september first nineteen fifty-seven

Early morning, the first day of September. Clete was in a single bedroom in the Post Op Care ward at Immaculate Heart, getting his gunshot wounds dressed by a pretty young nurse and staring out the window, where the sun was shining on the stand of royal palms that lined the long entrance drive to the hospital.

Mary Alice was gone, and Declan hadn’t come to see him yet, although Helen and Frank Forrest had been in the day before. There was a stone on his heart and he knew it would always be there.

He was suspended with pay while the investigation into what had happened at the Vizzini compound worked its way through the system. The death of Beau Short and the disappearance of Annabelle Fontaine after the shootout in Room 1408 of the Alcazar was wrapped up in that too.

There was still no sign of Aurelia DiSantis, the woman who had shot and killed Beau Short. Clete suspected they would never find her.

At least not in this time zone.

He knew, or hoped he knew, where Jack had gone to, and he was pretty sure that, wherever he was, he had done—or would do—something pretty final to that creature.

He also suspected that, wherever he was, Annabelle Fontaine was with him. Or maybe he had managed to get his wife and kids back. One way or another, it was out of his hands. The nurse finished with the bandages, pulled the coverlet up around his chest and asked him if there was anything she could get for him.

“I could use a boilermaker,” he said, and she smiled down at him, the sunlight making an aura around her, so that she looked like a visiting angel.

“I’ll get you an orange juice. By the way, while you were asleep, there was a police officer here. He left something for you on your side table.”

She picked it up and handed it to him. It was a large brown envelope with something inside it.

“Thanks,” he said.

And she said, “You’re welcome, Clete,” and slipped silently out of the room.

Clete opened the envelope. There was a brief note:

Clete...Crime Scene guys found this on the floor of the hotel room where Beau Short got shot. Since you’re still the detective of record on the Aurelia DiSantis thing, we figured you’d want to have it.

No idea what it means. Get better soon, and between you and me, what you gave the Vizzini Family was long overdue.

All the best, and get back out here soon. We need you.

Mike Bukovac

Clete tipped the envelope up, and a gold locket fell out onto the coverlet.

He picked it up, turned it in the light, held it close and read the inscription.

“‘To Bea from Will...Xmas 1909.’”

He had no idea what it meant either, but he suspected there was a story in it somewhere. He decided to put it in his file on the DiSantis case.

Maybe someday it would turn out to be important. You never knew about these things. He closed his eyes, wished the best for Jack, wherever he was, and drifted into sleep with the locket in the palm of his right hand.