“Sure,” he said. “We’ll plaster ourselves with sunscreen and wear hats and long-sleeved shirts, but it sounds like fun. Are you coming to bed?”

“You go on ahead,” she said. “I’ll be there in a while.”

Tucson, Arizona

Sunday, June 7, 2009, 1:00 a.m.

70º Fahrenheit

Diana watched as Brandon went down the hall, switching off most of the lights as he went. She liked the fact that he continued to be thrifty-had always been thrifty-even when there had been no need to be.

Once he was gone, she returned to studying the many baskets that decorated the walls of the room, baskets her beloved friend, Nana Dahd, had made with her own hands, weaving them out of bear grass and yucca and devil’s claw and yucca root with the owij, the awl, Rita Antone had inherited from her own basket-weaving grandmother, Understanding Woman.

Diana sat there for a long while, wondering if Andrew Carlisle would make another appearance. She had seen him several times in recent days, always when she was alone; usually when she was outside-by the pool or in the front yard; occasionally in the kitchen, but never here. Never in this room-the room where she and Rita Antone had sat together when Davy was little, with Nana Dahd weaving her baskets and telling her stories, steeping the whole household in Tohono O’odham culture and tradition while Diana tried to see her way clear from being a teacher on the reservation to becoming a writer.

“Nana Dahd is still here, isn’t she?” Diana Ladd said aloud to an absent Andrew Carlisle. “At least her spirit is. That’s what keeps you away.”

With that, Diana Ladd got up and followed her husband down the hall to the bedroom. She hadn’t been sleeping well for weeks, but tonight, once she crawled into bed next to Brandon, his gentle snoring lulled her to sleep.

It seemed to her that Rita Antone and Brandon Walker were still protecting her from Andrew Philip Carlisle.

Highway 86, West of Tucson

Saturday, June 6, 2009, 9:00 p.m.

74º Fahrenheit

Driving back to Tucson, Jonathan could not believe how anything could have gone so completely wrong in such a short time. He had waited around long enough to let his mother and her husband enjoy their last meal. After all, even guys on death row got to have that. Then, just after eight-thirty, he had walked up and found his mother and her husband sitting there enjoying their oddball evening tête-à-tête. He hadn’t said anything. He didn’t have to.

Startled, she had looked at him as soon as he stepped into the circle of light. There had been a gasp of recognition. Then, smiling, she had stood up and taken two steps toward him, holding out both of her hands in greeting-like she was surprised but glad to see him. Like she was actually welcoming him! How dare she!

“Why, Jonathan,” she had said. “However did you find us way out here?” Then she had turned to her husband, to Jack. “No, wait,” she said to him. “You did this, didn’t you? It’s the rest of the surprise!”

Surprise my ass! Jonathan had thought. He had answered that phony smile of hers just the way he had intended to-with a nine-millimeter slug right in the middle of her forehead. The sling on his arm had half concealed the weapon, so she had never seen it coming. She was still smiling that sappy, stupid smile of hers as she went down, knocking over the chair she had been sitting on and taking the cloth-covered table with her as she fell. He saw the glassware and dishes tumble off the table and shatter, but he didn’t hear them.

“What the hell…?” Jack had roared.

Jonathan heard that even as the gunshot reverberated in his ears. Bent on fighting back, the old man had erupted out of his seat, but then Jonathan shot him, too. He liked doing it just that way-two shots and two kills, no wasted bullets.

For a time-a few seconds, anyway-he had stood there examining the scene and enjoying the moment. He had done what he had set out to do. He felt no regret, only a sense of accomplishment. He had put the witch down; both witches, as a matter of fact. Two women who had made his life hell on earth. Now they had both paid the price for every unkind word and every slight. They were gone. Done.

He smelled smoke. One of the fallen candles had set fire to the tablecloth. The last thing he needed was for a brush fire to attract attention. Quickly he stomped the fire out before it could spread. But then, to his horror, Jonathan heard the sound of voices, a man and a woman talking and laughing and coming closer.

He realized that while his ears were out of commission from the gunshots, a vehicle must have arrived without him noticing. Whose was it? Who was coming and what were they doing here? Surely no one else had been invited to Jack and Abby’s little party. The table had been set for two. There had been only the two chairs.

Jonathan moved to the middle of the luminarias’ path and stood there waiting for the new arrivals to round the curve. At last a couple, an Indian man and woman, appeared in front of him. The man was leading the way while the woman followed.

The man stopped, looked questioningly at Jonathan, and frowned. “Who are you?” he asked. “Where’s Jack?”

As far as Jonathan was concerned, the two of them had no business being there, but what was he supposed to do, let them go? Let them turn around and walk away? Like that was going to happen!

So he shot them, too, one after the other. He hit the man full-on. The woman turned and tried to run but he shot her in the back. As they went down, just like that, Jonathan was thankful for all the hours and weeks he had spent shooting at the target range. This was the payoff.

He stood for a while after that with his heart pounding. For some reason, shooting the two strangers seemed far worse than shooting his own mother. After all, she deserved it. They did not, but in realizing the enormity of what he had done, a certain level of self-preservation kicked in as well. He needed to do something that would throw the investigation off his trail long enough for him to get over the border and into the interior of Mexico. If he could make it that far and connect up with the money he had sent on ahead, he’d be fine.

He needed to do something that would make this incident look like something other than what it was. When he saw his mother’s purse, it came to him. Robbery. That should do the trick.

Jonathan had had the foresight to bring along some latex gloves. Donning a pair, he walked to the bodies one by one. Carrying his weapon in one hand in case anyone else showed up, he collected his mother’s purse and the men’s wallets. Just for good measure, he took their jewelry and cell phones as well. Jack’s simple gold wedding band wasn’t impressive, and neither was the small diamond on his mother’s finger. Ditto went for the Indian guy’s immense turquoise ring and the engagement ring, still in a jeweler’s box in his jeans. Taken together, the whole stack didn’t amount to much, but he pocketed it all.

When he reached the Indian woman, she wasn’t quite dead. “Help me,” she moaned. “Please.”

Jonathan thought about putting her out of her misery with another bullet to her head, just to end her suffering, but he decided against it. If someone had heard the shots earlier, they might still be listening and trying to decide where they were coming from. He couldn’t risk another. Besides, it was a shame to waste a bullet if he didn’t have to.

Like his mother, the Indian woman had carried her purse with her when she got out of the car-even in the middle of the desert.

Why do women do that? Jonathan had wondered as he leaned down to pick it up.

He stood in front of Jack Tennant’s Lexus and sorted through the purses and wallets. Then, leaving the empty husks of belongings behind, he walked away. He didn’t hurry. He didn’t need to hurry. They were dead. They weren’t going anywhere. With any kind of luck it would be hours or even days before someone found them.