He reached for her hand. The price of belief was losing his only hope of recovering Octavio. Because if the Christies didn't have him, who did? How could he ever find him?

He let her draw him to where the old quilt had been spread over loose hay. He sat, then flopped backward, tired of dread and rage and suspicion. Tired of the patron relying on him and the men looking to him and the weight, the immovable, unchangeable weight of responsibility, to his brother in this country and to their family at home.

Isobel perched beside him, as if uncertain where she was allowed to be. He opened his arms, and after a moment she lay down snug against him. She rested her hand on his chest. He drew his fingers through the ends of her hair. He found himself talking about his parents. About his family's home. About his fears that he was the cause of Octavio's disappearance. He opened up his mouth and let every sad, mad, bad thing in his head out, named them all, and let them fly up into the shadows like the swallows nesting above. Finally, he looked at her, into her grave, patient eyes, and confessed his own foolish heart.

She lay beside him, her hand smoothing across the front of his shirt, until he ran out of words.

"Amado." Her lips were a little chapped. He wondered how they would feel. "Te amo."

He raised his eyes back to hers. "Isobel?" He hadn't taught her that. Do you know what that means?

She sat up. Began unbuttoning her shirt. Her fingers were shaking, but she never took her eyes from his. He lay still, afraid that if he moved he would frighten her off. Make her think he didn't want her.

Her shirt fell away. She unhooked her bra. In the rich shadows of the haymow, her skin glowed. She took his hand. Placed it on her breast.

Now he was shaking. It was insane. He didn't know this woman. If she brought him home, her brothers would murder him. If he brought her home, his mother would cry. They didn't even speak the same language. How could he love someone who wouldn't understand him when he proposed?

"Te amo," she repeated, sounding scared and determined. "¿Tu?"

He could have resisted her bare skin, but her naked faith broke him. He surrendered, gathering her to him, rolling her onto the quilt, stroking her hair away from her face as he whispered, "Querida, mi Isobel, mi corazón. Yes. I love you too."

"Ten thousand dollars," the chief said. He thrust the last brick into a clear plastic evidence Baggie and sealed it. He braced the edge of the bag against the church's kitchen counter and signed and dated it.

"Looks like he was gettin' a damn sight more'n me for operating the carpet cleaner," Granddad said.

Hadley shot the old man a warning look. When Reverend Clare had called in the latest development in the Esfuentes case, Hadley had been riding along with the chief. She had been plenty surprised to find out her grandfather had reported for duty at St. Alban's. With her kids. She glanced at the other end of the island, where Genny and Hudson, parked on tall stools, were plowing through sandwiches as if they hadn't eaten since yesterday. Had Granddad forgotten to feed them breakfast? She watched him as he headed to the refrigerator. If his memory started to go, if he wasn't safe with the kids, she was well and truly screwed.

The chief looked across the kitchen island to where Reverend Clare was braced against the sink. "You know what this means, don't you?" She dropped her gaze to the countertop. Nodded. "He never would have left on his own without this."

"I know." She plucked at her black shirt, which had somehow gotten wet and greasy. "Do you think whoever… took him… was looking for this?" She finally lifted her head and met his eyes.

"If they were, he hasn't told them where it is. None of St. Alban's alarms have been triggered since you reset them Sunday night."

"Then maybe he's still alive."

"Maybe." His attempt at sounding hopeful fell flat. Hadley couldn't see why, regardless of Esfuentes's fate, his kidnapper hadn't come after the cash. If the bad guy had been after the money, he would have been pressing the boy from the start. And if he was what the chief didn't want to consider-a serial killer preying on young Hispanics-why wouldn't Esfuentes have told him about the money in hopes of distracting him? "Don't hurt me, I can give you ten thousand dollars" would have been the first thing out of her mouth.

Over the sound of her children eating-she couldn't help herself, she reached over and wiped Genny's mouth with a napkin-she registered Van Alstyne's silence. She glanced back at him. He and the reverend were watching each other across an expanse of granite and stainless steel. She'd heard they'd been plastered together at the fund-raiser. You couldn't tell by looking at them now, all buttoned up in black and tan. Hadley didn't get repression-if they had the hots for each other, why not just jump in the sack and work it out?-but right now she was grateful for it. If Van Alstyne's mind was on the rector, maybe he wouldn't stop to wonder how good a job Hadley could do as an officer when she hadn't even known where her own kids were.

Reverend Clare wrapped her arms around herself. The chief's hands convulsed. He shifted and blinked, as if he had just remembered Hadley was there. "Officer Knox. Did you find anything else?"

"Granddad says everything left there is his." She raised her voice. "Including two cartons of cigarettes."

Granddad slammed the refrigerator door shut and brought two cans of soda to where Genny and Hudson were sitting. "Can't just throw ' em away. You got any idea what a carton costs these days?"

The chief's mouth twitched up. "Was there anything out of place in the-uh, sexton's closet, Mr. Hadley? Maybe moved around, so as to hide something?"

The janitor shook his head. "No, sir. And that bag there wa'n't hid. Just hangin' on the hooks where I keep my coat and mackintosh."

The chief cocked his head toward Reverend Clare. She shrugged. "I have no idea," she said, answering a question he hadn't asked out loud. "I never saw him do anything or go anywhere that might explain ten thousand dollars. He worked here, and he went to the Spanish language Mass at Sacred Heart in Lake George a couple of Sundays with one of our volunteers. That's it. Elizabeth drove him to your sister's place a few times so he could hang out with the men there, but she always brought him right back to the church or the rectory."

"You said he brought the bag with him from Janet's farm the morning you were attacked."

"The bag, yeah. What he had in it, I couldn't say." She frowned at the backpack.

"This much money, I'm thinking drugs." He leaned on the counter, where bricks of cash lay piled like a bank withdrawal from hell. "But I'd've laid good money Esfuentes wasn't involved with the trade. So the question is, whose money is this?"

The rector paled. "Oh, God, you don't think it might be somebody here at the church, do you?"

He shook his head. "No. I mean, anything's possible, but given that Mexicans dominate distribution upstate and that Esfuentes came up from Mexico just three or four months ago, I've gotta go with that."

"What if the money doesn't have anything to do with selling pot?" Hadley eased down the island, away from her kids. "What if it came from… from-" The only other industry she knew that generated large amounts of untraceable cash was porn. She wasn't going to throw that on the table. "Something else?"

"Like what?"

"Maybe it's money all the men who came north with Amado saved," Reverend Clare said. "Maybe they gave it to him to store here because they thought it would be safer. Sister Lucia told me many migrant workers don't put their earnings into banks."

"Nice idea, but that hardly explains the gun."