"He was a belagana," Hopewell said, "because he thought in the language of the belagana. Like so many young people, he was caught between two cultures with very different values. It is hard to know how he would interpret anything."

"That a problem for your daughter, too?"

"What my daughter needs is to go back to the dinehta, and have a curing ceremony."

So Hopewell knows about Dennison, Thinnes thought.

"She will not be happy until she does that. But she's not mature enough to know yet."

Or maybe she'd forgotten the language, Thinnes thought. It was a pretty good a.n.a.logy. Maybe if she went back to New Mexico, it would come back to her.

"What brought you to Chicago, sir?"

"I grew up here. I thought it would be as good a place to go as anywhere. And my daughter was in school here."

Thinnes waited. He hadn't said why he had to go.

"And to be truthful," Hopewell continued, "I was fleeing my wife's shade. The Dine fear ghosts-what they call chindi, which are residues of all of the evil in spirits of the dead. Only the very old-those who've earned a reputation for great wisdom and integrity-die without leaving such a residue. I'm sure my wife left no chindi. But I had to leave New Mexico when she died. Everything reminded me of her-every mesa, every cloud, every smiling woman was a reminder."

As he drove north on Clark, Thinnes told himself that Rhonda would like the corn yeis, even if it was the strangest thing he'd ever given her. He thought about what Hopewell had told him. It was comforting to know there were still people on the planet with their heads on straight-even if you had to go to the other side of b.u.mblef.u.c.k to find them.

The Dellwood Pickle was on Balmoral. The restaurant consisted of two small storefronts connected by a double-arched opening in their common wall. The arches and the chair rail around the room were decorated for the season with green garlands lit with white Italian lights. Red bows brightened the newel posts on railings around tables set in the storefront windows. There were fewer than a dozen tables in the place. The decor consisted of local artists's work and the do-it-yourself efforts of patrons, who were encouraged by small baskets of crayons nestled among the condiments on each table, and heavy white paper sheets over the cloths.

At Thinnes's request, the waiter seated them against the back wall, where he could keep an eye on the door. Lifelong habit. For a cop, a lifesaving habit.

"The restaurant doesn't serve alcohol," Caleb said, "but customers are free to bring their own, and the waiters will serve it. Would you like something?"

With his mind's eye, Thinnes could see a portable bar in the trunk of Caleb's rental car. It wouldn't have surprised him. "A beer?"

"Surely."

Caleb handed his keys to the waiter who eventually brought gla.s.ses and two chilled bottles of Dos Equis. He started to open one for Thinnes, but he waved him away. Caleb opened his own and decanted it. They looked at the menu while they finished the round, and the waiter brought another when he came back to take their orders.

Then they shifted their chairs so they were on the same side of the table, and Thinnes pushed everything off the middle. He drew a grid on the paper with a black crayon and wrote "Means," "Opportunity" and "Motive" down the left side. In the s.p.a.ces across the top, he wrote in "Mrs. Bisti," "Kent," "Mrs. K," "Yellow," "Dennison," and "Wingate." "Anybody could've gotten hold of the murder weapon." He put an X in the "Means" box under all the names.

"And based on our interviews and my personal gut feeling that half of them are lying, this is what we know about who could have been alone with him at the right moment." He put an X under "Mrs. Bisti," in the "Opportunity" line, and a question mark under all the other names. "That leaves us with motive." Under "Mrs. Bisti," he put a question mark.

"If she knew about his infidelity," Caleb said, "she had a motive."

Thinnes put an X under "Kent," "Mrs. K," and "Wingate." "Bisti was fooling with Kent's wife, probably planning to dump her, and he was giving Wingate headaches. He put a question mark under "Yellow" and "Dennison." "These two, it hinges on whether we believe their story. Anything else?"

"That seems to summarize it."

"Speaking of motives, what keeps you at this, even risking your life? Bisti wasn't close or a client."

"I'm outraged by the waste of life and talent."

Someone had to be. Thinnes usually saved his anger for the most brutal cases-those involving torture or children. But even in the other cases, his rage went somewhere-if only into hunting down the killer.

