The Given

CHAPTER TWENTY

The center mark on the newly recovered treasure map was the DiMartino family home, the exact place where Gina Alessi sent a little girl with a doll out to be abducted in 1960. Located in the Las Vegas Country Club at the height of kingpin Sal DiMartino’s power, it’d also been the safest neighborhood in town. And it made sense that the boys would keep some sort of record of where they’d buried the bodies . . . DiMartino could use the knowledge as leverage with his victims’ loved ones and enemies alike.

Of course, the city had grown exponentially since the drawing was made, and was now dense with tract homes in places that were once no more than a giant litter box. But some things couldn’t be moved or changed, and by tracing ever-widening circles from the axis of Sal DiMartino’s home, they tried to guesstimate where exactly the farthest end point now lay.

“The city is a bowl, hemmed in on all sides by mountain ranges. There’s no direction key on this thing, but my guess is that this is the Red Rock mountain range,” Marin said, pointing at the uppermost corner. “Blue Diamond veers east of that.”

“Which would make this the Sheep Mountains,” Grif said, pointing west. He’d returned minutes before, carting burned coffee and stale doughnuts for them all.

Gnawing thoughtfully, Kit stared without blinking. Sunrise Mountain wasn’t on the map at all, and neither was the valley’s sister city, Henderson. Back then it’d been a scattering of trailers on a two-lane road leading out to Boulder City and the ever-impressive Hoover Dam. Her father used to call it Hicksville. However, that wasn’t represented on the map, either.

“The scope is tight,” Marin said, seeing it, too.

“These are the Black Mountains,” Kit said, pointing southeast of the DiMartino home, and pulled out her smart phone to take a picture of it. If the map was lost again, she thought, at least she’d have a permanent record of it. “There’s a luxury community there now, but it had to be damned near inaccessible back in ’sixty.”

And that’s where the most prominently marked end point was.

Marin shrugged. “Well, there’s only one way to find—”

Kit’s phone trilled in her hand, causing them all to jump. It was not a jaunty rockabilly tune that had them all staring at the phone. No Elvis or Wanda Jackson or Johnny Cash to lighten the mood. Instead, this was the canned music of a tinny calypso that she’d assigned to the man who’d last threatened her in the middle of the night.

She answered it by not answering . . . just holding the phone to her ear.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Justin Allen’s voice rang with triumph.

“We already gave the files to the cops,” Kit said immediately, because he had to know this. She just hoped poor Zicaro hadn’t had to pay for it.

“We want the map,” Justin said, and Kit’s gaze shot to the yellowing paper that had been missing, and not, all these years. The one that only Zicaro knew about. She didn’t even want to think of what they’d put him through to extract that information.

“I suppose we should thank you in a way,” Justin went on. “After all, you’ve made us very desperate men. That’s why if there’s even the hint of bacon on you when we meet, we’ll put a bullet through old man Zicaro’s eyes. Right in front of you.”

Kit glanced over at Grif, knowing he could hear everything and expecting to see his jaw clenched, fury riding his brow like a storm cloud. But that was the old Grif, the one who’d been granted a second lifetime. This one had only a prophecy and—Kit looked at her watch—sixteen hours left to fulfill it. Their eyes met, and he nodded.

“When and where?” Kit finally asked, and had to wait to take down the directions until after Justin had a good, long chuckle.

The diner that Justin named had anchored the corner of Charleston and Valley View for as long as Kit could remember. It was a simple line drawing of a building, an amalgamation of every diner ever built, every diner ever filmed, every diner that ever served runny eggs and soggy bacon. A long Formica counter stretched along the right-hand side, complete with red pleather stools bolted in place and the kitchen, bright and somewhat smoky, bustling behind it. The booths lay on the left side, closest to the large picture windows, and that’s where Zicaro waited as Kit and Grif walked in.

Grif eyed Zicaro as they approached, taking the lead just slightly as Kit lagged behind, then glanced furtively over each shoulder and back again when he still didn’t see Justin or his cronies. He did see that they’d somehow managed to find Zicaro another wheelchair, and that there were no visible marks on the old man. Overall it looked as though they’d treated him well, though if the grumpy expression on his face was any indication, they’d neglected to order him breakfast after depositing him there.

“Where are your captors?” Grif asked him, nodding that Kit should go ahead and sit across from him. Grif would remain standing guard.

“I don’t know,” Zicaro admitted, and jerked his chin at the front door where they’d just entered. “They just dropped me off there, then told me to go inside and wait in the last booth.”

“Wait for what?”

One bony shoulder lifted up and down. “For you, I guess.”

That couldn’t be all, so Grif just shoved his hands into his pockets and squinted around the place, waiting for something to happen. Kit’s phone buzzed in her bag, and Grif recognized the ringtone she’d assigned to Marin, but they both ignored it in deference to the situation, and Kit pulled out the map instead.

