Ethan looked from the phone to Red Bird in confusion. At last he said, "I'm way out of the loop on this, aren't I?"

"Yes," Red Bird said.

"He's not planting them, he's picking them up," Marty said wearily. "Or at least that's what he'd better be doing."

Ethan looked at Red Bird. "Tell me what you were doing here. Seriously."

"I put these here earlier tonight; I was picking them up before someone found them."

"That's what he says," Ethan told Marty. "Do you want me to hold on to him?"

"No, let him go. But make sure he gets everything first. It's sort of a plea bargain."

"Uh-huh. You could've told me."

"I didn't expect you to be prowling around at two in the morning. Just let him go. I know where he lives, and I know what he's been up to. I'll tell you about it tomorrow."

"It's already tomorrow."

"You know what I mean. Good night, Ethan."

Ethan closed the phone and handed it back to Red Bird. "He said to make sure you finish and then let you go."

Red Bird stood with as much dignity as the situation could give him. "Thanks."

"Hold on, I'll get a floodlight. It'll make it easier."

"Thanks," Red Bird said again. And for the next half-hour, Ethan held the light while James Red Bird retrieved dozens of pieces of pottery, arrowheads, and beads.

WHEN HE HUNG up, Marty sat on the edge of the bed for a long time. His partner, Chuck, rubbed Marty's back and said sleepily, "You okay?"

Marty stood. "Yeah. Can't sleep. I'm going downstairs to watch TV."

"Do you need to talk?"

"Nah, it's just work stuff."

"Okay," Chuck said, and rolled over. Marty got a glass of milk and settled in to watch infomercials.

In a few hours he would have to arrest Rebecca Matre for the murder of Garrett Bloom. Officers were watching her, and if she tried to run they'd nab her; otherwise, he would make the collar right after the news media were surreptitiously notified. He hated that, but it was the way the world worked.

And then he prayed the real killer would make a mistake. For Rebecca Matre's sake, and his own.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

RACHEL SAT AWAKE all night, curled up on the couch. The TV played infomercials about some exercise program that used enormous rubber balls.

There was nothing she could do. She had been abandoned. The lake spirits that had nurtured her, that had helped her in return for her help, were no longer interested.

But why? She had two mutually exclusive explanations-one of which might've very well come from her own subconscious. She had no way of knowing if her conversation with the old Lo-Stahzi woman was real or not. And at least Betty McNally's story came from a real, if dotty, human being who'd shared some of the same experiences.

And Betty also had a plan, sort of. Kyle Stillwater must be made to do our bidding.

She hugged the pillow to her chest. It smelled of cat hair. Tainter lay at her feet, looking up expectantly. Occasionally he meowed softly, as if to remind her that he was here for her.

Fine, she thought. Kyle Stillwater must be made to do our bidding. I know what I want him to do, God forgive me. But Kyle Stillwater first had to be found, and she had no idea where- Patty.

Patty had tried to tell her about "someone else." In her selfishness, she'd completely forgotten about that. Kyle had come after Rachel first, as the avatar of the good spirits he opposed, so Patty would be a logical next step, the woman those same spirits called their "treasure."

In the bedroom, her alarm went off. Tainter stood, arched his back, and stretched his claws against the area rug. Rachel sat, listening to the harsh sound, before its meaning got through. It was time to start another day at the diner.

She went into the bedroom and turned off the alarm. The sudden thought of routine, of tasks known and understood, appealed to her more than she could say. She put aside the supernatural worries, started her shower, and picked out clothes for work.

PATTY DIDN'T SHOW up for breakfast that morning. She also didn't answer her phone when Rachel called.

The ringtone Rachel had programmed for Becky was "The Real Me" by The Who. It was a harsh song, and it always got Rachel's attention. But she was so out of it that she missed the call, grabbing her phone just an instant too late. She tried Patty again while her phone was open, but there was still no answer.

She tried calling Becky back at once but got her voice mail. She hung up without leaving a message. It seemed to be the thing to do these days. Then she tried Patty again, but there was still no answer.

"Was that Becky calling?" Helena said. She knew the song's significance as well.

"Apparently," Rachel said. Jimmy hit the bell to announce that an order was ready, and Rachel carried it to the table. She heard the chime that meant she had a voice mail, but the diner was so busy that it was twenty minutes later before she had a chance to check it.

There were harsh voices in the background, and the sound of heavy doors slamming shut. Rebecca sounded like she was in tears. "Rachel? This is Becky. I'm at ... I've been arrested. For Garrett's murder."

THE CITY JAIL smelled like bleach and urine. It was cold, and the officer who led Rachel down the bright corridor was wide enough that her hips could've easily bumped from wall to wall with every step. Her expression was so devoid of compassion or any other human emotion that Rachel wondered if she might be mentally impaired. But when she growled, "Ten minutes," Rachel understood that she was simply a woman who didn't care about anyone unless they wore a blue uniform.

