When had he last slept well? Jonah wondered. He couldn’t remember. . . .

“Jonah.”

Jonah startled awake. “What?”

“I’m finding a Tyler Greenwood, a musician who was in and out of a number of rock-and-roll and blues bands,” Kenzie said. “He was based in Memphis. Here’s a photo from, um, fifteen years ago.”

Jonah leaned toward the screen. It was a promotional photo for a rock-and-roll band. Tyler Greenwood had a bass guitar resting on his hip, the head pointed toward the floor. He looked to be twenty-something, handsome. Probably biracial.

“He continued to show up in records here in the States until about ten years ago. He must have gone back and forth to the commune, if it’s the same man.”

“Nothing since the massacre, then,” Jonah said, his heart sinking.

“Don’t give up yet,” Kenzie said. “Harry. Search Tennessee vital records.”

The next thing Jonah knew, Kenzie was crowing.

“What?” Jonah rubbed his eyes.

“Tyler Greenwood was married to someone named Gwyneth Hart,” Kenzie said. “What do you think of that?”

“Really? How do you know?”

“It was in the vital records. Here’s a newspaper article.” Kenzie turned the display so Jonah could see it.

It was from the society pages of a community newspaper. Garrett and Samantha Hart of Shaker Heights and Miami Beach held a reception to celebrate the marriage of their daughter, Gwyneth Marie, to Tyler Greenwood, of Memphis. The couple married in a private ceremony. Ms. Hart coordinates humanitarian projects. Mr. Greenwood is a professional musician.

And there they were—the handsome young musician from the band photo and the tawny-haired beauty from the party. The photo was taken at a club in Memphis.

“Search the work records for Gwyneth Hart and Gwyneth Greenwood,” Jonah suggested.

Kenzie did as asked. She wasn’t there.

“So Tyler Greenwood went to Thorn Hill. But Gwyneth Hart didn’t,” Kenzie concluded. “Maybe Tyler Greenwood is our man. But he’s disappeared.”

“If he was involved in the poisoning, then he had a reason to disappear,” Jonah said. He yawned and stretched. Kenzie didn’t reply. He was frowning at the display.

“I have a Tyler Greenwood, listed as a son of a Sonny Lee Greenwood, recently deceased in Memphis.”

That brought Jonah sharply awake. “What? Let me see that.”

It was a newspaper story, dated mid-July, headlined Beale Street mourns Local Luthier. Displayed beneath the head line was an undated photograph of four musicians jamming at what was identified as a local blues club.

According to the article, Sonny Lee Greenwood, musician and builder of custom guitars, had died from a fall in his shop. Some of his friends suspected foul play, but the police had found no proof of that. His only son, Tyler Greenwood, was listed in the death notice as having predeceased Sonny Lee. One unnamed granddaughter survived.

“I guess that settles that,” Jonah said.

Kenzie shook his head. “It doesn’t smell right. If Tyler Greenwood had a surviving father and a daughter, he wouldn’t have just disappeared from the records when he died. There’d be an obituary, and paperwork. If there’s a daughter, she’d be getting Social Security death benefits, and like that.”

“How do you know this stuff ?” Jonah asked.

Kenzie flashed him a smile. “Mind if I dig deeper on this?” he asked. “I’ve got time.”

“Be my guest,” Jonah said, trying to keep a spark of hope alive.

Kenzie found a handful of other news stories, mostly summaries of the elder Greenwood’s life and contribution to the music scene. Kenzie surfaced a bit of video from a Memphis television station, apparently taken at Greenwood’s funeral. The reporter spoke with several blues musicians who had attended the wake. No family was mentioned.

Kenzie searched for the Harts, and found that they’d been killed in a private plane crash in Belize years ago.

“People around Tyler Greenwood are dropping like flies,” Jonah murmured.

“Here’s something,” Kenzie said. “Somebody put up a tribute site for Sonny Lee Greenwood and posted a message saying that his business, Studio Greenwood, had relocated out of state. There’s a link to a Web page . . . see?”

It was a simple page with a few images of gorgeous custom guitars and testimonials from customers.

There was an e-mail address but no street address.

“How could his business have relocated if he’s dead?” Jonah said.

“Maybe he had a partner.” Kenzie scooted back in his chair. “Here, send an e-mail.”

Jonah bypassed Harry, clicked on the link, and typed, What would it cost to reset the frets on a vintage Yamaha acoustic? Where are you located? Can you send me your street address so I can map it? Do you have standard hours?

