In each one, Ali was trapped in a locked room-a room with no windows or doors. Sometimes the room was familiar, sometimes not; but in each dream, one thing was the same: someone-some unseen person-was coming after her, intent on doing her harm. In each instance she knew her attacker was armed and dangerous. She also knew there was no escape.

The ICU nurse picked up the phone and called out to the nurses’ station. “The patient seems to be stirring,” she said in a voice inaudible to the woman lying in the bed on the far side of the room. “Let Sister Anselm know.”

The patient struggled awake, emerging from the horrible nightmare of being caught in a fire, but found that even though the dream was gone, the heat was still there. She was drifting in a cocoon of pure pain. Excruciating pain. Agonizing pain.

She tried to move her head but could not. She tried to move her lips to cry out, but she couldn’t do that, either. She was unable to speak or move, but she could see, and she tried desperately to make sense of what she was seeing.

Gradually she became aware that there were people moving around her-people who spoke in hushed voices, with the sounds of their words barely audible above the steady beep, beep, beep of some kind of machine that was just outside her line of vision. The sound resembled the warning backup beep on a piece of heavy equipment, but that made no sense. How could there be something backing up in here? It was clear that she was inside a building somewhere-inside a brightly lit room.

She strained to hear and understand what the voices were saying. A man’s voice said something about damage to lungs and something about keeping up the… something that seemed to start with an O. Osmosis, maybe. And something else that sounded like a ringer, or maybe a wringer. What was that? Someone else spoke about keeping the morphine levels high enough to keep her from going into shock.

“We’ll do all we can, all that’s reasonable.” It was the man’s voice again. “The problem is, without a next of kin or a durable power of attorney, we can’t pull the plug.”

Who are these people, she wondered, and who are they talking about? Do they mean me? Are they talking about pulling my plug?

She tried again, desperately trying to move her lips, but no sound came out.

Someone else in the room spoke, and her welcome words were far more easily understood.

“Looks like it’s time for another dose.”

A woman-a nurse, most likely-dressed in a brightly colored flowered tunic appeared briefly in her line of vision and began working with something beside the bed. Because it was a bed, she realized, but a strange kind of bed. She was in it and the nurse was doing something to an IV tree that stood next to the bed. She seemed to be adding something to the IV drip. Maybe what the man had said at first was a lie. Maybe they were about to pull the plug and she was going to die.

Don’t, she wanted to scream aloud. Please don’t. I’m here. I’m alive and awake. Please don’t.

But she couldn’t say any of those things. She could hear herself screaming the desperate words in her head, but her lips still wouldn’t move. Her voice was lodged somewhere deep in her chest.

Gradually, the appalling pain seemed to lessen. The brightly lit room dissolved around her, and so did the voices. As she drifted away into nothingness, she hoped the dream wouldn’t come again, but she knew it would.

She understood that the moment she closed her eyes, the flames would be there again, waiting to consume her.

By the time Ali made it to Prescott the next morning, Gurley Street, from the sheriff’s department to Whiskey Row, was full of news-media vehicles. The arson story, confirmed or not, complete with suspected ELF-involvement (officially unconfirmed ELF-involvement), was evidently out in the world in a big way. News outlets from all over the state, and some national outlets as well, were apparently paying attention and in attendance.

Welcome to the three-ring circus, Ali thought as she searched for a parking place. And I’m the newbie ringmaster with no assigned parking.

She finally found a spot on the street three blocks away. When she stepped out of her Cayenne, someone was waiting for her. “Nice ride,” he said admiringly.

Ali recognized the voice at once-the ELF-centric reporter from the previous evening. “Thank you,” she said and then added, “good morning, Mr. Green.”

He seemed a little surprised that she knew his name-surprised and pleased. He wouldn’t be nearly as pleased if he knew she knew the Oswald part, but then again, for someone with properly moussed hair, perfect clothes, a perfect tan, and perfect teeth, that was only to be expected. It came with the territory; it was only his just due.

The man gave her what was supposed to be a disarming smile. Ali wasn’t disarmed. She wanted to ask him straight out what he needed, but she didn’t bother. She already knew the answer. Mr. Green was accustomed to receiving special treatment from Devon Ryan. No doubt he hoped to establish the same kind of cozy relationship with her.

Don’t hold your breath, she thought.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

“I was wondering if I could have a word.”

“Sure,” she said agreeably. “For one word there’s no extra charge.”

Pausing slightly, he blinked at that comment, then he went on. “So you get to do the whole nine yards, the lighthearted stuff and the tough stuff, the cactus rustlers and the fires?”

If this is his way of winning me over, it isn’t working.

“That’s right,” she said. “I get to do it all. I’m a one-woman media relations phenomenon.”

He smiled again, letting her know he got the joke. “I want to apologize for putting you on the spot last night about that ELF fire up in Prescott,” he continued more seriously. “Someone told me later that you weren’t even living here at the time, so it’s completely understandable that you wouldn’t know about it.”

“I know about it now,” Ali told him. “I understand they call it Street of Dreams gone bad.”

“Now the same folks are back and doing it again,” he said.

Ali saw the trap and dodged it. Kelly Green had come to her looking for more than a private word. What he really wanted was a premature arson confirmation.

“You should probably see what Sheriff Maxwell has to say on that subject.” She glanced pointedly at her watch. “If I’m not mistaken, he’s about to start.”

“You couldn’t give me a little preview?”

Ali needed to put Kelly Green on notice that things had changed. “No,” she said firmly. “I don’t think so. Better you should get that information from the horse’s mouth.”

“You’re nicer looking.”

“I’m also late.”

While they had been talking, they had been walking toward the courthouse. Speeding up, Ali moved away from him and then shouldered her way through the throng of reporters waiting on the steps, sidewalk, and grass outside the courthouse. The building’s portico with its soaring columns provided a suitable background. A lectern, positioned front and center, was surrounded by a sea of microphones. Using her badge, Ali made her way to the top step and stood off to one side. She set her briefcase down at her feet just as Sheriff Maxwell and another man emerged through the glass door. The man stopped and stood beside Ali while the sheriff stepped up to the microphones, where he tapped noisily on one in particular, making sure that the loudspeakers parked on the courthouse steps were turned on and in good working order.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Thank you for coming. As I’m sure you’re all aware, we’re here this morning due to the incident that occurred outside the Camp Verde city limits last night,” he began. “Before I give you the particulars, I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome Agent Richard Donnelley and his team from the ATF field office in Phoenix, who will be assisting local authorities in this investigation.”