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  Not right away, though. First he had to get into that clinic and make sure that whoever had shot the police officer wasn't doing the same to Meoqui Torres and his friends.

  He hurried to the door, which was around the side of the building, under another painted red cross. A concrete ramp led up to it, with an aluminum handrail, and there was a large, square button that a person in a wheelchair could push to open the glass-and-steel door. Nick peered through the glass, seeing a cozy, empty waiting area and a reception counter. The reception area was separated from the waiting area by windows, which would slide open for the person on duty to talk to patients and close for privacy. Behind the counter were racks full of medical file folders. Either it was a quiet day at the clinic, or everyone inside had been chased out.

  Pulling the door open, Nick went inside, moving the barrel of his weapon from left to right, covering the space. He couldn't see anybody or hear anything inside. Rather than call out, he covered the tile floor to the reception counter in a few quick steps.

  On the floor behind the counter, a young Native American woman in forest-green scrubs lay in a pool of her own blood. The pool was streaked, and now Nick noticed that it had actually begun beyond the edge of the counter. She had fallen past it, then been dragged back behind it to keep her body hidden from the doorway.

  Whoever was inside the clinic was racking up a body count.

  A heavy wooden door separated the waiting area from the examination rooms. Nick moved to it silently, pressing his ear to it. Hearing nothing, he pushed it open a fraction of an inch, just enough to put his eye to it and look through.

  Two crumpled bodies littered the hallway floor. He recognized them as two of the three men who had brought Torres there in the first place.

  So the big question facing him now was, where was the third man?

  Inside Torres's room?

  And if so, was his purpose protection? Or something else?

  23

  En route to the hospital, paramedics had hooked Daria up to an IV, putting some needed fluids and salts back into her body. Once they had arrived, she was taken swiftly from Greg's sight, off the roofop helipad and into an elevator. Greg waited for more than an hour before a nurse told him Daria wanted to see him, and showed him into her room.

  She was sitting up in the bed, still wan but looking better than she had in the desert. "You're the one who found me?" she asked.

  "That's right. Are you feeling better, Daria?"

  "They tell me I will be."

  "Good. I'm Greg Sanders, with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. When I found you out there, you were severely dehydrated."

  She managed something resembling a smile. She was pretty, or she would have been under better circumstances. Her full lips were dried out and cracked, her eyes bloodshot, her hair a wild tangle, but Greg could see the fine facial structure, high cheekbones and firm jaw, and a narrow, strong nose. She looked like a woman who should be taken seriously.

  "I… I should be dead," she said. "Thank you for what you did for me."

  "I'm just glad I got there in time."

  "I… I've been so sick."

  "You weren't sick," he said. "How much did the doctor tell you?"

  "Just that I would be okay, after some treatment. That I was stabilized. Then I said I wanted to see you. I remember you… from the helicopter. I woke up once, and saw you sitting beside me." Her face seemed to cloud over. "What do you mean, I wasn't sick?"

  "You were being poisoned. Once we stop that, the doctors can get you back on your feet."

  "P-poisoned? Really? By who?"

  "We don't know yet," Greg said. "Anyway, you shouldn't try to talk. Save your strength."

  "I want to talk," she said. "I'm worried about my brother. You're with the police, right? Someone needs to check on him."

  Greg knew he should stop her there and tell her about what had happened to Troy. But she was in perilous shape and he didn't want to make her any worse. He decided to save the bad news, to let her talk as long as she didn't tax herself too much, and to break it to her when she was better able to receive it. "We will," he said. "You just take it easy."

  "Look, I don't know what's going to happen to me. I mean, I know what you said, and the doctor. But if I don't make it -"

  "You will, Daria."

  "But if I don't… just let me tell you what I found out."

  Greg didn't want her to tax herself, but he was afraid that arguing with her would upset her more than simply letting her tell her story.

