Despite the fact that Lance had lost a leg in the process, his once bleak future was bright again. Although he was officially on High Noon’s payroll, his only duties at the moment consisted of undergoing rehab related to adjusting to his new state-of-the-art prosthetic leg and working full bore on a distance-learning program that would give him a degree in computer science in under three years rather than the usual four. And, because so much of the world’s cybercrime originated in the former Soviet Union, he was also taking a crash course in Russian. In the meantime, his GHOST program was now a proprietary part of High Noon’s arsenal of cybercrime-fighting tools.

This story was clear enough to Ali because she had lived through those harrowing days that had ended in a number of homicides scattered across the wilds of Texas. It was a whole lot less clear to the dim young woman conducting the interview. Much as Ali tried to turn the reporter away from the more inflammatory aspects of the case, she could already tell that the woman would write a piece that wouldn’t be good for Lance Tucker or High Noon Enterprises. Ali found herself wondering if she had been as irritating an interviewer back when she was fresh out of journalism school and starting her career as a television news reporter. One thing she knew for sure was that she had been a much faster typist.

When the interview finally ended, Ali headed out. Leland stopped her in the kitchen on her way to the garage. “Here’s a little something for you and Sister Anselm,” he said, handing her a cardboard box that looked suspiciously like one the cleaners used to return B.’s laundered and folded shirts. The unexpected weight of the box indicated it contained something other than shirts, and since the bottom of the container was warm to the touch, Ali suspected this to be one of Leland’s signature care packages.

“What’s this?” Ali asked.

“I have a clear understanding about the grim reality of the food choices available from hospital cafeterias,” he answered. “These are a pair of pasties, fresh from the oven—one for you and one for Sister Anselm. If I put them in a tightly sealed container, they’d end up steamed and soggy. Inside the box, they should be crisp and still slightly warm by the time you get there. You can have them for lunch. I know Sister Anselm loves pasties, and you’ll also find paper plates, napkins, and plastic silverware in the box—everything you’ll need for a hospital waiting room picnic.”

“What makes you think I can be trusted with two pasties?” Ali asked. “What if I keep both of them for myself?”

“You won’t need to,” Leland said, “because you know there are more where these came from.” With that he reached over to the counter and picked up the small thermal carrying pouch he used for bringing frozen vegetables back from shopping excursions in Prescott.

“Some bottled water,” he explained. “It’s just out of the fridge, and it’ll stay cold for a long time in this.”

“Thanks,” she said. “You always think of everything.”

Bella had hung around with Ali while she was getting dressed, but when Ali’s purse came out, Bella headed for her bed in the kitchen and settled in, making it plain that she had zero interest in going. She was not a dog who liked car rides. That wasn’t too surprising considering how traumatic her last few adventures in vehicles had been, including the latest one—a trip down to Phoenix to see a canine dental specialist who had removed several of her terribly decayed teeth.

Ali headed north in a Cayenne that smelled more like a traveling bakery than an SUV. When she pulled into the hospital parking lot forty minutes later, both pasties were still untouched, but leaving them alone had required willpower.

At the reception desk in the main lobby, Ali asked for Sister Anselm and was surprised to be directed to the maternity unit on the fourth floor. There were several people in the unit’s waiting room—two anxious husbands whose wives were currently in delivery rooms, and one proud father with a gaggle of relatives, pointing proudly toward a red-faced baby sleeping peacefully in a bassinet that was parked close to the nursery window. Eventually Ali caught sight of Sister Anselm, seated on a rocking chair in a far corner of the nursery.

Retreating to a waiting room chair, Ali set down her purse and the box of pasties, and then sent Sister Anselm a text announcing that luncheon was served.

A few minutes later, when Sister Anselm emerged from the nursery, Ali was shocked by her appearance. Everything about Sister Anselm looked bone weary. The sparkle was gone from her blue eyes. Her normally perfect posture was marred by the slump of her shoulders. In the few hours between the time Sister Anselm had left Ali’s house in Sedona and now, the nun seemed to have turned into an old woman.

Trying not to stare and looking for a way to cover her dismay, Ali attempted a bit of normal conversation. “Your patient’s a baby?” she asked.

“One of them is,” Sister Anselm said, sinking gratefully into a chair and lowering her voice so no one else in the room could hear what she was saying. “A baby and her mother.”

Ali knew better than to inquire about the condition of the two patients. She didn’t have to. She could tell from the grave expression on Sister Anselm’s face that the situation was dicey at best. Not wanting to voice her concerns about Sister Anselm herself, Ali sought refuge in a less difficult topic.

“Leland has all your best interests at heart,” she said. “He baked a batch of pasties this morning and sent two of them along for lunch.”

“Bless him,” Sister Anselm murmured, leaning back and closing her eyes. “That man is a wonder and a marvel.”

“He is that,” Ali agreed.

When Sister Anselm continued to sit with her eyes closed and with her head propped against the wall, Ali wondered if the nun had simply dozed off. Ali had known her friend for years, always marveling at her energy and industry. Usually she was able to stay at a patient’s bedside for days on end, sleeping in short power naps that would have left your basic finals-cramming college student in the dust. Now though, with Sister Anselm looking beyond exhausted, Ali forced herself to swallow her concern and busied herself setting out the food. Only when the pasties had been set on plates and the bottled water opened did she touch Sister Anselm’s shoulder. The nun awakened with a start.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to drift off like that.”

“It’s fine,” Ali said. “You must have needed the rest.”

For a time, they tackled their pasties without speaking. That wasn’t out of character—the two women often shared long periods of companionable silence in each other’s company. This time Ali sensed a disturbing undercurrent in what wasn’t being said. Sister Anselm had summoned her for some particular reason, but with the room filled with people coming and going, this wasn’t the time to ask.

Ali downed her pasty with relish, while Sister Anselm simply toyed with hers. The idea of Sister Anselm turning up her nose at one of Leland Brooks’s pasties was unheard of. At last, with a sigh, Sister Anselm put the plate and the remains of her pasty back in the box.

“I’ll put this in the fridge in the break room and finish it later,” she said.

While Sister Anselm left to put away her food, Ali cleaned up the remains of their indoor picnic. When the nun reappeared, she beckoned for Ali to follow. Somewhat revived and walking with at least some of her customary bustle, Sister Anselm led the way into a tiny conference room that held a small table, three chairs, and a box of tissues. Ali guessed that this tiny private room on the maternity floor was intended for delivering bad news rather than good.

“Wait here,” Sister Anselm said. She left the room, returning a few minutes later with a banker’s box and a pair of latex gloves. After placing both on the table, she turned back to the door and closed the blinds before sitting down opposite Ali and peering at her over the top of the box.