Molinas struggled to sit up. "Yes, the drug is supposed to relieve the physical symptoms. They promised me it would. But there's something wrong. The drug shouldn't bring the memory to the forefront.

"It's like you said, the drug is supposed to dissipate the physical symptoms, and with repeated doses finally remove the horror of the memory. But it doesn't work. I tried different doses and even different additives to see if I couldn't fix the drug. But it doesn't work."

I went down on my haunches in front of Molinas. "What happened to your daughter?"

"She was raped three years ago right on campus at her private school. She was only fifteen years old. Four older boys raped her. It destroyed her. They promised me the drug would help her, that's the only reason I got involved with Alyssum and Del Cabrizo in the first place, to help my daughter.

"That's why I gave her the drug. I injected her myself. But it hasn't worked. Her memories of that night have grown worse, not better. The drug is killing her!"

"So you gave Sherlock an even larger dose and mixed in other drugs?" I asked.

Molinas stared into Savich's eyes and saw his own death there. He quickly leaned over and vomited on the wooden floor.

Savich carried Sherlock in his arms. She was conscious now, but her eyes were heavy and vague. He'd wrapped her in all the blankets that were in that cell. She was disturbingly silent, quiescent. That really worried me. My mouthy Sherlock, who usually ordered everyone around, including her husband, was lying like a ghost, not really there. Laura walked behind them, carrying two AK-47s. I marched Molinas in front of me, the Bren Ten pressed against the small of his back, another AK-47 slung over my left shoulder.

"Take me to Jilly," I said to Molinas. "Now. I want to see my sister. She's coming out with us."

"Your sister isn't here," Molinas said. I could tell it hurt him to speak.

I smiled at him. "I don't believe you. She came to me. She spoke to me, she warned me."

He said slowly, "It must have been the drug. Your sister was never here. Never. I have no reason to lie to you about that. It was the drag. It's unpredictable. But I have never heard of it doing that before."

Was that possible? Jilly had been standing over me, clear as day. She'd been with me, speaking to me, dammit.

"She's never been here," Molinas repeated.

"But you know her?" Laura said.

"I know who she is," Molinas said carefully. We stopped and kept silent. There were men speaking not fifteen feet away. About three minutes later their boot steps faded down the long wooden corridor.

We went back to his big opulent office and the huge adjoining bedchamber only to find it empty. His daughter, Marran, must have gotten herself untied because she'd locked herself in the bathroom. Molinas told her to stay there until he came back. We heard her crying.

"Look what I found."

We turned to see that Laura had opened a closet door that I hadn't seen before. "Guns, clothes, and look at this-two more AK-47s."

She turned around, grinning really big. She was holding up a machete. "You never know if we might need it. They all carry knives. Just maybe we should have one too." She looked over at Savich. "You guys need to get out of those clothes. I'll help change Sherlock."

She clipped the machete to her own belt. "There," she said, patting it. "I guess I'm ready now for just about anything."

"I know you've got to have a radio somewhere. Get it." Molinas opened the third drawer of the huge desk and pulled out a small black radio.

"Get the plane here, now."

We all watched him set a frequency and listened to his rapid Spanish, some of which I couldn't make out. He looked up when he finished. "I didn't betray you," he said.

Savich walked to where Sherlock was sitting on the floor, Laura holding her hand. He bent down and picked her up. "Let's get out of here."

"You'd better pray that the Cessna comes," I said against Molina's ear.

"It will come," he said. I saw him glance back at the radio.

He didn't look happy.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

We reached the airstrip at about five-thirty in the morning, according to the watch I'd taken from Molinas. The half-moon was fading quickly, but still hanging on, and behind it a few scattered stars dotted the gray sky. The mountains in the distance looked like ghosts, stretched up into broad sword shapes, others hunched over, all of them unearthly in the vague dawn light. There would soon be enough light to use the airstrip. Three days ago, I thought, we were in Edgerton, Oregon, buying sandwiches from Grace's Deli.