  "Sick or poisoned or whatever… I was sure I was dying. I quit my job, stopped going out much, calling friends, all that. Just… withdrawing. I've been spending my time in the past… looking through old family videos, photo albums. Trying to remember my dad and brother, because I was sure I would be joining them soon. It's just been me and Mom for so long, a family of women, but there was a time that our family included men, too, and it was so much better then."

  Greg interrupted her. "Maybe you should wait," he said. "After you're better -"

  "No. I want to tell you now. It might be important. You want to sit down?"

  "Okay." He parked himself in the visitor's chair. He was torn, because she was right, her story might be important. On the other hand, in her condition she might not know what was important, and she could do further damage to herself if she didn't take it easy.

  But she seemed to have held it in for so long that it flowed out of her, like water from a broken spigot that, once turned on, couldn't be easily shut off again.

  "When I felt strong enough," she continued. "I visited some of our old family haunts. Places we went in happier days, with Dad and Troy. Red Rock Canyon, Hoover Dam, the Natural History Museum. We used to have picnics in this park, way at the edge of town, with swing-sets and slides. It was a simple thing, but those are some of my favorite childhood memories. But the park isn't there anymore. Instead there's this homeless city, all these tents and shacks. It's so tragic."

  "I know," Greg said. "I've been there."

  "Anyway, I went back there again and again, just drawn there because even though the park was gone, there were enough other familiar things that I still felt comfortable there. There was this ice cream parlor, where Daddy used to buy us cones after playing in the park. Even though most of the area has changed, that's still there, and I would sit at a table outside and eat some ice cream and watch people pass by. Just living in the past, I guess. Maybe people do that when they don't have a future anymore."

  "You have a future, Daria."

  "Maybe so, but I didn't know that at the time. I just knew my mom and I had come down with what seemed like some terrible disease. Even though she's so much older than me – she was in her forties even before Troy and I were born – it seemed like I had it worse. I was so weak, so sick all the time.

  "Anyway, next to the ice cream parlor was this music store where Troy and I used to buy cassettes. They sell CDs now, mostly used ones, but when I browsed through the racks I felt like I was right back in those days. The time before we lost Daddy and Troy, when we were a real family.

  "So I was sitting there one day, at a table outside the ice cream place, with a double Dutch chocolate sundae. And I saw this homeless guy. He looked like all the rest of them, you know, all dark from sun and dirt, his clothes all turned a shade of almost charcoal gray. But there was something about him, in his eyes maybe. Something familiar."

  "And it was Troy," Greg offered.

  Her response was so enthusiastic he was afraid she would hurt herself. "Yes! It was Troy. As soon as I realized how familiar he was, I knew it was him. No question, no doubt. Even through all the years and all that's happened to him, I was absolutely convinced.

  "He was afraid of me, at first, afraid that I wanted something from him, or would steal what little he had. He didn't know why I could possibly want to talk to him. I had to go back over and over again, persuading him, pleading with him to listen to me. I knew who he was, and I was sure he recognized me, b
ut he didn't trust his own mind. He was defensive, and he had suffered some kind of brain damage, and it took some time to get him to listen to me. He was Troy, but his personality was so different, he had been through something terrible and he couldn't tell me what it was. Or he wouldn't.

  "But when he finally listened to me, when he let me show him pictures of the family, or himself, when I told him about things he might remember, and took him to familiar places, he gradually came to believe me. He accepted that he was Troy Cameron, and not -"

  "Not Crackers?"

  She cracked the first real smile Greg had seen. "That's right, that's what they called him in that place. Crackers. That was the only name he knew. Troy always liked crackers, even when he was a baby. We used to get him saltines, in restaurants, to munch on while we waited for our meals.

