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dumpster across the alley, she squeezed in and began to burrow into the debris and rotting garbage like a mole, or more accurately, she had to admit, like a maggot. She was still working her way toward the bottom when she caught the sound of a car rolling up next to the dumpster.
    She held her breath, suspended there in a cocoon of muck. A car door clicked open. The scuffing of footsteps, then silence. More footsteps. Finally, a door slammed, followed by the sound of a car in reverse, but not before a man said, “You little bastard,” in a voice ringing with rage and frustration.

Chapter Three
    Kelly
    Kelly lost track of time. Her leg and her elbow were throbbing in a bass drum duet, and dumpster juices were soaking through her clothes. She had heard the killer’s car pull out from the alley onto Everett before the sound quickly faded into the night. Did he really leave? Or, was he out there somewhere waiting for her? It didn’t matter. She had to get out of the dumpster.
    But it was easier said than done. Dumpster diving, it turned out, was a lot easier than dumpster surfacing. When she finally made it to the top of the debris and pushed on the heavy lid, it hardly budged. That’s when she realized how weak she was, how utterly spent, and she couldn’t muffle her cry of pain this time, when the lid scraped her wounded leg as she wriggled free and dropped, arms extended, to the alleyway.
    There was only one way out of the alley, and it was half lit by a street light. More than anything in the world Kelly wanted to run for it. But what about the woman lying on the other side of the building? What if she were still alive? She couldn’t just leave her there.
    She moved along the alley, staying in the shadows, and when she turned the corner of the building, crawled on her hands and knees to the base of an ornamental tree. From there, in deep shadow, she could see maybe a half block in either direction. The street looked deserted. She watched for a long time. Nothing stirred. She wondered if the killer would dare hang around and decided he probably wouldn’t chance it.
    Kelly hobbled around the building. Maybe the woman’s not there, she told herself. But she was. You have to know how to check your pulse, her dad had told her, so you can pace yourself when you’re climbing. The woman lay on her back, her right arm thrust out like she was waving to someone, her left curled across her chest. Kelly kept her eyes averted from the dark patch surrounding the woman’s head as she grasped the underside of her limp wrist between a thumb and two fingers. No pulse. Holding her breath as her heart battered her ribs, she moved in and checked for a pulse in the woman’s neck. Nothing.
    She stood up too fast and fought off a wave of vertigo. Where to go? She couldn’t go home. Too far. Rupert. She had to find her friend, Rupert. He’d know what to do.
    She started down Everett toward the river. Everything about Rupert was shrouded in mystery and whacky rumors, but one thing was certain—the kids on the street knew they could trust him. That was saying a lot because trusted adults were in short supply with the kids Kelly hung out with. One rumor had it that Rupert was a wanted fugitive who was using homelessness as cover. In another story, he’d been banished from the Umatilla Reservation for some terrible crime. Kelly figured it was the latter, since Rupert, with his fierce eyes, leathery skin, and shoulder-length silver hair, reminded her of the picture of a chief—Geronimo, maybe—she’d seen in a history book. But when Kelly had asked him about this, he’d just smiled and shook his head.
    She found Rupert under the Burnside Bridge, propped against a wall, reading a paperback with a flashlight. He shined the beam on her as she approached. “Kelly? Is that you, child? Are you okay?”
    â€œNo. I’m not, Rupert.” Then Kelly did something she