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at times. Most of their conversations had been one-sided, with the priest doing most of the talking. She had rarely spoken a word.
    “What exactly did she tell you about her daughter leaving home?”
    “It wasn’t really much. She was weak and dying, you understand.” He shook his head sadly, and his voice grew soft. “She was very grieved over the kind of life she had forced the girl into. She had been a simple woman herself and, of course, trying to raise a child in the right way was impossible for her. She said the girl began growing rebellious when she was twelve or thirteen—started running with the wrong crowd, the wrong kind of boys.”
    “Did Bertha say anything about the man her daughter ran away with?”
    “Very little. She only met him once, and her daughter never called him by his real name.”
    Francis looked up quickly. “What did she call him?”
    “Something like Serge. Maybe Sergion. Bertha was fading fast. It was hard to understand her,” he said apologetically.
    Key took notes throughout their conversation, and Mazzoni was surprised at how well the detective could jog his memory with his questions. “You’re very good at this,” he said.
    He shrugged. “Most people remember more than they think.”
    Mazzoni lifted the watering can and watered a violet sparingly. He put the can down, then asked directly, “Do you think you’ll be able to find this girl?”
    Francis’s eyes twinkled with humor. “If God wants me to, I will.”
    Mazzoni laughed. “You sound like you have God all figured out.”
    “No, hardly that.” He smiled. “But I am convinced that God has plans for everyone.”
    “I’ll agree with you there, but most of the time we get out of His plan and into something we design for ourselves.”
    “Sadly, that’s my story too. You met the Winslows, didn’t you?”
    “Yes, I did. Fine people. Very devoted Christians, from what I could tell.”
    “Mrs. Winslow thinks that God gave her a promise back before the child was born, and she’s convinced that it is God’s timing that this information has come to light now. And her husband is convinced that I’m the one God is going to use to find her.”
    “I will add my prayers to theirs that you’ll be successful, Mr. Key.”
    “I certainly need all the prayer I can get. If you think of anything else, you’ll give me a call, won’t you?”
    “I’ll do that, and could you drop me a line if you do find the girl? I’d like very much to know how this turns out.”
    “I’ll do that.” Key shook the priest’s hand, then turned and left the greenhouse. The cold wind seemed even harsher now, and as he strode quickly toward the steel gates, he wondered if anything Mazzoni had said would be of any help to him.
    ****
    For the next two days Francis Key did little else but sit in his room staring at the walls and thinking. He broke his concentration only to eat or to lie down and rest or to spend time with his loquacious parrot, teaching her two more Scripture verses.
    “Revelation,” he said on the third morning as the bird watched him eat breakfast.
    “Even so, come, Lord Jesus,” spouted the parrot.
    “That’s good. You get a reward for that.” Francis cut a small piece from his apple and gave it to the parrot, then finished the rest himself. After putting his dishes in the sink, he grabbed his coat and went out for a walk. He pulled his coat tightly around him, wishing he had a warm hat as the breeze ruffled his hair.
    For two hours he walked the streets of New York, going over his conversation with Mazzoni and mulling over the results of Tyson’s interviews with others at the prison. He always worked like this, concentrating on the problem to the exclusion of everything else. From time to time he would pray simply and to the point: “God, help me find this woman.” He didn’t take much stock in long, elaborate prayers, preferring in all things to cut to the chase.
    He walked the streets all day, then returned home