  "But even though I got him to accept his true identity, he still didn't trust anything else about his old life. I told him who his mother was, and when he found out she had a lot of money, he wouldn't go near her. He was too damaged, too messed up, he said, and if she ever found out about him she would just think he was after her money. I told him that was nonsense, but I couldn't convince him. He wanted to remain a secret. I had to respect that, or risk him withdrawing again, maybe running away. I didn't tell anyone about him, not Mom or anybody else, because I wanted to keep seeing him. I knew that the more I saw him, the more he would trust me, and eventually maybe he would let me convince him to see Mom.

  "He didn't remember much of what had happened to him, or to Daddy," she went on. A passing nurse stuck his head in the door. Greg shot him a glance that asked. Should she be talking? But the man just shrugged, so Greg let Daria Cameron go on. "But he had these directions he had written out, over and over. He didn't know where they led, just that they were something he'd always had, always rewriting in case some of his older copies got lost. He said it was something very important, he just didn't know what."

  "But you had an idea?'

  "I had an idea. I figured if it was something that important to him, it might have to do with whatever had happened. How he had gotten this way, what happened to Daddy. I tried to jog his memory, but it wouldn't come back. And he refused to follow the directions with me. He said it was too scary and too sad.

  "Anyway, when I started to feel really sick, like I wasn't going to make it, I went back to him. I told him he had to go see Mom – that when I died, he would be all she had, and vice versa. I gave him directions, told him how to get through the gate, and told him what to say when he got there. Then I took a copy of his directions, and went out into the desert. I wanted to find Daddy. I didn't want to die without knowing the truth. I wanted to find out, and then to die with him."

  "That took a lot of courage."

  She smiled again. Each time she did, her face lit up and Greg could see the woman behind the ravages of poison and exposure. "Courage or stupidity. I started to think it was that. But I kept going, and when I saw the X that Troy had marked on the wall, I knew I was in the right place. Daddy was dead, of course, but I was sure it was him even though I couldn't recognize anything about him. There was no one else it could be."

  "I think you're right," Greg said. "That's what I thought when I saw him, too."

  "That's right, you were in there! In that little cave." A frightened look washed across her face. "Did… did Troy ever get there? To Mom?"

  This was the moment Greg had been hoping to avoid. Someone had to tell her, and it looked as if he was elected. He could stall her, maybe for another half hour, an hour at the most. Let her recover more. But for all he knew, her family was waiting outside for him to be finished here. Would it be cruel to leave it for them to tell her?

  Family would be the lucky thing. What if some reporter got in here and asked her about it? He didn't know if the media had found out yet, but if they had… he didn't want that to happen. Anyway, she had been strong enough to tell her story, so he thought she was strong enough to listen to his. "I'm very sorry, Daria," he said, his voice low and gentle. "There's something I need to tell you…"

  24

  Sam Vega drove onto the Cameron estate just as Catherine was finishing with yet another phone call. She greeted him, and the two of them started toward the house. Dustin Gottlieb opened the door before they reached it. "Does Mr. Coatsworth know you're coming?" he asked, allowing them into the foyer. "He's not here at the moment."

  "We just need to see Mrs. Cameron briefly," Sam said.

  "Well…"

  "It's official business, Mr. Gottlieb." Sam gave Gottlieb a look that conveyed both gravity and weariness in equal proportion, the kind of look that young cops had to practice in the mirror because it would serve them so well over the years.

  "Fine, I'll fetch her. Wait here."

  "You are good," Catherine murmured after Gottlieb left.

  "I try."

  Catherine had filled Sam in on everything she had learned but only the shorthand version. He eyed her curiously as they waited. "You sure you've got what you need?" he asked.

  "I have enough to know what else I need," she replied. "That's the important thing. You brought the warrant, right?"

  He touched the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. Before he could speak again, Drake McCann entered the parlor, followed by Helena Cameron, Craig Stilton, and Dustin Gottlieb. Stilton and McCann got Helena situated on a chair, then turned to Catherine and Sam, who were still standing. Gottlieb leaned against a wall, at some remove from the others.

  "Should we ask Marvin Coatsworth to join us?" Stilton asked. "He's just a phone call away."

