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rolled onto his side and gasped for air. Falcon watched him for a minute, saying nothing, displaying no emotion of any kind. Johnny kept coughing, trying to catch his breath. The Bushman started toward him slowly, concerned. “Johnny, you want some water?”
    “No!” shouted Falcon. “He can’t drink yet. If he drinks, he’ll die. No water!”
    The Bushman made a face, confused. “What are you talkin’ about, mon?”
    Falcon couldn’t find a response. His thoughts were scattered, and he was too tired to chase them. He looked at the Bushman, then at Johnny. No one said anything, but Falcon no longer felt welcome. “I’m going home.” He stepped right over Johnny and continued on his way, following the footpath along the river.
    Slowly, the rush of anger subsided, and he was beginning to feel the cold again. His thoughts turned toward home. He would definitely sleep in the trunk tonight. That was by far the best place on cold nights, offering complete shelter from the elements. Just thinking about it brought a warm feeling all the way down to his toes. Forget those losers and their scraps of cardboard under the bridge. Who needed their insults and aggravation?
    He was just a few yards from home when he stopped in his tracks. A fire was burning beside his house. Not a big, raging, out-of-control fire. It was a little campfire. A stranger was seated on a plastic milk crate and warming his hands over the flames. No, not his hands. Her hands. Falcon’s visitor was a woman. She spotted Falcon and rose slowly, but not to greet him. She just stared, and Falcon stared right back. In this neighborhood, her appearance was far more curious than his. Hers were not the clothes of a homeless woman. The overcoat fit her well, and it still had all the pretty brass buttons in place. There were no holes in her leather gloves, no fingers protruding. The shoes were new and polished. Her head was covered with a clean white scarf. It almost looked like a nappy. A well-dressed older woman with a diaper on her head.
    Falcon took a half-step closer, then stopped.
    “Who are you?”
    She didn’t answer.
    “Who are you?”
    Silence. Falcon tried another angle.
    “What do you want?”
    Still no answer. Instead, she simply started walking around the campfire, walking in circles, walking in silence. Falcon’s hands started to shake. He clenched them into fists. He bit down hard on his lower lip, but a fireball was burning inside him, and there was no containing it. “Get away, get away from me, GET AWAY FROM ME, WOMAN!”
    He shouted at her over and over again. He shouted at the top of his voice. He shouted until he couldn’t shout anymore. He gasped for air, and it felt so cold going down that he thought it might sear his lungs. He wanted to run, but there was no escape.
    Because he did indeed know who she was, this Mother of the Disappeared.
    And he knew exactly what she wanted.

chapter 7
    I t was after midnight, and Alicia was still standing outside Houston’s Restaurant waiting for the valet attendant to bring her car around. That was one way to crack down on drunk drivers, make everyone wait till dawn at the valet stand. Next time she would be sure to drive her yellow Lotus or red Ferrari and get “preferred parking” right at curbside.
    Her cell phone rang inside her purse, which, in turn, was inside a doggy bag. She planned to bring the whole thing into the lab in the morning to have them check for fingerprints, which could confirm that Falcon was the lipstick bandit. She let the phone ring to voice mail, but it started ringing again. Someone was psycho calling her. She wrapped her hand in a tissue, carefully removed the phone, and answered it. It was her father. He wanted to know where she was, and she told him.
    “Sweetheart, your mother and I think you should come home tonight.”
    “I am going home.”
    “No, I mean here, with us.”
    She was twenty-seven years old, and her parents still thought of their house as her