She yelled for help.

Then two men in uniforms were coming for her-paramedics, splashing into the water, wading out to meet her.

And when she collapsed on the shore, staring up at the stars, more men moved around her, pulling at her straps, trying to loosen her equipment, and she tried not to tremble.

She pushed back the sensations of the water-the cold brown light, the mossy shelves of rock, the hiss of her own breath through the regulator.

As the lump formed in her throat, she spoke to herself silently, thinking the words in Mandarin so that she might believe them: They will not see me cry. They will not see me cry.

CHAPTER 42.

Mrs. Hayes was a mountain of grief-black slippers, black sweat pants, black Tshirt advertising a tent revival. Her face was pasty from weeping, the skin under her eyes as dark as apple bruises.

"Excuse us, children," she said.

The younger ones continued to throw blocks. The two older kids, Amanda and Clem, stabbed each other with Tinkertoy swords.

Mrs. Hayes looked over at Chris, who was sitting next to her on the couch. He was scowling, copying verses from a King James Bible onto a yellow legal pad.

"Chris?" she said. "Take the children in the other room, please. There's a video loaded."

Chris' face brightened. He shoved the Bible and pad aside and herded the troops into the living room, leaving me alone with Mrs. Hayes and the portrait of Jesus.

She studied me, gave me plenty of opportunity to see the misery in her eyes. "You have nerve coming here, Mr. Navarre. After the lies you've told about my boy."

"Your boy," I said.

She closed her eyes. Her lips trembled.

"I've told the police all I need to," she said. "Dwight was my son. I did nothing wrong."

"The police have already gotten a warrant to search your bank records. William B.

Doebler, Sr., made a payment to you and your husband in 1967-$30,000-plus smaller payments over the next five years-1,000 here, 500 there. You probably told Doebler the baby that Clara was giving up would go to a good home. The Doeblers didn't care enough to check-as long as you made their problem go away. So the boy stayed right here. You and your husband raised him, collected the money."

"Dwight was not that child."

"The computer disk Dwight left, explaining why he killed. Among other things, he admitted he was Clara's child, talked about a private investigator who unwittingly handed him the information. Dwight also wrote about growing up in this house. Your husband was a strict disciplinarian-used to enjoy submerging children in the bathtub until they nearly drowned. And you let it happen."

Her eyes opened, focused on me steady and hot. I knew how Chris must've felt, the moment Mrs. Hayes assigned him those Bible verses. I knew how Clem had felt getting caught with Mrs. Hayes' wallet, how Dwight must have felt his entire life.

"You use children," I said. "You raised Dwight to become what he was, stood by while your husband punished him, taught him to believe in a God that drowns. When the Doeblers stopped making payments-maybe because you tried to blackmail them, maybe because they decided you'd bled them enough-you began raising Dwight to hate his birth family. You told him-stories. Poisoned him. You knew what he would do, someday. You let children steal for you, lie for you. When they grow up, they might even kill."

"I parent them," she said coldly. "These children need a real parent. They get nothing at home, if they have a home. They need what I give them. They needed what my husband gave them."

"Pain. Fear. Hate."

"They get what they need."

The curtains ballooned in with a limp breeze. In the den, Star Wars lasers blasted away.

"The last thing Dwight told me," I said. "He said he'd left the most important thing undone. He loved and feared you as much as he hated you, Mrs. Hayes, and so he could only kill your reflection. The others died in your place."

Mrs. Hayes put her hand on her knee, scraped her fingernails against the black cotton of her sweat pants. "My son is dead. He was my son. I've told the police everything."

"And the others who have died?"

"It was God's will."

"No, Mrs. Hayes. No, no, no."

The front door opened. Maia Lee came in, walking stiffly from the orthopaedic hardshoe she now wore on her left foot. She was followed by two uniformed APD officers, then a businesssuited woman named Reyes from Child Protective Services.

"Dwight's last request," I told Mrs. Hayes. "To shut you down. It's amazing how helpful CPS can be when you bring them documentation on an unlicensed day care, run by a woman who raised a psychopath."

