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maintain my cover； too。 I have to get that story first。”
Vanessa studied him for a long moment。 “One of the four bodies in Oakland belongs to a
comrade。 So hurry there。 Ask questions。 Be sure to ask if anything is missing from the truck。 But
be very discreet or the police will be asking you questions。”
San Francisco
4 Hours 16 Minutes After Trinity
Ana backed the flower truck into a small； ramshackle structure that served both as garage and
warehouse to the Fragrant Petal flower shop。 As always； she winced at the crude translation of
the shop’s name。 English conveyed none of the subtle and complex resonances of transience；
death and rebirth that were implicit in the ideograph it purported to represent。
But then； perhaps the translation was more truthful because of its limitations。 Death no longer
seemed either subtle or complex； merely brutal and revolting。
Ana hurried from the truck to the garage doors。 The alley had been empty when she entered it。 It
was still empty when she dragged shut the canted wooden doors of the garage。 The gloom inside
was both tangible and oddly reassuring。 Darkness would blur the reality in the back of the van；
making easier what she must do。
Ana opened the back of the van。 “Refugio？”
The answer was more groan than word。 Ana hesitated； trembling suddenly。 The strength that
fear had given her was gone； but Refugio was still there； wounded。 With a shaking hand； she
switched on the garage’s interior light。
She saw Refugio lying in the back of the truck； his body bisected by a wedge of light。 The pure
crimson covering his leg would have been beautiful had it been anything but blood。 Beyond the
light was his face； invisible。
Ana swayed； her knuckles white against her lips。
“Easy； chica；” said Refugio。 “It is much better than it looks。” He tried to smile and nearly
succeeded。 “It is not my first wound； or my worst。” His abrupt laugh startled her。 “Or my last；
please God。”
Painfully； Refugio eased himself around until he was in a sitting position with his legs dangling
over the truck。 “Okay； chica。 Help me inside。”
He held himself erect； breathing rapidly； his face pale with nausea； more nausea than he had
anticipated。 For an instant he wondered if Masarek had used poison on his bullets。
Ana waited； color slowly returning to her face。 She knew she must help Refugio。 If he died；
leaving her alone in the fragrant shambles of her childhood； all this would be for nothing。
Page 82
“Wait。”
Ana ran to the shop door that led from the garage to the living quarters in back of the store。 The
smell of bruised petals and crushed stems was everywhere； heightened by the damp air。 Ana
shuddered； hating the odor and the childhood it recalled。
The door was unlocked and painted a bright pink that clashed with her memories。 Her father
would never have permitted such a garish color to intrude upon the serenity of his household。
But her father was in a prison camp called Manzanar； and the shop had been sold to Refugio’s
cousins for a fraction of its worth。
There were other changes inside。 Colors that offended her； floors that were crusted with the
sediment of a different culture； startling pictures of improbable bulls and glittering bullfighters
painted on black velvet。 There were religious paintings of an impaled Christ and a smiling
Madonna。
One bed remained。 It was used as an informal couch； covered by a rainbow serape。 Ana yanked
off the blanket and threw it on the floor。
She turned and ran back to the truck。 Refugio was standing； holding on to one of the van doors
and swearing with a fervency that most men reserved for prayer。 Ana pulled his arm over her
shoulder； substituting her support for that of the door。
After a few awkward attempts； Ana and Refugio learned to gauge the other’s weakness and
strength。 A moment later； Refugio was stretched out on the bed； groaning with relief。 He felt
feverish； which he expected。 The intensity of his nausea； however； worried him。 Sweating
suddenly； he fought the urge to vomit。
Ana saw Refugio’s convulsive swallowing and guessed its cause。 She grabbed an empty flower
pail and shoved it under his nose。 When he was finished； she went to the bathroom； emptied the
pail； then set it by the bed。
“Thanks；” said Refugio； wiping his face on the wet cloth she had given him。 “It is only a little
wound。The pain is not so bad； now。”
“Good；” said Ana； her jaw set； “because we have to clean your leg。”
“Yes；” sighed Refugio； letting his head drop back onto the thin mattress。 He took his knife out
