Chevie closed her eyes, trying to imagine herself out of the past, into her own past in the future. “My mom and dad grew up on the Shawnee reservation in Oklahoma. They call it trust land, these days. As soon as my dad could afford a motorbike, my mom hopped on the back and they took off across the country. Got married in Vegas and settled in California. I came along a while later, and Dad told me that things were just about perfect for a couple of years, until Mom was killed by a black bear over in La Verne.” Chevie shook her head as if she still could not accept this fact. “Can you believe that? A Native American on a camping trip killed by a bear. Dad never got over it. Oh, we were happy enough, I guess. But he drank a lot. ‘When love dies,’ he told me, ‘there are no survivors.’”

Chevie was silent for a moment, wishing for the millionth time that she could remember her mother’s face.

“We had ten years together before his motorcycle blew up on the Pacific Coast Highway. Dad had a tattoo just like mine, a Chevron symbol. It’s what I was named for.”

“You were named for a symbol? That is a strange custom.”

Chevie scowled. “You asked for a tale, remember?”

Riley twisted his own arm backward at the elbow. “I apologize, Agent. Please continue.”

“My dad had the same tattoo. Same shoulder. He told me that all the Savano men back to the Shawnee wars have borne this mark. William Savano fought the Long Knives with Tecumseh at Moraviantown. For every officer he killed in battle, William daubed a Chevron on his arm in blood, as this was the sergeant’s symbol. He was a fearsome warrior. So, in memory of William, the Savanos have worn the symbol. I am the last of the Savanos, so I bear the name and the symbol. The first girl to do so.”

“That is indeed a fascinating tale,” said Riley, shrugging off his bonds until only the solid manacles on his wrists remained. “And well told.”

“Yeah, a pity I can’t talk off your handcuffs.”

Riley winked. “These are screw bracelets. The walking dummy what put ’em on botched the job. See these barrels? They should be at the bottom.”

“Because?”

“Because if the barrels are on top, a prisoner can do this...”

Riley brought his hands together as close as he could, crossed thumbs, and used the opposable digits to unscrew the handcuffs.

“Hey, presto,” said Riley, taking a deep bow.

A slow handclap echoed across the room, floating down from the top of a rickety stairway.

“Bravo, boy. Well done to you.”

A giant meat cart of a man ambled down the stairs, each step creaking under his weight.

“Otto Malarkey,” whispered Riley. “The big boss himself.”