Vicoden—a reasonably strong painkiller. A hundred-tablet jar—all gone. There was a pitcher of water handy, and a glass. Was this suicide? She studied his wrists and thought them bruised. But old people’s skin was often black and blue. They were always bumping into things. If he had been smothered, his killer was skilled. She didn’t know what to make of it. She was not a coroner, nor did she want to call one. If she did she would be forced to remain on the premises and answer too many questions. Later would be time enough.

Kelly searched the house. She did not know what she was looking for so she didn’t find it. But there were interesting papers: financial statements that recorded huge balances; old letters from Gene Banks telling his father about the birth of Robert; a picture of Gene and Julie on their wedding day. Kelly found the latter so tragic she almost wept. She had never noticed before that Julie wore a ruby instead of a diamond on her fourth finger.

Kelly feared for Robert’s future.

On the verge of leaving, Kelly found the syringe. She knew that’s what it was—the one Dr. Banks had stabbed into his wife’s heart the night she had died. It was in the dead man’s desk in the study, bottom drawer on the left. Wicked needle, long and thick, with a half-filled plunger just waiting for another seizure. The liquid would have evaporated, over the years, but he had placed a plastic cap on it. Otherwise, he had saved the thing in exactly the same condition it had been in when his wife had died.

The fluid had not colored over the years. It might be worth testing.

Kelly slipped the syringe in her pocket and left the house.

NINETEEN

NINETEEN

As Kelly drove toward Michael Grander’s home, Matt and Amy were camped deep in Bryce Canyon National Park, Utah. Daylight-wise, it was an hour earlier for them than it was in Ohio. Even with the holiday weekend, they had seen no one in over four hours. Matt knew the park well—it had been his favorite rock-climbing destination since he was a teenager. Particularly in the heat of the summer: the hard red rock, the sculpted riverbeds, the magic of timeless vistas—he loved it all. The sun seemed brighter, the sky larger. Perhaps the isolation erected a bridge to another dimension, he did not know.

It was not only because Amy was a fugitive that he had chosen a secluded spot to set up camp. When he was in nature, he disliked being around people. He felt there was something intrinsically incompatible about humanity and untouched beauty. When he fell asleep beside a gurgling stream with a million stars in the sky, he felt at one with the universe, and almost, but not quite, believed in God.