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it?” Solomon asked.
    Morgan studied him like a poker player trying to figure out what kind of hand the other man was holding, and Solomon felt anger simmering up inside him at his powerlessness. His body started to tense, as if it wanted to spring forward and grab the book from Morgan’s hand. But he knew he was too far away and the nylon bindings were still strapped tight across his legs; he would never be fast enough, and even if he was, Gloria would react and stick him again with whatever she had knocked him out with the first time—propofol most likely, considering how quickly he had recovered from it—
    . . . how did he know this stuff?
    How did all this information come to him so easily and yet he could remember nothing of himself?
    I have an I burned into my skin and yet I have no idea who I am.
    He breathed, deep and slow.
    Answers. That was what he craved, more even than an outlet for his anger. Answers would soothe his rage and bring some order to the chaos swirling inside him. Answers that he was sure must be contained in the book Morgan held in his hand.
    Morgan glanced down at it, deciding whether to hand it over or not. In the end he chose not to. He held it up instead and turned it around for Solomon to see. It was opened at a dedication page, something designed to encourage people to give the book as a present.
    A GIFT OF AMERICAN HISTORY
    â€”it said—
    TO: SOLOMON CREED
    FROM: JAMES CORONADO
    Pain flared in his arm when he read the name and again he felt what he had experienced back on the road, a feeling of duty toward this man he couldn’t remember but who apparently knew him well enough to have given him this book.
    â€œYou have any idea how you might know Jim?” Morgan asked.
    Jim not James — Morgan knew him, he was here. “I think I’m here because of him,” Solomon replied, and felt a new emotion start to take shape inside him.
    The fire was here because of him.
    But he was here because of James Coronado.
    Morgan tipped his head to one side. “How so?”
    Solomon stared out of the rear window at the distant fire. A yellow plane was flying low across the blue sky. It reached the eastern edge of the fire and a cloud of vivid red vapor spewed from its tail, streaking across the black smoke and sinking to the ground. It sputtered out before it had covered half of the fire line. Not enough. Not nearly enough. The fire was still coming, toward him, toward the town, toward everyone in it. A threat. A huge, burning threat. Destructive. Purifying. Just like he was. And there was his answer.
    â€œI think I’m here to save him,” he said, turning back to Morgan, certain that this was right. “I’m here to save James Coronado.”
    A shadow flitted across Morgan’s face and he stared at Solomon with an expression that could not mean anything good. “James Coronado is dead,” he said flatly, and looked up and out through the side window toward the mountains rising behind the town. “We buried him this morning.”

PART 2
    What lies behind and what lies before are tiny matters compared to what lies within.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€” R ALPH W ALDO E MERSON

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    Extract from Riches and Redemption—The Making of a Town
    The published memoir of Reverend Jack “King” Cassidy,
    Founder and first citizen of the city of Redemption, Arizona
    (b. December 25, 1841, d. December 24, 1927)
    It is, I suppose, a curse that befalls anyone who finds a great treasure that they must spend the remainder of their life recounting the details of how they came by it. I therefore hope, by setting it down here, that people might leave me alone, for I am tired of talking about it. I had a life of a different color before riches painted it gold, and