Malone hadn’t known about that contingency any more than Jeb, recovering from his wound, had known what Malone was going through in the Cloister. Jeb could only imagine and ask doctors what Malone had said and, later, read the notes Malone had made while taking care of her. First had come the fever: 106 degrees. Then vomiting, diarrhea, and delirium. Then a rash of scarlet hemorrhagic blotches beneath the skin. The doctors had told Jeb the risk of death was greatest at this point. Spots had appeared on Sienna’s face and neck. The spots grew into blisters. The blisters became cloudy. At last, the eruptions dried into scabs. Throughout, the urge to scratch had been almost uncontrollable. Despite her weakness, Sienna’s efforts to claw at her face had been so powerful that Malone had lost strength holding her arms down and at last had been forced to tie them to her sides.

When it appeared that she was going to live and that the virus was not contagious without its companion, the authorities had relented on the quarantine, removing Sienna to a sealed ward in a hospital, keeping a close watch on Malone in case belated symptoms appeared. Meanwhile, Jeb had continued to recuperate. When visitors were finally allowed into the ward, Jeb, his arm in a sling, had been the first to arrive. But Malone and Sienna had been gone…

As the conversation drifted to a halt, Jeb finished his beer. A breeze rustled leaves. A distant drone of traffic blended with the sound of bees in the flowers.

Malone didn’t make an offer of a second beer. “How soon are you expected back in Washington?”

“It’s kind of open-ended,” Jeb said. “Are you up for dinner tonight?”

“We really don’t go out much.”

“Just the two of us maybe.”

“I don’t like to leave Sienna alone.”

“Sure,” Jeb said. “Should I drop around tomorrow?”

Malone didn’t say anything.

“Well, this is the name of the hotel where I’m staying.” Jeb handed him a card he had taken from the lobby. “If you change your mind…”

“Right.” Malone put the card in his shirt pocket.

“So…” Jeb shook his hand. “Say good-bye to Sienna for me. Make sure you give her my best.” Feeling awkward, he turned toward the easel. “It’s a masterpiece. You’ve never done better work.”

“Yes.”

“And those other paintings…” Jeb pointed toward the ones he had seen through the window. “They’re masterpieces, too.”

“I’ve never been this inspired before.”

“Take care of yourself,” Jeb said. “And of her.”

“Believe me, that’s the most natural thing in the world.”

As Jeb opened the gate, Malone went into the house.

Ahead, in the flower garden, the white-bearded man asked Jeb, “Did you enjoy your visit with your friend?”

“It’s complicated.”

“His wife,” the elderly man said in wonder. “He’s so devoted to her. They never go out. They’re totally content to be with each other. They’ve lived here six months, and you’re the first visitor they’ve had.”

“They have each other. What more could they want?”

“Have you seen the paintings?”

Jeb nodded.

“They all show his wife,” the elderly man said. “He doesn’t paint anything else.”

“With work that exceptional, he doesn’t need to paint anything else.”

“But I don’t understand.” The old man hesitated. “Have you seen her?”

“Briefly. When I entered the garden, she went into the house.”

“She always does that. She avoids being seen. What happened?”

“A disease.”

“And yet in the paintings she’s so beautiful.”

“She is beautiful.”

The old man looked puzzled.

“What’s on the canvas is what he sees.”

Jeb walked past the bright flowers and paused at the gray wooden gate.

He loves her so much, Jeb thought, she’ll always be the most beautiful woman in the world.

DAVID MORRELL is one of America ’s most popular and critically acclaimed storytellers, with more than fifteen million copies of his novels in print. To give his stories a realistic edge, he has been trained in wilderness survival, hostage negotiation, executive protection, antiterrorist driving, assuming identities, electronic surveillance, and weapons. A former professor of American literature at the University of Iowa, Morrell now lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.