In the next room, Reyes started talking with the children, explaining that she was here to help. Maia Lee came up next to me. One of the officers stood impassively by the door while the other came into the living room and dropped a search warrant on Mrs.

Hayes' King James Bible, then a ceaseanddesist order from the State Attorney's office.

"They'll want a statement, Mrs. Hayes," Maia said, her voice cold. "Mrs. Reyes will want these officers to escort you to her office."

Mrs. Hayes looked at Maia, then the officer, then me.

She gave me a meagre smile. "You're so sure of yourself, aren't you? You think you know what is right."

In the next room, Reyes was talking to the children-recording their names and ages, where they lived.

"It's over, Mrs. Hayes," I said. "You won't raise any more children."

"Ask the police, Tres. They're so intent on paperwork, bending the facts to fit, ask them to check his blood."

"Dwight's body hasn't been found, Mrs. Hayes."

"Yes," she agreed easily. "But that's not what I meant. And you don't understand that simple fact."

Then she rose and let the deputy lead her out. On the couch where she'd been sitting, the dent of her form was embedded in the cushions as deep as footvalleys on cathedral steps.

Maia put her hand on my shoulder. "She's just trying to hurt you. Trying to shake you up."

I listened to the voices of the children in the other room. Two weeks-Every night-She's mostly nice-Only sometimes she gets mad- Bible readings-And one time I stole something-She calls me son.

"They'll be all right," Maia told me. "Reyes knows her work."

She started toward the door, but I couldn't move.

Dim light filtered through the windows of Mrs. Hayes' living room, but I felt I might as well have been back in Ruby McBride's pecan orchard, one hundred feet underwater; or at Jimmy Doebler's waterfront; or even at the train crossing near my father's house in Olmos Park. I realized, as Dwight must have realized, that the cold dark weight of those places was no different, no less horrible. It would be easy to lose one's strength to ascend. And then the will. And finally even the desire.

I stared at the shaggy green staircase that led to the second floor. Then, half in a trance, I walked upstairs.

"Tres?" Maia called.

I looked in the doorway of Dwight Hayes' room. His car magazines and books had been scattered on the floor, the football posters taken down, the boysized mattress overturned.

In the bathroom opposite the stairs, I flipped the light switch and saw only myself in the medicine cabinet mirror. I looked at the bathtub-a small porcelain model, nothing special. Chrome fixtures, a permanent grime ring, faded 1970s flower decals on the bottom. The drain was wet.

The walls of the bathroom were avocado tile from waist down, yamcoloured wallpaper from the waist up. I imagined how high a small boy could reach, ran my hand along the wall. I hit the soft spot just in the middle of the right wall-an area no bigger than a doorknob, where the wallpaper felt like membrane.

I punched through, ripped away the edges. There was a layer of lightercoloured wallpaper underneath, and a dark void eaten into the wall behind.

I stared at it for a long time, until Maia came up behind me.

"What?" she asked.

I said, "A hole somebody never filled in."

CHAPTER 42.

The rains had been good for Faye DoeblerIngram's front garden. Patches of wild rosemary had shot up to four feet. The bees were going nuts around her red and white hibiscus. Whitebrush was blooming, permeating the air with a scent like Christmas trees.

Maia Lee picked a blackeyed Susan. I got the morning paper off the porch, shook the dew off the plastic sleeve.

For an abandoned house, Faye's place looked pretty lively. An old yellow Honda and a brown sedan were parked in the driveway. Light shone through the living room window, flickering from the blades of a ceiling fan. The screen door was latched, but I could smell coffee inside, baking cinnamon bread. The stereo was playing an acoustic instrumental.

We knocked on the screen door, got no answer, called hello. Still no reply.

Maia kindly offered her key chain knife, which I used to unlatch the door.

The living room was bright with morning sun. Pothos and ivy crowded the windows. I put the newspaper down on the sideboard.

A suitcase lay open and empty on the sofa. On the coffee table was the large brown binder Faye had shown Maia and me the week before.

Maia went to the stereo, checked out the case on the CD player. She might've been waiting in a doctor's office, for all the anxiety she showed.