“Is that it?” Zicaro croaked, throat obviously dry. Grif caught the attention of the waitress and motioned for her to bring water. It wouldn’t do for the old guy to get dehydrated. He could use the moisture, too. He felt dry in the pores as well as the throat. Like his body was already readying to turn back to dust. “Is that what everyone has been fighting over?”

“Do you remember my father sending you this map fourteen years ago?” Kit asked, removing the tracing paper and pushing the old cartographer’s drawing of Vegas in front of Zicaro. His eyes lit like kerosene.

“So I was right? My old story about the DiMartino and Salerno feud? My hunch about the map?”

Kit slipped the tracing paper atop the map, displayed the whole of the valley—and Sal DiMartino’s drop zones—before him. “It seems so.”

Almost reverently, Zicaro used one thick-knuckled finger to trace each drawn line, his mouth moving silently as he recited the old locations in his mind. Finally, he looked up. “Holy God. Every body buried, every dupe and stooge, is on this map.”

“And,” Kit said, pointing out the mark nearest the Black Mountains, “a little doll with two very expensive eyes.”

“Jee-zus.” Zicaro seemed to be having trouble catching his breath. “No wonder everyone wants this.”

“Yeah?” Grif said, looking around. “So then where the hell are they?”

The waitress arrived just then, carrying three waters. “You mean your friends?” she asked, having overheard the question.

She set the clear plastic glasses down on the table, then straightened and wiped her hands on her apron. “What? You’ve been standing here looking around for almost five minutes. I’d have told you sooner but they gave me a twenty and said to wait until you called me over to let you know that they left.” She raised one dark eyebrow. “Y’all need menus?”

“No,” Grif said. The waitress rolled her eyes and left.

“So, that’s it?” Kit asked, gazing up at Grif. “We’re all free to go?”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Zicaro said, and reached for the map. Kit shooed him away, and tucked it into her purse instead. Zicaro scowled, but it didn’t matter to Grif who had it. He’d memorized the lines leading to the Black Mountains the second he saw it. It was as if the Cissy doll spoke to him from within the confines of her desert grave, and why not? He’d died because of that doll. Because of diamonds he didn’t even value.

Zicaro led the way back out of the diner. It was immediately clear to Grif, even though he still looked around cautiously, that no one waited for them in the battered parking lot, either.

“Why do you think they just left the map?” Kit said, shivering against a gusting wind. Though it was early afternoon, the winter sun was thin in the sky and offered no warmth.

“I don’t even care,” Grif admitted, surprising them both, but he felt lighter somehow for saying it. “If someone wants to go digging around in the desert for treasure that doesn’t belong to them, then they can have at it.”

Because what good were jewels to a man laboring under the weight of celestial prophecy? Would they buy him more time with Kit? Would they grant him another life? He certainly couldn’t take them with him to the Everlast.

And if he did have them, he thought, staring at Kit, he’d trade them for just a few more hours with the woman he loved.

“Hey,” Kit said, leaning close to peer up into his face. “We’re still going to solve this thing, okay? You have to believe. Please, don’t give up before—”

She cut off as her phone began to ring in her hand.

She’d been about to say, Before your time is up. Yet she let it go, because neither of them needed the reminder of that.

“It’s Marin,” she said instead, flashing him the screen. “She’s been calling almost since we left her.”

“She must be worried about me,” Zicaro piped up, sitting tall.

Yet before Kit could connect, a squad car came peeling around the corner, cutting directly through the lot to screech to a stop before them. Grif pulled Kit close, placing one protective arm around her waist as both patrol doors flew open.

“Hands up!” said the officer on the passenger’s side, and he had one hand on his holstered gun, the other pointing, oddly, at Kit.

“Stokes, please,” the other man said wearily, and only then did Grif recognize Dennis. It was the expression on his face rather than the uniform that had kept Grif from doing so at first. The man usually looked at Kit with admiration, or barely disguised longing, but now his face was marred with a deep frown. “Kit. You need to come with us.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, the hand with her phone—ringing again—falling to her side.

Marin’s been calling almost since we left her.

Shit, thought Grif, looking up again.

“What’s going on here?” Zicaro asked, pushing his wheelchair toward Stokes.

“Sir, we need you to step . . . er, roll back.”

Instead, Zicaro ran over the man’s foot. “I’m not going nowhere! What the hell do you want with Ms. Craig?”

Dennis held up a hand. “We just want to—”

“Ms. Craig,” Stokes said, raising his voice to be heard over Dennis as he glared at Zicaro and moved behind Kit to take her hands. She automatically handed her phone to Grif. “You’re wanted for questioning in the murder of Gina Alessi. You have the right to refuse.”

“What?” Kit and Grif exploded at the same time that Zicaro nearly leaped from his chair.

Stokes grinned. It was the response he’d been looking for, and he put his hand on the weapon at his hip. “Or we could arrest you. Then you have the right to remain silent.”

