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protection.”
    “Owen Bramley,” I said. “We should get to Owen as soon as possible—for the boy, for everyone. Let’s find Willie. He can get us to Carolina’s and Owen will know how to keep this among ourselves.”
    I picked up a spare blanket from one of the seats and wrapped the dead child in it, then draped another blanket over the bodies of Unai and Usoa.
    Opari held the boy in her arms. He was nothing but skin and bones, one of the poorest of all the orphans on the Orphan Train. She led the way out, but turned once and asked me a question. “Is this the way he usually does it?”
    “Yes,” I said. I could see the Fleur-du-Mal’s face, his smile. “Yes.”
         
    Eight days later, on the twentieth of May, I was back at Sportsman’s Park. The Cardinals were out of town and the Browns were taking on the Boston Red Sox. It was Carolina who talked me into going. I had been extremely morose and moody, angry and defensive, abusive to everyone for the whole week after we found Unai and Usoa. They were Egizahar Meq, friends of my own mama and papa, and had crossed in the Zeharkatu for one reason only—to be happy. They had lived long, fruitful lives, only to die in delusion and madness, betrayed by one of their own. I could not reconcile it or place it anywhere in my mind, and Opari, my Ameq, could not console me, though she tried in every way possible. I also feared greatly for the baby Caine. The Fleur-du-Mal’s obsessions were too close once again, and who knows what he had in mind for tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.
    Owen Bramley had, indeed, taken care of all loose ends, including the police and the newspapers. The murders, the death of the child, and the discovery of the orphan boy were never mentioned in the news or in a police report. Carolina had requested to be the orphan boy’s guardian for as long as he liked, and he was to live in the big house, in Georgia’s piano room if need be, whatever it took to keep him from returning to the Orphan Train. The boy was mute, as Carolina’s sister Georgia had been, and whether the boy’s condition was from the trauma of events, or illness, or even a genetic defect, Carolina didn’t know or care—the boy was staying in St. Louis with her. Owen Bramley understood there would be no changing her mind and handled all the details involved. I thanked Owen and told him I was impressed with his “network” of people, information, and political clout. I also mentioned to him that he reminded me a little of Solomon with his talent for getting things done, one way or another. He replied, “Where do you think I learned, Z?”
    Carolina finally got tired of my continued ill temper and gave me no choice. She said constant worry and expecting the worst at every moment was not healthy, not for me and not for her family. She insisted Opari and I accompany her, along with Jack, to Sportsman’s Park. “Baseball is the answer,” she said, and off we went.
    We sat in Carolina’s box seats, three rows back from the field and just beyond the dugout on the first base side. They were great seats and foul balls were a common occurrence, making Opari wonder about the intelligence of sitting so close to the action. “That’s part of the thrill,” I said. “Wait until you catch one.”
    On the mound for the Boston Red Sox was a big, lanky left-hander and he had good stuff. Dave Davenport was pitching for the Browns. It was a perfect day for baseball, sunny and warm, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the murders. Why had Unai and Usoa been duped and used in such a complex manner, then killed without mercy? It seemed unnecessary and arcane, even for the Fleur-du-Mal. It was as if they had been delivered to us, almost at the moment of death. What kind of a message was it? And again, the same question—why?
    There was one thing I had resolved to take care of myself. Unai and Usoa must be given some dignity and shown respect for their long, long lives. I was the