  "That's up to you," Sam said. "For everyone's convenience, we'd like to get this done as quickly as possible."

  Helena lifted a weary hand and tapped Stilton's side. "Let it go," she said. "If we need Marvin, we can stop everything until he gets here."

  "What can we do for you both, then?" Stilton asked. "You know how hard this whole ordeal has been on Mrs. Cameron."

  "Believe me, I know," Catherine assured him. "And we don't mean to make things difficult." She shifted her gaze, addressing Helena directly. "I think you'll feel better after we talk," she said. "I have some of the answers we've been looking for."

  Helena looked exhausted, even more so than usual. Her orange-tinged face was drawn, with heavy bags under her bloodshot eyes and a disconcerting quiver to her lower lip. "Answers would be nice," she said in a weak, scratchy voice.

  "I'll do what I can," Catherine promised. "First, you should know that we've found Daria." Helena's left hand went to her mouth. "She's alive,' Catherine added quickly, before the old woman could misinterpret. "She's at Desert Palm Hospital. A crime scene investigator found her out in the desert and suffering from exposure, as well as the… the condition that has affected both of you. But now that the doctors know the real source of that condition, they're confident they'll be able to help her. And you, too, Mrs. Cameron. They should be able to get you back to normal."

  "I… I don't understand."

  "You've been poisoned, Mrs. Cameron. Probably slowly, over a period of time. You're not sick, you and Daria didn't catch the same virus or anything. You're being poisoned, and now that we know what it is, all we have to do is cut off the source and treat it, and you'll be fine."

  "That's good news," Stilton said. "If it's true. Although I'm not sure how that could have -"

  "It's definitely true, Mr. Stilton," Sam said.

  "Oh, thank God," Gottlieb said. He leaned against wall as if his knees had lost their structural integrity. "Thank you, Supervisor Willows."

  "When can I see her? Daria?" Helena asked.

  "Very soon, as soon as she's stabilized."

  "Was she found at a crime scene?" Stilton asked. "You said she was found by a crime scene investigator."

  "She was." Catherine answered. "Not the scene of a recent crime but a crime scene just the same. Our investigator followed some directions found among Troy's possessions, and they led him to a cave out in the desert, w
alled off with rocks. Inside the cave, he found Daria, alive, and someone else – your husband, Mrs. Cameron. Long dead but almost certainly him."

  "He… found Bix?"

  "That's utterly impossible," Stilton said. "His body would have decomposed after all these years. How could he know?"

  "We don't know precisely when he died," Catherine countered. "Only when he disappeared. But in fact, his body was mummified by the dry air and protected by the cave. It's on its way back to our lab to be CT-scanned and DNA-tested. We'll get a positive identification, and I'm sure that will tell us exactly what happened to him."

  "That's simply remarkable," Gottlieb said. "You people really are good at your jobs."

  "We try to be. There's one more thing, though."

  "What now?" Stilton asked. All the news so far hadn't changed his attitude, which was antagonistic. Every word he spat at them was some sort of challenge. "You haven't thrown enough surprises at poor Helena for one day?"

  Sam Vega took this one. "Maybe not," he said. "We're pretty sure that when your husband's body is scanned, ma'am, it will turn out that he was shot. Probably with the same weapon that was originally used on your son. Our working theory is that the same person shot them both and left them to die in the desert. But Troy survived, sealed up his father's body with stones in that cave, then made his way back to the city, noting the landmarks along the way. Because of the brain damage he had suffered as a result of that gunshot wound, by the time he reached the city, he didn't remember where the landmarks led, but he never forgot that the destination was an important one. Over all these years, he kept recopying the directions to make sure he never lost them."

  "This is all quite remarkable," Stilton said, almost echoing Gottlieb's words and tone but with an undercurrent of impatience. "But if you'll excuse us now, I think Mrs. Cameron could use some time to take this in and process it."

  "Now, Craig -" Helena began, but he cut her off with a wave.