As if mind reading, Caleb said, "This case is about rage or pa.s.sion. Whose?"

Thinnes nodded. Lauren Bisti's anger could be said to have been turned inward-if you bought that particular school of thought. Todd Kent's anger seemed more for the inconvenience to himself. Wingate could be it. Or Irene Yellow. Money may have been involved, but it was a crime of pa.s.sion-rage, jealousy, or greed. Thinnes nodded. The ME'd suggested someone strong or very angry. "Redbird's sister said he had a thing for Lauren Bisti. If she was a widow...Think he could have done it?"

"Was he angry?"

Thinnes thought about the smiling photo and shook his head. "Not as far as I know. Maybe I need to know more about Bisti."

"He was a paradox-essentially a white man who tried to be more Indian than an Indian, a narcissist who tried to shield his wife from knowledge of his affairs, a greedy individual who gave generously to certain causes."

Thinnes told him what Hopewell had told him about Navajos and art, about the Hero Twins and the Blue Mountain. "I remember where I saw them before" Thinnes said. "Bisti had something like the animal figures in his studio."

"The artist as a hunting animal," Caleb said thoughtfully. "Or as observer.

"Active and pa.s.sive. Yin and yang. Animus and anima. Art always boils down-in the end-to the most elementary themes and pa.s.sions. I believe David rewrote his life to fit some epic outline in his head. He once asked me, during a conversation about the autobiographical nature of art, 'Is it autobiography or artifice? People never know for sure unless you tell them. And I won't.' Life subservient to art is useful to an artist, not so helpful for a therapist."

"I hate to admit it," Thinnes said, "but the wife looks like our best bet. Tell me more about amnesia. Could she fake it?"

"Possibly, but from what I saw, I doubt it."

Thinnes thought about what the resident had told him-she hadn't faked being in shock. "If she's not faking it, what're the chances she'll remember?"

"Some amnesias are caused by brain injury-the memories are literally destroyed. Others occur when the brain fails to convert short-term memories to permanent ones. And in the occasional case, emotional trauma causes the mind to block shocking information, sometimes things as basic as the victim's own ident.i.ty. This form can often be reversed by time and therapy. Without knowing more about Lauren Bisti, I wouldn't even guess at a prognosis. If she did kill David, she might have blanked it out. Or she may have just seen him killed by someone she can't accept as his killer."

"In which case, if she remembers, she's in deep s.h.i.t."

"It's also possible she was just overcome by the shock of finding him dead."

"We may never know. When we questioned her the first time, she seemed pretty zonked. When we tried to question her again, her lawyer insisted on being there. He's threatening a hara.s.sment suit if we don't leave her alone till she gets her memory back." Thinnes shrugged. "People get away with murder all the time, and if she killed him, she just might, too. All she's got to do is just not remember. And if I was her lawyer, I'd tell her to just forget everything."

Sixty-Eight.

"Jack!" Anita sounded worried. "Lauren Bisti was just here."

"And?"

"She left suddenly. She said she was Christmas shopping and she started browsing. The next thing I knew she was gone."

Caleb waited.

"She dropped her packages where she was standing and took off. Mark told me she sounded scared. She said, 'David,' and he thought she was crying as she ran out."

"Any chance he saw which way she went?"

"No, but she hailed a cab."

"Right out front?"

"Yes. And he got the number."

"Thanks." As he wrote the information down, he said, "I'll get on it immediately." He disconnected and rang up Area Three. "Detective Thinnes, please."

"Sorry, he's not here. Somethin' I can help with?"

"Please ask him to call Dr. Caleb. It's urgent."

"He got the number?"

Caleb gave it to him, in case he didn't, then disconnected and dialed Thinnes's pager. While he waited for Thinnes to return the call, he rescheduled his afternoon appointments.

"What's up, Doc?" Thinnes was feeling pretty good about things in general, but he had a lot of paperwork to do, and he would've preferred to talk to Caleb another time.

