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live around the center nowadays.”
    A large sign whipped past—old-style lettering telling travelers they were now entering “The Historic Old Town of Redemption”—and the town came suddenly to life. Pastel houses were lined up in neat rows behind white-painted picket fences along well-paved roads. A Wells Fargo wagon stood beneath the shade of a cottonwood tree, the horses tethered by their reins to a wooden rail running along a trough filled with water from an old-fashioned pump. They were twitching their heads, spooked by the smoke blowing their way and anxious to run from it. Solomon knew how they felt. He wanted to run too, away from the fire, away from this town and this strange feeling of responsibility to a man who was already dead.
    â€œDid James Coronado have family?” he asked.
    â€œHolly,” Gloria said, fixing a dressing over the burn mark on his arm. “His wife.”
    â€œHolly Coronado,” Solomon repeated. “Maybe I should talk to her.”
    Morgan shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œShe just buried her husband. She’ll want to be left alone, I should imagine.”
    â€œShe might know who I am.”
    Morgan shifted in his seat like it had suddenly become uncomfortable. “She should be left alone, time like this.”
    Solomon cocked his head to one side. “It’s an odd custom, don’t you think, to abandon people when they are at their loneliest? If her husband knew me, then she might know me too. And she might be glad to see an old friend.”
    â€œI can run a check on your name, if you want,” Morgan said, fishing his phone from his pocket, “see if anything comes up.”
    Solomon wondered why Morgan seemed reluctant to let him talkto this woman. It only made him want to talk to her even more. He watched as he dialed a number, then fixed him with a level stare as he waited for someone to answer.
    â€œHey, Rollins, it’s Morgan. Run a name for me, would ya—Solomon Creed.” He glanced down at the book, used the inscription to spell out the name, then looked back up. “He’s about six feet tall, mid to late twenties, Caucasian—and by that I mean white: white skin, white hair.” He nodded. “Yeah, like an al-bino.” He split the word up and stretched it out, in the same way that he might say neee - gro . “No, I’ll wait. Run it through NCIC, see if you get anything.”
    Solomon felt the ball of anxiety expand in his stomach a little. The NCIC was the National Crime Information Center. Morgan was checking to see if he had a criminal record or was wanted on any outstanding warrants. And the fact that Solomon knew what NCIC stood for suggested to him that he might.
    Solomon looked down at himself, his white skin glowing under the bright lights, no pigment, no marks at all except for the I branded on his arm, now hidden beneath a dressing. A blank page of a man. He crossed his arms in front of himself, feeling vulnerable and exposed with his shirt off.
    The ambulance turned off the main road and a huge white building filled the ambulance with reflected light. Solomon narrowed his eyes and peered through the rear windows at the church, far too large for such a small town, its copper-clad spire needling its way up into the desert sky. He felt it tug at him, as if he recognized it, though he couldn’t say for sure. Morgan had said the cross he wore around his neck was a replica of the one on the altar, and he felt a strong urge to slip out of the straps that held his legs and break out of the ambulance so he could run to it and see it for himself.
    â€œYeah, I’m here.” Morgan nodded and listened. “Okay, thanks.” Hehung up. “Well, Mr. Creed,” he said, tucking the book back into the folded jacket pocket. “You’ll be pleased to learn that you are not in the criminal