of its belt sheath。 “Can you do it or do you want me to？”
Secretly； Ana had been hoping that he would refuse her help。 Without a word； she took the knife
from Refugio’s cold fingers； sliced through his pant leg； and peeled away the bloody cloth。
The wound was a scarlet furrow gouged across the meaty top of Refugio’s thigh。 Though bloody
and undoubtedly painful； the wound was obviously not a serious one。
Refugio saw the relief in Ana’s face。 “It’s as I told you。 A small thing； not to be worried about。”
Ana’s smile was so brief that Refugio missed it。 He closed his eyes and lay passively beneath her
hands。 She was surprisingly deft。 Within a very few minutes； Refugio’s leg was clean and the
wound gently bathed。
Even so； the pain made Refugio sweat。
“All I could find to disinfect the wound is alcohol；” said Ana。
“Good；” Refugio said； clenching his teeth。 “Do it。”
When the alcohol washed over raw flesh； Refugio convulsed with pain。 Ana forced herself to
finish； then went into the bathroom and vomited until she had nothing left in her but a numb
desire to wake from the nightmare of the last hour。
There was no awakening。 When she went back to the room； Refugio was still there； throwing up
into the tin pail。 When he was finished； she bound his leg in strips of the only clean sheet she
could find。 Then she went back to the bathroom。 She was gone a long time。
Refugio did not open his eyes when Ana returned。
“The worst is over； chica。 The wound will scab and the leg will be stiff； and I will limp around
for a few days like Ridgewalker。”
“When will your cousin be here to open the shop？”
“Before noon。”
Page 83
Refugio squinted up at Ana； realizing that there was something different about her。 Then he saw
that now she wore her hair ratted and tousled around her face。 She had put on dark makeup
instead of her customary rice powder。 Wedges of black at the outer corners of each eye
disguised their Oriental slant； and a stripe of blue subdued their epicanthic fold。 Bright lipstick
thickened the line of her lips。 The total effect was more Mexican than Japanese； although a close
inspection revealed the delicate bones of her face。
“Good；” said Refugio approvingly。 “Even your own father would have to look again to be sure
that he saw you。” His eyes traveled over her again。 “Very pretty。 Why do you not do this in
Mexico？”
Ana thought she looked like a two…peso whore； but did not say so。 At least she would not be
recognized by any of her former San Francisco neighbors。 She looked at her watch。 Not yet nine
o’clock。
She knew she should call Takagura Omi； but could not face it yet。 She was afraid that he would
tell her Kestrel could not come。 Then she would have to drive the length of California alone – a
fugitive Japanese girl with a wounded Mexican murderer and two canvas sacks whose contents
had already cost several lives。
Ana looked again at her watch； knowing she must call soon。
“What will you do if he does not come？” said Refugio； his dark eyes shrewd in spite of his pain。
He knew Kestrel did not trust him。 He did not resent it。 He respected the Japanese spy’s
pragmatism。 “Did he leave the money with you？”
“No。”
Refugio smiled。 “Don’t feel bad。 He didn’t trust me； either。 But that doesn’t answer my first
question。 What do we do if he doesn’t come？”
“We get back in the truck and drive to the tunnel；” said Ana。 “Kestrel left sealed instructions
with Takagura Omi。 Don’t worry – you’ll get paid。”
Ana emphasized Takagura’s name； reminding Refugio that should he cross Kestrel； Takagura
could make Refugio’s life a preview of hell。 Takagura’s wealth and power extended far beyond
Barrio Chino。
“It’s you who should not worry；” said Refugio； smiling invitingly。 “If Kestrel does not come； I
will take care of you。”
“He’ll come；” said Ana fiercely。
San Francisco
4 Hours 31 Minutes After Trinity
Finn and Riley were parked on a hill overlooking San Francisco。 The view was interrupted by
streamers of fog stirred by a fitful wind。 Toward Oakland the fog was dense； white and opaque。
On the Berkeley hilltops it was as fine as gossamer； brilliantly backlighted by the hidden sun。
Although Finn had driven to the hilltop for the radio reception rather than the view； he
appreciated the elegance of the white city swathed in mist； and at the same time could not help
wondering where in all those teeming streets was Good Luck laundry truck number 7。 The two
men listened to reports emanating from across the city； including； finally； a report from
Coughlan。 His voice was harsh with static and exasperation。
“Trucks 1； 3； 4； 8 and 9 accounted for。 They sme