The Methodist Hospital of Sacramento opened its doors during visiting hours to the tall man in a sports coat who walked purposefully to the elevator. At the third-floor nurses' station, Patrick Jane was told that Isabelle Gallegos was not only awake but had also been released from critical condition. The door to her room was open, and he found Isabelle sitting up in bed and talking with an attractive, middle-aged woman.

Jane smiled and introduced himself. Isabelle's visitor gave her name as Suzanne Twilley.

"I'm sure Mr. Jane has some official business to discuss with you, Isabelle. I'll go get some coffee downstairs, OK?"

"Gracias, Mrs. Twilley."

Jane stood by and watched the interaction between the two. Suzanne patted him warmly on the arm as she exited. After she had exited, Jane said, "Isn't she your pastor's wife?"

Isabelle nodded, wincing at the effort. "They have been very good to me. She wants me to live with them for a while until I get on my feet."

"Their church isn't Catholic, is it?"

Confused, Isabelle mouthed a "no."

"I suppose I was wondering why they were so eager to help," Jane observed.

"It didn't seem to matter to them when I came to the soup kitchen for the first time."

Jane gazed out the hospital window momentarily, then turned back. He studied the young woman lying there, body still bearing the bruises from her ordeal, and he felt his fists clench involuntarily.

"The other police officer, Mr. Cho," Isabelle said. "He told me that Pastor Twilley talked to you."

Jane nodded. It took a moment before he could speak without his voice cracking. It was Isabelle Gallegos, a South American immigrant, in the room with him, but his brilliant mind was playing tricks. The image of a strawberry blonde woman with brown eyes appeared, and he whispered a name.

"Who is Angela?"

The spell was broken.

"Just someone from my past," Jane answered, shaking his head. "Anyway, your pastor friend played an important part in the investigation. He confirmed what we needed to know about D'Alesandro."

"And you're wondering why."

The male voice at the door caught Jane and Gallegos' attention. Pastor Byrd Twilley, dressed casually in a white Polo shirt and jeans, stepped inside and greeted them.

To Isabelle, Jane said, "The CBI will stay in touch if you need anything." As he brushed past Twilley, he said, "I'll leave you two in peace."

Jane wandered down to the first-floor lobby and was fishing for money to put in a coffee machine when he heard Twilley's voice calling to him. "Patrick? I wanted to thank you for all the work you put into the case."

"How long have you known about D'Alesandro?"

"I suspected," Twilley said, "given his healthy sense of entitlement."

"A member of your own church?"

"It's not unheard of for bad people to donate to charities, go to church or support certain political causes, all as a cover. Look in the Bible, Patrick. Twelve disciples. Even from that small flock, one of them betrayed their master." The pastor frowned in thought. "My theology doesn't ignore the truth that we live in a fallen world."

Jane reached into the machine for his paper cup and took a sip. "D'Alesandro could make a lot of trouble for you. Why take the risk?"

"I could ask you the same question, Patrick."

Twilley inserted his own money into the machine and withdrew a cup. "Since my Army days, I've always taken it black."

The two men stood in the lobby for a long moment, pretending that their coffee was important while they sized each other up in silence. The moment passed, and Jane opened his hand toward Twilley. "Why do you believe in God?"

Twilley pursed his lips. "You ask a serious question, Patrick. Do you want a serious answer?"

"The world is filled with belief systems," Jane said. "Some are built on the idea of a deity, others say you work toward a sense of enlightenment and reach a higher plane in the next life. Who is right?"

The pastor leaned back against the wall. "Given your skepticism, I'm sure you belong in a whole other camp. Many people dismiss the idea of gods and belief systems altogether. Perhaps you're one of those minds who say that we are all the product of chance. Cosmic accidents, floating in an otherwise indifferent universe."

Jane sipped his drink and waited.

"Patrick, I don't for a second believe that you went after millionaire Howard D'Alesandro just because it's your job. How many other people, who are sworn to uphold the law as part of their jobs, were ready to take Howard at his word that he was donating his time at the soup kitchen when Isabelle was attacked? You put your own livelihood at risk to go after him. It wasn't about upholding the law. That's a paycheck. It's about justice with you. I saw you a moment ago, when you were watching over Isabelle. The fire that burned in the Old Testament prophets is in your eyes."

Jane opened his mouth, but Twilley continued.

"Before you scoff, let me just ask: Does a product of chance, floating in an otherwise indifferent universe, really care about justice?"

"Our shared survival as a species," Jane said quietly, "hinges on protecting each other."

"Ah," Twilley said. "Play devil's advocate … as if the devil needs more advocates. He's doing pretty well for himself, he doesn't need more help in this world, Patrick. In the great scheme of things, does a poor immigrant girl like Isabelle Gallegos matter to the, uh, survival of the whole species? To put it all too frankly, no. She's just one hurting child, hardly worth the effort in the great economy of human affairs.

"Patrick, you're burning to punish Howard D'Alesandro because it's the right thing to do. You want to protect Isabelle for the same reason."

Jane laughed mockingly to break the tension. "You know so much about me."

"Actually, just a little. I know what was taken away from you. Angela, Charlotte Anne."

"God told you all this?"

Now Twilley laughed.

"I have the Internet," the pastor said, patting Jane's arm in a fatherly gesture. "I couldn't help doing a little research." Twilley drained the last sip of his coffee. "Your daughter was innocent, and yet she was murdered. There are others who have a son."

Even though his cup was still half full, Jane stepped away and dropped it in a nearby trash can in the corner. When he turned back to the pastor, the smile on his face didn't touch his eyes.

"While this conversation has been illuminating," he said, with a theatrical shrug, "I need to cut it short and get back to the CBI." Gesturing upward, Jane said, "For whatever reasons, Isabelle trusts you and your wife. Don't let her down."

The pastor nodded wearily.

Twilley moved toward the elevator and tapped in the button for the third floor. Jane was walking toward the exit. The pastor, standing there, noticed that the other man paused once, glanced back over his shoulder, as if he might return. Perhaps there was some nagging question still bothering him.

A second later, Jane had moved on.

The sliding doors zipped close.

The night enveloped him.