"Lauren Bisti may have just remembered. And if she did, she may be in danger."

"Where is she?"

"That's where I need your help. She took a cab. I might be able to talk them into telling me where, but not in time."

"Let me have the details..."

Caleb got as far as Diversey before a radar cop pulled him over.

"Fifty in a thirty-five, sir. You got an excuse?"

Caleb explained the problem and stood impatiently next to the squad, with its blue lights blazing, while the officer checked his story via radio. He willed himself to be patient. When the patrolman finished his transmission, he handed Caleb's license back and said, "Follow me, Doctor."

Thinnes didn't have as far to drive. He got to the address ten minutes after the cab-company dispatcher gave it to him, twenty minutes after the cabby dropped her there. If Caleb was right, twenty minutes could be a lifetime. Thinnes floored it going through the gates, then realized he didn't know which way to go. The cemetery was a huge place. He wasted precious minutes stopping at the office to ask.

She was standing over David's grave, looking just as she did the first time he'd seen her. In shock once again. With blood on her hands. Only this time, she had the knife in them.

He wished he'd had more training for this kind of thing or that the doctor would hurry. He got out of the car slowly. He was about fifteen yards away before she noticed him.

She said, "Stop!"

He stopped. And kept his voice low. "Where'd you get the knife, Lauren?"

Her camel-hair coat was open. Her long hair hung loose, and there was a slackness to her face that made him think of a performance he'd seen in school of Hamlet. Ophelia. Only the lines were changed. Wasn't it something like "Out, out, d.a.m.ned blood?" He could smell the blood.

"Where did you get the knife, Lauren?"

It took her moments to remember, or maybe to come back from wherever her mind was. The vacancy faded momentarily. "Hammacher Schlemmer. The cab driver waited for me. I gave him a tip."

Did she ever! A hundred dollars. The driver'd remembered her instantly.

"Not a very good knife," she added, looking at her mutilated wrists. "Should have done the job by now. Not like David's knife."

Blood dripped from her wrists and soaked into the frozen dirt. Her eyes dropped to the grave. Beneath the Blue Mountain Cat logo on the headstone, the inscription read, DAVID BISTI 19641993 VITA BREVIS EST, ARS DURA. Latin. It seemed as inconsistent as the two cultures of Bisti's origin.

Lauren said, "David's dead."

"Yeah."

"I can't live without him." The knife moved toward her throat, paused. Her eyes started sweeping from side to side, as if to find something hiding in the field of her peripheral vision.

Thinnes said, "Lauren." He kept his eyes on her so that he wouldn't draw her attention, by a glance, to anyone who might be in a position to creep up on her. Where the h.e.l.l is Jack? Or the cops? Or anyone?

"I have to be with him," Lauren said.

"You won't if you do that," he told her quietly. "They don't allow suicides in hallowed ground."

She thought about that. It took her a long time, maybe thirty seconds. Then she gave a little shrug that caused her to sway like a drunk. "That's that, then." The knife moved upward.

"Wait!" Thinnes said, softly. "Why?"

"Why? David's dead." The knifepoint touched her throat, teasing a b.l.o.o.d.y drop from its smooth whiteness.

"Lauren!"

"I killed him." A straight statement, without defiance or anger. And scariest of all, without apparent remorse.

It was all Thinnes could do to hide his surprise. "What for?"

The knife sagged as she thought about it. "He stopped loving me."

"Why kill yourself?"

"He stopped loving me." As if it were elementary. As if living without David's love made the thought of living unbearable.

The knife started back toward her throat. Christ! Where was the cavalry? Thinnes tried to judge how quickly he could cover the distance between them. Lauren said, "You can't stop me."

Then a huge hand closed over her knife hand, and a long arm circled her from behind.

"No, but I can," Caleb said, quietly.

She fought him, but he was a bear of a man and in good shape. Fighting him was like wrestling a tree. After a while, she stopped and went limp. The knife slipped from her hand and clattered onto the headstone.

For the first time in half a century, Thinnes took a breath.