I sat next to the suitcase, opened the memory book. The picture of Ewin Lowry and Clara Doebler stared up at me-Clara smiling, her hand resting on the hood of the '65 Mustang as if it were a favourite horse. Ewin Lowry's smile was more devilish, his teeth perfectly white. Small build, dark skin-not really olive, as I'd speculated before, but the hue of cinnamon.

Something shattered.

I looked up. Faye Ingram was standing in her kitchen doorway, shards of a Jimmy Doebler coffee cup at her feet.

Her fingers were flaked with mud. She wiped them absently on her gardening apron, then touched her face as if to make sure her mascara and jewellery and pennyred hairdo were still in place.

"Mr. Navarre," she said. "Miss Lee. What are you doing in my house?"

"You haven't disappeared," Maia said. "I'm glad to see that."

Faye glanced behind her, into the kitchen. "I'm fine, thank you. I think you should leave."

"He's here," I said. "Isn't he?"

She knelt down, began picking up pieces of the cup, using her apron as a collection pouch. "I'm afraid- I'm not quite awake yet, Mr. Navarre. I haven't had my second cup of coffee, haven't had my thirty minutes in the garden. I'm afraid I'm not following you."

I slipped the picture of Ewin and Clara out of its plastic pocket. "The resemblance is there, isn't it, if you blend the two of them together? I just wasn't looking for the right connection."

"You shouldn't be here."

She stood, the pottery shards in her apron. Plucking up the ends of the fabric, she looked as if she were about to curtsy.

"Twentyfive years ago," I said. "You saved your sister's child."

"Please don't ask me this."

"Clara had her second son, but it was another battle she couldn't win against the family, wasn't it? They forced her to give the baby away. W.B.'s father made the arrangements-no paperwork, no embarrassment, just discreet payments to a family that would keep the secret and ask no questions as long as the money kept coming.

The Doeblers either didn't know or didn't care what kind of operation the Hayeses were running-what kind of hell they inflicted on their charges. But you found out. You'd watched Clara unravel-you knew that she was unfit to take care of herself, much less a child, but you also knew her misery. You resented the family for what they'd done to her."

Faye pressed her lips tight, turned her face toward the door jamb. "I never married, Tres, never had children. I saw how the family's expectations destroyed my sister-how she kept giving them more rope to strangle her with."

"But you found a way to save something of your sister. You found a way to have a family, too. By the time your nephew was six, it was clear to you what kind of monsters the Hayeses were. Their own son Dwight was being twisted, misshaped by an abusive father and a dangerously unstable mother. Your nephew was not faring much better.

In one incident, he almost died. That decided you. You rescued the child, kidnapped him. You placed him in a home of your choosing, supported by your money, and you made sure he was treated well. He became your son more than Clara's, and as he grew, you were not about to tell your sister-to see the one good deed of your life be tainted by the Doeblers. They would find a way to interfere again. Clara would insist on raising the child, and she would screw it up, the way she'd screwed up everything in her life. The child was yours now. That's why the payments to the Hayeses stopped.

Because the child was no longer there."

In the kitchen, a coffee machine gurgled and steamed as it let out the last of its water into the filter. Faye clutched her apron. One tear was making its way down her cheek.

Her mascara streaked like a smear of ashes.

"He warned me. He said the best we could hope for was a few more quiet days. I so hoped- Oh, Tres. You don't understand. Until Clara's death, we had so many good years. Even after, when he was worried for my safety, when he was so busy guarding our lives and our secret that he could barely enjoy my company-even then, every day was a gift. I would give anything to protect him. Everything else failed to matter long ago."

I could barely speak. The unequivocal love in her voice was humbling. "We need to see him, Ms. Ingram."

She hesitated, then nodded, resigned to the inevitable. She led us through the kitchen and into the yard.

The grass was dappled with light through the oak tree. A new jar of sun tea glowed on the sidewalk. Another Jimmy Doebler coffee cup and two plates of cinnamon toast sat on the patio table.

He was working near the tomato cages, cutting dead sunflower stalks with a machete.