“That’s absurd!” Zicaro went nuts, chicken neck lengthening as he yelled from left to right. “Police brutality!”

The officer shot Zicaro a warning look, but his eyes shifted to the crowd beginning to gather in the lot and then back at Zicaro. It was clear he didn’t want to be seen roughing up an old man. “Sir, back off and don’t make me tell you again. You want to come downtown, too, we can take it up there.”

Zicaro stared for a long moment, then cursed and fumbled in his sweater pocket for his own phone, grumbling about calling the real authorities.

Grif turned back to Dennis. “What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, Kit.” Dennis met her gaze, but shook his head. “But your prints were all over the place.”

“Oh, come on!” Kit whirled side to side as Stokes pulled her toward the car. “I’m the one who tipped you off about the place! And you know me! I’d never kill an old woman!”

“Yeah?” said Stokes, unmoved. “Then what about Ray DiMartino?”

“Shit.” Grif rubbed a hand over his face, and Zicaro slowly lowered his phone.

“Kit,” Dennis warned. “Don’t say any more.”

“Let’s go,” Stokes said, nudging her forward. Kit stumbled and Grif reached for her, but Dennis angled between them.

“You’re not helping her, Shaw,” Dennis said, hand on Grif’s chest. “Let her go. I’ll take care of her.”

Stokes was propelling Kit forward, even though she was gazing at Grif over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide, her face bewildered. “Call Marin back. Tell her to call our lawyer.”

A lawyer? “Kit—”

“She’s right,” Dennis said, as Stokes lowered Kit into the back of the squad car. “I’ve seen the crime scenes, both of them. She’s going to need one.”

Grif finally managed to find his voice. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to her.”

“I’m doing it for her,” Dennis growled, pushing Grif away. “I’m not the enemy here, Shaw.”

And treating him like one wasn’t going to help Kit. Grif finally nodded as Zicaro, who’d listened to the whole exchange, and wheeled up to his side, saying, “Go ahead and call Marin. I’ll head back inside and make some phone calls from there. I still have friends downtown. I’ll cash in some chips, see what I can learn.”

“Okay.” But Grif couldn’t move. Even after the squad car disappeared, he stood in the whipping wind of the old parking lot, the sky bright and wide above him. Somewhere behind that sharp baby-blue cover were stars and comets, universes expanding and dying. Beyond that, the Everlast, where winged beasts awaited his return. Beyond that, the Gates and Paradise, a place Grif was no longer sure he’d ever see.

Glancing down, Grif squinted at his watch. Speaking of seeing, he was suddenly having trouble differentiating the large hand from the small.

You’ll start having problems with your five senses, one at a time at first, but they’ll all worsen.

Blinking hard, he finally made out the time. Two in the afternoon. Only fourteen hours left until the anniversary of his death. He dizzied at the thought, but not because he was growing weaker. The thought of spending his last hours on this mudflat without Kit by his side exhausted him, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself to dial the last known caller on Kit’s phone.

“Marin,” he said when she answered, though he had to stop to clear his throat. He should have drank the water the waitress had brought. His mouth had gone completely dry.

“Where’s Kit?” was all she said, and he could tell that she already knew. Out of courtesy, Dennis had probably called her first.

“She’s being set up,” he told her.

“I know,” Marin said, and for once he was glad for her curt disposition. “Dennis already called me. I’m headed down to the station now, but you need to go to the Sunset Retirement Community. Now.”

“Why?” He could see no reason, but that didn’t keep nerves from tunneling through his stomach.

“Because the authorities have spent the last couple of days interviewing the residents. It’s taken some time. It’s . . . hard. There’s dementia to deal with, and the elderly don’t like upheaval, as a rule.”

“So?” Grif asked. He didn’t see what any of it had to do with him anymore. They’d uncovered the trust-fund fraud. They knew why the staff had questioned Zicaro and held him against his will, as well as why Barbara had visited him.

Barbara, he thought, mind shooting off in that direction. She was behind this. First him and Evie, now Kit . . .

“Grif!”

He realized it was the fourth time Marin had said his name. He shook his head. “What?”

“I got a hold of the county official in charge of the fraud investigation this morning and convinced him to let me speak to the new health services director. Grif, I asked her about Gina Alessi. She’s been living at Sunset the whole time. Years. Room 330. Suffers from Alzheimer’s. No family. They say that the staffing change has been especially hard on her these past few days.”

“But Gina Alessi is dead,” he began, but in the back of his mind he heard, She wants it all.

She . . . a woman who had a knack for hiding in plain sight. “Barbara,” he whispered.

“What?” Marin said, before an exasperated sigh came over the line. “No. Grif, that’s what I’m trying to say. The woman in room 330 isn’t Gina Alessi or Barbara McCoy.” She hesitated, and Grif felt himself go dizzy in the wide silence. “She says that her name is Evelyn Shaw.”