LITMIR.BIZ

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they got off the highway, heading into the foothills and deeper into the darkness, she gazed up at the constellations, naming them for him.

      “Cassiopeia, Cepheus…”

      Her soft voice, the hum and warm air relaxed Graham.

      “Ursa Minor, Draco, Ursa Major…”

      A perfect moment and it lulled him to surrender to his exhaustion.

      The last things he remembered—

      “DANIEL!”

      The car was vibrating, her hand seized his arm.

      “DANIEL!”

      They’d gone off the road. He’d tried to correct it but overreacted, turning the wheel too sharply. The car rose, then they were airborne, rolling over and over, pavement, grass, metal crunching, glass breaking, dirt, lights and stars, all churning into nothingness.

      He’s on the ground looking at their overturned car, its headlights pointing in odd directions. He smells gasoline. The rad’s hissing. He sees her in her seat with the deployed air bag, head turned all wrong, like a bad joke, like a rag doll.

      Someone is screaming.

      Screaming her name.

       It’s him.

      Everything blurs.

      Emergency radios, sirens and he’s on a stretcher moving fast.

      So fast.

      Something’s pounding the air.

      It’s deafening.

      He’s flying. Ascending. Glimpsing strobing lights below. A galaxy of suburban lights wheel beneath him.

      Next, a powerful antiseptic smell. Starched bed linen against his skin. He’s alive but not right. Sore but numb. A tube connects his arm to a bag of liquid on a pole. Faraway, hollow voices echo his name.

       “Mr. Graham?”

      He’s not dreaming.

      “I’m Dr. Simpson. You’ve been airlifted to our hospital. You’ve been in an accident, Mr. Graham. You’ve got broken ribs, lacerations and a mild concussion. Nod if you understand.”

       His head brushes against the pillow.

      “Your wife was hurt badly. Her injuries were extreme. I’m very, very sorry.”

       Graham’s heart slams against his chest.

      “The paramedics did everything they could but she never regained consciousness. Her neck was broken. Her internal injuries were massive. I’m so sorry.”

       The earth quakes.

       “And the baby.”

      Baby? What baby? It is a mistake. It is a dream because they don’t have a baby.

      “She was three weeks along and may not have known she was pregnant.”

      A blood rush roars in his brain, the universe cracks and darkness coils around him, crushing him with the realization.

      HE’D FALLEN ASLEEP AT THE WHEEL AND KILLED HIS WIFE AND THEIR UNBORN CHILD.

      Now, all he had to keep him alive was his guilt.

      It’s why he’d gone to the mountains. To distribute the last of Nora’s ashes then use his gun to be with her and their baby.

       What else was left?

      Standing there alone in the prairie night, the burden of his guilt forced him to his knees. Aching for her, he gripped the cross. “Nora, I am so sorry. Forgive me. Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me what I am supposed to do now?”

      He searched the stars for the answer. It was delivered on a gentle breeze, resurrecting what had happened when he’d gone into the river to save the girl.

      He’d heard Nora’s voice.

       “Keep going, Daniel.”

      This was his answer.

      This case would be his redemption because his wife’s voice was not the only one guiding him.

       “Don’t—daddy.”

      So much was garbled and drowned by the river. He didn’t comprehend all of what Emily Tarver was trying to tell him. But now he believed in his gut that the key to unlocking this tragedy was in her dying words…and any break that heaven would allow.

      Graham’s cell phone rang.

      “Corporal Graham, this is Prell. Just spoke with FIS. Just wanted to advise you that they pulled clear latents off the Tarver vehicle and got hits through CPIC. We have a name. Are you ready to copy?”

      Graham hurried back to his car.

      15

       Bonita Hills, California

      Maggie battled to keep her hopes in check.

      As she threaded her way through the freeway traffic, her stomach tensed.

       Would her nightmare ever end?

      Would she ever see Logan and Jake again? Where were they?

      Each day had passed without news. Nothing from police. Nothing from the courts. Nothing from the support groups, Logan’s doctor, Logan’s school or the private investigator. Nothing from her amateur Internet searching.

      Not a word from Jake or Logan.

      Nothing but deepening anguish.

       Dammit, why did Jake do this?

      Maggie searched the traffic in vain for answers. Whatever it was, maybe Jake just needed time to sort it all out. Maggie consoled herself with that explanation, hoping with all her heart that Madame Fatima would work a miracle tonight.

       But who was she?

      Maggie had called Stacy Kurtz, who’d pressed her police contacts for more information, urging Maggie to keep what she’d learned confidential.

      The woman was known as Madame Fatima Soleil. She’d descended from French gypsies who’d fled persecution in Senegal and roamed Europe in the early 1900s. Her family tree branched into northern Quebec and Louisiana’s bayous.

      As a young woman working in the cafés of Germany, Poland, Austria and Czechoslovakia reading tea leaves, Fatima had told a Czech police official’s wife that her youngest daughter would nearly drown within one year. Some ten months later, the girl was on a school trip in Rome where she was found at the bottom of the hotel pool. She was pulled unconscious from the water and had barely survived.

      The girl’s mother told her husband, a skeptical, case-hardened detective. But months later when the ten-year-old son of a Russian diplomat was kidnapped for ransom in Prague, he sought Fatima’s help.

      Fatima met the boy’s parents, spent time in the boy’s bedroom, then told Czech detectives to search a specific spot near a riverbed in the St. George Forest, an hour northeast of Prague. They found the boy buried alive in a coffin equipped with an air pump. Police traced the pump to the point of purchase, then to his abductors and arrested them at gunpoint.

      At her request, Fatima’s role was never ever made public. And she’d refused any money. Later in life, her reputation, known only to a few in police circles, accompanied her when she’d moved to California. She’d planned to retire on a small inheritance, but agreed to help California police when they called upon her.

      There’s

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