"I'll do what I can," Catherine promised. "First, you should know that we've found Daria." Helena's left hand went to her mouth. "She's alive,' Catherine added quickly, before the old woman could misinterpret. "She's at Desert Palm Hospital. A crime scene investigator found her out in the desert and suffering from exposure, as well as the… the condition that has affected both of you. But now that the doctors know the real source of that condition, they're confident they'll be able to help her. And you, too, Mrs. Cameron. They should be able to get you back to normal."
"I… I don't understand."
"You've been poisoned, Mrs. Cameron. Probably slowly, over a period of time. You're not sick, you and Daria didn't catch the same virus or anything. You're being poisoned, and now that we know what it is, all we have to do is cut off the source and treat it, and you'll be fine."
"That's good news," Stilton said. "If it's true. Although I'm not sure how that could have -"
"It's definitely true, Mr. Stilton," Sam said.
"Oh, thank God," Gottlieb said. He leaned against wall as if his knees had lost their structural integrity. "Thank you, Supervisor Willows."
"When can I see her? Daria?" Helena asked.
"Very soon, as soon as she's stabilized."
"Was she found at a crime scene?" Stilton asked. "You said she was found by a crime scene investigator."
"She was." Catherine answered. "Not the scene of a recent crime but a crime scene just the same. Our investigator followed some directions found among Troy's possessions, and they led him to a cave out in the desert, walled off with rocks. Inside the cave, he found Daria, alive, and someone else – your husband, Mrs. Cameron. Long dead but almost certainly him."
"He… found Bix?"
"That's utterly impossible," Stilton said. "His body would have decomposed after all these years. How could he know?"
"We don't know precisely when he died," Catherine countered. "Only when he disappeared. But in fact, his body was mummified by the dry air and protected by the cave. It's on its way back to our lab to be CT-scanned and DNA-tested. We'll get a positive identification, and I'm sure that will tell us exactly what happened to him."
"That's simply remarkable," Gottlieb said. "You people really are good at your jobs."
"We try to be. There's one more thing, though."
"What now?" Stilton asked. All the news so far hadn't changed his attitude, which was antagonistic. Every word he spat at them was some sort of challenge. "You haven't thrown enough surprises at poor Helena for one day?"
Sam Vega took this one. "Maybe not," he said. "We're pretty sure that when your husband's body is scanned, ma'am, it will turn out that he was shot. Probably with the same weapon that was originally used on your son. Our working theory is that the same person shot them both and left them to die in the desert. But Troy survived, sealed up his father's body with stones in that cave, then made his way back to the city, noting the landmarks along the way. Because of the brain damage he had suffered as a result of that gunshot wound, by the time he reached the city, he didn't remember where the landmarks led, but he never forgot that the destination was an important one. Over all these years, he kept recopying the directions to make sure he never lost them."
"This is all quite remarkable," Stilton said, almost echoing Gottlieb's words and tone but with an undercurrent of impatience. "But if you'll excuse us now, I think Mrs. Cameron could use some time to take this in and process it."
"Now, Craig -" Helena began, but he cut her off with a wave.
"Helena, please, let me take care of you."
"There is one more thing," Sam said, drawing the warrant from his pocket. He pointedly dodged Stilton and handed it to Helena, who then turned it over to Stilton without so much as a glance at it. But at least she had held it in her hand. "That's a warrant to search these premises."
"Searching for what?" Stilton asked.
"Specifically, we'd like to look through Mr. McCann's gun collection."
"Why?" McCann demanded. It was the first word he'd uttered since they had arrived. "You already have the gun I accidentally shot Troy with."
Catherine noted his emphasis on the word accidentally. She didn't doubt the basic truth of his story, and the surveillance video backed it up. But his word choice was strange. She didn't think the shooting was an accident, just that he didn't know the victim's identity. Even then, because there was no way McCann could have known, he wasn't being blamed. Not even by the victim's mother, it seemed. Still, he sounded as if someone was accusing him. "We have our reasons, Mr. McCann," she said.
"Very well," Stilton said. "I suppose there's not much we could do to stop you, even if we had something to hide."
"Which we don't," Helena added.
McCann started toward the door. "My suite is this way," he said. "Come with me."
"You wait here, Helena," Stilton said. "Dustin, stay with her. I'm sure we won't be long."
Helena and Goltlieb stayed put, while Catherine and Sam accompanied McCann and Stilton. McCann led them through the house, outside, and then back in through his private entrance in back. Catherine eyed the tennis court and wondered how long it had been since Helena had played. Maybe not since her husband's disappearance or earlier.
McCann's suite was tidy, but it was obviously a bachelor's lair. Electronics dominated the front room – a bank of video monitors, a large plasma TV, a state-of-the-art audio system. A bookcase held only a handful of books but showcased a number of sports trophies proclaiming his achievements in football, baseball, shooting, and track. Car and sports magazines were fanned out on a coffee table. It almost looked posed, a set for a men's fashion spread. Catherine wondered if he had decorated it himself or if Helena had brought a professional in to design the suite somebody thought McCann should have.
"The guns are back here," he said.
A short, wide hallway separated his living area from his bedroom. One wall of the hallway had been fitted out as a gun cabinet – long guns on racks chest high and above, handguns below, and closed cabinets that probably contained supplies and ammunition below that. It wasn't locked, but then he probably rarely had children in there, if ever, and he was no doubt fairly confident about the estate's security.
"That's everything," he said. "If I knew what you were looking for, maybe I could help."
"If it's here, we'll find it," Sam said. "Why don't you two sit down while we look?"
"We'll stay right here," McCann insisted.
"As long as you're out of the way," Sam said.
Catherine had pulled on latex gloves and was already looking at the handguns. McCann must have had thirty of them, of different calibers and ages, and nearly as many rifles and shotguns. "This is quite a collection," she said.
"Some of the pieces I inherited from my father," McCann explained. "He had a large collection, and when he died, it was split between me and my older brothers. Obviously, I don't use the older ones in my work, but I like to keep them around."
Sam pointed at one of the older revolvers, a.45 with a wooden grip. "That's a beauty," he said.
"That's one of my first pistols," McCann said. "I try to get them all out on the range at least once a year, to keep them in working order, and that one has always been a great weapon. Accurate and dependable."
"Smith and Wesson," Sam said.