Louis found her in the main garden, sitting on a stone bench. She had lost a little weight, and looked tired and drawn, but there was a new light in her eyes, a tiny, flickering thing that he had not seen in a long time. The slightest wind could blow it out, but it was there, for the moment. They walked together, the chill mountain air making her shiver slightly even though she was wearing a thick padded jacket. He offered her his coat, and she took it, wrapping it around her like a blanket.

“I drew a picture for you,” she said, after they had made a circuit of the grounds, talking of the clinic and the other patients she had encountered.

“I didn’t know you liked to draw,” said Louis.

“I never had the chance before. They told me it might help me. A lady comes in every day for an hour, more if she thinks you’re making progress, and she can spare the time. She says I have talent, but I don’t believe so.”

She reached into the pocket of her jacket and withdrew a sheet of white paper, folded to a quarter of its size. He opened it.

“It’s our house,” she said, as though fearful that her work was too poor to enable him to guess its subject matter.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, and it was. She had depicted the house as though seen through a mist, using chalks to dull the lines. A faint, warm light shone through the windows, and the door was slightly ajar. The foxgloves and dayflowers in the garden were smudges of pink and blue, the trilliums tiny stars of green and red. The forest beyond was a wash of tall brown trunks, like the masts of ships descending into a sea of green ferns.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I called Momma,” she said. “They said it was okay to call people, now that I’d been here for a time. I told her I was doing fine, but that ain’t true. It’s hard, you know?”

She examined his face, her lips slightly pursed, and he was suddenly reminded of the girl who had confronted him beneath the cottonwood.

“I’m sorry,” she said. I think maybe whatever you did, before I was born, you did out of love.”

“I’m sorry too,” he replied.

She smiled, and for the first time since she was a young girl, she kissed him on the cheek.

“Good-bye,” she said. She began to shrug off his coat, but he stopped her.

“You keep it,” he said. “It’s cold up here.”

She drew the coat around her, then headed back into the clinic. He saw an orderly search the coat for contraband, then return it to her. She looked back at him, waved, then was gone.

He did not know what happened subsequently. There were rumors of an argument with a fellow patient, and a painful, troubled session with one of the resident therapists. Whatever occurred, the next call he received from Phoenicia was to tell him that Alice was gone. He searched for her on the streets, but when she emerged after three weeks from whatever dark corner she had been inhabiting, that tiny light had been extinguished forever, and all he had left was a picture of a house that appeared to be fading even as he looked at it, and the memory of a last kiss from one who was, in her way, bonded more closely to him than any other in this world.

Now, for the first time since Martha’s appearance and the discovery of the remains in Williamsburg, Louis seemed energized. Angel knew what it meant. Someone was about to suffer for what had been done to Alice, and Angel didn’t care once it brought his partner some release.

They arrived at their rental.

“I hate these cars,” said Angel.

“Yeah, so you said already.”

“I’m just offended that she’d even think we looked like the kind of guys who’d drive a Camry.”

They placed their bags on the ground and watched as a man in rental livery approached them. He had a small titanium case in his hand.

“You forgot one of your bags,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Louis.

“No problem. Car okay?”

“My friend here doesn’t like it.”

The guy knelt, removed a penknife from his pocket, and carefully inserted the blade into the right front tire. He twisted the knife, removed it, and watched with satisfaction as the tire started to deflate.

“So go get something else,” he said, then walked out of the garage and into a waiting white SUV, which immediately drove away.

“I guess he doesn’t really work for a rental company,” said Angel.

“You should be a detective.”

“Doesn’t pay enough. I’ll go get us a decent car.”

Angel returned minutes later with the key to a red Mercury. Louis took the baggage and walked to the car, then popped the trunk. He glanced around before opening the titanium case. Two Glock nines were revealed, alongside eight spare clips bound with rubber bands into four sets of two. They wouldn’t need any more than that, unless they decided to declare war on Mexico. He slipped the guns into the outer pockets of his coat and added the clips, then closed the trunk. He got in the car and found “Shiver” playing on an indie station. Louis liked Howe Gelb. It was good to support the local boys. He passed one of the Glocks and two of the spare clips to Angel. Both men checked the guns, then, once they were satisfied, put them away.

“You know where we’re going?” said Angel.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Great. I hate reading maps.”

He reached for the radio dial.

“Don’t touch that dial, man, I’m warning you.”

“Boring.”

“Leave it.”

Angel sighed. They emerged from the gloom of the garage into the greater darkness outside. The sky was dusted with stars, and a little cool desert air flowed through the vents, refreshing the men.

“It’s beautiful,” said Angel.

“I guess.”

The smaller man took in the vista for a few seconds more, then said: “You think we could stop for doughnuts?”

It was late, and I was back at Cortlandt Alley, the taste of the Thai food still lingering in my mouth. I could hear laughter over on Lafayette as people smoked and flirted outside one of the local bars. The window of Ancient amp; Classic Inc. was illuminated, the men inside carefully positioning a new delivery of furniture and ornaments.

A sign warned of a hollow sidewalk, and I thought that I could almost hear my footsteps echoing through the layers beneath my feet.

I made my way to Neddo’s doorway. This time, he didn’t bother with the chain once I’d told him who I was. He led me into the same back office and offered me some tea.

“I get it from the people run the store at the corner. It’s good.”

I watched as he poured it into a pair of china cups so small they looked like they belonged in a doll’s house. As I held one in my hand I could see that it was very old, the interior a mass of tiny brown hairline cracks. The tea was fragrant and strong.

“I’ve been reading all about the killing in the newspapers,” said Neddo. “Kept your name out of it, I see.”

“Maybe they’re concerned for my safety.”

“More concerned than you are, clearly. Someone might suspect that you had a death wish, Mr. Parker.”

“I’m happy to say that it’s unfulfilled.”

“So far. I trust that you weren’t followed here. I have no desire to link my life expectancy with yours.”

I had been careful, and told him so.

“Tell me about Santa Muerte, Mr. Neddo.”

Neddo looked puzzled for a moment, then his face cleared.

“The Mexican who died. This is about him, isn’t it?

“Tell me first, then I’ll see what I can give you in return.”

Neddo nodded his assent.

“She’s a Mexican icon,” he said. “Saint Death: the angel of the outcasts, of the lawless. Even criminals and evil men need their saints. She is adored on the first day of every month, sometimes in public, more often in secret. Old women pray to her to save their sons and nephews from crime, while the same sons and nephews pray to her for good pickings, or for help in killing their enemies. Death is the last great power, Mr. Parker. Depending upon how its scythe falls, it can offer protection or destruction. It can be an accomplice or an assassin. Through Santa Muerte, Death is given form. She is a creation of men, not of God.”