Kit arrived at UCLA after dropping off Gabe and Meghan in Malibu. Meghan had wanted to come with him, but he had seen a glint in Gabe’s eyes that made him fear his friend would do something foolish, so he asked her to stay with her brother. To Gabe, he said, “Please don’t think you are Everett’s sole target. He wants to get to me, too, and maybe Meghan most of all.”

“Give me something to do, then,” Gabe had pleaded.

Kit thought for a moment, then called one of Moriarty’s team members into the room and asked him to show Gabe and Meghan all the information Moriarty and Kit had gathered on Everett and Cameron, and on the cases so far.

“Look it over, see if you can see anything I’ve missed,” Kit said to Gabe.

“Meghan might be good at that kind of thing, but I’m not-”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Kit said. “I’ve never understood why you want people to think you’re a brainless clown. You aren’t.”

“He’s right, Gabe,” Meghan said quietly.

Gabe turned red. “Might as well try this, then. Kit never laughs at my jokes anyway.”

“Because I know why you tell them,” Kit said, and left.

They finally let Kit into Moriarty’s room. Kit told them he was Moriarty’s son, so that he would be allowed to learn more about his condition, but as he sat waiting for him to come out of surgery, he realized that Moriarty had, more than anyone else, been the father Kit had longed for as a child. No one other than Elizabeth Logan had done more to gently guide him away from the disastrous paths his childhood might have set him upon; no one had protected him, in every sense, as well as Moriarty had. It was Moriarty, he knew, who had convinced Elizabeth that he should be allowed to keep his dog. For that alone, he would have remained devoted to Moriarty for life.

Knowing he could not do more than Moriarty’s staff could to find Spooky, he had decided to wait at the hospital. Each minute of that waiting time was spent alternately between willing Moriarty to survive and thinking of what might be done to a thirteen-year-old girl by people like Cameron and Everett.

A doctor came out and spoke kindly to him, understanding that in his first rush of emotion after hearing the words “through the surgery fine” and “painful injuries, but unlikely to be life threatening,” he could not really take in any other information.

Moriarty was not lost to him.

“He’s incredibly lucky,” the doctor said, which got Kit’s attention.

“Lucky?”

“Yes. He’s pretty banged up, but all things considered-”

“Banged up?”

“He’s broken some ribs and his right wrist, and there are some fairly serious fractures of the right leg. That’s what concerns me most. He’s got a concussion, but we didn’t see any skull fractures or more serious head injuries, although he’s scraped and bruised. A few bad cuts. But to come through a ride down a ravine without worse injuries is pretty amazing. I think the seatbelt and airbag must have helped. And getting helped as quickly as he did probably saved his life-the bleeding might have caused problems-so he owes a lot to those people who found him. Best of all, they knew just what to do for him.”

“That’s what I was told by the nurse.”

“I think one of them must have had some kind of medical training. And your dad appears to have been in excellent physical condition before the accident.”

“Yes,” Kit said, “Dad’s something of an exercise nut.” The word dad sounded strange to him, but the doctor didn’t seem to suspect anything.

“Well, that will help with his recovery, if he doesn’t get too impatient. He should be in his room in about another fifteen minutes. You can go up to the fourth floor and they’ll let you know his room number at the nurses’ station. He’s had a head injury, and those often make people seem unlike themselves. He may be more emotional than usual. He’s going to need rest, so-”

“I won’t keep him awake,” Kit said quickly. “I-I just need to see him.”

He called the house to ask if someone could be spared to guard Moriarty and was told they already made arrangements-one of their men was on his way.

A nurse told him that Moriarty was in room 403.

He felt a little better. The numbers added up to seven.

He had tried to brace himself for Moriarty’s appearance. It didn’t help. Moriarty had always seemed invincible to him. Once in a while he might come back from an assignment with a bruise or stitches, but nothing more. Kit was not ready to see him this battered or still.

He sat down next to him. He took the little tortoise out, then remembered his milagros. He sorted through the ones he had with him and found a hand and a leg. He saw the stitches that closed a gash near Moriarty’s left eye and chose an eye milagro as well. Three was a good number. A nurse gave him a piece of tape. He gently attached the milagros to the cast on Moriarty’s leg. He had thought of pinning them to the hospital gown, but he was afraid they might be lost if the gown was changed.

Once this task was finished, he began to pace-anger and helplessness ruling in one direction, fear and restlessness in the other.

A man looked into the room and said, “‘And, as in uffish thought he stood…’”

Kit nodded.

The man looked at Moriarty with concern.

“He’ll be okay,” Kit said, trying to convince himself.

“Yes, sir, he will.” He left to stand guard outside the door.

Kit turned back to see Moriarty’s eyes open. “Kit?” he said through swollen lips. He looked confused.

Kit hurried over to him. “You’re going to be okay,” he said, with more conviction than he had felt when he had said the same thing to the bodyguard. “You’re at UCLA Medical Center. You were in an accident. But things will be fine now. Don’t worry about anything. Just sleep.”

Moriarty seemed to consider this. Kit could swear he saw the moment when the memories-whatever ones he had of the accident-came back. “Brat?”

Kit had never wanted to be a good liar as much as he wanted to now, but he couldn’t. “Everything will be all right,” he said instead.

Moriarty’s eyes closed, but his face twisted. “My fault.”

“No. You know that isn’t true. If she had been with me and this happened, what would you tell me?”

Moriarty didn’t answer.

“Your team is looking for her. Do you remember anything about the ones you followed?”

He tried. His frustration was evident.

“Moriarty, please-they’ll find her. You shouldn’t get upset like this-it’s not good for you.”

Moriarty was silent for a long time, then he looked at Kit and murmured something.

Kit leaned closer. “I’m sorry-I didn’t understand.”

“John O’Brien.”

Kit was puzzled.

“Brandon.”

He remembered then. “Alex Brandon’s uncle?”

“He’ll help. Tell him I sent you.”

His speech was slurred, but Kit understood it. Moriarty was wearing down now. Kit saw him struggle to keep his eyes open. “Okay, I’ll go to him. Get some sleep now.”

“Jabberwocky…tell O’Brien.”

“He knows it?”

“Taught me.”

“Okay, I’ll recite it to him.” He wondered if Moriarty was confused. If he approached John O’Brien and started reciting nonsensical poetry to him, he thought he might end up in a psych ward. Still, Moriarty had never given him bad advice, and Kit could certainly use help approaching Alex Brandon.

Kit promised to come back later, after Moriarty had been able to get some sleep. He started to go, then he came back to Moriarty’s side. Moriarty’s eyes opened again, but he seemed to have trouble focusing.

Holding on to the bed rail, Kit said, “I know you might have trouble remembering this later, but I’d better warn you anyway-I told them you were my father. I hope that’s not-you know-embarrassing to you.”

Moriarty reached over with his left hand-the one that wasn’t in a cast-and put it lightly on top of Kit’s. “Won’t ever forget. Always proud of you, Kit.”