The Map Beneath the Music

Mara moved everyone through the back stairwell while two patrol cars blocked the alley. The vehicle outside was gone, but the tires had left a dark crescent on the pavement.

“We’re going to the motel,” Mara said.

“No,” Lena answered. “We’re going to the courthouse.”

“Your records can wait.”

“They are the reason all of this is happening.”

“And the girl may be in immediate danger.”

Lena looked at Keon, who was shaking from pain. “Take him to a hospital.”

“He won’t go,” Vincent said.

Keon shook his head. “They’ll find me.”

Mara made the decision. “We get the girl first.”

They drove in three vehicles to the river motel. Vincent rode with Noah and Lena. The boy held the butcher-paper map across his knees like a shield.

“What happens if she isn’t there?” Noah asked.

“Then we keep looking,” Lena said.

“What happens if Pike is there?”

Vincent looked at him in the rearview mirror. “We don’t fight him alone.”

The motel stood behind a row of dying palms. Room 17 faced the river, its curtains drawn. Mara knocked once and announced herself.

No answer.

She knocked again.

The door opened three inches.

A girl of about twelve stared out. She had Hector Molina’s eyes.

“Are you Tasha?” Mara asked.

The girl nodded.

“Come with us.”

Tasha glanced behind her. “My father said not to trust anybody.”

“Your father sent us.”

“No. The man with the bird sent us.”

Mara pushed the door open.

The room was empty except for a chair, a broken lamp, and a blue bird painted on the wall. Tasha had been alone.

“Where is your father?” Lena asked.

“He went to meet them.”

“Who?”

“The man who took my picture.”

Mara crouched in front of her. “Did he tell you where?”

Tasha pointed toward the river. “The old club.”

Vincent felt the brass key in his pocket.

They found Hector Molina beneath the bridge, unconscious but alive. His hands were stained with blue paint, and a folder of forged records had been tucked inside his jacket.

When he woke in the ambulance, he grabbed Mara’s sleeve.

“Vale knows,” he whispered. “He knows the broadcast happened.”

“Where is Pike?”

“At the Blue Heron.”

“What is he doing?”

Molina’s eyes opened wider. “Finishing what his father started.”

Lena looked at Vincent. “What does that mean?”

Vincent did not answer.

The Blue Heron was empty when they returned. A side door stood open, and fresh mud marked the floor. In the basement, they found Keon’s backpack, a stack of gasoline receipts, and a wall covered with photographs of Cypress Row residents.

Noah recognized himself in one of them.

The picture showed him sitting at his classroom window, his violin case beside him.

Lena pulled him close. “Don’t look.”

But Noah had already seen the photograph behind his.

It was Caleb.

Caleb stood outside the Blue Heron, holding his camera, alive and angry. The date printed on the corner was three days before his death.

Vincent lifted the photograph with trembling fingers.

On the back, Caleb had written: I FOUND THE PERSON WHO SIGNS THE FIRES.

Footsteps sounded above them.

Mara drew her weapon. “Everyone behind me.”

The basement door slammed shut.