She descended the two flights of stairs to the ground floor. Only the reception desk stood between them and the front door. She paused at the corner and again listened; she heard no one. Bert, the grandfather moonlighting as the night-shift security guard, would be grabbing a soda and gabbing with the nurses in the break room. She took a deep breath and darted around the corner, past the desk, and over to St. Aloysius. But she did not stop and look into his eyes this time; she could not bear to see his disappointment. She only said, "Goodbye, Luigi," then carried the child out the front doors and through the thick snow to the Jeep 4x4 in the parking lot. She opened the back door and laid her on the seat. The child stirred.

"Mommy?"

She stroked the child's face.

"Shhh. Everything's going to be okay now, honey. No more tests."

The child smiled in her sleep.

She secured her daughter with a seat belt, then climbed into the driver's seat. She started the engine, shifted into gear, and drove off into the dark night.

They were free.

THREE YEARS LATER

ONE

Andy Prescott told his mother he went to church every Sunday morning. He lied. He never went to church on any morning. And that Sunday morning he was sure as hell not in church, at least not the Baptist or Catholic version of church. He was in the Austin version of church: the out of doors. Austinites worship nature.

"You're insane, Andy!"

True. But then, a certain degree of insanity was part of the job description for a hammerhead. Point of fact, you had to be freaking nuts to ride a mountain bike at these speeds over a single-track hacked out of the wilderness and teetering on the edge of a steep ravine with nothing but a foam-padded plastic crash helmet standing between you and organ donor status. Nobody in his right mind would do such a thing.