The room looked exactly like she expected from all those television shows: blank concrete walls and a single table with a metal folding chair on either side. Rebecca was already seated there, watched over by another female officer as overweight, bored, and contemptuous as the one who'd shown Rachel to the room.

The orange jumpsuit highlighted Becky's red, splotchy face. Her hair was unbrushed and tied back; she wore no makeup or jewelry. The urge to hug her was overpowering, but Rachel had been warned not to attempt any physical contact. She pulled out the other chair and sat down.

"So where were you when I called?" Becky snapped.

"Working," Rachel said. "I just missed it."

Becky shrugged. "Yeah, well ... it doesn't matter. I have nothing to worry about, they tell me. I'll get either a public defender or one of the attorneys who does pro bono work for PBN. It shouldn't be hard to prove I didn't kill Garrett, because I didn't."

"Why do they think you did?"

"That phone message I left. I mentioned Romeo and Juliet, and since they both died, apparently that counts as a threat."

"You can't be serious."

"That's what they told me. I might've sounded a little ... unbalanced when I left it too. That probably didn't help." She sniffled and seemed like she was about to cry again.

Rachel was silent for a moment. Then she said, "So have you been officially arraigned?"

"No, they have to do DNA tests and fingerprints and all that CSI crap. But until then I have to sit in here."

"What's your bail?"

"Bail? Haven't you been paying attention? I haven't been arraigned yet, and even when I have, I've been arrested for murder. There is no bail."

"Is that what your lawyer told you?"

"I don't have a lawyer yet."

Then you don't know, do you? Rachel thought. Just like always. But she said, "Then I'll see what I can do."

"You do that," Becky said, crossed her arms, and looked away. She'd spent her whole life in variations of that pose, it seemed to Rachel.

Rachel stood. "I will try to help you, Becky. I promise."

Becky said nothing and did not move, but Rachel saw the tears roll down her cheeks. She must be so afraid, Rachel thought; she did her best to avoid consequences, and now there was no denying them.

"Be strong, baby," Rachel said softly, again fighting the urge to hug her sister. Then she turned to the door and knocked to be let out before Becky could say something else crass and change her mind. The cruel-mouthed matron waddled to comply.

MARTY SAW HIS brother emerge from the elevator. Ethan was dressed for work in a pressed shirt and khakis, but his eyes were red and he'd shaved haphazardly. When he reached Marty's desk he said, "I know, I look like crap."

"You do."

Ethan lowered himself gratefully into the visitor's chair. "I saw on the news that you arrested Rachel's sister."

"Yep."

"Did she give you any trouble?"

"No." Except for screaming, collapsing, and having to be transported to jail in an ambulance, he thought.

"Did she tell you what she did with his heart?"

"She says she's innocent. We're still looking."

"Has she got a lawyer?"

"Not yet. She'll be appointed one if Bloom's office doesn't make its own arrangements. I get the feeling that no one there wants to step in and be in charge."

"And everyone's happy with this?"

Marty shrugged. "The chief's happy. The mayor's happy. The D.A.'s happy. They're the only ones who matter to me."

"What about your friend Mr. Red Bird?"

"James Red Bird is not my friend," Marty said with certainty, "but I made a deal, and I'll stick to it. Sometimes you have to pick your battles. He lost his; the whole casino scam is off. So I'm satisfied with that for now."

"Yeah, well, I still think I should've beaten some decency into him instead of helping him pick up his toys." Ethan yawned and shook his head.

"It's probably better that you didn't," Marty said.

"So does Rachel know about Becky yet?"

"I have no idea. We don't generally inform the next of kin of suspects. Has she called you?"

"No."

"And of course you haven't called her."

Ethan scowled and stood. "I have a meeting to get to. I'll talk to you later."

"You could tell her."

He laughed humorlessly. "I'm not paid to do your dirty work."

"It would give you an excuse to talk to her."

"You're like a broken record, Marty."

Marty said nothing as Ethan walked to the elevator. His brother looked like he'd lost everything. His big shoulders were slumped, and he radiated a weariness that was more than just physical.

As Ethan stepped into one elevator, the doors of the other one opened and Rachel Matre exited. Neither saw the other, and Marty fought the urge to laugh at this Doctor Zhivago moment. But when he saw the look on Rachel's face, he was glad he'd kept silent.

"Rachel," he said formally when she reached his desk. He stood and gestured toward the guest chair.

"I suppose you know why I'm here," she said as she took the offered seat.

"Yes," he said.

"Becky didn't kill Garrett Bloom."

"I believe you, actually."

She blinked in surprise. "You do?"

"Yes. But at the same time, I also believe the evidence we have linking her to the crime."

"The phone call?"

"I can't really talk about it. But let's just say that some people higher up than me heard a distinct threat in it. And the timing made it suspicious. So orders were sent down."

"What about bail?"