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apparently passed the time, to deprive her of sleep. If she tried to nod off, one of her unseen captors would enter the room and slap her until she cried out and blood ran from her split lips. But no one spoke to her, or asked her any questions.
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    Her mind seemed lost in a fog so she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it when she sensed another presence in the room. She had not heard the door open or the sound of footsteps. But then she felt enveloped as though in a warm blanket and a sense of calm descended on her. Even though her eyes were covered and her brain addled by lack of sleep, dehydration, and grief she knew who it was. “St. Teresa,” she whispered.
    Ever since she was a child, in times of stress or danger Lucy had experienced what, for lack of a better word, were “visitations” from a woman dressed in a blue hooded robe, St. Teresa of Avila, a sixteenth-century martyr. The apparition had a kind face, and she was pretty and Spanish and full of grace, and would appear to warn Lucy of impending menaces, or counsel her through perilous events, or simply comfort her in times of great need. As a child, Lucy had simply accepted the presence as her guardian spirit. As a young woman, she wondered if the psychologists she talked to were right and that the manifestation was simply a psychological coping mechanism. But in her heart she knew that St. Teresa was as real as sunlight, if just as difficult to hold.
    It had been years since the saint had appeared, even though Lucy had certainly experienced stressful, dangerous times. She wondered if that was because she’d outgrown the need for such help. But now she appeared again and Lucy realized that the last time she’d seen her, Al-Sistani had been in New York to set into motion his evil plan.
    â€œShhhh, child,” whispered the familiar voice in her ear. “Don’t let them hear you.”
    â€œI’m afraid.”
    â€œThough you walk through the valley of the shadow of death, fear no evil: for He is with you.”
    â€œI’m heartbroken.”
    â€œâ€Šâ€˜Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you; he will never let the righteous fall.’ Now you must put your fear and grief aside. Are you ready? Have you prepared yourself for what’s ahead?”
    â€œNed,” Lucy croaked. “What happened to Ned?”
    â€œHe’s in the hands of God now, and no longer your concern.”
    â€œNo . . . please.”
    â€œLucy! Focus! It’s important that you listen, remember, and survive what’s to come.”
    â€œPlease forgive me, St. Teresa, but I don’t want to survive. If he’s gone, there’s no point.”
    â€œWhere there’s life there’s hope, child. There is not much time, HE is coming. Listen, what do you hear?”
    â€œNothing. I hear nothing, only the sound of my wounded heart.”
    â€œYou must listen beyond yourself. Someday it will be important. What do you hear?”
    Lucy stopped talking and was still. At first she didn’t know what she was listening for, but then she heard a voice somewhere far above her. “I hear the muezzin calling the faithful to evening prayers,” she said. “I’m in a mosque! The basement of a mosque!”
    â€œExcellent, my child. Do you hear the guards praying outside your door?”
    Again Lucy grew still, and what had been an indistinguishablemumbling became words. “They are from Dagestan. And seagulls! I hear seagulls! We’re near the Caspian Sea. The music they were playing included a linginka, a Dagestani folk song. We are in Dagestan!”
    â€œKeep listening, child, remember, and then be prepared when the moment comes.” Lucy felt a light touch on her cheek as though the apparition had brushed her with her lips. “Be strong. He will neither fail nor abandon you,” the saint said just as the door opened.
    A hand