Hood set the book on top of the other. “Thank you.”

“The past is now. A sigh. A generation. A grave and a birthplace. It’s all one instant. Look at me and you see my mother. Look at her and you see Suzanne.”

Hood thought there was truth in that. “When I look at my father, he’s losing his mind.”

“And you see yourself someday,” said Madeline.

“Yes.”

“The old become infants.”

“I like your daughter very much.”

“You’ve captivated her.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“To see if you’re the one,” said Madeline.

“The one who what?”

“Who sees my daughter as she really is.”

“Am I?”

“I have no evidence of that.”

Hood said nothing for a moment, just looked out at the flat land and the power lines drooping north. A high school buddy had crashed his new motorcycle into a power pole at over a hundred miles an hour. He was a heck of a bull rider and a wrestler, too.

“I have something to show you,” said Hood.

He pulled the DVD from the pocket of his sport coat and held it up to her.

“Unfortunately, this television needs repair,” she said. “I have a small one in my bedroom. I’ll bring it out.”

Madeline left the room. Hood stood and went to the window and looked out at the desert. There was a breeze now, and he could feel a hint of its heat coming through the glass. He looked at the book titles. At eye level there were hardcover histories and commentaries on world cinema and television, entertainment biographies and non-fiction, most in excellent condition, all neatly arranged and alphabetized by title. The bottom shelves were stuffed with paperback bodice rippers, westerns and thrillers bloated by use and haphazardly arranged.

He studied a poster for the Mexican soap opera star-ring Madeline Mercedes. The show was called Nosotros, and the poster was dated 1971. There were similar posters for ’72, ’73 and ’74. Hood touched the dusty poster glass.

He wandered into the breakfast alcove, but the grandmother was gone. Her book and pen were still at her place, and when Hood stood near her chair and looked down, he saw the book was a Bible with a crossword puzzle pamphlet inserted between its pages.

Back in the entertainment room Madeline set down a small TV with a DVD player built in.

Hood plugged it in, slipped his copy of Dave Boyer’s special into the play slot and sat at the opposite end of the couch from Madeline.

They watched the first ten minutes in silence. Allison robbed and hammed it up and talked about Joaquin from behind her gem-studded mask.

“Did you see this last night?” asked Hood.

“Yes.”

“Is that Suzanne?”

“Of course it is.”

He crossed the room and hit the PAUSE button. His heart was going fast. “Are you going to help me find her or not?”

“That depends on you.”

“Maybe you should tell me what’s on your mind, Ms. Jones, because I sure can’t read it.”

“Sit. Please.”

Hood hit the PLAY and MUTE buttons on the little TV set then sat down again.

“How long did it take you to recognize her?” asked Madeline.

“A few seconds. But I wasn’t sure.”

“It took me longer than a few seconds. She carries herself differently when she plays this role. The second time I saw video of Allison Murrieta, I knew. My daughter. There she was, with a mask and a wig and a gun.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I have a cell number for you. It’s all I know.”

Hood handed her a pen and his notebook, and she wrote down a number from memory then set the notebook and the pen on the couch between them.

“What’s the deal with Joaquin Murrieta?” he asked.

“There is no consensus that such a man ever existed, outside of the stories about him. Some historians say he was only legend, a product of Anglo fear. Some say he was a real man. Of those, some claim he was born in Chile, others in Mexico. For every story about him, such as the ones that Suzanne tells on TV, there is a contradictory story about him, too.”

“She doesn’t have his head in a jar?”

“No, she does not.” Madeline looked down.

Hood wondered if the positive identification of a person wearing a mask-even by the suspect’s mother-would be enough to get a warrant for arrest.

“Why is she doing this?” he asked.

“Because it’s profitable and exciting. Because it stimulates and arouses. Because it makes the routine of work and family responsibility tolerable. Because she becomes famous and infamous.”

Hood doubted that Suzanne Jones had sat down in her kitchen one day and asked herself how to make teaching and being a mother more fun, and come up with the idea of armed robbery and grand theft auto.

“Because she wants to please you?” he asked.

“How does this please me?”

“She makes history instead of just teaching it.”

Madeline looked at one of the soap opera posters, then back at Hood. “Perhaps. Perhaps it’s competition, too. I was a bright star in a small universe. Briefly. I gambled with my ambitions and failed. I saw myself in Suzanne until I saw Allison. Then I knew she’d moved beyond me. Far beyond me. She possesses the courage that I never had and always wanted. I’ll confess to you, Mr. Hood-I’m very proud of her and very sad for her.”

“You do understand how this is going to end,” said Hood.

“She’ll almost assuredly be killed.”

“Someone will.”

“I doubt that she could pull the trigger of that silly little gun.”

“There’s nothing silly about a forty-caliber bullet.”

“Find her, Mr. Hood. Stop her.”

Hood pocketed his notebook and pen, stood and went to the window. Outside, the breeze was now a wind, and he watched a swirl of dust scratch against the window with the sound of a snake passing over a sheet of paper.

“I don’t understand,” said Hood. “Of all the people who know Suzanne, and all the people who’ve seen Allison on TV, why hasn’t anyone stepped forward and identified her? She started making the news months ago. Just a little at first, then more and more. Now she’s telling the world about herself. But we haven’t gotten a single call, a single suggestion that we consider Suzanne. Her students, the parents of her students, her coworkers, her friends and acquaintances-what are they seeing? Why did I recognize her in two seconds but they still haven’t?”

She looked at him with mild surprise. “People are busy and inattentive and absorbed, Mr. Hood. Truly seeing is an inconvenience the mind will avoid. It’s possible you saw her because you’re a good detective. It’s also possible that you saw her because your hearts have touched.”

After the Hotel Laguna Hood had the same irrational idea, this touching-of-hearts thing, because he wanted Suzanne Jones like he’d never wanted anything or anyone. He barely knew her but was famished to know more. She fired his imagination. He wanted to be great for her. He started slotting her into his future like the last gleaming plank of a ship he’d been building all his life.

“She denies being Allison,” said Madeline.

Hood figured she would.

“When I told her I knew, she laughed at me. She said Allison Murrieta was an attention-starved child and obviously three inches shorter and ten pounds heavier than her. I reminded her that television adds ten pounds to any actor and she reminded me that I was getting old. She said that she’d have me committed if I continued to degenerate at such a rapid pace. She laughed. She finished eating the ice cream from my freezer straight from the tub like she did when she was a girl, then kissed me on the forehead as if I were a child. Like I used to kiss her. Her lips were still cold. Then she sped down the driveway like the bandit she is, the tires of her car smoking.”

Madeline smiled. It was the first smile he’d seen on her, and he saw Suzanne in it in a way that gave him desire and dread. “As a concession, and because something inside told me to, I admitted to Suzanne that I could be wrong.”