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shoulder just an inch out of his reach. Until he could free it, he couldn't reload.
    It's now or never.
    She sucked in a breath as dry as desert cobwebs and tried to shake off the fear that was paralyzing her.
    A giant of a uniformed cop burst out of the corridor and landed on top of the man like a cougar dropping on a sheep. Then another. The gunman was powerful and probably hopped up on drugs, but he was encumbered by the unwieldy suit. The two officers pinned him between the table and the wall, struggling to rip the helmet off his head. One of them turned to her and the shock on his face was almost humorous but he quickly went back to subduing the man.
    It was over so fast that Micky was still sitting frozen in place after the gunman was led handcuffed from the bar. One of the officers stayed with her until the paramedics arrived.
    No problem.
    She managed to walk out with the medic's help; into the daylight.
    Past the dead dancer.
    Past the wrecked cruiser.
    They hurried her by that, though she couldn't help but notice that Wade's hand was still sticking out of the window.
    But as the blazing sun burned her eyes, she wasn't seeing Wade or the girl or the scene of violence and confusion out front.
    All she saw was empty, lifeless eyes.

HOUSTON, JULY 26
    T HEMANWASTALL and whipcord thin and his skin was weathered from the sun. But only his white hair revealed his years. He wore faded jeans and worn boots. An oval silver buckle the size of his fist graced his belt. “There's an armed guard in the corridor.”
    Micky stared at the suspended ceiling of her hospital room.
    A bullet had passed through her shoulder, just missing the collarbone. She'd gotten that wound at the same time the dancer was shot. Another bullet had creased her cheek and her doctor said she'd have a hairline scar. She had a slipped disc, three broken ribs, and a concussion.
    “They had armor-piercing shells,” she said.
    “So does the guard.”
    She turned on the pillow.
    “I checked,” said the big man.
    “I don't know what to do now, Uncle Jim,” she whispered.
    He took her hand.
    “First we get you out of here. Then you come back home. We'll figure it out from there.”
    “It was the same man,” she said, turning back to the ceiling.
    “Who?”
    “The same man who killed my parents.”
    He squeezed her hand. “That was a long time ago, sweetheart.”
    “I don't know what to do,” she repeated.
    Silence hung in the room. Micky knew that Jim would stand like that, holding her hand forever if she needed him to.
    A nurse clattered a tray onto the bedside table and glanced meaningfully at Jim.
    “I think she's here to give you something,” he said.
    “Wade said I was like one of my stained-glass pieces. He said he wanted to hang me on the wall.”
    “Wade loved you,” said Jim.
    The nurse withdrew clear liquid from a vial, then inserted the hypodermic into a plastic valve in Micky's IV.
    “You're all I've got,” said Micky.
    Jim squeezed harder.
    When she awakened, Jim was smiling down at her and she wondered whether she had only dozed briefly or if he had left and returned. The sun blazed through the thin curtains behind him.
    “There's someone here to see you,” he said.
    She turned her head.
    Damon Kress stood on the other side of the bed, his big hands resting on the stainless-steel rail. He had a twoday growth of blond beard. His icy blue eyes were bloodshot.
    “I came as soon as I heard,” he said.
    The sight of Damon shattered her defenses. Tears welled in her eyes and she choked down a sob. “Wade…”
    “It's all right,” Damon said, bending to stroke her cheek. “Jim told me what happened.”
    “I couldn't do anything. I just ran.”
    “I know,” said Damon, leaning to kiss her cheek. “There was nothing you could do. Don't beat yourself up.”
    “You don't understand,” she said, turning away. But Jim was there. There was nowhere to hide.
    “I'll leave you two alone,” said Jim.
    When he was gone, Micky