“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Right back atcha,” he said.

They chatted idly for a few minutes, blithe conversation, cut short by the sound of another vehicle motoring along Sierra Vista. It came from the west, appearing from behind a distant outcrop. Luke lifted his sunglasses and squinted. As the vehicle drew closer, he identified it as a Ford Econoline van, blue with a red stripe along the side.

“There he is.” Kitty saw it at the same time.

They watched as it continued along the cracked strip of road, then swung a left into the ranch’s driveway. The dogs woke and went crazy again, springing at their cage doors. The Econoline stopped close to where Luke had seen those tire tracks. His heart jumped and snapped—not unlike the dogs—as the driver’s door opened and the bat-faced man stepped out.

Even at this distance—seventy yards or so—seeing him again brought that night at Uncle Lizard’s back with startling clarity. Luke could smell the booze, hear the music, feel the closeness of so many lively, dolled-up bodies. He saw the intimate way in which Lisa and Señor Bat Face had interacted. In the years since, Luke had often wondered if he was grabbing at straws, but seeing him again now, he knew beyond doubt that there was a connection between this man and Lisa’s disappearance.

“Are you okay?” Kitty asked.

“Yeah,” Luke replied. And he was. Despite the nerves and the tension, he felt charged inside—a snarling, quaking engine, ready to redline. “Better than I’ve been in a long time.”

22
The Bat-Faced Man

Ramón started unloading bags of soil from the back of his van into his barn, stacking them inside the doorway. “Cállate carajo,” he shouted at his dogs. He didn’t notice he had company until Luke had drawn to within fifteen feet of him. “Whatever you’re selling,” Ramón said, raising one hand against the sunlight, “I don’t want it.” The barn door was on a track and he stepped backward to slide it closed, as if he didn’t want anyone to see what was inside. Luke had glimpsed crowds of yellow flowers inside propagators, but these were of no interest to him.

“I’m not selling anything,” he said.

“Then get the fuck off my property.”

“You know who I am?”

Ramón took a step forward, looking from the shadow of his raised hand. Luke’s description—bat-faced—was even more fitting up close, although there was a shimmer of intelligence in those shifty little eyes.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know who you are.”

Luke had lost weight over the past three years, his hair was longer and grayer, and he was standing, partially, in silhouette. He circled to one side, so that Ramón didn’t have to squint to see him.

“My name is Luke Kingsley.”