Nothing remained to be said. Caleb struck a match and tossed it forward. With a whoosh, flames enveloped the pile. There was no wind to speak of; the thick smoke rose straight skyward, full of popping sparks. For a while it smelled like mesquite; then it became something else.

"That's that, I guess," he said.

They walked back toward the house. As they approached, Pim appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were very wide.

Something is happening, she signed.

The room was cool and dark. Only Dory's face was showing; the rest was covered by boiled clothes.

"Mrs. Tatum," Kate said, "can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"

Staring at the ceiling, the woman seemed completely unaware of them. A remarkable change had occurred. Remarkable, but also disturbing. The harsh appearance of the burns on her face had softened. Their color was now pinkish, almost dewy; in other patches, her skin was white as talc. Dory shifted slightly in her bed, exposing her left hand and forearm from under the cloths. Before, it had been a gruesome claw of cooked flesh. In its stead was a recognizable human hand-blisters gone, charred bits flaked off to reveal skin of rosy newness beneath.

Kate looked up at Pim. How long has she been awake?

She wasn't. That just happened.

"Mrs. Tatum," Kate said, more commandingly, "I'm a doctor. You've been in a fire. You're at the Jaxons' farm; Caleb and Pim are with me. Do you remember what happened?"

Her gaze, wandering the room in a desultory fashion, located Kate's face.

"Fire?" she murmured.

"That's right, there was a fire at your house."

"Ask her if she knows what started it," Caleb said.

"Fire," Dory repeated. "Fire."

"Yes, what do you remember about the fire?"

Pim stepped forward and knelt by the bed. She gently lifted Dory's exposed hand, placed the tip of her index finger in the woman's palm, and began to form letters.

"Pim," Dory said.

But that was all; the light in her eyes faded. She closed them again.

"Caleb, I'm going to examine her," Kate said. Then, to Pim: Stay and help.

Caleb waited in the kitchen. The children, mercifully, were still asleep. A few minutes passed, and the women appeared.

Kate gestured to the back door. Let's talk outside.

The light had shifted toward evening. "What's happening to her?" Caleb asked, signing simultaneously.

"She's getting better, that's what."

"How is that possible?"

"If I knew, I'd bottle it. The burns are still bad-she's not out of the woods yet. But I've never seen anybody heal so fast. I thought the shock alone would kill her."

"What about her waking up like that?"

"It's a good sign, her recognizing Pim. I don't think she understood much else, though. She may never."

"You mean she'll stay like this?"

"I've seen it happen." Kate addressed her sister directly: You should stay with her. If she wakes up again, try to get her talking.

What about?

Easy stuff. Keep her mind off the fire for now.

Pim returned to the house.

"This changes things," Caleb said.

"I agree. We may be able to move her sooner than I thought. Do you think you can find a vehicle in Mystic?"

He recalled the pickup he'd seen in Elacqua's yard.

Kate seemed surprised. "Brian Elacqua?"

"That's him."

"That drunken old cuss. I'd wondered what had become of him."

"That was pretty much my experience of the man."

"Still, I'm sure he'd help us."

Caleb nodded. "I'll ride in in the morning."

Sara was waiting on the porch with their bags when Hollis appeared, sitting atop a sorry-looking mare. With him was a man Sara didn't know, riding a second horse, a black gelding with a back as bowed as a hammock and ancient, runny eyes.

"What's this I see?" Sara said. "Oh, two of the worst horses I ever laid eyes on."

The two men dismounted. Hollis's companion was a squat-looking man wearing overalls but no shirt. His hair was long and white; there was something cunning in his face. Hollis and the man exchanged a few words, shook hands, and the man walked off.

"Who's your friend?" Sara asked.

Hollis was tying the horses to the porch rail. "Just somebody I knew in the old days."

"Husband, I thought we talked about a truck."

"Yeah, about that. Turns out a truck costs actual money. Also, there's no gas to be had. On the upside, Dominic threw in the tack for free, so we are not, technically, one hundred percent penniless at the moment."

"Dominic. Your shirtless friend."

"He kind of owed me a favor."

"Should I ask?"

"Probably best if you don't."

