“In other words,” Sister Anselm said thoughtfully after Cynthia left, “by even mentioning any of this to you, I’m in violation of HIPAA. That’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to be seen speaking to you in the hospital. I need some help here, Ms. Reynolds.” She paused long enough to lift a cucumber sandwich from the tray. “I would have asked Agent Robson for assistance if he hadn’t been such an overbearing, unpleasant individual,” she continued. “Now I’m asking you for help instead, and violating federal law in doing so-what you might call doing wrong to do right.”

“What kind of help do you need?” Ali asked.

“Information,” Sister Anselm answered. “My patient is an unidentified woman. Someone tried to murder her by leaving her unconscious and helpless in a burning building. I need to know who she is, but I also need to know who it was who tried to kill her, in case they decide to come back and attempt to finish the job.”

Ali was a little surprised that Sister Anselm had arrived at much the same conclusion she had. Instead of commenting, she simply nodded while Sister Anselm continued.

“Often the patients I deal with turn out to be non-English-speaking illegal immigrants.”

“Like Marta Mendoza?” Ali asked.

“I suppose you’ve read the Sun article, then?” Sister Anselm asked.

“Yes,” Ali answered. “Part of it, anyway.”

“That’s not the case here,” Sister Anselm told her. “This woman speaks English fluently, and she doesn’t appear to be Hispanic, either. I suspect she’s from somewhere around here. The problem is, she has no idea who she is or where she’s from.”

“She has amnesia?” Ali asked.

Sister Anselm nodded. “Telling you, that counts as another HIPAA violation, by the way,” she said, “but you’re correct. She has no memory of the attack, or of anything else, either.”

“She doesn’t know who she is?” Ali asked.

“Or how she got to Camp Verde,” Sister Anselm said. “Her X-rays show that she suffered a vicious blow to the head, probably sometime prior to the fire. Presumably whoever left her there and set the house on fire never expected her to regain consciousness in time to call for help. And they certainly didn’t foresee someone walking into that burning building to save her.”

“Does she remember anything at all?” Ali asked.

“Only the fire. Apparently that’s all she remembers-the fire itself. Nothing before that. Not her name, or where she lived. Nothing.”

“Including who is responsible for her injuries,” Ali added.

“Yes,” Sister Anselm agreed. “She has no idea about that, either, but I do. Women of a certain age aren’t likely to run around naked, not willingly at any rate. I suspect that there’s some malice aforethought at work here. Whoever did it wasn’t just trying to kill her. Her attacker was making a statement by robbing her of her dignity as well as her life, all of which leads me to believe that the perpetrator may be someone quite close to her, a relative or a loved one-using the term loosely, of course.”

“I’m thinking the same thing,” Ali said.

Sister Anselm paused long enough to butter a scone and slather on some strawberry jam. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“Is she going to live?”

Sister Anselm’s expression darkened as she bit into her buttered scone. “Do you have any experience with burn patients?”

Ali shook her head. “No,” she admitted.

“Generally speaking, patients with severe burns over fifty percent of their bodies don’t survive.”

“You’re saying she’s going to die?”

“We’re all going to die, Ms. Reynolds,” Sister Anselm said with a smile. “As for the patient, I think it’s likely that she’ll be gone sooner than later. I could be wrong, of course. Miracles do happen occasionally. The point is, she’s alive right now-highly sedated, but alive. Over the next few days, we’ll most likely have to up the dosage of pain medications. Eventually, I suspect her organs will shut down and she’ll be gone.”

“When that happens this will become a murder investigation.”

Sister Anselm nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Indeed it will.”

“You still haven’t mentioned what kind of help you need,” Ali said. “I’ve been trying to work the missing persons angle, but so far I’ve come up empty. If she’s from somewhere here in Arizona, I have yet to find any report that comes close to matching.”

“If you can identify her, that will certainly be useful, but it could also place her in more danger.”

“Because the person who tried to do her harm is likely to show up here, along with everyone else.”

“Correct,” Sister Anselm said. “Whoever did this is going to be very anxious about her condition. They probably already know that she survived the fire, but they won’t want to show up here until after they’ve been officially notified. Showing up too soon would give away the game, but they’ll be desperate for information about her condition. They’ll be worried about whether she has been able to identify her attacker.”

“If this person happens to be a close relative, he or she may very well be granted access to the victim’s room,” Ali said.

“Yes,” Sister Anselm said.

“I can see all that,” Ali added. “I get it, and I’m sure that’s why you posted a security guard at her door before you left the hospital. What I still don’t understand is how I can be of help.”

“I need feet on the ground,” Sister Anselm said. “As I said earlier, it would have made sense to ask Agent Robson for help, but I could see right away that wasn’t going to fly. I doubt he would have been amenable to taking suggestions from me.”

“You think I am?” Ali asked.

“I believe so, yes.”

“You’ve given me confidential information about your patient, information I shouldn’t legally have access to. Why did you do that?” Ali asked. “What makes you think you can trust me?”

“I can, can’t I?” Sister Anselm asked.

“Yes, but-” Ali began.

“Agent Robson’s first priority is solving his case,” Sister Anselm interrupted. “He’s far less concerned about our patient’s welfare. Now tell me what you know about James.”

Our patient? Ali thought, but for a moment Sister Anselm’s request left her baffled. “James who?” she asked aloud.

“The young man in the room next door, the patient in room eight sixteen.”

Ali thought about that. “Let’s see. He suffered burns over thirty percent of his body. Face, hands, and legs, mostly. He’s in serious condition, not critical.”

“Did you happen to learn about his condition from one of the nurses?” Sister Anselm asked.

“No,” Ali said. “Of course not. From what his relatives said among themselves.”

“Right,” Sister Anselm said. “What else?”

“Let’s see,” Ali said, pausing to remember what had been said. “James is sixteen. He’s the youngest, the baby of the family. He has two older sisters. His mother’s name is Lisa. His father’s name is Max. His parents are divorced. The father gave him a car for his birthday, against his mother’s wishes. He was doing something mechanical on the car without being properly supervised when it caught fire. The accident evidently happened at the father’s house, in the garage.”

“So the mother was unhappy about that?” Sister Anselm asked.

“Very. The father showed up a little while ago, quite a bit later than everyone else. He’s a truck driver and was on his route driving freight to Flagstaff when all this happened. It took him some time to drop off his load and drive back down here. When the father came into the waiting room, the other grandparents gave him hell about the car thing. So did the mother a few minutes later. She had to come out of the room so the father could go in to see his son. It was pretty ugly.”

“Who are all the people out in the waiting room?”

“His parents, both sets of grandparents, various aunts and uncles-mostly on the mother’s side-James’s two older sisters, and a niece and nephew.”