“Somebody tried to take him out the same day you stop by to visit?” I asked. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence.”

“Not to me, either,” Brandon said. “Anyway, I need to go tell Amanda. I asked the warden if anyone had been sent to notify her. Turns out he didn’t even know she existed. She isn’t on Lassiter’s official next-­of-­kin list.”

“You’ll go see her?” I asked.

“I will,” he said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

And that’s when I knew Ralph Ames wasn’t wrong about Brandon Walker. A lot of ­people I know—­especially guys like Phil Kramer—­do their best to avoid having to deal with families of victims. Walker had just volunteered to break some awful news to a family member when it wasn’t his job.

“Good luck with that,” I said, and meant it. “In the meantime, I’ll get cracking on locating Calliope Horn. I’ll also have Todd look into this Ava person. It sounds to me as though TLC has just stumbled on a hornets’ nest.”

CHAPTER 22

THE WHITE-­WINGED DOVES TOOK OWL to the place and showed him the sleeping girl, but Evil Giantess was awake and on guard. Once night came, Ho’ok O’oks went to sleep. That was when Owl returned. He flew softly back and forth over Shining Falls, who still lay sleeping with Little White Feather crushed in her hand.

Very gently, Owl fanned Shining Falls with his wings, and slowly—­very slowly—­Shining Falls’s eyes opened. And this is why, nawoj, even to this day, when someone is asleep and cannot wake up, the Elders—­Kekelimai—­fan the sleeping one with owl feathers.

“I’M THIRSTY,” TIM MOANED IN the darkness. “I’m thirsty and hungry and scared. We’re going to die.”

Gabe was hungry and thirsty, too, but there was no point in talking about it. He had done his best to explore their prison. He had located the ventilation holes that he had known had to be there. They allowed air in but no light. And he had found the seam where the lid closed over them. He had been able to ease the knife blade along it until he encountered what he supposed was a metal hasp. He withdrew the blade as soon as it touched something hard. The knife was their only weapon, and he didn’t want to damage it. He slipped it into his pocket. As he did so, his fingers encountered the four diamonds that he had put there hours ago—­long before this endless time in the darkness. Gabe couldn’t see them, of course, but just having the stones in his hand somehow made him feel better.

“We’re not going to die,” he declared firmly with a confidence he didn’t exactly feel. “We’re not going to.”

“I could just as well die,” Tim went on. “What’ll happen to me if I live? My mom is sick. My dad is dead, and so are Carlos and Paul. Max is still alive, but he’s in prison. I’ll probably end up in foster care somewhere.”

Tim’s voice sounded funny—­like his tongue was thick, like he was mumbling rather than talking.

“What about your aunt and uncle?” Gabe asked. “Couldn’t you go live with them?”

“I don’t like them,” Tim said. “And they have too many little kids. I’d end up being their babysitter.”

Moving restlessly in the darkness, Tim’s hand came in contact with the back of Gabe’s fist. Tim’s fingers were hot to the touch, as though he was burning up with a fever. That’s when Gabe realized Tim wasn’t just thirsty—­he was dehydrated, and maybe Tim’s assessment was right. If Henry Rojas didn’t come back for them soon, Tim might die after all.

Suddenly, without knowing how it happened, Gabe was back in one of those hospital rooms. He had gone to visit an old, old woman, Mrs. Lopez. She was lying in the bed, restless and moaning. The sides of the bed had been put up to keep her from falling. Gabe had reached out to touch her hand and had known in that moment that she was going to die, that this was the last time he would see her.

How had he known that? Gabe wondered. How had he understood Death was coming?

Holding his breath, he reached out now and sought Tim’s hand once more. The skin was hot to the touch, but the sense of foreboding and dread Gabe had felt in Mrs. Lopez’s hospital room didn’t descend on him. If Tim was dying, it wasn’t happening right now. It wasn’t happening yet.

Then, something else came back to Gabe from that same long-­ago hospital room. He had sat down on the floor beside Mrs. Lopez’s bed, close enough that her hand could touch the back of his head through the bed rails. Gabe had sung to her that day, a healing song whose words he could no longer remember. What he did remember was that as he sang she had quieted. She had stopped thrashing in the bed, had stopped moaning. He had sung the song four times—­for all of nature goes in fours—­and when the song was finished and he left the room, she was sleeping peacefully.

Maybe that was what was needed right now—­a healing song that would let Tim José fall asleep so he wouldn’t notice how slowly time was passing in the stifling darkness, so he would forget how thirsty he was.

Without knowing where the words came from—­perhaps from the four stones clutched in his hand—­Gabe Ortiz began to sing.

We are here, Elder Brother, two boys in a box.

We are alone in the dark, Spirit of Goodness,

Hungry and thirsty and asking for help.

The man who put us here is not a good man.

He pretends to be good, but he is not.

There is something in him that is evil,

I’itoi, something in him that is bad.

Help us to know what to do, Elder Brother.

Help us to know what to do.

You have given us a weapon, Elder Brother,

A weapon that the bad man didn’t see.

The weapon was a gift, a knife, that let us

Cut our bonds, and now we wait,

Wait for that evil man to return. When he does

Help us fight him, Elder Brother,

Help us fight him, that we may live.

We are two boys in a box who need your help,

Elder Brother, two boys who need your help.

Gabe sang the song through four times, and by the time he was done, two things had happened. Tim had fallen asleep, and Gabe himself no longer felt thirsty.

TODD HATCHER WAS GOOD TO his word. Within twenty minutes of my handing him the joint Calliope Horn/Ava Martin problem, he was back on the phone. “I found her,” he said. “Her name is Calliope Horn-­Grover now—­Reverend Calliope Horn-­Grover. She and her husband, the Reverend Dale Grover, are partners in an outfit called Pastoral Outreach. It specializes in ministering to homeless shelters throughout the Seattle area.”

Having just read through the Danielson/Horn interview, I was impressed that Calliope had somehow made good on her ambitions of becoming a minister to the homeless. Good for her!

“Any idea where they live?”

“Probably only blocks from you,” Todd said. “Their address is on Elliott. I have a phone number if you want it.”

“Of course I want it.” He read off the number, and I jotted it down. “Any luck on Ava?”

“One problem at a time,” Todd admonished. “And don’t expect miracles.”

Duly chastened, I dialed the number he had given me without any idea of what I’d say when someone answered. After all, I wasn’t with Special Homicide anymore, and I wasn’t with Seattle PD, either. For the first time in decades, I was operating entirely on my own.

“I’m looking for Reverend Calliope Horn-­Grover,” I said when a woman answered.

“Calliope?” she said. “Yes, that would be me. Who’s calling, please?”