They returned to the house, lightened their gear, loaded the remains into saddlebags, and secured them to the horses. Hollis took the mare, Sara the gelding. She was getting the best of the deal, though not by much. Years had passed since she'd even been on a horse, but the feeling was automatic, touching a deep chord of physical memory. Bending forward in the saddle, Sara gave three firm pats to the side of the horse's neck. "You're not such a bad old guy, are you? Maybe I'm being too hard on you."

Hollis looked up. "I'm sorry, were you addressing me?"

"Now, now," Sara said.

They made their way to the gate and descended the hill. Scattered workers were toiling in the fields beneath a late afternoon sun. Here and there a pennant still hung limply from its pole, marking the location of a hardbox; the watchtowers with their warning horns and sharpshooter platforms jutted from the valley floor, unmanned for years.

At the outer edge of the Orange Zone, the road forked: west toward the river townships, east toward Comfort and the Oil Road. Hollis drew up and took his canteen from his belt. He drank and passed it to Sara. "How's the old boy doing?"

"A perfect gentleman." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and gestured eastward with the canteen. "Looks like somebody's in a hurry."

Hollis saw it too: the boiling dust plume of a vehicle, driving fast toward the city.

"Maybe we could see if he'd trade for the horses," Hollis said, not seriously.

Sara examined him a moment, flicking her eyes up and down. "I have to say, you look rather dashing up there. Takes me back a bit."

Hollis was leaning forward, bracing his weight with both hands on the pommel. "I used to like to watch you ride, you know. If I was on the day shift on the Watch, I'd sometimes wait on the Wall until you came back with the herd."

"Really? I was not aware."

"It was a little creepy of me, I admit that."

She felt suddenly happy. A smile came to her face, the first in days. "Oh, what could you do?"

"I wasn't the only one. Sometimes you drew quite a crowd."

"Then lucky you, things working out like they did." She capped the canteen and handed it back. "Now let's go see our babies."

52.

"Hey, good afternoon, everybody."

Two DS officers manned the stockade's outer room-one sitting at his desk, a second, much older, standing behind the counter. Greer recognized the second one immediately; years ago, the man had been one of his jailors. Winthrop? No, Winfield. He'd been just a kid then. As their gazes locked, Lucius could see a series of rapid calculations unfolding behind the man's eyes.

"I'll be damned," Winfield said.

His hand dropped to his sidearm, but the movement was startled and clumsy, giving Greer ample time to raise the shotgun from beneath his coat and level it at the man's chest. With a loud clack, he chambered a shell. "Tut tut."

Winfield froze. The younger one was still sitting behind his desk, staring wide-eyed. Greer nudged the shotgun toward him. "You, weapon on the floor. You too, Winfield. Let's be quick now."

They placed their pistols on the ground. "Who is this guy?" the younger one said.

"Been a while, Sixty-two," Winfield said, using Greer's old inmate number. He seemed more amused than angry, as if he'd run into an old friend of dubious reputation who'd lived up to expectations. "Heard you've been keeping yourself busy. How's Dunk?"

"Michael Fisher," Greer said. "Is he here?"

"Oh, he's here all right."

"Any more DS in the building? We keep the nonsense to a minimum, this doesn't have to be a problem."

"Are you serious? I don't give a shit one way or the other. Ramsey, toss me the keys."

Winfield opened the door to the cellblock. Greer followed a few paces behind the two men, keeping the shotgun trained on their backs. Michael, lying on his bunk, rose on his elbows as the door to his cell opened.

"This is sudden," he remarked.

Greer ordered Winfield and the other one into the cell, then looked at Michael. "Shall we?"

"Nice seeing you, Sixty-two," Winfield called after them. "You haven't changed a bit, you fucker."

Greer shut the door, turned the lock, and pocketed the key. "Keep it down in there," he barked through the slot. "I don't want to have to come back here." He turned to look at Michael. "What happened to your head? That looks like it hurt."

"Not to sound ungrateful, but I'm thinking your being here is not good news."

"We're moving to Plan B."

"I didn't know we had one of those."

Greer handed him Winfield's pistol. "I'll explain on the way."

Peter, Apgar, and Chase were looking over Michael's passenger manifest when shouts erupted in the hall: "Put it down! Put it down!"

A crash; a gunshot.

Peter reached into his desk for the pistol he kept there. "Gunnar, what have you got?"

"Nothing."

"Ford?"

The man shook his head.

"Get behind my desk."