"Don't worry," she said. "We moved your daddy to a different room, one where you can go see him. And I'm sure he'd like to see you, too. He was awake the last I saw, and he can talk, but he's still very sick. You have to promise to use hand sanitizer before you go into his room. Okay?"

"Okay," Lucy said. "Can Carrie come, too?"

"Both of you," the charge nurse said. "One other thing. You have to be very gentle around your daddy. You can't get on his bed, and he won't be able to hold you. He has a big owie on his tummy. Do you think you can remember all that?"

Lucy nodded. "Can we go right now? Should we bring a Band-Aid for his owie?"

The charge nurse shook her head. "I'm not sure a Band-Aid will do the trick."

Lucy was already on her way out the door, but Ali caught her and dragged her back. "Just a minute," Ali said. "I need to see Sister Anselm for a moment. You two wait right here."

Ali went as far as the doorway to Jane Doe's room and tapped on the frame. Both patient and attendant seemed to be sleeping. Sister Anselm came to attention and hurried over to the door. She might not have been as spry as usual, but considering she had just done an all-nighter, Ali was impressed.

"What's up?" Sister Anselm asked.

"Jose's been moved out of ICU. The girls and I are on our way to tell him that the baby is fine."

"How about Teresa?"

"In recovery," Ali said, "and the less said about that, the better. But here's something you should take a look at." She cued up Stuart's photos and passed her iPhone to Sister Anselm.

Sister Anselm studied the photos. "It looks like he's deliberately concealing his features."

"That's what I thought," Ali agreed.

"Can we go now?" Lucy insisted. "Please! And I need to go potty."

Taking the phone back and hoisting Carinda onto her hip, Ali set off toward reception. The hospital was laid out with wings spreading out from a central hub. After a stop at the first available restroom, they went to admitting, where they were given directions to Jose's new room.

Jose greeted them with a wan smile. "Hey," he croaked. "How are my girls?"

"Daddy, Daddy!" Lucy exclaimed. "We've got a brother. He's real little. And he's all red."

Jose looked to Ali for confirmation. "Isn't this too early?"

"Evidently not," Ali said. "We just came from the nursery. He's fine."

"And Teresa?"

"She's in recovery. She had to have a C-section."

"What's a C-section?" Lucy asked again. Ali hadn't answered the question the first time, and she didn't this time, either.

"Is she all right?" Jose asked.

"As far as we know," Ali said. "Your mother-in-law is with her. I've called a friend in Tucson to come help out with the girls." Whoever had transported Jose from the ICU had been kind enough to collect the stash of kids' stuff from the waiting room. Ali parked both girls in a chair, handed them a sticker book, and turned her attention to Jose.

"I can't believe it's Sunday," he said. "How can I have lost two whole days?"

"It's easy," Ali said.

"But what are you doing here?"

"I came to help when Donnatelle had to leave."

"Donnatelle? From the academy? From Yuma? She was here, too? Did I see her?"

"No. Teresa was the only visitor allowed in the ICU."

"How did Donnatelle find out about it?"

"A Blue Alert went out on Saturday morning. She came as soon as she got off her shift."

"It's like you all thought I was gonna die."

"You came very close," Ali said. "So who did this? Do you have any idea?"

He frowned. "It's fuzzy. I was at work. I was making a traffic stop, and then bam. The next thing I knew, someone-a woman, I think-shot me in the gut."

"Tummy," Lucy corrected from the chair. "'Gut' isn't a nice word. Can we see your owie?"

"Did they catch her?" Jose asked.

Ali shook her head. "Do you know who it was?"

"Not a clue," Jose said. "That's all I remember: an older woman with cataract glasses. And a scarf, I think. Yes. She was definitely wearing a scarf."

Ali took out her phone and dialed Juanita Cisco's number. "One of your clients is awake at the moment," Ali said when the attorney answered. "For someone who's been out of it for a day and a half, he's making pretty good sense. You'd better come talk to him before Lattimore gets a crack at him."

Jose was frowning when Ali got off the phone. "Who was that on the phone? And who is Lattimore?"

"Lattimore is the DPS agent investigating your shooting. The woman on the phone is Juanita Cisco, your attorney."

"Why would I need an attorney? I'm the one who got shot. The woman who shot me is the one who needs an attorney."

"That's what you'd think," Ali said. "Unfortunately, you'd be dead wrong."

25.

3:00 P.M., Sunday, April 11

Tucson, Arizona

It took two and a half hours for Al Gutierrez to drive from Tucson to Buckeye and locate the address he had found online. The neighborhood was nicer than he had expected: fairly new houses, most of them with desert landscaping in the front and pools in the back.

Much to his frustration, when he arrived at the right house and rang the bell, no one was home. He went back to the car and waited there for a while. Eventually, he began losing heart. What if Rose Ventana's family had moved away for good? What if they were out of town on a trip of some kind? Finally, Al went knocking on doors and got lucky the first time out.

"Jim's at work," the woman next door told him helpfully. "He doesn't usually get home until almost dinnertime. On Sundays, Connie and the girls spend most of the day at church. I can take a message for them."

Al didn't want to leave a message. He had driven over a hundred miles, one way, to talk to Rose Ventana's family in person. That was the whole point.

"No, thanks," he said. "I'll go grab some food and come back later."

He went to a nearby Pollo Loco, where he stayed until a quarter past five. Al had gleaned a lot of information about the family from the articles. He wanted to be sure James Fox would be home when it came time to deliver the news. Al expected it would be easier to speak to the stepfather and harder to speak to the mother and sisters. It had been three years, but he was pretty sure they were still grieving.

