,” Paul said, sliding onto the stool beside Nina. The beers appeared within seconds. “Four dollars,” the woman said.

“Excuse me,” Nina said. She put the cash on the counter. She looked, really looked, at the woman, trying to figure out how to approach her.

She was careworn, but chubby rather than haggard, her face soft, her eyes not stupid but not expecting trouble, her hair freshly styled and her jeans new. Nina liked her in the way that she liked the other mothers at Bob’s school, and she said, “We need to find someone pretty fast. He hangs out here a lot.”

“Oh, yeah? Who?”

“Coyote, Robert Johnson.”

“Sorry. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“Then his friend. A guy with paint all over his clothes and a gray beard.”

“Donnelly’s not Coyote’s friend. Who are you?”

“Good guys,” Paul said. “We’re the good guys.”

She smiled. “Glad to hear it. And now, who are you? Because if you want information, you have to give it.”

“We could ask someone else.”

“In this neighborhood, we watch out for each other. Nobody’s going to talk to you unless you explain your business.” Nina waited for Paul to make something up, as they had when they talked to the cowboys, but Paul had sized this lady up as too smart to bullshit.

He explained their business. He passed over his P.I. license. She examined it. Then she said, “He may not welcome you. Donnelly’s got some IRS problems.”

“Oh?”

“He’s famous. He’s a famous sculptor. He’d rather be a painter and that’s all he’s doing this year. Anyhoo, he needs privacy, but I’m afraid it gets out of hand.”

“Pit bulls?” Nina asked.

“No. Walls. The biggest walls and gate in the valley. But I could call him.”

“You have his number?”

“I’m his sister. My name’s Prem.”

“Ah. Hi, Prem.”

“Because from what you just told me, I don’t want Coyote to be there. If I didn’t have to mind the bar I’d go out with you. Yes, I’ll call him.” She picked up the phone and punched in some numbers, which Nina tried unsuccessfully to catch. Holding the receiver to her ear, she grimaced and shook her head.

“He’s gone,” she said.

“I hope that’s it,” Paul said.

“Listen, I’m coming with you. I know the code and I know him. Mr. van Wagoner?”

“Yeah?”

“You better be scaring me for nothing.” She took a handwritten sign that said BACK SOON, taped it to the door, and waited for them to follow her dusty Explorer out of the parking lot.

They drove off the main road onto a gravel road that became narrower and narrower, until they came to a metal electric gate ten feet high, with spikes at the top. The adobe wall on both sides displayed the same wicked-looking metal spikes. Oak branches inside had been carefully trimmed back.

At the entry stood a call box. Prem punched a button and leaned her head out the window, ready to shout into the box, but the box stayed mute. She punched in a number sequence next, and the gates creaked heavily open.

Inside, the forest continued, thick branches of olive-leafed oaks, and on the ground, in clumps along the drive, twining along the stumps and trunks, the glistening poison oak. Here and there Nina glimpsed strange bronze figures, much too tall and skinny to be human, performing private rites, leaning over, fallen, jumping, sitting on a branch. One of these sculptures peeked out from behind a tree near the car. The body was elongated and bronze, but the head was the bleached skull of some horned animal, teeth intact. It wore a porkpie hat.