"I bet ol' Pastor Bob said women should submit to men, right?"
"Yeah."
"And that parents that loved their children should chastise them?"
"Uh-huh."
"And that everybody who didn't worship at the Free Will Fellowship was going to roast marshmallows in hell?"
"Especially Catholics." Above her bandage-swathed nose, Isabel's forehead creased with worry. Amado had been a Catholic.
"Well, if Pastor Bob was right, then I probably am an abomination and all that. I say that male and female are equal in the sight of God, that Jesus would never have smacked a little kid, and that God's grace means we're going to be very surprised by who-all gets into heaven."
Isabel stared at the opposite wall, where a muted television showed the channel 9 news. "I never liked Pastor Bob. After I started developin', he used to hug me." She looked at Clare. "You know?"
"I know."
"There's my house," Isabel said.
Clare looked at the television. It was a distant shot of the Christies' farm from yesterday afternoon, with cops and SWAT team members still walking around. It was replaced by a photo of a smiling middle-aged woman standing on a mountaintop somewhere in the High Peaks. "That's the lady from Children and Families," Isabel said. "She tried to get away." She picked up the remote and switched the volume on as the screen switched back to the farm.
"Millers Kill Chief of Police Russell Van Alstyne is still in critical condition at Washington County Hospital following the high-stakes hostage-taking-"
"My niece Porsche said he saved her life. And her baby's. Scared the heck out of her, though."
"I know." Clare looked away from the TV, where Lyle MacAuley was asking viewers to be on the alert for other members of the Punta Diablo gang. "He's a friend of mine. The police chief."
"Is he gonna be okay?"
"They don't know yet. It's been twenty-four hours since he got out of surgery, and he's still on a ventilator." Doctors clumped around his bedside. Frowns and pursed lips. The discussion falling off when they spotted Margy's pale face.
"I'm sorry," Isabel said. "It's my brothers' fault."
"No." She gestured toward the TV. "You saw the report. They were gang-bangers from New York City." Clare paused. Hoped she wasn't about to reopen a wound. "I don't know if this helps, but Deputy Chief MacAuley told me they were also responsible for Amado Esfuentes's death. They were after something, just like at your house, and they thought Amado knew where it was."
Isabel's already inexpressive face became a mask. Her eyes were dry and hollowed out. "One of the cops said he'd been…"
"Yes." Isabel deserved the truth. "We who survive like to comfort ourselves by saying 'It was quick' or 'At least he didn't suffer.' It's a hard thing, when we can't believe that."
"Yeah."
"But we do know that whatever happened, whatever he went through, it's over now. And nothing can ever hurt him again." She smiled a little. "I bet Pastor Bob used to preach Revelations."
"Oh, yeah. A lot."
"They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; the sun shall not strike them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water; and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."
Isabel was very still for a moment. "Even Amado's?"
Clare thought of the shy young man, vacuuming one-handedly, polishing the choir stalls, humming to himself when he thought no one could hear. "Especially Amado's," she said.
Isabel leaned back into her pillows. Framed in white, the violet and green on her face stood out in high relief, until she seemed to be made of bruises and tired, flat eyes. "It's our fault. Mine and my brothers'. No, I know"-she held up a hand to stop Clare's objection-"we weren't the ones actually tortured him to death. But we're to blame. All of us." She looked out the window. "Christies stick together," she said. "That's what we had drummed into our heads by our dad. Stick together. Watch out for one another. You wouldn't think something that sounds so good could twist around and hurt so many people."
"Isabel," Clare said, "what we talk about privately stays private. I can't-I won't-repeat anything you say to me. But if you know why those men came to your house and what they were after, please, please tell Deputy Chief MacAuley."
Isabel rolled her head toward the window. "I'm tired, now."
Clare stood up. The girl's flat affect worried her. A lot. She dredged one of her cards out of her pocket. "Isabel, I'm leaving you my numbers. If there's anything I can do for you, if you want to talk to me about anything, call me. At any time. Would you do that?"
Isabel made a sound that was something like a laugh. "You think I might kill myself?"
Clare thudded back into the chair. "Are you thinking about it?"
"Suicide's a sin. Don't you know that?" She closed her eyes. "Please go."
Clare got up.
"Wait," Isabel said. "Would you do me a favor?"
"Uh… if I can."
"My jeans are in the closet over there. Could you get them for me?"
Clare crossed to the closet. Wondered if a word to Isabel's nurses would be enough, or if she ought to go straight to the social services caseworker. She handed the jeans to Isabel, who removed a very expensive-looking little cell phone from the front pocket.
"I been carrying this around every day for months," she said. "But I never turned it on. I wonder if there's any battery left."
"Um," Clare said. "Maybe. You may not be able to get a signal in here, though."
"I don't want to use it to call. I just want the address book."
"The address book." The caseworker, she decided. Isabel's voice was too light, too disconnected.
"I have to make arrangements," Isabel said. "For when my brothers get out of jail."
XIX
Hadley left Flynn's duplex before dawn so she could slip into her own bed without the kids-or Granddad-noticing she hadn't been there all night. She kissed him and whispered, "Thank you." He reached for her sleepily, one long bare arm, but she laughed quietly and said, "No. One more time and neither of us will be able to walk."
She wasn't sure she could manage it, even without an extra toss. No wonder the matrons in LA went for younger trade. Eventually, you'd croak from sheer exhaustion, but oh, my God, what a way to go.