When he drove up to the house the second time, a BMW sedan was parked in the driveway, and a man with a Michelob Ultra in hand sat on a lawn chair on a covered front patio. Al recognized the man from the photos. This was definitely the stepfather, although he had aged considerably since the first television interview three years earlier.

The whole time Al was driving, he had contemplated how he would approach the family. He wanted to be thorough, calm, and convincing. If it had been a matter of straight good news or bad news, he suspected it would have been simpler. He could tell them that he believed their daughter was alive. At least she had been alive the last time he saw her, and he hoped she still was, though there was always a chance that she would die before they could get there.

"Mr. Fox?" Al asked, holding out his hand. "My name is Alonzo Gutierrez."

James Fox ignored the hand and took a drink of his beer while studying Al's face with an unapologetic stare. "My next-door neighbor said somebody stopped by earlier looking for us. Was that you?"

Al nodded.

"She said you looked like a cop. Are you?"

"Not exactly. Border Patrol."

"Well, Mr. Border Patrol," James Fox said sarcastically, "what do you want?"

This wasn't starting off the way Al had anticipated. Fox seemed hostile and angry and not the least bit welcoming.

"It's about your daughter," Al said. "It's about Rose."

"Sure it is," Fox said. "First of all, Rose is my stepdaughter, not my daughter. Second of all, she's dead. She died three years ago. I suppose you're here claiming you found the body?"

"It's possible she isn't dead-" Al began.

Fox ignored the interruption. "In that three years, my family has been through enough hell to last a lifetime. We don't need any more worthless yahoos showing up trying to jack my wife around by lifting money out of her pocket. They always claim they know where Rose is and say they'll help us find her and all kinds of claptrap. Some of 'em are psychics; all of 'em are jerks; but they all have one thing in common: They claim they can tell Connie exactly what happened to her daughter, and all she has to do is cough up a thousand bucks. Or two. We're not playing that game anymore, and we're not going through this again. It hurts too much. Now get the hell out of here before my wife gets home."

"I'm not asking for money," Al countered. "I just wanted to let you know that I believe I know what happened to her-to your stepdaughter. Someone beat her up pretty badly on Friday and left her for dead. She was found near Three Points, which is west of Ryan Field. She's in the ICU in Physicians Medical Center. I believe she's alive, although I don't know that for sure."

Fox set his empty beer bottle down on a nearby table. Then he stood up and stepped closer to Al, invading his space. "And you know all this how?"

Al stood his ground. "Because I'm the one who found her," he said. "I was out on patrol and found her."

"If this is supposed to be some kind of official notification, why aren't you in uniform? Why didn't you show me your badge?"

"This isn't an official notification. As I said, I found an injured woman out in the desert-beaten, burned, cut. It looked like she had been through hell. Everyone thought she was an illegal immigrant, but she spoke English, not Spanish. I called for a chopper and had her airlifted into town."

"If this isn't an official notification, why are you here? What do you want?"

Al thought about that for a minute-about Kevin Dobbs and the apparently buried "official" report. "Because someone needed to do it," he answered. "And because no one else seemed to give a damn."

"Our Rose has been gone for three years. What makes you think this woman you found in the desert is her?"

"I saw the tattoo, Mr. Fox. A rose tattoo that's right here." He pointed to a spot on his chest. "This morning I sat down with my computer and started looking for missing persons with rose tattoos. That's how I found you. When I saw the picture of the tattoo on the Internet and the part about her being from Buckeye, Arizona, it hit me that the girl I found might be her."

The man's anger dissipated some. At least he was listening, and he no longer looked as though he were ready to punch Al's lights out. He seemed to want to believe what Al was telling him, but he wasn't quite there.

"And you came all this way to tell me?"

Al nodded.

"If you've seen the information on the various sites, did you look at the photos? Does the woman you found look like the girl in any of those photos?"

Al thought about the assault victim's bruised and battered face; her missing teeth; her misshapen features. "No," he said at last. "The way she looks right now, it would take dental records or fingerprints or DNA to tell for sure. She was messed up pretty bad. Whoever did it meant for her to be dead. She was supposed to be dead. If I hadn't come along when I did and chased them off, she probably would be dead."

"And she may still die?"

Al nodded.

"So you expect me to tell my wife that you may have found our long-lost daughter, but she may be dying. In fact, by the time you got here to the house, she might have already been dead. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Okay," Fox said. "Maybe you're not like the other guys. Since you're not demanding money, maybe your heart's in the right place, but I'm not going to jump in the car and head for Tucson. Tomorrow I'll get in touch with the Buckeye Police Department and have someone look into this."

"Don't you want to tell your wife?" Al asked.

"No, I don't. Haven't you been listening? Every time somebody shows up saying they knew where Rose is, Connie gets her hopes up. And every time, when it turns out that they're lying or deluded or just plain wrong, it breaks her heart all over again. If and when the cops can verify this, I'll tell her. Not before. Even if the girl you're talking about is Rose, what would be the point of finding her and having her die anyway? Now get the hell out of here before my wife gets home. Please."

Clearly, the conversation was over. Al turned and started away.

"You got a business card on you?" Fox asked. "I'll pass your name along to the local guys."

The business cards in Al Gutierrez's wallet were all Border Patrol cards. At that point, however, it didn't seem to make much difference. Al took one of them out, walked back to Fox, and handed it over.

"Thanks," James Fox said, slipping it into his shirt pocket.

"You're welcome," Al told him.