Though it was four in the morning, the answer came back promptly, listing the price estimate (subject to change) I’m in Cleveland Heights. We can meet at the Innovation Center at the Library. Evenings and weekends are best. Give me at least a day’s notice and bring the guitar with you. And it listed the address of the library.

“Cleveland Heights!” Jonah swiveled to look at Kenzie. “It’s moved to Cleveland Heights?” Cleveland Heights was just a few miles to the east.

He turned back to the keyboard. I’ll need a business address, too. I can’t just hand off my guitar at a library.

There was a longer wait this time, and then Studio Greenwood replied with an address, also in Cleveland Heights.

“Let me search on that address and see what’s there,” Kenzie said. “Harry . . . search white pages for this address.” When the result came up, he looked over at Jonah. “This house is owned by someone named Tyler Boykin. Coincidence? I think not.”

“You think Tyler Boykin and Tyler Greenwood are the same person?”

“Let’s make sure. Harry . . . search images for Tyler Boykin,” Kenzie said.

Several photos came up, most taken at one club venue or another. They were all of the man they already knew as Tyler Greenwood. Only older.

Jonah and Kenzie stared at the screen for a long moment.

“That’s him,” Jonah said. “That’s Tyler Greenwood. Only now his name is Boykin. Wonder why he’d change his name.”

“There are lots of reasons somebody might do that,” Kenzie said. “Boykin could be a professional name.”

“Why did the obit list him as dead?” Jonah said. “If he’d been a partner in his father’s shop, I’d think people would know better.”

“Or . . . he could have something to hide,” Kenzie speculated. “Do you think this might be the person we want?” He lifted his eyebrows inquiringly.

Jonah felt hope flare brighter. “Maybe,” he said.

“Harry. Web search on Tyler Boykin,” Kenzie said. Compared with “Tyler Greenwood,”

“Tyler Boykin” was easy to find. Kenzie found him on music sites, in concert listings, on a listing of session musicians. He even found a photograph of him, onstage in Memphis three years ago, sitting in with a blues band. When he and Jonah compared the photographs of the two men, there could be no doubt. They were the same person.

Tyler Greenwood had transformed into Tyler Boykin, right after Thorn Hill.

“What are you going to do?” Kenzie asked.

“I haven’t quite decided,” Jonah said. “I’ll go have a talk with Boykin, I guess.” He paused. “If you see Gabriel, don’t mention anything about our little project.”

“Going rogue, are you?” Kenzie cocked his head. “Just be careful. If Tyler Boykin is our man, he doesn’t want to be found.”

“I’m always careful,” Jonah said. Light was leaking in through the windows, and the racket now emanating from the hallway told them that the day shift was coming on.

“I have to go,” Jonah said, packing up. “I’ll see if I can work up some lyrics for the new tunes.”

“So we’re not going out?” Kenzie said, unable to hide his disappointment.

“Not today. Soon. Right now I’ve got classes.”

“You know, big brother, you really need to start setting things on fire,” Kenzie said. “Nobody makes you go to class. People tend to leave you alone.” He smiled wistfully, and Jonah felt a twinge of guilt.

Chapter Twenty

Backdoor Man

The Boykin house was the shabbiest one on a leafy street in an older neighborhood. The yard was overgrown in some places, down to bare dirt in others.

Hmm, Jonah Kinlock thought. Usually, sorcerers couldn’t resist using a little magic to enhance the appearance of their gardens. Find the most beautiful garden in any city, it’s a good bet that a sorcerer lived there.

So . . . did that mean that Tyler Boykin wasn’t a sorcerer after all?

Still, instinct told Jonah that his quarry was finally within reach. Well, that and the name on the mailbox: Boykin. He hoped that Greenwood/Boykin would be willing to answer his questions. Hoped that, after all this time, he’d have useful information he’d spill without hard interrogation. Maybe he’d be eager to tell his story. Jonah could hope.

Jonah was good at killing. Killing was clean. Killing was simple. Killing was sometimes necessary, but it didn’t have to be painful. Still, he was growing weary of it. He didn’t much like the thing he was best at.

But if Tyler Greenwood Boykin was the sorcerer who’d helped Black Rose wizards plot the massacre at Thorn Hill . . . if he were the one who created the poison that had ended or ruined so many lives, then maybe he deserved to die. But first, he needed information. If Boykin had information that would help Kenzie and Alison and everyone else at the Anchorage, Jonah needed to obtain it.

Then again, Tyler Boykin might be just another innocent victim of Thorn Hill. The only adult survivor. Or someone lucky enough to have left right before the disaster, who changed his name so death didn’t come calling.