Oh, God, Alex thought, I need to check in with the nurses.

She turned back to Chris, ready to call out, That picture's not going to change, no matter how long you look at it-but in the event she said nothing.

Chris Shepard was gone.

The crowd roared at the clang of the aluminum bat, and two hundred eyes followed the arc of the hard-driven baseball beneath the lights. Coaching first base, Chris tensed and watched Ben race toward him from the batter's box. The boy had smacked the ball between the second baseman and the bag, but the center fielder had charged forward and was already scooping up the ball.

"Turn and look!" Chris shouted.

Ben pivoted off the bag with his right foot and sprinted a third of the way to second base. The throw would easily beat him to the bag.

He had to come back.

Chris heard Thora cheering from the bleachers, but he didn't look up. He'd been in a mild state of shock since seeing the photograph Alex Morse gave him on the bank of St. Catherine's Creek. His first instinct had been to drive home and confront Thora, but by the time he passed the hospital in his car, he had calmed down enough to turn around, go inside, and make rounds instead. After that, he'd returned to his office and finished out the afternoon. Most of Thora's blood tests had been completed by then, and the only abnormality he found was mild anemia, which he often saw in distance runners-

"Dad?" said Ben. "Do you want me to steal on a passed ball?"

Chris stared at Ben as though in a trance. This handsome young boy who called him Dad was the son of a man Chris had never met, the issue of a chapter of Thora's life that remained largely unknown to him. Before Alex Morse arrived in Natchez, the unknowns in Thora's life had not much bothered Chris. But now everything had changed. He hadn't spoken to Thora since she left his office that afternoon. After work, he'd called Ben and told him to be waiting outside the house. Thora had waved from the kitchen window when he drove up, signaling for him to wait, but Chris had left for the baseball field without a word.

"Dad!" Ben said again. "Do I steal or what?"

Chris tried to force his mind back to reality. He hadn't eaten lunch or dinner, and he'd been feeling dizzy since the game started. It was the bottom of the sixth inning, and the opposing team was up by one run. If his boys couldn't score and push the game into extra innings, it was over. He looked at the batter's box, and his heart sank. He'd reached the bottom of his batting order: three weak nine-year-olds in a row. They were good boys, but they couldn't hit a baseball if their lives depended on it. He had moved Ben deep in the order to keep some power late in the lineup, but Ben could only do so much. Chris knelt beside him, met his eyes, and whispered, "Steal no matter what."

Ben started to question this call, then thought better of it. He understood the situation. The instant the next pitch crossed the plate, Ben bolted for second base. The catcher caught the ball cleanly, jumped to his feet, and fired the ball across the pitcher's mound. His throw was a little high-just high enough for Ben to slide safely under the second baseman's glove as it whipped down to tag him. Half the crowd went wild, and the other half groaned.

Chris gave Ben a thumbs-up and watched his left fielder walk nervously into the batter's box. The boy took his position at the plate, then looked worriedly at Chris. Chris hitched up his belt, giving the signal to bunt. While he waited for the pitch, he glanced over the chain-link fence to his left. As he did, he realized that his eye had been drawn by movement. A young woman was riding past the field on a bicycle. When she lifted her right hand in a subtle wave, Chris's heart thudded in his chest.

Alexandra Morse.

She'd probably panicked after he disappeared from the creek bank. She'd called his cell phone so many times since that meeting that he'd switched it off. She'd even tried calling his office, but his staff had refused to put her through. Chris didn't care. As Morse rode slowly away, his head whipped around at the ring of a baseball hitting aluminum. His left fielder had bunted the ball six feet in front of the plate and was now charging toward first base, his arms windmilling wildly in an effort to keep himself balanced.

Chris screamed encouragement, but in vain. The catcher drilled the ball into the first baseman's glove while the boy was still ten feet from first base. The first baseman tried to throw Ben out at third, but Chris knew before he looked that Ben had made it. He patted his left fielder on the shoulder and told him he'd made a good play. Stay focused on the game, he thought, fighting an urge to glance in Morse's direction again. Ben is on third…we can tie it right here.

There were two outs on the scoreboard. His next batter already had a strike against him. The opposing pitcher hadn't thrown many wild balls today; most of his pitches were straight down the pipe. A strikeout was a near certainty. To tie it up, Ben would have to steal home plate. He had the speed, but would he have the opportunity?

Chris looked across the field at his third-base coach, a local welder. The man was looking at him questioningly. Chris closed his eyes for a moment, then tugged on his right earlobe. If the catcher missed a ball, Ben would go for it.

"Swing hard, Ricky!" Chris shouted. In this league, a swinging bat increased the odds that the catcher would miss the ball, especially the way Ricky Ross swung the bat. He was as likely to hit the catcher's mitt as he was to hit the ball as it flew over the plate.

The pitcher unloaded a fastball. Ricky swung like Mark McGwire overdosing on steroids-and missed. The ball glanced off the catcher's mitt and caromed off the backstop behind him. Ben exploded off third base, reaching full speed in five steps, but the pitcher was already dashing to cover home plate. The catcher wouldn't beat Ben to the plate for a tag, but the pitcher might.

Ben sprinted as far as he dared before dropping into his slide, and then he was skidding down the baseline in a cloud of dust. Every voice in the bleachers fell silent, and Chris's heart rose into his throat. He thought Ben had it, but a flash of white at the center of the dust cloud made him clench his fists in fear.

"Out!" screamed the umpire.

The stands erupted in a schizophrenic roar of fury and joy. Chris ran toward the plate, but it was no use arguing the call. He hadn't seen the play. Instinct told him that no one had, including the umpire. There was so much dust that the final act of the game had been obscured. Ben got up, his face red, and stared at the umpire with tears in his eyes. He seemed on the verge of challenging the ump, so Chris caught him by the arm and pulled him into the dugout.

"It was a good try," Chris said, "but it's over. Time to be a man."

The two teams lined up, then filed past each other saying, "Good game, good game," and then it was over. Chris gathered his team behind the dugout, gave them an encouraging wrap-up talk in the gathering dusk, and dispersed them to their waiting parents. Four or five fathers told him he should file a protest about the final call, but Chris shook his head and told them to start thinking about the next game.

"Dad?" said Ben, tugging at his arm. "Can we stay and watch C.J.'s game?"

"No, honey," said a female voice from behind Chris. Thora's voice.

"Aw, come on, Mom! Dad didn't say no."

"All right, then," Thora said in a clipped voice. "Ask your dad and see what he says."

Ben grinned and looked up at Chris. "Can I, Dad? Can I?"

"Sure," said Chris, "Let's see how C.J. does against Webb Furniture."